Page 4 of Zeppelin
“Do you want it to?”
I don’t. I can’t. Even if I wanted to be nice, I just can’t afford it right now.
I sigh and do what I should have done when he first walked out. I flip him off and try to stalk past him. I make it two feet before his words stop me in my tracks.
“It’s Zeppelin.”
Chapter 2
Zeppelin
Ihaven’t used my given name inyears. Some of the guys from the club know it, but it feels like I’ve been Decay forever. Growing up as Zeppelin was hard, Jack got off easier, being named after our parents’ other obsession—Kerouac,notDaniels.
Even though I brought my past with me, tied up in strings and weighted on my heart, joining the club was a fresh start. I could be who I wanted to be there, not some orphan kid who never knew his dad and whose mom died of an overdose. No one gave a shit if I graduated from high school or not. I didn’t have to talk smart or besomebodyin order to be accepted. Lots of guys at the club came from a far worse place than we did. Me and my brother left Canada intending on traveling south, maybe end up in Cali and then onto Mexico. We never intended on staying in Washington. Coming to Hart and joining Satan’s Angels was the first time I ever felt like I had a real family. It was always me and Jack, and it always would be, but having my club brothers filled a hole in both of us.
That hole is back, clawing its way into my chest like a sinkhole. With every passing minute, it opens up wider and wider.
Death is so fucking final. Growing up the way we did, I believed in it. Part of the freedom of riding is forgetting that you’re mortal for just a few minutes.
There’s no escaping it now. If I pulled my bike out of the club’s compound and took off, there’s no outracing the fact that Jack isgone.
Tonight has made that more real than staring down at his broken body at the morgue. Tyrant went with me because he’s not just a good Prez. He’s a good man. Raiden came too, and Crow, probably because all three of them were worried that I might lose it in there.
Not going to lie, I wanted to smash the place up bad, but I didn’t. I kept my shit together.
It’s been days and nights without sleep, with that haunting image of Jack when he wasn’t Jack at all anymore. He wanted to be cremated, so that’s what we had done for him. He’s getting one fucking hell of a sendoff in there. I would love it if he was fucking here instead of that urn of ashes sitting in the clubhouse lounge with bottles of untouched whiskey surrounding it as tribute. I would love it if his bike wasn’t sitting in the middle of the compound, surrounded by others, glistening clean and beloved, waiting for Jack to peel out on it and go off riding into the night. I would love it if his stupid truck that he was so proud of was parked in the asphalt lot directly beside me, just waiting for him to give it some other ridiculous aftermarket shit that it didn’t need.
He should be in there right this minute, like any other Friday night, being loud and obnoxious, laughing at jokes that weren’t all that funny, cracking even worse ones of his own.
What the fuck am I supposed to do when I caught his woman looking almost as bloodless as he did on that steel table, sick to a stomach she couldn’t keep her hands from fluttering around all night? She kept sending that urn of ashesguilty, sidelong, sorrowful looks like she was trying to tell Jack something.
People might think that I don’t have two working braincells, but I’ve seen enough pregnant old ladies at the club, to recognize the way they touch their belly, often long before they begin to show.
Something sparked in me the second I saw Ginnifer Fields walk in with Carver, and his woman, Bronte, an hour ago. Ginny and Jack were seeing each other for months. Jack said it was just fooling around between sort of friends. He had no reason to lie to me. He said she was practical. She approached him and gave him her number. She was flirty right from the start. She was an adult, and she’d somehow talked her sister and Dominic into being okay with the whole arrangement, so that it wouldn’t cause club drama.
Jack met with Ginny at least once a week, ever since Bronte and Carver’s daughter’s birthday party on Halloween. Seven months is more than enough time. Onesinglenightis more than enough time to conceive a child.
I followed Ginny out here once I saw her flee the clubhouse. I thought she needed a moment alone to mourn. I didn’t expect to find her puking her guts up.
I know one thing and one thing only. Jack didn’t know she was pregnant, but if he had, he would have done what I just said. Offered her marriage, or some sort of arrangement in order to keep her and the baby safe and maybe even happy. If she didn’t want that, he would have insisted that he still be involved.
He would have made a great dad. I don’t care if everyone who knew him would laugh me out of the fucking place forsaying it, it’s the truth. No one knew Jack like I did, and that’s a motherfucking fuck of a hill I’m willing to-
Fuck.
Christ.
I’ve had enough of death.
“Like the airship? Or the band?”
I’m spiraling silently, lost in a haze of memories and the wild speculation of what’s going on with Ginny. Her soft voice brings me back.
From what I know of this woman, she’s sweet and kind. Jack didn’t say much about her, but I know that she has a family she lives with a few hours from here. She’s the youngest. She’s beautiful and kind. Like her sister, who I have seen more of because Bronte is nearly always with Carver, Ginny is intelligent. Unlike her sister though, she’s flirty and fun. She doesn’t take life as seriously as Bronte does.
I don’t respond to her question because I’m still locked up on the inside.
Ginny takes that as stubbornness, or me just being classically difficult. She sighs and crosses her arms around her chest. She’s not dressed like any biker babe in that flowing black maxi dress with the lace neckline and the dainty little black ballet flats, but then, she and Bronte have their own style. They rarely ever wear anything leather.
