Page 35 of The Order of Disorder
To what had happened to Ryder.
To Jake. To Damian.
To Wyatt.
Now there are no more pills and I can barely stand. I roll to my side and put my feet on the ground, but when I try to put my weight on them the world tilts. Suddenly Cash is grabbing my arms and trying to pull me up.
“Hey,” he’s saying with concern. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word comes out too slowly.
He gets me up, gets my arm around his shoulder and holds me up around the middle, and we lurch unsteadily out into the hall. The staircase in particular is tricky. But by the time we’re walking through the hangar, I’m getting my bearings a little and walking easier. The world is loopy and twisted, though, reality a slippery illusion I’m trying to hold on to.
We step outside into the golden light of late afternoon. The hangar’s yard has been transformed. Long folding tables, music playing on portable speakers, and smoke pouring out of the pair of massive grills Billy bought last year. The air is warm, laced with the smell of grilled meat and summer.
This isn’t one of Billy’s bigger, wilder parties. Everyone here is familiar. Men in O.D. cuts, their women, their kids.
A few children run shrieking past us, sticky-faced and barefoot.
But all I see is Wyatt, standing near the hedge talking to two women. Their eyes are locked on him, but his are locked on me, watching me impassively as Cash guides me carefully through the crowd.
Billy’s sitting at the far end of one of the long tables, tipping a beer back and laughing, looking relaxed and happy. But when he sees us coming, his expression darkens. No hello. No nod. Just a frown.
Cash helps me slide onto the bench beside him, but I stumble, yanking the tablecloth as I go. Three people lunge to catch it before drinks go flying. Billy doesn’t move. Cash leans in and whispers something to him.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, cutting me a look like I’m a dog that pissed on his floor.
He flags Pluto over from the grill.
“Bring her a burger and get her some fucking water.”
Then he turns back to his conversation like I’m not even there.
I don’t mind. I sit numbly beside him, the world undulating around me like I’m on a slow-moving boat. When Pluto sets the burger down, I peel off a bit of bun and pop it in my mouth, but my stomach turns the moment it hits my tongue.
I’m not hungry.
The party hums around us, loose and easy. Probably fun for everyone else. Probably fun for Wyatt, still flanked by those two women laughing at whatever he’s saying. Hanging off his every word.
When the food is mostly gone and even the kids have quieted down, Billy stands and claps his hands together.
“All right, all right. Shut the fuck up for a second.”
Laughter trickles out across the tables. He grins, soaking it in. In his element.
“We’re here tonight to celebrate someone who’s more than proven his commitment to this club. Who, in the time he’s been with us, has shown absolute loyalty, grit, and ruthlessness.”
He lifts his bottle toward Wyatt.
“Ryan, you tenacious bastard. Your insight and your intellect have made this club stronger. That, and you ride like a fucking demon. You embody what the O.D. stands for. And that’s why I’m proud as hell to celebrate your promotion to Road Captain.”
Cheers erupt. Bottles clink. Someone howls. One of the women next to Wyatt kisses his cheek. He stiffens, just slightly, then recovers with a grin and raises his bottle.
“When the skull screams, we scream back!” Billy calls, his voice going hard. The ritualistic chant. “You earned that patch, brother.”
More applause. More whistles.
I don’t clap. I don’t move.
