Page 4 of The Souls We Claim
“He has to exist somewhere,” I say. Given the text message on the day Dad died and some intel we previously had about their leader, I’m assuming the reason the Righteous Brotherhood, a white supremacist group of sex traffickers, has such a hard-on for the Outlaws is because my dad fathered this guy, their leader.
An Iron Outlaw bastard.
A wannabe despot with daddy issues is trying to destroy my family. He’s already succeeded in killing my father. I won’t let him take my found family—the Iron Outlaws—or Lola.
“I’m telling you, I checked every source I can think of. There’s no license, IRS record, mortgage, or bank detail I can find on him.”
Vex turns in his chair and looks at me before placing a hand on my shoulder. In the silence, my half-sister cries somewhere out in the clubhouse. The sound gets louder as whoever is currently holding her brings her towards us.
“Halo,” he says, firmly. “Today is not the day. Let’s go bury your dad, yeah?”
I was once tied to a chair and interrogated in Berlin. Long story as to why I was there. But they used these belts around my chest, tightening them periodically when I gave an answer they didn’t like. I had faith my team would get me out…leave no manbehind and all that. But I had to hold on until they did with an ever-increasing pressure on my chest.
I feel that band now.
There’s a knock on the cupboard door, and Iris, the old lady of my brother, Spark, pushes it open without waiting for an answer. As she does, the cries get louder. “I changed her, fed her, and walked with her. Think she needs you, Halo.”
I stand and take Lola from Iris. She’s dressed in a little black dress. There’s a little black clip in her hair that sparkles. On her feet are little black patent shoes over her white tights. And her face is screwed up in a little red mess of tears.
Cry for both of us, Lollipop.
“Thanks for doing all that. Come here, sweetheart.” I take Lola and place her up against my shoulder, then rub circles on her back. I start to sway as I soothe her. Wild cries turn to sobs turn to sniffles.
“You have quite the way with her, Halo,” Iris says. “I’ll see you in church.”
Lola’s little hand flexes against my cut, trying to grip onto something. When I’m at home in a T-shirt, her fingers grip into the fabric.
Grief is a wild thing. It comes and goes in waves. But unlike the tide that moves with the moon in a steady rhythm, grief is unpredictable. Like, you’re doing something ordinary…eating dinner, taking a shit, whatever, and then whoosh. It floods you like a dangerous swell. It gets you unbalanced. Tests your reflexes.
And the aftermath of loss? Figuring out a new normal?
Tough as shit, especially when it involves catering to the needs of a not-quite-one-year-old.
So, when I feel it, I do what I’ve always done. I bury that shit. I stick it in a box, lock it up, drop it into a mental vat of concrete that would take serious jackhammering to open, and call it good.
As SEALs, we were taught when things were at their toughest, to just focus on making it through the next three feet. Any farther and the mission could overwhelm you. The fear has time to get into your head. But if you just look three feet ahead, you can compartmentalize, can focus on the immediate. Three feet ahead right now is getting Lola to Catalina, who is going to drive her to my father’s funeral. Given Brad Collins came after my father and has already sent me a message suggesting I’m next, I have no idea if Lola is on his radar too.
She was left alive. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe Collins didn’t know about her. Maybe he’s going to come back at some other time when I’m complacent. Or maybe he isn’t a child killer and won’t come back at all.
Catalina, Niro’s old lady and a trained assassin, is the safest pair of hands I can think of, given I’ll be on my bike, leading my father’s funeral to his final resting place.
Three feet ahead means not worrying about the future of the little girl I’m suddenly responsible for. Three feet ahead means not worrying about the tough decision I’m facing…to take responsibility for her, or to find Mercy’s family and see if I can persuade one of them to look after her. Whatever happens, she’ll be financially taken care of, but I’m not gonna tell whoever steps up about that until they’ve agreed to take her on.
Don’t want someone using my half-sister from the get-go for cash and then treating her like a modern-day Cinderella.
But there’s a small piece of me that will struggle to say goodbye if someone else raises her. Not that I’ll be leaving her life forever. I’ll see her, and I’ll work damned hard to make sure that with the help of Dad’s few assets and some hard graft of my own, she won’t have to worry about college fees and the wedding of her dreams and a house deposit when she needs one because I’ll always take care of my own.
It’s just that I see how hard Clutch is having to work to rebuild his relationship with his half-brothers who were sent to Florida after his father was locked up.
But there is no fucking way on God’s green earth that I can be a single dad and raise my sister while doing what I need to do to take out Collins and the Righteous Brotherhood.
“Three feet ahead,” I mutter out loud to remind myself. “Just get through today.”
When I reach the bar in the clubhouse, I see everyone is waiting for me. The atmosphere is somber, the clubhouse packed. My dad was well-known and well-liked in the motorcycle club community. He was one of the originals. Loved seventies rock, fat-bottomed girls, and deep-dish pie in equal measure.
Men slap my back as I walk through with Lola finally settled on my shoulder. Through the window, I see the hearse in the lot with my dad’s coffin in it, and I bite back the sudden sting of tears that this is the last time he and I will be in the same space with both of us above ground.
And suddenly, the three feet turns into six into nine as I make my way outside and carry my sister to the hearse.
