Page 2 of Spyder
We all grunt our approval, and he nods, then his eyes fall on me. He holds his hands up to quiet the room again and everybody falls silent.
“Derek, front and center,” he calls.
Scooting around the bar, I make my way over to his table and stand before him, my hands clasped behind my back, as I unconsciously fall into a parade-rest stance. Like I said, the military is deeply ingrained in all of us.
“Derek, you’ve displayed courage and grit. What you did with Domino’s whole situation proved your value to this club. Your worth. You’ve proven yourself to us ten times over,” Prophet says. “And because of that, we all voted already and we’re going to patch you in early. Congratulations, kid. You’ve earned it.”
As Doc lays a brand new kutte down on the table in front of me, I’m overcome by an unexpected wave of emotion. I’m dimly aware of the room around me exploding with applause and cheers. My body is rocked by the hard thumps on the back of my brothers as they congratulate me. Prophet gives us all a few minutes to celebrate before calling for order once more.
Everybody takes their seat again and Prophet leans forward. “I’m sorry we don’t have time to throw a proper bash to celebrate right now, but there are a lot of things in motion right now. I promise you we’ll do it up right when this is all over.”
“What’s his name gonna be, prez?” Domino calls.
Prophet smirks at me. “Since you’re working this whole James Dean vibe, we picked out a special name for you.”
Doc laughs. “Turn your kutte over.”
I do as he says and look at the nameplate above the right breast. “Spyder,” I read with a laugh. “The car Dean died in. That’s a little morbid.”
“Thought you’d like it,” Prophet says.
“I do, strangely enough,” I say, then look up at Leadership, giving them all a nod. “Thank you.”
“Like I said, kid, you earned it,” Prophet says.
“And I have a feeling you’re gonna earn it ten times over before this is all done,” Cosmo adds.
It’s a sentiment that doesn’t only send a chill down my spine but also seems to steal over the entire room. We all know the storm is coming and we want to be out ahead of it before it breaks.
Chapter Two
Bellamy
“How are you feeling, Mom?”
“Like I’m dying. How are you?”
The burst of inappropriate laughter is out before I can stop it. But it’s quickly followed by the heavy weight of guilt and grief pressing down on me. I know gallows humor is the way my mom deals with things—it’s always been her way. She’s always said she’d rather laugh at the darker side of life than give it power by fearing it or letting it take hold of and control her.
I used to think it was an admirable way to handle things. I used to applaud her for being so rational and even-keeled in how she dealt with adversity. But now, as I look at her lying in her enormous bed, her small, frail frame engulfed by a massive and fluffy comforter and pillows that seem too large for her, I want to smack her for being so darkly humorous. This isn’t funny. This isn’t a game.
“I wish you wouldn’t make jokes like that, Mom.”
She grins. “Then, maybe you shouldn’t laugh at them.”
“Mom,” I say more sternly.
“What? It’s true. There’s no tap dancing around the fact that I’m dying, Bellamy. And pretending otherwise isn’t going to change that fact, dear. So, given the choice between lying here being miserable all day and having a few laughs, I’m going to choose the laughs every time. You should know that about me by now.”
I let out a long breath. I do know that about her, but that doesn’t make this any easier. She’s always been a small woman, but now, she looks so small and so fragile. She looks diminished. The ovarian cancer is ravaging her body and she’s wasting away before my very eyes.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and she offers me a small smile. The disease might be destroying her body, but she’s still got that spark of intelligence as well as that familiar glint of mischievousness in her eyes. Physically, she might be deteriorating, but mentally, she’s still very present.
But I know it’s only a matter of time before those lights are snuffed out and she’ll become a little more than a hollowed-out shell of her former self. It’s a thought that tears my heart into pieces every single time it passes through my mind. I try to keep from thinking dark and despondent things, but I can’t help it. I can’t keep those thoughts at bay entirely. And I hate that I can’t. I don’t know how much time I have left with my mom, but I don’t want to spend it miserable any more than she does. I want to enjoy every last moment I have.
“I wish you hadn’t come back here, honey. I know what you gave up just to be here and I hate that you did it because of me,” my mom says.
“I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t, Mom. How could I not be here when you needed me most?”
