Chapter 1
Chrome gleamed in the breezy day, a neverending wave undulating beneath the sunshine. The roar of the hundreds of motorcycle pipes set off a few car alarms, but no one cared, least of all the citizens who lined the procession toward the church.
Kendall Miller laid her head against the back of John “Johnnie” Donovan, her arms tight around his waist, his Harley idling beneath them. His white-gloved hands gripped the handlebars, his body tense, his heart beating hard.
Johnnie had gotten released from the hospital three days ago, having been shot less than a week before by members of Kendall’s former boyfriend’s MC. Or, maybe, even, Spoon himself.
No matter. She wished Johnnie wouldn’t have to be here, in front of the church, his bike parked between Outlaw, the president of the Death Dwellers MC, and the club enforcer, Mortician. Sadness and somberness hung from them, but they sat in stoic silence, awaiting the arrival of their road captain, Val, delivering the body of the club treasurer, Kaleb Paul “Kitchen Patrol” Andrews, on a motorcycle hearse.
Next in the processional, the lone vehicle, a limousine containing K-P’s daughter, Bailey, and his recently-acquired and very distraught old lady, Dinah. Behind the extra-long car, the surge of bikes, the rumbling pounding through Kendall’s brain.
Val rode into view, stopping at the edge of the rapidly growing double-sided rows of motorcycles as, one by one, riders backed the bikes into the places, spanning outside of the church parking lot and into the blocked off street.
A moment passed. Then another. And another. Grief threatened to overwhelm Kendall and she tempered the urge to scream at Val to ride to the church steps. He continued to wait, revving the engine at times, too far away for Kendall to detect his state of mind. If his emotions mirrored Johnnie’s, K-P’s death devastated Val.
Finally, the reason for the delay appeared. Bailey. Dressed in black leather pants and a black shirt, she stopped next to the hearse, her intention to walk alongside, clear.
Kendall glanced at Mortician, who turned away from Bailey’s direction and allowed Kendall to note his internal struggle. The club enforcer cared about Bailey, visible by the sympathy in his eyes, his hunger for her noticeable despite his grief. So many emotions played across his face, Kendall couldn’t decipher most of them. If he went to her now, he’d be claiming her as his. While Kendall understood the dynamics of such an action, she wanted him to ignore the stupid codes just this once. Bailey needed him right now. Later, Mortician could set her straight.
Val started forward at a slow speed, keeping pace with Bailey. As they passed each brother, the bikers throttled their engines in honor of K-P. After a minute or so, Bailey stumbled and the road captain halted again. He glanced at Mortician before returning his attention to Bailey, staring at her, understanding softening his pose.
Shivers raced through Kendall at the sudden, oppressive silence. No one moved, all focused on Bailey. Kendall willed her to regain her composure but they wouldn’t rush her. They blanketed Bailey—the daughter of one of the fallen brethren—with their protection.
A gust of cool wind whipped around them, the affirmation of life twisting Kendall’s heart and sending tears to her eyes. In a couple of days, she’d have to face another funeral. Her sixteen-year-old sister’s. There would be no huge showing for her. Caroline had been one, small girl with only Kendall and their mother as relatives. She’d been popular in school, so high school kids and teachers should’ve been able to attend, though it would’ve been nothing close to this overwhelming ceremonial rite.
Due to shattering circumstances surrounding her suicide, however, Kendall intended to opt for a private funeral. Any other way and too many other questions might be asked. Questions Kendall had no logical answers to. Caroline had been happy, perky, smart, and popular. Teachers would want to know what drove her to hang herself when there’d been no signs of distress brewing.
Caroline had never been troubled or trouble, so an alert school administrator might suspect something.
As much as she wanted to, Kendall couldn’t blurt the truth of her sister’s death and confess Caroline had been as much a victim as K-P. He’d been murdered by Logan Donavan. Caroline had killed herself because of Logan Donovan.
Kendall despised him. He’d taken so much from all of them. Worse, he was her biker’s grandfather, which made it doubly important to remain silent. As a result, her little sister would be buried with little or no fanfare.
Bailey stepping forward and Val moving the hearse a fraction drew Kendall’s attention. Bailey drew closer, her tears and heartbreak easier to glimpse. Her mask of composure slipped with each step she took toward the entrance of the church. Mortician straightened and closed his eyes, his shoulders heaving, his big hands tightening on the handlebars. He’d queued his dreads and the diamond studs in his ears glinted in the sunshine. He glanced in Bailey’s direction again, hesitated and threw a scowl toward Johnnie and Outlaw, holding out as long as he could. But Bailey looked so distraught and fragile. Kendall wanted to offer her a hug of condolence herself, although she’d only met Bailey in passing. Finally, Mortician caved and broke rank, pausing his Harley next to the hearse to converse with Val.
Bailey stared at Mortician, blinking away her tears. Swiping at her own tears, Kendall tightened her hold on Johnnie. This was so hard. If she could change anything in these past few days to take away everyone’s pain, she would.
Mortician sped off, roaring back into sight and stopping next to the limousine. Once the limo driver backed up, Mortician slid his bike behind Bailey. Palming her cheeks, she peeped over her shoulder, starting—as did Kendall—when the club enforcer held out his gloved hand to her and gave her a small nod.
Not hesitating, Bailey rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck, her body shaking. Mortician waged another resistance—another losing battle—before he wrapped one arm around her waist and whispered to her. He thumbed away her tears, then indicated the spot behind him. She mounted the seat and rested her cheek against his cut, her arms embracing his middle.
Johnnie glanced over his shoulder to Kendall and winked at her, the smile breaking through his grief like sunshine breaching clouds. Approval gleamed through the sadness in his silver-gray eyes. At Mortician’s actions, she knew. Her heartbeat picked up speed. They hadn’t spoken in a couple hours, not since they’d started from the funeral home and rode through town to get to the church, pausing twice for moments of silence.
The noise increased, closing in on Kendall as Val neared. Mortician skirted around the hearse to take his place before Val rode past.
“Kaleb Paul,” Mortician yelled, revving his engine, his face filled with grief. His shout started a tide that Johnnie took up as Val reached their spot.
The big Harley vibrated beneath Kendall with Johnnie’s revving. The calls of K-P’s name and the roaring Harleys symbols of their grief and anger. She tightened her hold on Johnnie, kissed the back of his head.
Val stopped the hearse at the end of the steps and the roar of the bikes abruptly ceased. As one, Outlaw, Johnnie, Mortician, Digger and Stretch rose from their bikes. Outlaw adjusted the white gloves he wore—identical to the others’—then grabbed his wife, Megan’s, hand, guiding her behind the motorcycle hearse with K-P’s remains. He nodded to Johnnie then did the same to Mortician, the cue for them to escort Kendall and Bailey to where Megan stood.
“In the middle, Bailey,” Outlaw instructed, frowning at Megan’s high heels but not saying anything.
Kendall supposed he didn’t want Megan wearing stilettos while pregnant. Kendall carried a child, too, but no one worried about what she wore.
Flanking Bailey’s left side, Kendall grabbed the girl’s cold hand and squeezed. Death was never easy, especially a violent, unexpected one.
Val dismounted and took position at the coffin, second row, right side, behind Johnnie, who stood at the head along with Outlaw.
Worry for Johnnie’s health consumed Kendall. The gleaming mahogany
casket without K-P’s body weighed a lot. With him in there…she shook the morbid thought away, focused on Johnnie. True, the gunshot wound had been superficial, but he’d needed surgery to remove the bullet. He shouldn’t strain himself carrying a coffin.
Undertakers were supposed to do this task. Kendall swore pallbearers loaded a casket in the hearse—or in this case on it—and then carried it to the grave site. On the other hand, these men lived by their own rules and damn anyone who didn’t like it, so she shouldn’t have been surprised they did something out of the norm.
The slow march into the church and down the aisle took forever. The sluggish passage of time didn’t help Kendall’s fretting over Johnnie the entire way toward the front of the church.
Bailey halted, a half-sob and half-laugh escaping her. Kendall followed the girl’s line of vision to the floral arrangements. The three unusual ones—a spoon, a stove, and one that looked suspiciously like, of all things, an onion—stood at the foot of the coffin.
A blown up photo of K-P straddling his bike, the sun glinting off his bald head and silver beard, sat amidst the myriad flowers, the sickly sweet smell turning Kendall’s stomach.
Mortician stopped next to them, some of his dreads now dangling from his ponytail, his red-rimmed eyes tired. “Bailey, girl, c’mon. I’m gonna bring you to your seat.”
Bailey glanced back and her shoulders drooped. “Mom isn’t here yet and neither is Uncle Arrow.”
“Arrow isn’t far off,” Johnnie offered, joining them in time to hear Bailey’s words. “Your mom…well, sweetheart…I don’t think she’s coming.”
“I don’t want to be on the pew alone. Not now.”
“Is there a problem here?” an authoritative voice broke in.
“Of course not, Father Wilkins.” Megan’s voice drifted from Bailey’s other side. “We’re just deciding seating arrangements.
His jowls flapping, Father Wilkins pinned an under-eyed glare on them. “This doesn’t take much brain power to know family goes on the first pew, Mrs. Caldwell.” He smirked at her. “Ah, yes. In order to have brain power, you need a brain. I simply forgot who I’m dealing with for a moment.”
His contemptuous words brought about various reactions. Johnnie scowled at the round, little man, and Mortician scratched his jaw. Bailey bristled, narrowing her watery gaze while Megan stepped toward him, huffing out a breath.
Before Kendall dredged up a feeling one way or the other, Outlaw tapped the priest on the shoulder. “Yo’, Father Wilcunt, you ain’t gonna have to worry ‘bout your fuckin’ brain in a minute. Insult Megan one more fuckin’ time, motherfucker, and your brain gonna be on the outside of your ass. Then you can tell us how the fuck real fuckin’ brainlessness is.”
“K-P’s funeral, Christopher,” Megan reminded him in a tight voice.
Anger flickered in Father Wilkins’s eyes. “Since putting you out isn’t an option—“
“Not if you don’t want your ass beat—“ Outlaw interrupted.
Johnnie took Kendall’s hand into his own and led her to the second pew, leaving the argument to Outlaw and the priest.
“How are you?” he asked, gorgeous in anything he wore. Dressed in full colors and leather turned him into a sexy rogue. Dropping next to her, he caressed her palm, his touch sizzling along her nerve endings. “You’ve held up well this morning.”
Kendall kicked up her mouth in a forced smile, determined to be strong for him, despite the tenuous place she had in his life. Grief dulled his silver-gray eyes, his tempting mouth tight with sorrow. “I’m fine. Worried about you.”
“Don’t be.” He squeezed her hand, the edge removed from the words with the gesture.
She stroked her fingers through his blond hair. “I can’t help it.”
Instead of responding, he laid his forehead against hers. “How’s Baby Biker?”
Baby Biker. Her name for the child growing inside of her. Hearing him murmur it melted Kendall’s insides.
“Fine,” she whispered, lowering her lashes in shyness, her nerves speeding her heart. During the past few weeks her life had become a series of irrational events, so why shouldn’t butterflies flutter in her belly and heat sweep her body at Johnnie’s words and close proximity?
For the past three days, he’d been overwhelmed with the goings-on of the previous week. Now, he worked with the others, planning retaliation. He never discussed with her the club’s intentions against Spoon and the Torpedoes for all their infractions with the Dwellers. Mortician didn’t discuss it with her, either.
And neither did Megan Caldwell. Kendall wondered at the extent of her awareness about the Dwellers’ activity. Kendall’s guess? A lot more than Kendall knew and a lot more than Megan let on.
Johnnie dropped her hand and stood. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Tracking his movements to the back of the church, Kendall noted a frail looking, graying blonde woman. Dinah Nicholls. Megan’s mother and K-P’s old lady. Gripping her arm, Outlaw whispered to her just as Johnnie reached her other side.
The disagreement between Outlaw and Father Wilkins had been solved because the priest approached the altar. Bailey sat on the first seat with Megan next to her.
Grief and hurt—too many emotions to name—assailed Kendall. She stood from her spot in the second row, needing a distraction and making her way to Bailey’s other side.
“Meggie, your mom is in the church,” Bailey choked out.
“Okay. Kendall is here if you need anything until I get back.” Megan released Bailey’s hand, popped to her feet and headed to her mother, who’d made it halfway down the aisle.
Immediately, Johnnie tugged Megan between him and Dinah. Meggie’s arm slid around her mother, then dropped away a moment later. Johnnie draped his arm around her, fisting Dinah’s coat. He whispered something to Megan and she smiled. Together, Outlaw and Johnnie flanked the two women, not knowing the effect on Kendall of seeing Johnnie with his arm around Megan.
His chest burning, Johnnie swallowed back tears and handed the bottle of tequila to Val. Almost time for the final goodbye to K-P. The pain spread to Johnnie’s gut at the knowledge. He wished the ache related to the still healing gunshot wound, but he knew better.
He’d met K-P on his tenth birthday, a couple months shy of twenty-four years ago. One day, Kaleb was alive and at the clubhouse, daring anyone to fuck with Dinah and threatening to hack Mort’s dick off if he touched Bailey. The next day, K-P was gone. Human like everyone else, not the invincible man Johnnie had chalked him up to be.
Christopher stepped forward, bottle back in hand after it had been passed around, and took a final swig. He raised the bottle up. “To Kitchen Patrol,” he began, his voice breaking. He paused. A tear slipped down his cheek and he heaved in a breath. “Fuck me.”
“C’mon, Prez,” Mortician encouraged, under his breath, standing next to Johnnie. “Get this shit done.”
Yes, get this shit done. If Christopher broke down, they’d all break down. Each one of them held the other up, so if one fell, they’d all crumble.
Kendall squeezed Johnnie’s arm, a silent sentinel at his side, observing how close he was to losing his shit. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer to him, glad for her presence. During the past three days, she’d been right at his side, caring for him, fussing over him and worrying about him.
He appreciated every kindness she’d shown to him and every tear she’d shed on his behalf. But he didn’t want her stressed out. It was his job to worry over her and see to her happiness and comfort. She and their baby had been through enough. The little scratch that grave mite had given him—Spoon or whoever from the soon-to-be-wiped-off-the-face-of-the-earth MC—shouldn’t have distressed Kendall so much, and guilt that he’d caused more fear for her, prompted Johnnie’s self-avowal to heal as soon as possible.
Still, he didn’t intend to rush their relationship. He had to make sure they were compatible in all the ways that mattered. He cared so much about her and felt
more and more possessive toward her with each passing day.
Yet, he needed time because, in spite of her declaration of love, she needed time, too.
“Why don’t you help him out?”
Her soft question snapped him back to his surroundings and he glanced at her.
“Outlaw,” she urged, her warm breath fanning his ear. “He’s faltering.”
Johnnie loved Kendall’s height. In her bare feet, she stood almost eye-level with him. He turned to her, nosing her hair. “I don’t know if I’ll do any better at keeping my composure than he is.”
Christopher had yet to speak again, frozen in place and staring at the casket. Megs stepped next to him. She’d been lagging back in the crowd, for once out of her husband’s sight. He bent, so she could speak to him, always standing at Christopher’s side no matter what.
She’d been suffering with extreme morning sickness, but ever since Johnnie had shouted at her, she’d been acting strange. Johnnie couldn’t help but wonder why. They’d straightened it all out in the cave, hadn’t they?
Christopher snickered at something Megs said and she responded with a tender smile, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him before stepping back.
“Never thought I’d be standin’ at K-P’s grave,” Christopher began slowly. “He was one of the finest brothers I knew. Even if the motherfucker liked you, he gave you shit. Next to him, we was all runts.” He glanced up at the green tent ceiling before squeezing the bridge of his nose. “He loved onions. Never met a motherfucker who could eat raw onions like K-P.” He smiled again and nodded like he’d worked something out in his head. “You free, Kaleb Paul. Free to fly. Free to ride.”
Johnnie blinked in a futile attempt to stop tears determined to flow, Christopher’s heartfelt words, unleashing the dammed grief.
Eyes and nose red, Christopher emptied the bottle of tequila into the grave, then handed it to Megan, removing his white gloves and tossing them into the gaping hole. One by one, they followed suit and flung their gloves. Johnnie. Val. Mortician. Digger. Stretch. And the rest of the brothers who’d attended.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 87