Knife & Flesh (The Night Horde SoCal Book 4)

by Susan Fanetti

  She and Lucie came slowly down the aisle to the beat of the song, in perfect sync with each other. They carried matching bouquets, Lucie’s a smaller version of Juliana’s.

  Her voice quavered a little in the first verse; she didn’t much like singing solo for an audience. When she did sing at The Deck, he now knew, she had to toss back a couple of shots first.

  The song was beautiful, and watching them come down the aisle to him would be one of his fondest memories for the rest of his life, but he was impatient for them to get to him. He took a step toward them, and Connor grabbed his arm.

  “Chill, bro. They’re comin’,” his friend muttered.

  So he stood pat and waited. Finally, their walk timed precisely with the song, Juliana sang the last line and stopped, standing before him. She took Lucie’s bouquet and handed it and her own to Lisa. Then Trick and Juliana took Lucie’s hands and turned to Hoosier, and Trick married his girls.

  ~oOo~

  They spent their wedding night in L.A. because Bibi wouldn’t allow Juliana to stay in the house, where she might be tempted to clean up after the reception. Super Mama to the end, she shooed them away and promised that the army of club women—all but Sid, who was about to pop any day and hadn’t even made it to dinner before a hyper-protective Muse made her go home—would have their house shipshape, all traces of party chaos removed, by the time they returned the next evening.

  They took Lucie in Trick’s new truck and stayed at a little canyon resort. Lucie was wired from the excitement of the day and nowhere near sleep, so they washed up and got comfortable, ordered snacks from room service, and all sat in the big, king-size bed together, eating fruit and cheese and watching episodes of Cosmos from the hotel’s streaming service until, finally, well past midnight, Lucie had gone still and quiet.

  Trick leaned over and checked. “I think she’s out,” he whispered.

  Juliana laughed quietly. “I think getting married is the most exciting thing she’s ever done.”

  “Me, too.” He smiled at his wife. “Should we move her to her bed?” Their room was a small suite, and they’d intended for Lucie to sleep on the sofa bed in the sitting room, on the other side of a closed door.

  “I feel bad. She looks so cozy, and I don’t want her to wake up and be alone out there.”

  “Then we’ll leave her where she is.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I have you both forever. Spending our wedding night like this is perfect.” He eased off the bed and picked up the room service tray from the end of the mattress. While he was out setting it on a table in the other room, he went to his pack and pulled out an envelope.

  He had one more thing to do on this day, to make it complete and truly perfect.

  Coming back into the bedroom, he went to Juliana’s side of the bed and knelt on the floor. As he handed her the envelope, she cocked her head.

  “What’s this?” she whispered as Lucie slept at her side.

  “Wedding present.”

  She frowned down at the envelope and then up at him. “We agreed not to do gifts for each other because we’re putting everything we can into fixing the house.”

  “This is different. It’s the last thing I need to do with that money to make peace with earning it.” When she still seemed reluctant, he nudged her hand. “Open it, Jules. Please.”

  Giving him a look equal parts skeptical and curious, she slid a slim, manicured finger under the flap and then pulled out the folded sheets of paper. He could see curiosity overtake the skepticism as she unfolded the pages and began to read.

  She read both sheets of paper thoroughly, then looked up at him. Skepticism and curiosity had been supplanted by pure shock, and she dropped her eyes and read again. When the paper fell to her lap and she put her hands to her face, weeping, Trick knew she understood, and that the life he was making now would make his past stay in the past where it belonged.

  He eased onto the bed at her side and pulled her into his arms, and she sobbed against his chest, where her name and Lucie’s were etched into his flesh.

  ~oOo~

  “I got her.”

  “No.” Trick moved Juliana out of his way. She was two months pregnant, and he’d felt obsessively protective of her since she’d shown him the test stick. “She’s too heavy, and she’s unconscious. I got her.” He lifted Lucie, floppy and weighted with deep sleep, out of the seat and into his arms. “C’mon. Let’s roll.”

  But Juliana stood in the aisle. “I feel like I’m going to be sick. God, I can’t believe I’m this scared. Why am I scared?”

  “It’s a big thing, Jules. I get it. But we’re pissing people off here. One step forward, then the next. C’mon. I’m with you.”

  She looked behind him, and her eyes got wide. She didn’t like to get in other people’s way, and that finally propelled her forward.

  It was a long time, and no small amount of hassle, and Trick was very glad when Lucie woke and could stand on her own. Finally they were through customs and following the signs through the airport toward the exit. Juliana clutched his hand all the way, so hard that his fingers began to tingle.

  And then she stopped short. He turned and saw her staring ahead, tears streaming down her face, and he looked forward again, scanning the crowd until he saw a tall, portly man with a shock of white hair, and a small, full-figured woman standing together, off to the side a little. The man, dressed in a crisp white suit that spoke of a comfort with the tropical summer heat, had an arm around the woman’s shoulders, and the woman, in a floral dress, had her hands clutched to her chest.

  They looked different, more real, than they had on a computer screen.

  Juliana looked like her father; Trick hadn’t seen the resemblance until now.

  He tugged on her hand. “Jules. Honey.”

  She nodded. And then she shook loose of him, dropped her suitcase, and ran forward into the arms of her parents.

  Trick bent down to Lucie, who watched the scene with careful interest. “Let’s go meet Abuelita and Abuelito, Luce. You ready?”

  She kept her eyes on the scene dozen or so feet ahead of them. “Mami’s crying happy tears?”

  “Very happy tears, muffin.”

  She looked up at him. “You too?”

  “Me too.”

  THE END

  COMING SOON

  Rest & Trust

  The Night Horde SoCal Book Five

  Sherlock has come to a point in his life where he needs more. He needs someone to take care of, someone who needs him. He meets Sadie, a young woman starting her life anew, and they learn together how to take care of each other, how to give trust and how to earn it.

  AFTERWORD

  This Life: What It Means

  by Trick Stavros

  Whoso would be a man must also be a nonconformist.

  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and

  an appeal to the essence of being.

  ~Albert Camus

  When I need to identify rebels, I look for men with principles.

  ~ Frank Herbert

  We must be free not because we claim freedom, but because we practice it.

  ~William Faulkner

  There is always something left to love.

  ~Gabriel García Marquez

  My brothers have asked me to write about what it means to be a biker. I don’t think there’s one answer to that question. Those of us who’ve chosen this life have done so for reasons as unique and personal as our fingerprints. But I can tell you what it means to me.

  There have been motorcycle clubs as long as there have been motorcycles, since the dawn of the twentieth century. But most accounts trace the history of the club “culture,” such as it is, from the period just after the end of World War II. Many see the Hollister fight in 1947 as the first time the idea of “biker gangs” entered the collective American consciousness.

  I think that first detail is much m
ore important than the second. We reject the ideas that come attached to the term “biker gang.” We are members of a club, and as such, there are certain things, similarities of personality and experience, that bring us together and bind us there.

  Since World War II, motorcycle clubs have always had a high proportion of veterans among their members. If there was a change in club culture at the middle of the twentieth century, away from the idea of hobbyist clubs and toward a true culture, a way of living, then it was the war that did it.

  Not just that war, but war in general—and not just political wars fought among countries. Personal wars can have similar effects on those who fight and survive them.

  I am a veteran, and I can tell you with certainty that my military service is a reason that I wear Night Horde colors now. I came home, and the world was just different. Not much had changed, but everything about the way I saw it was different. So different that I didn’t understand it. Then I found a place I understood: the club.

  Here’s what I think: war pulls the curtain back. A warrior sees a truth, sees it written on flesh, in blood, sees what’s under the gloss and plastic and glitz, sees where that glittery life comes from, what supports it. Flesh and blood. Once seen, that can never be unseen. We can’t go back and put on a tie, sit in traffic on the 10 with our coffee in a travel mug, and pretend that that life is a livable life. It’s not. Not for us.

  Some can. Some can go back to the life they had, fit back into that space, and move on. The men who seek a club life, whether they are veterans of the military or warriors of another kind, we can’t. That space closed up behind us. Or had never opened in the first place.

  So, we don’t fit. So, we are rebels and nonconformists. So, we seek the freedom to find and live a life of our choosing. We choose this life.

  But what does that mean? That’s what I’m supposed to be talking about here. My brothers would be laughing at me right now, rolling their eyes at Trick going off on one of his tangents. So let’s get back to the point: What does this life mean?

  I can tell you what this life means to me. One man. One biker. One brother.

  Rebellion: People use this word as a pejorative, like it’s a bad thing to be a rebel. To me, though, rebellion means demanding the best and calling out the worst. It means not being satisfied with the way things are; it means wanting things to be better. It means always asking why and demanding an answer that makes sense. That’s what I understand Frank Herbert to mean when he says that rebels are men with principles. We care enough to resist what doesn’t make sense.

  Freedom: Freedom and rebellion go hand in hand. In this life, we value freedom, not just the freedoms codified by law, but the freedom to be and know and live in a way that’s true to us. It’s more than the freedom the road offers, though that’s the best metaphor in the world, and it’s one we cling to. Nothing feels more free than riding an open highway with the throttle wide open. There’s a reason we call cars “cages.” But the freedom we value is bigger than that. We value the freedom to be true to ourselves, to know our own hearts and minds, to follow our own path.

  Family: There is no bond stronger than the bond between club brothers. Blood might be thicker than water, but colors are thickest of all. The loyalty among the members of a club defies explanation. It can only be fully understood through personal experience. We are men who fit best together. We are strongest together. We have each other’s backs, no matter what. For some of us, maybe most of us, that’s something we didn’t have before. In the club, we built a family. The family at that table gives us the strength and support to be good fathers and good partners, too.

  Love: In the end, this is what it comes down to. The history of motorcycle clubs, the cultural fascination, the reputation—none of that really matters. At its core, its heart, the MC life is about love. We love the ride, we love the road, we love the club. We love each other. We love our women and our children. We love our community. We love our country.

  And that’s what “it means” to me.