Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
I didn’t know when the tears started.
But I did know that the only thing that stopped me was the tears freezing to my face and my eyes, making it impossible to see.
I didn’t want to stop.
But I had to.
I pulled over at the longest stretch of lonely highway I could find.
When I stopped the engine, a line of bikes stopped theirs right behind me.
My throat caught in a sob, and I covered my hands with my eyes, unable to stop the gut wrenching sounds from leaving my throat.
I couldn’t stop.
And the one voice that could have accomplished it was not of this world any longer.
I finally got the courage to look down, and there she was.
The life was drained out of her eyes.
But they were wide open, and she was still smiling, even in death.
“Fuck,” I cried out, unable to stop the yearning well of grief from swallowing me whole.
None of my club brothers made a move to touch me. They didn’t give me kind words.
They knew just as well as I did that nothing was going to fix this moment. Not their words. Not their grief right along with me.
Nothing.
So they stayed silent and waited with me while I got it all out.
The next steps yawned in front of me.
I’d have to tell the kids.
Call the hospice nurse back out.
Plan her funeral.
I didn’t want to do any of that.
Couldn’t see my kids cry one more fucking time.
Couldn’t witness my grandkids’ confusion when there was no more Grandma to welcome them into our home with warm hugs and cookies.
I just…couldn’t.
I did, however, start my bike.
I’d deal.
I’d deal, even if I wasn’t actually dealing.
Nothing would ever be okay again.
Nothing.
The ride back to my place felt like a death sentence.
I knew when I got back, I’d have to make the calls.
That had to be why I rode as slow as I could back to where I couldn’t even see as home.
It would be my new home, though.
Because Mary was right in one way.
This new place was just that…new.
No memories of how I crossed the threshold with her in my arms on the day of our marriage.
No reminders of bringing our first baby home, and the huge ass smile on her face.
No flowers in the front that she painstakingly planted with every bit of love and affection she possessed.
No, this place was a new, blank slate.
She’d stamped it with her life, of course, over the last eight months.
But not every ding on the counter, or scratch on the wall, would remind me of her.
I didn’t know if that was better or worse, to be honest.
I reluctantly pulled into the driveway and parked.
I got off the bike, steeled my shoulders, and looked at my wife.
“Help me get her out, please?” I asked through the lump in my throat.
Silas was the one to get her out.
He had her in his arms, and I tried not to pay too much attention to how fucking white she was.
How dead she looked.
“Thank you,” I croaked.
He helped me get her into the house.
Silas laid her on the bed in our room, and I dropped down to my knees beside the bed and pressed one last kiss to her cheek.
“I’ll find you in the next life, my love,” I promised her. “Wait for me.”
She didn’t reply, and that was the last little stab right to my heart that killed it forever.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Dear Santa, I was framed.
—Hoax’s secret thoughts
HOAX
Present
“This fucking sucks,” I grumbled, punching my pillow.
My wife crawled over me and straddled my back.
I stilled as her hands smoothed over my back.
“Honey,” she said softly. “Do you ever think about how sad Dixie is?”
I buried my face into my pillow.
Yes, yes I did.
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“Do you think it’s selfish of us to want to keep him here, when the love of his life hasn’t been here in decades?” she asked.
I pinched my eyes shut and glared at the inside of my eyelids.
She was right.
I would never want to live a life without Pru in it.
“Why are you so annoying?” I teased.
“I’m not annoying. I’m right, and you know it.” She took the bottle of lotion off the nightstand, just for this purpose, and started rubbing it into the tattoos on my back.
When she’d started this, I’d laughed and let her do it.
But now it was something we did every night, without fail, and I looked forward to the time we spent together as we talked about life.
Usually our talks were a lot more uplifting than today’s talk, though.
She smoothed those small, silky smooth hands over my back, and I closed my eyes as I thought about what happened next.
“I don’t think he’s going to make it much past the New Year,” I admitted. “If I had to guess, he would most certainly check out before he gets to the new year. I’ve heard him talking to my grandmother’s picture a few times, and he misses her fiercely. He doesn’t want to be here anymore without her.”