Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Dad walks out from backstage and everyone stands. He motions to me to join him. Fighting down the urge to hurl, I get up and take my place behind and to the left. He folds his hands before him and puts his gaze downwards. With the sharp, crumpled corners of the eulogy digging into my palms, I follow suit.
The last fleeting tones fade, leaving the Hall in silence. Dad looks up, right into the camera. His face pops up on the screens, a hundred times bigger than life.
“Thank you all for joining my family on this solemn day. Please be seated,” he says in a somber tone, and the congregation obeys like they're all one body.
Spotlights start at the stage, then one at a time, blink into life to light a path down the center aisle between the orchid rows until they settle on the big double doors at the other end where the pallbearers will carry in Vivian’s casket.
On cue, the doors burst open so hard that they slam against the walls. Someone yells, which seems oddly extreme. Dad scowls before he can school his expression. Someone's going to get fired, and now it’s going to be me, not Viv, arguing for forgiveness. He hates it when someone messes with his carefully choreographed performances.
A gasp races through the congregation. My jaw drops.
Those aren't the right pallbearers.
Not unless they've taken to wearing black leather jackets and motorcycle boots.
3
CRASH
Jesus, fuck. Last time I saw this place it was half the size.
Apparently preying on people’s faith is good business. The new church is a fucking eyesore, as visible and lit up ahead of us as a major league stadium. Big as a goddamn arena and with a parking lot the size of a shopping mall. What happened to where two or three are gathered in my name? This is a few thousand more than that.
How the fuck isn't it obvious to these people that he's just in it for the goddamn grift? I was sixteen when I ran away and I'd already figured it the fuck out. Then again, Mom fell for it, hook, line and sinker, didn't she?
Traffic guards hold up their arms to make us stop as we pull in through the big arch over the entrance, with “Hall of Grace'' written in huge, backlit letters on it. On our bikes, though, it’s easy as shit to just ride around them. I feel a shiver going through me at being back. Fuck, how he used to terrify me. Yeah, I was a smart-ass, but he was a fucking adult. I didn't have a chance against his belt. And he wasn't fucking scared to let me have it either when he was pissed.
I'd like to see him try it now. It's Mom's funeral, so I won’t take the first swing, but if anyone tries anything? I'm going to fucking finish it.
We drive past a long black hearse with gold trim and the Hall of Grace logo on the side. Fucking tacky. There's a big “No Parking” sign on the wall, but who’s going to stop us? I pop my bike up onto the sidewalk. It’s a slow fucking day if that’s the biggest rule we break.
“What's the plan, Crash?” asks Devil as he stops next to me and pulls his bike up on the kickstand.
The hearse comes to a stop and five guys get out. The back opens and they slide the casket out on a metal support that springs open to hold the weight.
Mom.
Fuck, that's my goddamn mother in there.
Bitch.
She chose all of this over me. Aaron, the goddamn sham church, Summer. Not once did she fucking try to contact me. Not even a “please come back.” But still… she was my fucking mother and I can’t forget her smile or the years we spent together before she got sucked into this world.
So I’m not going to let these shits do my job.
“Hey. You. Yeah, you.” I point at the front pallbearer. “Get the fuck away from her. If anyone's going to fucking carry her, it's me.”
“Who are you?” asks the supervisor, taking in my leathers with the most judgmental fucking eyebrow I've seen in my life. He's got a little goatee and looks like he's used to everything going to plan. He'd better prepare to be disappointed.
I'm going to fuck him up if he doesn't cooperate. I'm not in the mood to play around.
“I'm her son, that's fucking who. Now get out of the way.”
“Pastor Hale was very clear. We’re supposed to—”
“Of course you are,” says Preacher, his voice smooth and fucking deadly. “But see, if he wants to carry his fucking mother, you’re going to get out of the way. You can make this easy or hard, but either way it’s going to happen. Your choice.”
“I…” The guy looks to the others as if they'll back him up, but they don't look ready to jump on that. Smarter than he is. “It's really your mother?”