Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67795 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67795 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
I bite the inside of my jaw to avoid an argument as we step inside the church where Pastor Braden greets us.
“Clara. Letty. Thank you both so much for helping out a family in their time of need.”
Pastor Braden has kind light brown eyes, slightly messy brown hair shot through with gray, and a kindly demeanor that makes him a good, trustworthy pastor.
“We’re happy to help,” I tell him with a smile. “It’s so sad to lose one of God’s children so young.”
“Yes.” His shoulders and head fall forward. “Grace was such a good and kind soul, and this random act of violence has devastated her mother.”
Random? I glance at Mom who is doing her best to look anywhere but at me in the face of her lies. “What can I do?”
“The service is going to take place outside today, and Grace’s final resting spot is here at our cemetery. If you could hand out programs and get everyone seated, that would be most helpful.”
I smile, eager to get away from the oppressive and constant listing of my faults by my mom.
“Sure thing,” I tell the pastor and practically bounce away from her stare.
It’s a lovely day outside, too beautiful for a funeral for a woman so young. Too bright and too blue for grieving. I stand at the podium where all of the funeral guests will sign in and offer a crying, ragged-looking woman a program and a whispered, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she mumbles back and heads to the front row with a very pretty blonde in a stylish black dress that also manages to be appropriate for the day, and a very pregnant blonde with big blue eyes and a gauzy black dress fluttering in the breeze.
I wonder who these women are. Maybe the sisters of the deceased? A rush of sadness overwhelms me, and I steel myself for a few seconds. I can’t imagine the pain they are going through. A thunderous roar sounds in the distance, drawing all eyes from the casket and beautiful floral arrangements at the front, to the parking lot in the rear quickly filling up with motorcycles. At least a dozen men on motorcycles fill the lot as their loud bikes fall silent.
Each man is wearing jeans, and I brace myself for the incoming storm as my mother or Pastor Braden informs the bikers that they’re not dressed right for a funeral.
Surprisingly, none of them do.
I stand a little taller as they approach, pretending that I’m not at all intimidated by the men in crisp dark jeans with military-perfect creases down the center.
It’s almost like a uniform, the black t-shirts equally crisp underneath black leather vests. Some vests have lots of patches on them, some have just a few, while a couple have nothing but the large insignia on the back that says Reckless Souls MC Angel Harbor.
It’s not my place to judge, and the men seem appropriately somber for the occasion, so I flash a sympathetic smile as I hand out programs, which very few of them accept.
At the front of the church, the pretty blonde greets one of the bikers with a kiss on the cheek and a long, tender hug. The man smiles at her before he turns to Grace’s mother and envelops her in a monstrous hug that engulfs her petite frame.
He whispers something in her ear, and she cups his face, gratitude in her eyes as tears spill from them. It’s a beautiful scene to witness, the big rough biker holding the grieving mother that makes me wonder what the truth of Grace’s demise really is.
Maybe the Reckless Souls have good souls and aren’t so reckless.
“Program, please.”
A deep voice sounds behind me, and I turn with a startled gasp to see a tall man with spiky, short brown hair and black sunglasses wrapped around his face. His scruff-covered jaw is as sharp as his cheekbones, and colorful tattoos crawl up his neck. His lips are perfectly pink and a little plump.
“Excuse me?”
His lips tug into a grin as if he knew I was taking stock of his features.
“I’d like a program. Please.”
“Oh, right. Sure. Here you go.” I hand the program over and notice a patch on the left side of his jacket that names him as a treasurer. Do biker gangs have treasurers, and if so, for what purpose?
His fingertips touch the program, but he doesn’t take it.
“Like what you see?”
His tone matches that knowing smile on his face as if he can hear every word I’m thinking.
Why this man makes me nervous, I can’t say, but I’m shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, and the wind isn’t even blowing. He’s older than me, but that’s not it. He seems handsome underneath the glasses, but I can’t tell for sure, only that he makes me nervous and excited. Dangerous, my mind supplies for me.