My sunshine. My heart. My reason for fighting.
For the first time in two years, I feel something like hope.
38
Chapter 38
Kayla
The cemetery was quiet, somber, as we laid Gunner to rest. Now back at the clubhouse, there’s a different energy in the air. Grief is still there, but there’s something else too. Everyone is ready to celebrate a life well-lived. My black dress feels too formal now, out of place among the leather cuts and jeans that most have changed into. But no one seems to notice or care as I weave through the gathering crowd, finding a spot near the edge where I can observe without being in the way.
It’s been a week since the warehouse. A week since Naomi died, since Todd revealed himself as FBI, since Gunner was shot trying to protect Molly and me. The bullet that tore through his chest took his life. Another life claimed because of Naomi’s obsession. Another person I’ll never be able to thank or apologize to.
The smell of charcoal and meat fills the air as prospects man the grills, flipping burgers and turning steaks. Tables groan under the weight of picnic salads and desserts, all brought by old ladies and club friends. In another context, it might look like any summer barbecue. But the somber faces, the occasional quiet sobs, the heavy silence that falls when Dragon steps up to speak remind everyone why we’re gathered.
Dragon stands on a small platform that’s been set up near the clubhouse doors. He’s not wearing his usual flannel shirt today, but a simple black button-up, with his leather cut on top. In his hand, he holds a bottle of beer. The yard falls silent as he clears his throat.
“Gunner joined this club ten years ago,” Dragon begins, his voice strong and steady despite the emotion I can see in his eyes. “He came to us as a prospect, skinny and eager to prove himself. I remember telling him, he didn’t have the muscle for this life.” A small smile crosses Dragon’s face. “He told me muscles weren’t what made a man, and then proceeded to outride, outdrink, and outwork every other prospect we had.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd. I see nods and sad smiles as brothers remember.
“Gunner was loyal,” Dragon continues. “Loyal to this club, loyal to his brothers, loyal to his beliefs. He was the kind of man who would give you the shirt off his back and then apologize that it wasn’t a better shirt.” This earns a few chuckles. “He loved this club. He loved his brothers. And above all, he loved his wife.”
Dragon’s eyes find Gunner’s widow Nicole in the crowd. She stands surrounded by the other old ladies, her face a mask of grief. Even from where I stand, I can see the trembling in her shoulders, the way she holds on to the woman next to her like a lifeline.
“Nicole,” Dragon says her name softly, “Gunner talked about you every day. Every damn day. The guys used to give him shitabout it, but he never cared. He’d just smile that smile of his and say, ‘When you find your person, you’ll understand.’”
A muffled sob escapes Nicole. My throat tightens in sympathy. I can’t imagine her pain, the gaping hole that’s been left in her life.
Roman’s arm slides around my waist and I lean into him, allowing myself this comfort. Since the warehouse, he’s been a constant, steady presence, there when I need him, giving me space when I don’t, never pushing for more than I’m ready to give.
“Gunner died protecting our family,” Dragon says, his voice dropping lower. “He died as he lived, putting others before himself, standing between danger and those he cared about.” Dragon’s eyes find mine momentarily, and I feel a wave of guilt wash over me. Gunner died because of me, because I walked out that back door.
As if sensing my thoughts, Roman’s arm tightens slightly around me. I look up at him, meeting his blue eyes. He gives me a small shake of his head, as if to say, ‘Don’t blame yourself.’ It’s easier said than done.
“I’ve lost a brother,” Dragon continues. “We’ve all lost a brother. Nicole has lost her husband. The world has lost a good man.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “But Gunner wouldn’t want us to dwell on what we’ve lost. He’d want us to remember what we had. He’d want us to celebrate his life, not mourn his death.”
Dragon raises his beer bottle high. “So that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to eat, and drink, and tell stories about Gunner, the good, the bad, and the ugly.” This earns a ripple of laughter. “We’re going to remember our brother the way he deserves to be remembered — with love, with respect, and with a cold beer in hand.”
He lifts his bottle higher. “To Gunner!”
“To Gunner!” The response comes from every throat, including mine and Roman’s, as bottles and cups are raised toward the sky. The sound echoes across the clubhouse yard, a refusal to let grief overshadow memory.
“You okay?” Roman asks, his voice low near my ear.
I nod, not trusting my voice just yet. Am I okay? I don’t know. But I will be. Somehow, surrounded by these people who have become unexpected friends, I believe that I will be.
“Come on,” Roman says, gently turning me toward the food tables. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
I follow his lead, moving through the crowd of leather-clad mourners. Life continues, even in the face of death.
The bench creaks as Maddie sits down beside me, setting her plate on the table with a weary sigh. Her normally bright expression is subdued, dark circles visible beneath her eyes.
“How are you holding up?” I ask, turning toward her.
She attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m managing.” She pushes potato salad around her plate without taking a bite. “It’s been rough, though. Especially on Dragon.”
I set down my burger, giving her my full attention. “How’s he doing?”