The service concluded and people around Maverick rose to their feet. Despite the evening hour, the June air hung humid and gray. Almost oppressive. The weight of it was fitting. It was as if their collective grief had taken on a physical form.
Maverick held out his hand to Bunny. With her white-blond hair and dark blue eyes, she was still as pretty as she’d ever been. And every bit as feisty. Well, usually.
Accepting his help, she gave him a sad smile and rose. Her husband, Rodeo McKeon, steadied her from her other side.
“Thanks, Maverick,” she said, stepping toward the casket. She pulled a long-stem red rose out of the arrangement and brought it to her nose. A moment later, she laid it on top of the lid by itself, her hand resting there for a moment.
When she turned away, her lips trembled, and when she made eye contact with Maverick, her whole expression crumpled.
Maverick pulled her into his arms, her tears like ice in his veins. “It’s gonna be okay, Mom,” he said, uttering a name for her he hadn’t used regularly in years. Everybody called his mother Bunny, and somewhere along the way it had stuck for him, too.
From behind her, Rodeo rubbed her back. Mav met the older man’s gaze and saw reflected at him the same pain and regret Maverick felt. Normally, Bunny was the youngest sixty-something you’d ever meet, but the attack and Jeb’s death had left her fragile. And Maverick fucking hated it. Not because he thought her shakiness wasn’t warranted, but because it reminded him of another time. When Bunny’s first husband—Maverick’s father—had finally beaten her so badly she ended up in the hospital for days.
That had been seventeen years before when Maverick had just been a kid in high school, but not a day had gone by when he hadn’t blamed himself for not realizing what was going on, not being there, not protecting her. Oh, I just fell, hon. I just tripped/bumped my head/slipped in the shower. He’d believed every lie, swallowed every excuse.
And damn if Alexa wasn’t giving him déjà vu.
Sonofabitch.
Maverick’s gaze slid over Rodeo’s shoulder to the casket. I will find a way to avenge you, Jeb. And you can believe I’ll never forget.
“I’m okay,” Bunny said, wiping at her cheeks. She patted his chest. “Thanks, hon.”
Rodeo gave Mav a nod that said he had her, and Maverick didn’t doubt it. Not only was Rodeo one of his brothers in the Raven Riders, he was also the best thing to ever happen to Bunny.
“Are you coming to the clubhouse?” Maverick asked, trying like hell to keep the rage out of his voice. Bunny hadn’t been back since the attack the week before, which was totally unlike her. Normally, she spent part of every day there, often cooking one or more meals for whichever Ravens happened to be around or drop by.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’ll see you there.”
“Okay,” he said. With a last look at Jeb’s casket, Maverick turned for the drive that wound through the rolling hills of the cemetery. Motorcycles formed an unbroken wall of steel and chrome almost forty deep. The whole club had turned out to pay its respects. As it should be when a brother took his last ride.
As vice president, Maverick’s bike was at the front. Normally, he’d be riding third position behind Road Captain Phoenix Creed and Dare, but the gunshots to Dare’s side and arm meant that he’d only be driving four-wheel vehicles for the immediate future. So Maverick was second in line. Still standing, he brought the bike to life on a low growl. One by one, all the Ravens’ bikes rumbled until the cemetery nearly vibrated with the sound. Turning to the brother beside him, Maverick waited for Phoenix’s command.
Like the black bands they wore on their arms—made of thin strips torn from a couple of Jeb’s Harley T-shirts—they had traditions they honored when one of their own died.
A few years younger than Maverick’s almost thirty-five, Phoenix normally wore a mischievous, good-humored expression. Not today. Not when they were burying one of Phoenix’s closest friends just a month after Phoenix had buried his cousin, too. Their road captain had taken a beating the past few weeks, and it showed in Phoenix’s unusual frown and his lack of joking around.
When everyone else had started their engines, Phoenix finally started his own. Then he turned his throttle and revved his engine until it roared.
Every biker except one joined in.
Roar, roar, roar, roar, roar.
The five thunderous revs lodged a knot in Maverick’s throat. Because the Last Rev was meant to alert heaven that a biker was on his way home.
And then all the bikes quieted to a low idle—except one. The one that had remained silent before now roared out. Ike Young, the Tail Gunner of the procession, revved his engine five times, as if Jeb was answering the club’s call and saying his good-byes. One last time.