But this was what he’d wanted.
No fuss. No tears.
Along with being a secretive prick, he’d also been organized. A will had been lodged with our in-house lawyer, along with instructions for his cremation, and his businesses had been divided between the members he bequeathed them to.
He didn’t want to be eaten by fucking worms in a dark pit beneath the ground.
He wanted to ride the roads for eternity.
After dedicating his life to the MC, the least I could do was honor his last request. My own needs didn’t matter.
I’ll always have your back, man.
I’ll see you on the other side.
The urn was heavy in my grip. With the cast still on my left arm, I couldn’t open the lid. Glancing at Cleo who stood beside me looking fucking gorgeous in jeans and her jacket, I raised an eyebrow in request.
The past few weeks had brought us closer together. We were never apart. Never angry. The pain in my head had gone—replaced by incessant itching from the stitches in my skull as I healed from surgery.
Every day I completed the tasks set by doctors to ensure my healing continued uninterrupted. And every day I improved.
The doctors said I’d been a miracle. My IQ was on the rise, my intelligence returning at a rapid pace. I didn’t believe in miracles, but I did believe in Cleo. It was all thanks to her.
I’d found her again. I’d had no intention of dying.
The endless compulsion I’d lived with all my life finally tempered. I still needed more. I still needed to fix and improve and create but for now … I was content. Happy.
Her small fingers latched around the lid, unscrewing it, and she took a step back. With a smile of gratitude, I held up the urn and faced my brothers.
“Mo was one of us. He’ll always be one of us. His motorbike is now the wind. The road is now his home. God speed.”
The members murmured their final goodbyes. Other eulogies had already been said at the local watering hole where Mo had wanted his brothers to have one last drink in his honor—he’d even picked up the tab, the crazy bastard.
“Happy trails, brother.” I turned downwind and dumped the contents of Mo’s earthly remains. The cloud of grey dust took flight, weightless and translucent, spreading quickly with the breeze.
No one spoke as Mo disappeared into the air.
He would become a legend. He would forever be a Pure.
Cleo came closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. “The end of an era.”
I smiled; her words couldn’t have been more perfect. “The end of war.”
With the breeze in my hair and my woman in my arms, I was finally able to let go and just be.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cleo
I’d always hoped life would pay me back for the pain it’d caused.
Every day with no memory, I’d begged life to be gentle.
Every month with no recollection, I’d pleaded for salvation.
And every year with no epiphany, I’d prayed to be worthy.
My hope had finally paid off. I was whole again. I’d found him again. And life was now complete. —Cleo, last week
Two things happened a fortnight after Mo’s funeral.
Both proved that life moved swiftly and all I could do was hold on, be by Arthur’s side, and never let go.
The first was a newspaper article.
I didn’t normally read newspapers, but while waiting in the hospital foyer while Arthur had his cast removed, I picked it up out of boredom.
Flicking through the black and white pages, I yawned and glazed over. But then a photo wrenched me to a halt.
There we were.
Arthur and me at the cocktail party at Samson’s house.
Beneath the image—taken without my knowledge—was a short but poignant article.
Local motorcycle club president Arthur Killian has recently moved up the ranks from fringes of society to corruption-exposing businessman. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen him in the media, but it is the first he’s been spotted with a woman. Taken at Senator Samson’s house, it’s been reported that both Killian and Samson are behind the recent commercial and radio bulletins with leaks about the latest spying incident from our government. They both claim that the world is falling into anarchy with the men and women in charge unable to rule such a vastly changed economy. They state that the laws being created aren’t to our benefit, and it’s up to us, the people who chose this governing power, to take action and fight for truth and justice.
“Ah, you’ve seen it then.”
My eyes wrenched up, locking onto Arthur. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. The cast that’d been scribbled over by Pure Corruption had gone and the shaved patch on his skull was no longer white against the shaggy length of dark hair—growing back with short bristles, hiding the injury that could’ve killed him.
“You knew about this?”
He smiled, perching beside me on another chair. “It’s not like I’m hiding them from you, Buttercup. The campaign has been going on for weeks now.” He chuckled. “I can’t help it if you don’t watch television or read the paper.”
My heart raced. After I’d learned his long-term goals with Samson, we hadn’t discussed it in great detail. After all, he’d gone to war, come back injured, and our life turned toward healing and supporting our Club rather than discussing world revolutions.
But now it was all I could think about.
“What does this mean?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “It means Wallstreet gets out tomorrow and the moment he does, our life will be very different.”