“Are you a certified priest?”
He chuckles. “Don’t think any church would have me, love. Grew up with a vicar, though, and have plenty of faith. Which is more important than any sheet of paper to be sure.” He nods as he pulls out a set of black rosary beads and opens the small, worn, black book to a preselected page. His voice is rich and reverent.
The lights catch the silver streaking his bowed head, and chills pass over me as he creates a holy space. I feel the power of his conviction and the love he holds for his brother.
“Amen,” I whisper as he ends the prayer.
Replacing the book, he pulls out a small, white vial.
“Holy water,” he explains as he anoints his forehead with the sign of the cross. “Safe travels, brother. I’ll make sure your final wishes are seen to.”
Stepping back, he nods. “He’s ready, love.”
I step closer and squeeze his large hand, feeling a jolt of desire as our skin meets. Hurrying away, I move to help him get into the waiting wooden cremation container. I press the button, and we watch silently as the oven welcomes him to his final destination. The door shuts with a final click.
“How long will it be, love?”
“He weighs one-eighty according to the specs, so I’d say about five hours, including the cooling-off period.” I keep the explanation vague. Some details hurt more than they heal.
“Do you mind if I wait just a bit? I know his soul is no longer in there, but I don’t keen him being alone.”
“I think it’s a nice sentiment.”
“You don’t have to keep me company.”
“I want to. Does your father still preach?”
“No. Da’s retired now. He and my mum opened up a little book shop in Primrose Hill. They love it. I try to get out there at least once a year.”
“I bet it’s lovely.”
“’Tis. There are plenty of gardens and walking trails. The lush green is only broken up by the brilliant colors of all the flowers.”
His words weave a spell that transports me to a different place. It’s like having a book read to you during masterpiece theater. I close my eyes to sharpen the imagery.
“It sounds lovely. I’ve always wanted to visit England.”
“You should. A beautiful, little flower like you would fit right in.”
I meet his gaze, surprised by the blown-out pupils and intensity aimed at me.
“Maybe you could be my guide?”
His phone buzzes, and the spell is broken.
“I have to take this and get going. I’ll return later.” He pauses. “Forgive an old man his musings.”
“You’re not old, and I enjoyed it.”
Smiling, he answers the phone and continues out of the room with me on his heels. He exits, pausing to look back, and I wink. The attraction is mutual. Maybe he just needed a sign that the interest flows both ways. It’s the season in my life to go after what I want, why stop at a career?
I lift my head from the table and moan. I must’ve dozed off. The sound of a car has me swiping at my face to obliterate any signs of drool. The rumble of a motorcycle follows, and my gut clenches. Pushing up, I curse the tingles in my feet as I try to wake them by stomping before I hobble to the window. My heart leaps at the familiar sight of a black sedan with blacked-out windows. A black on red motorcycle pulls up behind it, and I freeze. Those aren’t Sinner colors. I kill the lights, plunging the basement into darkness, praying they hadn’t noticed them before. Why would one of the Sinners be meeting with the Red Rebel Riders? I slow my breathing as I study the man climbing off the bike. He pulls off his helmet, and my stomach plummets. I recognize the RRR’s sergeant at arms, Flint Creed.
Jesus Christ, Flint knows about the blind spot. This isn’t some random meeting. The door to the sedan swings open, and I gasp as the local councilman steps out. Arthur Bane has been lobbying against motorcycle clubs for years. Why the hell would he be here now?
“I’m here. Do you have the information?” Arthur huffs.
“I have exactly what you need, Artie. Don’t you worry.” Flint grins. His hawk nose and beady eyes seem to glow in the headlights of his bike.