I LET MY fingers drift over the cold granite surface that rests flat in the grass. I'm careful not to touch the engraved letters that tell the story of the best man I ever met. Rather, I trace around them. It's not the letters that make up his name—Charles Phillips—nor is it the inscription that reads "beloved brother, loving father, proud Cheyenne," that pains me. Unlike some clubs, who bury their men in a uniform fashion, Forsaken's founding members didn't want their men to ever forget that they are more than just soldiers. The club is a brotherhood, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that we’re also fathers and sons. The same Norse warrior that adorns our cuts stares back at me from the granite, but it’s just a picture stenciled into rock. No, it’s the year of his birth, followed by the year of his death, at the very bottom of the flat stone that is most upsetting. There shouldn’t be a year of death on there, because he shouldn’t be dead. But he is. A few blades of freshly cut grass rest atop the stone. I blow them away, suddenly discontent that we didn’t wait until we could get an upright headstone in here.
Not that my younger brothers have bothered to read them, but it's in the club bylaws that were put in place when the club was founded in the middle of fucking nowhere Nevada way back in 1946. It's important, I think, to know our history and to not forget it. That's something Chief taught me back when I was barely old enough to understand what it meant. He taught me a lot about what it means to be a man, and a father, but most of all what it means to be a brother.
And he's gone.
"Well, you're an asshole," I say.
A cool wind picks up and slices right through my cut. I'm worn the fuck out and fighting a nasty hangover. Everything about being here, both at my best friend's grave and in this fucked-up world, hurts like a bitch. Even the wind, though not particularly icy, is painful.
"You always pushed me to be a better man, but look where that got me—I'm talking to a fucking piece of rock like you can hear me. You could've left me alone you know, back then. You didn't have to help my retarded ass out of those charges. But fuck, you hadn't shown up, I'd either be doing 25-to-life, or selling insurance in Albuquerque. Either way, I'd rather be dead. I wouldn't have Chey had we not rode up to the bar in Arizona.
“That night, with Layla, you told me she wasn't right. I didn't listen. I remember all that shit, like it's a broken record, but I can't shut off. Everything you told me about women is ingrained into my fucking skull. Not that you've ever been some kind of relationship expert—I hope you found it entertaining that your whore wanted to ride in the SUV with your goddamn wife and kids. You always thought you were so wise, giving out advice like you were some kind of sage, when in reality you were just one high motherfucker whose dick was too social for his own good. Doesn't matter. I still take that shit with me everywhere I go, and in everything I do. So here I am, acting like a fucking brokenhearted bitch. I hope you're happy."
We laid Chief to rest not too long ago. Mancuso's guys kept their distance and didn't interfere. Still, seeing them on the side of the road on our way to the cemetery was enough to fuck everybody up for the rest of the day. It had been so long since we'd lost a brother, especially the way we lost Chief, that none of us were really in the right frame of mind to organize his burial. Thank fucking Christ for Ruby. She did right by the guy, even down to figuring out the exact details for his coffin, which she had custom made. I give Jim shit for letting her lead them around by his dick a lot, but she's a damn good woman, no doubt. She even arranged to have a medicine man from a local Native American tribe officiate the service. It was perfect—the blending of his heritage, which he had been so proud of, and the life he chose.
Barbara, Chief's widow, asked if I wanted to say a few words. I was selfish though, and didn't want to look like a pussy in front of my brothers. As a strict policy, we keep our burial services private. No press, no law enforcement, no hang-arounds, and no outsiders. All of the old ladies, even Nic, ended up in tears. As expected, it was particularly tough for Chief's kids. His youngest daughter, Izzy, clung to her mother, and his son, Stephen, held his older, half-sister's hand. I had to look away when I saw the tears roll down Elle's cheek and Stephen lean in and comfort her. Elle Phillips is one tough bitch, and seeing her fall apart almost did me in. But it was the sight of Ryan introducing Cheyenne to Alex that shredded me. It was then that I realized I have to get right with the shit and move on with my life. It's what Chief would want, at least that's what everybody tells me.