I couldn’t even cry anymore. It was hard to do when the tears were fake. I sat at the kitchen table with at least fifty pictures spread out across it. My job was to pick out a picture of Rocky that I liked best. I didn’t like any of the pictures. I didn’t even like Rocky, even if I was his old lady. I had to keep face in the situation and go with the motions of it all. Tomorrow, he’d be buried and then I’d be somewhat free. I’d still be tied down to the MC for a while - maybe the rest of my life - but I wouldn’t have to deal with Rocky.
He was the VP for the Red Aces MC and he took a bullet to the throat. Then five to the chest, through his heart. I heard that the throat shot took him down and the five to the heart were for good measure. And for fun.
Which made me a little sick.
Funny how that kind of stuff still got to me.
I’d been living this kind of life as long as I could remember. From the time I was eighteen, and got too drunk and took my top off at a strip club to win enough money to pay the rent, it was all the same shit. I thought getting tied up with the MC would offer protection, which it did, for the most part. Only I didn’t want the man who loved me. I didn’t want him to touch me, fuck me, anything. But he did. Because I had to let him. When he spoke, I listened. If I didn’t… well, I never dared to find out what would happen.
I lifted a picture of Rocky as he sat on his motorcycle. His sunglasses were back on his bald head. His eyes were narrow, the viper eyes of a snake. His lip curled, head slightly back, the tattoos on his neck visible. He gave the middle finger. Rocky knew how to ruin any picture.
I dropped the picture and grabbed my coffee cup. I sipped it. It was ice cold. It had been sitting there for an hour, just like me. There was no good reason to be drinking coffee after midnight. Then again, this had been my schedule for years. Day was night and night was day. There was no such thing as normal. No nine-to-five stuff. No worrying about paying the car insurance on time. No forgetting to buy the spaghetti sauce for pasta night and needing an emergency trip to the grocery store.
That life passed me by too long ago to care.
There was a knock at the door and then it opened.
Sarah came walking in, carrying a bag of groceries. She was Harlan’s old lady. She was in her mid-thirties, looked ten years younger, and seemed to be the voice of reason throughout the MC. Mostly because she wore low cut shirts and loved to show off her breast implants. They were big but not too big. I never commented on them because she had always been jealous of my natural breasts. I guess I was considered lucky I didn't need to change anything about myself.
She was skinny, wore a tight black top with a crashing V line, and had blood red nails and lipstick that matched. Her hair was pitch black, pulled back in a tight ponytail. She smelled of smoke as she put the bag down on the table. Her shirt pulled up on her body, showing off tattoos that were on her hips. She told me that her hips were too wide so she got tattoos to distract from them. Her hips were made for babies, but Sarah could never have kids. Harlan didn’t want kids and he liked to grab her hips when he fucked her. I knew this because Sarah told me and I’d seen her and Harlan having sex a few times. Her tattoos were angel wings, and she always joked saying that Harlan liked to hold her wings more than her tits.
“It’s late,” Sarah said. “You should sleep. We have to ride in the morning.”
I nodded.
The ride.
Where we’d take Rocky’s body to the cemetery and say goodbye.
Bad enough we had the viewing just a few hours ago. Seeing his corpse in a black casket. His face was so pale. So dead. The work done on his neck wasn’t all that great. I couldn’t stop looking at it.
They were burying him with his leather cut, the ultimate sign of respect for Rocky. Which made sense since he was the VP of the club.
“I got you some stuff,” Sarah said. “I know your mind is scattered right now.”
“How much do I owe you?”
Sarah kissed the top of my head. “Just show me your boobs sometime and we’ll call it even.”
“You have your own to look at.”
“Yours are nicer.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
Sarah took the grocery bag into the kitchen and then came back to the table. She pulled out a chair and sat down.
“What are we doing?”
“I’m supposed to pick out a picture of Rocky.”
“What do you have so far?”
“All these.”
“Here, let’s do something,” Sarah said. “Close your eyes.”
I shut my eyes. “Okay.”
“Just put your hand on a picture. Now.”
I grabbed a picture and then opened my eyes.
It was of Rocky and Stoney laughing. VP and President. Their arms around each other, mouths open, heads back. They were drunk as hell in the picture.
“There,” Sarah said. “Done.”