I’m wearing a vest. Thick, black leather covered in patches. I’m a Nomad for Sinner’s Creed.
Images of death, feelings of pain, memories of darkness, they overtake me and remind me of who I am.
Then there is her. She is scared. She is distracted. She is singing, dancing, crying, laughing, sick, hurt . . . Then there is me. I am angry. I am powerful. I am a monster. I am feeling, loving, caring, smiling, laughing, praying . . . I open my eyes and she is still in front of me. This angel. She looks shy, maybe even a little nervous. Then, she speaks.
“You’re late.”
“I’m Dirk.”
“I’m Saylor.”
“I know.”
EPILOGUE
PINK FLOYD’S “WISH You Were Here” is blasting on my stereo. I hear the low rumble of motorcycles, riding at a slow pace. Beneath my feet, the concrete shakes with the vibrations of pipes. Hundreds of bikes ride behind me in two straight lines. And in front of me, in a glass custom-built trailer, lays the body of my brother.
And my best friend.
I’ve tried to imagine I was honoring someone else by leading the pack in a final ride. My mind flashes with images of Dirk riding beside me. I can almost feel the hate radiating off him—his mind spinning in a hundred different ways on how to bring hell to those who just earned revenge by the hands of Sinner’s Creed’s finest. His presence is so powerful that I turn and look to my left, expecting to see him wearing that pissed-off look he perfected. But I see nothing.
The reality hits me again, and it hurts just as bad now as it did when I first found out.
One phone call.
Two words.
“Dirk’s dead.”
He’s gone.
Forever.
And all I have left are material things to remind me that he was real. His house. His money. What’s left of his bike. And Saylor’s diary—the most painful reminder of all.
He was her king.
She was his queen.
I hold the greatest love story of all time inside my cut—close to my heart. The story lives on, but their love will be buried today. Laid to rest with my brother, who’s freshly dug grave lays next to the woman who saved him.
I wish this tragedy had ended differently. It should have been me they found dead on that highway. It should be Dirk riding behind my casket today. I pulled the trigger that night. But Dirk took the fall. If he was here, he’d tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself. He’d tell me he only had two reasons to live—Saylor and Sinner’s Creed. One was already gone. The other he died for.
If he was here, he’d give me that look that made me feel stupid. Then he’d ask, “Do you really think I’d just lay down and die? I went out the way I wanted. They didn’t kill me, Shady. I was already dead.”
And he was.
He is.
Tears fill my eyes, but I force them back. Dirk doesn’t want my tears. He wants my wrath. My tribute will be paid by slaughtering those who did this. It’s more meaningful, and a fuck of a lot bloodier.
Inside, I’m screaming in agony. But no one can hear me. My eyes are filled with sorrow and loss. But no one can see it. My chest aches with a thousand flames from the fiery sea of hell. But no one can feel it. No one but me.
Shady.
The man who was born with nothing, lost everything, and has something he doesn’t deserve. Life.
Whatever controls me, whether it is my instincts or my subconscious, leads me to a deep hole surrounded by men and a handful of shovels. These men are said to be my brothers, but the truth is only one ever really earned that title. And I watch as they lower his body into the ground.
Every patch holder strives to make the club prosper. Many will die trying. Dirk did it by just existing. His life stood for what the patch really means. And his death proved that he was willing to give it all for Sinner’s Creed.
He will be remembered as the greatest Nomad that ever rode.
A man of power.
A leader.
A ruthless enforcer.
A fucking legend.
He’s the most loyal man I ever knew. I never understood respect until I gained his. He’s the greatest loss I’ve ever suffered. And in this moment, I struggle to find the strength to let him go.
I want to crawl into the six-foot hole and breathe life back into his body. I want the man who was too fucking mean to die to rise from this grave. But death was peace for Dirk. And now I have to be at peace too.
I grab a handful of dirt, letting it slowly sift through my fingers and fall reverently on my brother. The granules of sand drop silently, but I swear I can hear every particle land on the black box.
The other patch holders follow suit, taking turns to bury one of our own. The process is slow and torturous, but I beg for it to go on forever. I know that once the hole is filled, then it’s over. It will be the end. Just like the last page in Saylor’s diary.
This is the end. The end to a beautiful life for me, Saylor Samson.