Reprise (31 page)

Jayce blew out his air. “Your call. You know they won’t believe you did it.”

Oddly, he hadn’t thought they would.

A glass of water was waved in front of him. He took it and drank the whole thing down at once.

“Don’t tell them anything,” he eventually answered. “I don’t want them worried. Not before there’s anything wrong.”

“You telling Mal?” Knuckles asked quietly.

He shook his head. “Same goes for her. She’ll worry. Just...just let me enjoy everything until then.”

“They might not want you for this.” Optimism was not a comfortable concept for Knuckles, and it was obvious in his voice.

“They will. That’s the plan.” Tiny set the glass down and leaned back. The numbness was wearing off. Now there was an uncomfortable lump in his gut, the ability to see the future like this.

“Let’s see what Clark says,” Tank suggested. “He might have ideas how we can approach this.”

It was as good an idea as any.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The black peep-toe pumps weren’t even hers. She’d borrowed them from her mother, and they pinched. Obviously Mal’s mother’s feet were much thinner than her own.

The air had a sharp, bitter chill to it, but the ground wasn’t frozen yet. She needed her wool winter jacket, and a skirt wasn’t happening. She dressed herself in black slacks she’d purchased for a long ago waitressing job. She paired them up with a black, fitted, scoop-neck sweater and her grandmother’s pearls. Overall she felt like she was dressing older than her twenty-one years, but she felt ancient so it was completely appropriate.

Angelina had died five days before. They were putting her in the ground in two hours’ time.

When she was dressed, Mal sat on her parent’s sofa. The house was completely silent, save for the mantel clock ticking away the seconds. She stared at her reflection in the screen of the sleeping television set.

Normally she was fair-skinned, but she looked pale as death itself, to her own eyes anyway. For the past four nights there had been no sleeping. Just a catatonic state that gave her no ease.

After the death, it was another two days until she saw Harlon again. He came by the house, where she’d been waiting for him, and informed her he’s listed the house for sale. Then he’d turned and left. He hadn’t even left the foyer or removed his flannel jacket.

She packed her clothes and personal items, then went home.

Her mother was as distraught as Mal. They’d just look at each other at any time and burst into tears. Her father was surprisingly kind to her now. Always ready with a sympathetic hug, head nod. It appeared as though her little angel had broken through her father’s icy shell.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

She jumped. It had been so quiet that the mantel clock was enough to mask the sound of her father’s footsteps.

Her dad was wearing the only suit he owned; the same one that came out for family weddings, christenings, and—as it was today—funerals.

His face had become so lined the last while. It was hard not to feel like it was entirely her fault. He didn’t seem so mean, intimidating and big anymore. He was hurting, too.

“Daddy,” she said, about to stand but instead her voice cracked and she stayed where she was, hands covering her face.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, like she remembered from when she was sick as a child.

The couch depressed as he sat, sloping her into him. It was perfect. She let him tuck her shoulder under his arm, and he stroked her hair, saying sweet nothings that would never fix anything but they felt good.

When she stilled her father cupped her head in both hands, attempting to smile. “If I could, I’d kill him. I’d rip his throat out with my bare hands.”

She gave a startled gasp, which started a fresh round of sobbing. “I know. But he’s hurting, too.”

“I thought I was wrong about him. I was even happy to be wrong.”

“Dad,” she whispered, pushing at his hands.

“This isn’t
I told you so
,” he assured her. “I’m just saying I was ready to see him as my son in law. And I’m so pissed off.”

“Me too.”

“A man’s any kind of man, he’s with the woman he loves when she needs him. I know he loves you, sweetheart. He’s an idiot.”

“He’ll get right with this. In his own time.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” He didn’t believe her, it was obvious. But he’d leave her these delusions for the moment.

“Are we ready?”

They both turned to the hallway where her mother, stood, wearing similar duds to Mal with the exception of jewelry. Her mother didn’t go for much embellishment.

Mal nodded and wiped her eyes. Maybe she should have put on some make up, but she couldn’t find the energy to care how she looked.

It was familiar and comforting to walk between her parents down the steps and to their car.

Mal rode in the back, in the center, like she had her entire life. The world was filtered and surreal. She’d been in her parent’s care for most of her life, and living with Harlon for over a year. This was familiar and very different at the same time. Her months away had been enough to feel like the new normal.

Kind of like how it felt to sleep in her childhood bed again.

The funeral home’s chapel has reserved parking at the front, two sedans with blacked-out windows stood at the ready behind the hearse. Just seeing that made her eyes burn again.

They were well past stinging by now.

Her parents parked just around the corner. Only a few other cars were around, but it was still very early.

Like bodyguards, Matthew and Anabelle Beck flanked her as they strode into the sitting room, which was empty. Her father took both women’s coats and hung them up on a wardrobe rack that was in waiting beside the door.

Her mother led her into the room and again she was seated in the center of a sofa, less comfortable than the one at home, while her mother fixed her a cup of tea from a service set up on an antique trolley table.

All the furniture was antique, which made the room seem the slightest bit unwelcoming.

Her father sat next to her, taking her hand and resting it on the seat cushion between them.

One of the funeral staff came but to greet them in professional, soft tones. Mal let her father answer all the questions, and then her mother when she’d brought the tea over.

It was in a real bone china cup with matching saucer. She wondered how many people had ignored the rose of Sharon design with gold trim. It had a chip in the handle.

There was a hint of sugar in the tea, just how she always took it.

Again the room was silent, no clock here. Just her parent’s silent support and the sound of that tea cup tapping against its saucer.

Ten minutes before the service was set to start Angelina and Harlon Senior arrived. Seeing Harlon’s mother was the worst. Seeing his father hurt like hell, too. The second she spotted them, Mrs. Gray was in tears, and Harlon Senior had her wrapped in a hug so fast she couldn’t remember what happened to the tea cup or how she came to be standing.

“My boy’s being an ass,” he said roughly, voice thick with emotion, close to her ear. “If he never sees that, he doesn’t deserve you. Please hear that. If he doesn’t come around, he doesn’t deserve you, beautiful.”

She held him tighter for that, and he returned the pressure.

Harlon,
her
Harlon, showed just as they were to be led to the front family pew. Mallory couldn’t look at him. She took the hands of both parents and they led the way.

Mostly, the gathering attracted her parent’s friends. A few of her girlfriends had shown, and she felt guilty for that. Once she’d been with Harlon, her friends had been side-lined.

The funeral director said some nice words about the unfair and mysterious nature of life, seguing into the tragedy of a life taken far too soon. From meeting with Mal and her parents he had a few stories about the personality that had been emerging. And how Angie’s parents had found such joy with their daughter.

That was when she heard it, at the far end of their sparsely-filled pew. Harlon was leaning forward, elbows on knees to support his head as he wept.

Mal had never heard that sound. She’d witnessed him tearing up while studying their daughter at sleep, or the first time she’d smiled at him. But never this. This was the sound of pain and loss, and it gutted her with its helplessness.

His mother put an arm around his shoulders, and he turned into the tiny woman’s supporting embrace.

Her father put his arm around her, and comforted her in much the same way. That’s when she realized fresh tears were flooding down her cheeks.

They were starting to feel chapped.

There was no eulogy. The tiny coffin was carried out by two of Harlon Gray Senior’s brothers and two of Mal’s uncles. After the very brief service they rose to gather their coats and head out to waiting cars. The Grays and Becks rode in separate sedans to the graveside, following the hearse.

The sun was shining, sky a bright Crayola blue, highlighting the frost on the trees around the cemetery. Angie’s coffin was a pretty white enameled one, a light dusty rose color showing on the contours. So small. Four grown men was too much horsepower for such a miniscule job.

Then there was the usual
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
routine.  Mallory didn’t register every detail, but when they lowered that box into the ground her heart sped up and she had the overwhelming, irrational urge to tell them to stop.

They couldn’t do this. She couldn’t leave her baby here. It was too cold outside. The words lodged in her throat but only because her brain prevailed, common sense knowing that the fear was insane.

But, lodged in her throat as it was, it hurt like hell.

The last she’d seen of Harlon Gray was his back, walking across the snowy cemetery to the hired cars. He hadn’t looked at her or said a single word. No offer of comfort or mutual sorrow. From that moment on, he may as well have never existed.

-oOo-

Mallory didn’t mind doing the breakfast dishes. Especially with the other women offering hilarious commentary and stories of their past lives. It was a hard task but they even convinced Rose to sit out the cleaning.

Eventually they were permitted to leave the kitchen, and the first thing Mal noticed was the funk hanging over everything. It was all the more obvious with the cheerful , gaudy holiday decorations that had taken over the frat house decor. Gertie went directly to Buck, who took Davie from her immediately, then pulled his wife into a one-armed hug. It was a tight hug, and when he did it Gertie relaxed, seeming to know that he just needed a hug and no questions.

Tank did the same thing but he kissed Rose, long and deep, before wrapping his massive arms around her and burying his face in her hair. Fritter also took Sharon into a tight embrace, and on instinct Mal looked for Harlon. Something was going on and she had to know. Her gut was already rolling and that was
before
she had noticed her man was missing.

“Big Guy will be right out,” Knuckles said, approaching her out of the crowd of bikers and pulling a black hoodie on. She noticed that his leather vest was missing. “I’d keep you company but I gotta head out.”

“Sure,” she said, accepting the kiss he planted on her cheek.

The couples all vanished to the dorms without much discussion. The unattached men were scattered about, talking in close groups. No one noticed that she headed out of the clubhouse and headed for Harlon’s room. She’d borrowed a bodice-ripper paperback from Rose, so she stretched out on the bed to wait.

In half an hour she probably only got through four pages. The words kept moving out of sequence when she’d get distracted by her worries about what was going on, and why it seemed to be particularly focused around Harlon.

It was an hour before the door opened. She sat up and her trepidation grew. Harlon looked distraught, more so than the others had, but he still tried to smile for her. Unfortunately, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly, and he shut the door then crossed the room to the bedside. With a deep groan he sank down next to her. His face was hard to read in profile as his warm hand rested on her thigh.

“Harlon?” she asked when he didn’t answer.

“Got some bad news,” he grumbled, voice catching. “A friend of the club was murdered.”

Mal clutched at his hand. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

“She was a doctor. She’d fixed up all of us at one time or another.”

“Babe, I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. We’ll make it right, though.”

Mal ignored the shiver that his voice set off down her spine. She’d wondered if his club was above board. They couldn’t be, though. They got her out of Cleary without any help from law enforcement. Come to think of it, she hadn’t been asked to give a statement on that and people had died there, too.

Not too hard to imagine what vengeance looked like with this group.

“What can I do?” she asked quietly.

He finally looked right at her. There was water sitting in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He sighed, ran a hand through her hair from temple to the ends. “Nothing, honey. Unless you want to take a minute and let me hold you.”

Mal had to smile. “I think I can handle that, handsome.”

He smiled too, a little broader this time. She scooted back to lean against the high headboard, pillow at her spine. Without taking off his boots, Harlon tucked himself into her chest, linking their legs and wrapping his hard arms around her lower back.

She was surprised. She didn’t think there had ever been a time where he was seeking comfort from her. Even if he was upset, this was kind of nice.

When his big body trembled Mal realized he was crying. Silently, but Harlon Gray was crying.

Her nails scratched his scalp as she stroked the thick, steel-colored hair at his temple.  Her other hand sat on his back, not moving. With the sun streaming into the room it didn’t take long for them both to doze off.