Jax's Dilemma:Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 2) (20 page)

Cherri sat in the front row of Calvary Christian Church. The simple, stained-glass windows cast rectangular patterns of red, blue, and green on the church’s beige carpet. A large wood cross hung down in front of the altar, the colored patterns on the white wall behind it looked like a rainbow after a rainstorm. The church, packed with Gunner’s home club and fellow bikers from both charter and affiliate clubs, was unusually somber. They were all there to pay their tribute to Gunner. The crowd was so large not everyone fit in the church, so many spilled out to the parking lot surrounding it.

Five hundred Harleys shone like beacons in the morning rays. All the bikers wore black bandannas and armbands. Their colors, proudly displayed out of respect for a fallen brother, created a kaleidoscope against the black leather jackets. Gunner, who lay in a black and silver casket, wore his colors.

At the pulpit, Reverend Jake looked at the sea of leather and denim, pointed to the coffin in front of the altar, and said, “Gunner was a fearsome man, but underneath all the muscle and tattoos beat the heart of a generous man, the heart of a brother.” Murmurs whispered in agreement. Men raised their arms, hands in fists, paying homage to a man who was taken from them too soon.

Cherri stared at the coffin, wet lines running down her pale face. It had been a week since the semi-truck mangled Gunner and his bike, and she still couldn’t believe her gentle giant was dead—that he was no more. Why hadn’t she insisted he come home with her that night? She blamed herself for letting him ride when she knew he’d had too much to drink. The heat in the crowded church suffocated her. She wanted this to be over so she could throw herself on her bed and cry until she fell asleep. However, the day seemed like it was going to last forever. After the services, there would be the cemetery procession, and then the party—a massive send-off to Gunner. She didn’t think she could make it through all that.

The mourners filed out of the church, their heads down, arms around each other, faces dark and somber. They glanced at the heavy police presence. Some cursed under their breaths, but most of them ignored the cops and went over to their bikes. The police ensured there wouldn’t be any trouble at the outlaw funeral. They stood respectfully at a distance, giving the bikers some space in mourning their comrade’s death.

Cherri climbed into a black limousine, scrunching herself as far against the door as she could. Gunner’s mother and sister followed her into the limo. They smiled at her and she half-smiled back. She’d never met them before, and she remembered Gunner had wanted her to, but she always came up with an excuse why she couldn’t go with him to his mom’s house. The truth was she didn’t want their relationship to move to the next level. It seemed that if she met his family, it would mean they were serious—really together. However, she wished she would’ve met them if for no other reason than to make Gunner happy. God, she was so fucked-up.

The roar of all the Harleys starting up was deafening. Cherri turned to look out the back window and gasped when she saw the wave of motorcycles lined up behind the limo. The hearse pulled out, the pall bearers rode behind the hearse, and the limousine followed. The club officers rode on their Harleys behind the family, the members of Gunner’s club behind them, and the rest of the chapters and affiliates behind that, a two-abreast bike procession. Cars took their second-class position behind the bikes. Along the street, citizens took pictures of the droves of motorcycles in perfect formation, cars stopped on the road, and people in stores and buildings watched as the bikers rode by, their colors bright, their hearts heavy, and their “Ride to Live, Live to Ride” patches displayed on their jackets.

At the cemetery, Reverend Jake said a few words about Gunner’s freedom ride. Banger stepped toward the open grave, dropped a devil’s skull motorcycle ornament into it, cleared his voice, and said, “We lost a great brother; one we’re gonna fuckin’ miss, that’s for sure. He’s lookin’ at us now, and he’s in a place where citizens and cops can’t hassle him. He’s riding his Harley with the angels.”

The crowd clapped as Banger, in Insurgents tradition, threw a shovel of dirt into the grave. Hawk walked up to the grave and followed suit. He looked at the others and said, “In losing a brother, we have revitalized our biker spirit. May Gunner rest in peace.”

Each officer stepped up, said a few words, shared a few stories then shoveled dirt into the grave.

Eventually, Jax came up. Cherri saw the tautness in his face, his neck flushed red. Some of the bikers turned away when he took the shovel. Others, knowing the bad blood between Gunner and him, chose not to pay him any attention and started talking among themselves.

Jax cleared his voice and said, “It’s always sad when a brother falls. As many of you know, we had some problems between us, but he was a brother and he’ll be missed.” Jax tossed dirt in the grave and moved to the side.

Lines of bikers came up to the grave, many of them wearing t-shirts depicting a Harley soaring over a tombstone with the caption, “Death Ride.” Several of them muttered, “If you gotta go, a spectacular motorcycle crash is the best way to do it.”

The bikers threw beer cans, bandannas, and motorcycle parts into the grave before placing dirt on Gunner’s casket. From a player, the notes and lyrics of “Free Bird” hung over the gathering at the gravesite. Cherri was happy Gunner’s brothers gave him such an awesome send-off. He was loved by so many of them. She could see his twinkling eyes with the lines around them smiling from above, and her heart lurched. She glanced at Jax, but he avoided her look. He’d been dodging her since the night of the accident. Maybe he felt guilty—she knew she did.

Fuck, it’s gonna be a long day
…

*     *     *

The sun was
high in the sky when everyone converged on the Insurgents’ clubhouse. In the parking lot, brothers hugged each other as they milled into the great room. The tangy, smoky deliciousness of roast pig tantalized the men as they came into the clubhouse. The old ladies had come to the compound right after Gunner’s church services, setting the tables and warming up the food they’d prepared for the last few days. They knew the brothers were going to give Gunner the send-off he would’ve wanted: beer, barbecue, and stories of him and other fallen brothers. It was times like these when the harmony and oneness of the Insurgents clubs made the old ladies proud their men belonged to the outlaw community.

Beer and whiskey flowed as the men laughed, slapped each other on their backs, and reminisced about Gunner. Many of the men at the funeral were older and remembered Gunner from back in the day when he first joined the Insurgents. Old ladies, girlfriends, and female relatives were the only women present at the party; club whores, mamas, and hoodrats were not welcomed, as this was a day of respect. Gunner’s mother and sister were there, so the women Gunner had enjoyed for years were relegated to the dark corners of the club only to be brought out the following night at the club’s party, to which old ladies, girlfriends, and female relatives were not privy. It was the way the Insurgents’ world worked.

Music from overhead speakers played tunes which had undertones of freedom and defiance. The lyrics and musical strains from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” and Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” lent a somber note to the gathering, while Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild” and Iron Maiden’s “Run for the Hills” picked up the crowd and reminded them why Gunner’s life and the life they all chose mattered. When Manowar’s “The Fight for Freedom” played, all the veterans sang along, arms in the air, hands fisted while tears streamed down their tanned faces.

Cherri sat alone on an overstuffed brown chair and watched the men pay homage to Gunner, the man who loved her and accepted her the way she was. The one thing he wanted from her was the only thing she couldn’t give him: love. Gunner was a good person, but he was dead. She was a bad person, but she was alive. Wasn’t life fucked up?

“Here, eat some food, Cherri.” Cara bent down, holding a plate of ribs, potato salad, and corn.

Cherri thought she was going to throw up. “Thanks, Cara, but I’m not hungry. I couldn’t eat a bite.”

Cara put her hand on Cherri’s hand. “Are you sure? Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“No, I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Cherri. I know you must hurt. If you need anything, please let me know. I mean it.”

“I will, thanks.”

Cherri watched as Cara walked away. She was one of the nicest old ladies she had met, and she knew Cara meant what she said. If things had been different, she might have been friends with Cara, but that would never be. She wanted to leave and lie down on her bed.
Would it be in bad taste if I leave right now? Is it too soon?
Probably no one would even know I’m gone. I should just go and forget about—

“He talked about you every time he came by to see me. You made my son very happy.” A white-haired woman with wrinkled skin interrupted Cherri’s thoughts.

When Gunner’s mother hugged her, Cherri grimaced as bitter bile rose up her throat. She forced a smile when she looked into the old woman’s sad, brown eyes.

“Your son was a wonderful man. I was lucky to know him.” Cherri placed her two fingers on her trembling, paled lips. She meant what she said. Gunner was a piece of luck that was placed in her life, and he was gone. That was the way it went with her; good things came and then they were taken away.

“You’ll have to come by and see me sometime. We can get to know each other better. I know Gunner wanted that.” She stroked Cherri’s arm.

“Yes, I’d like that. I’ll come by,” Cherri lied, having no intention of ever seeing Gunner’s mother again.
Fuck, I can’t take much more. I have to get outta here. I wish I could run out and keep running until I drop dead from exhaustion. I need to get away from everything. Especially Jax.

How messed up was she? Even at her lover’s funeral, she thought of Jax and how wonderful his lips felt on hers, how she loved the way his calloused hands scratched across her skin, and how her body ignited when he sucked her nipples. She squirmed in her chair and looked around to see if any of the badasses had a fucking clue as to what she was thinking. She was bad. Her mom and stepfather were right—she was no good.

Cherri caught Jax staring at her from the corner of the bar. There were throngs of men in black leather, but she spotted his beautiful eyes fixed on her. Her heart beat faster. Since the accident, it was the first time he’d looked at her. He stood there with his lips parted, shifting back and forth while they held each other’s gaze. Though Cherri was certain he wanted to come over to her, she knew he wouldn’t out of respect for Gunner. She noticed some of the other brothers frowned as they darted their eyes from Jax to her, and she turned away. She knew the brothers had to deal with the tension between Jax and Gunner, and she also knew they blamed her. Hell, she blamed herself for it.

Once more, she thought about her mom telling her she was bad because she let bad things happen to her. Her mom told her that no matter how hard Cherri tried to break the mold, she wouldn’t be able to because she was “just plain no good.”

Except for Gunner’s mother and Cara, no one approached her. It was like she was encased in an invisible shield and no one could see her. All around, men and women talked, laughed, shed a few tears, but not one Insurgent came up to her and told her they were sorry for her loss. Not one of them. It didn’t matter to them that she was sad and missed Gunner—she was nothing.

Cherri stood and went to the bathroom. After locking the door, she splashed cold water over her face. She looked at her reflection, noting her face was pale, she had dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, and her lips were colorless. She stared for a long while at herself then crumpled on the floor, sobbing.

One month later

“Y
ou’re hitting those
pretty hard, aren’t you?” Chas asked as Jax threw down his fourth shot.

“What the fuck? Are you my dad?” Jax slammed his shot glass on the bar, his eyes darting around the strip club, looking for Cherri.

“Why the fuck don’t you just talk to her, man? It’s better than getting yourself wasted every day and looking like a pussy-whipped sap.” Chas pushed himself back from the bar with his boot.

“When I want your fuckin’ advice, I’ll ask for it. Right now, I don’t fuckin’ want it. Got it?” Jax’s face reddened and his biceps twitched. He glared at Chas.

“Fuck, this blows. You’ve wanted her in the worst way. It’s been enough time since Gunner’s death. Go on and make your move. Your lovesick shit is annoying more than me, brother. Man up.” Chas drained the last of his beer, clapped Jax on the shoulder, and sauntered out of the club.

Heat coursed through Jax’s body. He was pissed. He should have clobbered Chas, but he knew the real reason he was pissed was because the brother was fucking spot-on.

Jax ran his hand through the top of his hair. He couldn’t get the moody, fucked-up vixen out of his mind no matter how many bitches he banged. Chas was right—a respectable amount of time had gone by and he needed to claim Cherri. And if anyone started sniffing around her, he’d beat the shit out of the guy, brother or no brother. Even though Gunner was dead, he was still jealous and pissed that he’d had his cock in
his
Cherri. He tried to push it out of his mind, but he just couldn’t. He had a tightness in his chest most days since Gunner’s accident. What the fuck was wrong with him that all he thought about since he found out Gunner died was how he could get back between Cherri’s legs? He was too fucked up over her.