Ride Hard (Raven Riders #1)(8)
His veep reached into the bag and pulled out two of the narrow, curved black patches. White stitching spelled out Harvey’s name on one and Creed’s on the other, along with the date they both died. It had been a while since the Ravens had last had to add a memorial patch to their colors, or cuts—the sleeveless riding vests that proclaimed their club affiliation and loyalty.
“All right, D.” Maverick tapped the stiff patches against his palm and rose. “Sorry I hassled you.”
“If you didn’t hassle me, how would I know you loved me?” Dare smirked as his brother chuckled. “Now get the f*ck out.”
Flipping him the finger, Maverick left and closed the door behind him.
Dare pulled two patches out for himself and set them on the corner of the ancient, well-scribbled, coffee-stained blotter buried under papers and bike parts and about a dozen figurines of dogs riding motorcycles that people had given him as jokes over the years because he’d once given his German shepherd Indy, named after the vintage Indian motorcycles, a ride on his bike. Indy had been a good dog, the best. He’d died in his sleep of old age a few years before.
They should all be so lucky to go that way.
Shit. No sense putting this off. Dare grabbed the bag of patches and made his way to the rec room. He caught Blake’s attention behind the bar and gestured to cut the music. The blond-haired prospect held up an empty glass in question. Dare nodded, and the loss of the tunes pretty quickly had everyone looking Dare’s way—his brothers, their girlfriends, ladies and friends from town. From a grouping of couches in the back corner, Dare’s grandfather gave him a nod, no doubt knowing what he was about to do.
Frank “Doc” Kenyon had whitish-gray hair and a beard. A hip and knee replacement a few years before made it difficult for him to ride much anymore, but there was absolutely no one else in the world that Dare respected or trusted more. After all, the man had once saved his life. And then he’d helped Dare build a whole new life—based around this club and this compound—when Dare hadn’t thought it possible to go on after losing so much.
Glass of whiskey in hand, Dare scanned the room. Despite the festive atmosphere, the group’s collective grief hummed just below the surface. He breathed it in and spoke. “It’s a terrible tragedy when a brother takes his final ride. But Harvey and Creed haven’t left us behind. Their spirits live on. In this family they loved. In each of you. In Phoenix,” he said, raising his glass to Creed’s cousin.
Despite the scary-looking jagged scar that ran from the guy’s eye and through the side of his short brown hair, Phoenix almost always wore a smile that made him look younger than his thirty years, and he was nearly as often chasing skirts. But just then he wore an uncharacteristically solemn expression. The guys around him clapped him on the back and offered quiet words of support.
“I miss them both,” Dare continued. “And I know each of you do, too. But I won’t shed a tear for them. Because they lived free. They lived the life they wanted. They died helping others. And they died with honor.” Nods all around. Dare raised his glass high, and others joined him as he spoke. “So ride on, my brothers, and rest in peace. Wherever you are, may you always have the sun on your back, your fists in the wind, and the road stretching out before you.” Dare raised his glass higher, then threw back the whiskey.
“Hear, hear,” rang out in the room, and everyone drank in honor of Harvey and Creed. The bag of badges made the rounds.
“Now let’s turn the music up, keep the liquor flowing, and celebrate a job damn well done. Because every one of you deserves it,” Dare said to a round of raucous cheers. Music, conversation, and laughter filled the room once more. Stopping to talk to everyone as he went, Dare made his way across the room until he finally found Phoenix, Maverick, Caine McKannon, and Jagger Locke hanging out near the pool table. These four men made up most of the club’s executive committee, with Phoenix serving as Road Captain in charge of all club runs and travel, Maverick running the club’s chop shop, Caine serving as Sergeant-at-Arms in charge of rule enforcement and threat assessment, and Jagger serving as Race Captain in charge of organizing and running the club’s racing activities.
“Hey, D,” Maverick said, an approving look in his eye. “Good speech.” He lifted his beer in salute.
Dare gave a nod, but he didn’t want to put any more focus on their losses. Not tonight. And the look Phoenix wore said he felt the same way. Dare’s gaze landed on Caine. “I want us to keep our ear to the ground for a while. Make sure nothing’s coming back on us, given everything we’ve been involved with the past few weeks.” Namely, taking down Baltimore’s Church Gang, their longtime enemies, and helping expose a major military conspiracy. Officially, the authorities proclaimed that they’d rounded up all the conspirators, but you could never be too careful.
“Agreed,” Caine said, answering in the fewest possible syllables, just like he always did. Scrubbing a hand over the dark scruff on his jaw, his gaze was calculating and filled with lethal intent toward anyone looking to harm them. From his six-four height, to his shaved black hair, which he always covered with a black knit cap, to the all-black ink covering a lot of his skin, to the small, round gauges in both ears, everything about Caine read intimidating—which often suited their purposes well. The only spot of lightness on him were the blue eyes so pale they didn’t look real. “I’ll make contacts on it in the morning.”