Six Brothers

Five

The church is completely packed, with men in leathers bearing club patches, spilling out onto the front steps. I am without my usual escort for once, since the entire Ross clan is occupying the front three rows of the church, and I have been relegated to the very back row, away from the cutting glares of every female in the family.

The service is boring, people talking about the family and blood being sacred and all that shit. I tune out for the most part and am startled when everyone suddenly rises. At first I think it must be over, until I see everyone lining up to receive communion. I join the line and bear the time patiently, studying the women who have chosen to be a part of the Ross family. I remember some of them from when my father was alive. Others are new but look just like the rest. I have a moment of judgement as I wonder what kind of stupid bitch would choose a life like this, until I stop and remind myself that it might not have been their choice at all.

“The body of Christ,” the Priest says when I reach the front of the line, pressing a wafer onto my tongue. I close my mouth and savor the thin piece of cracker as it dissolves on my tastebuds. We make our way back to our seats, me in the back and Jase sitting with a row of his surviving brothers. Dornan is in front with his current wife—the mother of his fifth and sixth sons—on one side, Chad’s mother on the other. He holds both of their hands with the desperate resignation reserved only for parents who are grieving the loss of their child.

I wonder, briefly, how my mother grieved for me.

Or, if she grieved for me at all.

Everyone stands for a final prayer before the casket is closed. I watch with a sense of satisfaction as Dornan disentangles himself from his current wife and stands, helping Chad’s mother to her feet. The woman is bawling, and inside I feel nothing but cold and bitter intent. Maybe if she had tried harder, her son wouldn’t have grown up to be such a fucking asshole. I feel no regret. The world is a better place without him.

The burial in the cemetery attached to the church is much shorter than the service. A large crowd gathers around, the Priest says a few words, everyone clutches at their rosary beads and at each other, and the coffin is lowered into the perfect rectangular hole that reaches six feet into the ground.

One by one, the immediate family take turns scooping a small shovelful of dirt from next to the hold and emptying it down there. I watch, my eyes alight behind my dark sunglasses, as Chad’s wife, Dornan, and Chad’s mother all drop dirt into his grave before stepping back. Dornan’s bulky arms are around Chad’s wife now, as she weeps for her husband.

My hand itches to take a turn, to press that shovel into fresh earth, scoop it up and fling it down the black hole where Chad will rest forever. Only, in my fantasy, the coffin is open and he is still alive, screaming, open-mouthed, as I shove dirt down his throat, choking him to death all over again.

It is a sickening, yet oddly comforting thought.

As the undertaker takes over filling in the hole, the crowd disperses. Across the crowd, I see Maxi, the third brother, walking away from everyone else and toward an older section of the cemetery.

Someone catches my elbow and I turn to see Jase with a look of thunder on his face. “Come on,” he says, walking abruptly in Maxi’s direction, with me tripping on my heels trying to keep up.

“Where are we going?” I hiss, struggling as he walks faster.

“My car,” he says, pulling me along. We are walking away from most of the crowd, who are offering condolences to Dornan and Chad’s wife at the cemetery gates.

As we pass older gravestones, I see Maxi, the third brother, clearly drunk and pissing on a grave. I continue walking behind Jase, mildly disgusted, until I see the name printed on the headstone.

Juliette Portland.

I look at Maxi’s face, and realize in an instant that he is not so drunk, and that he knows exactly what he is doing. He is laughing as his stream of urine hits the dry stone slab covering my grave, the noise of the liquid against the stone buzzing angrily in my ears.

My knees buckle, and Jase turns to catch me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I tear my gaze away from Maxi and smile weakly at Jase. “Yeah,” I say. “These heels are a bitch to walk in.”

“They look fuckin’ hot, though,” a cloying voice sounds from behind me. I turn to see Jazz, the fifth brother ogling me, his hands on his hips. I raise my eyebrows at him.

“I know,” I reply, looking him up and down before steadying my gaze on his. “That’s why I wear them.”

“It’d be better if they were all you were wearing,” he leers, undressing me with his eyes. He doesn’t scare me. I grew up with my father the president of this motorcycle club. I’ve been dealing with shit like him all of my life.

“That’s the way your daddy likes it,” I say, with a wicked smile and a wink.

Jase suddenly notices Maxi doing up his fly. He looks from the wet patch on my grave to his brother, his hands balling into fists.

“Max,” he says, his voice barely controlled, “did you just take a whizz on that grave?”

Maxi laughs, rearranging his pants. “Bitch deserves it.”

Jase snaps, leaping at his brother so quickly, I barely catch the action with my eyes. He easily pins his bigger, but clumsier and inebriated brother to the ground, laying into him with a series of well-placed punches. I watch at first, fascinated and oddly moved, until it becomes clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. I jump with a start as Jazz appears beside me, close enough for our arms to brush together.

I fight the urge to step away, instead standing my ground.

“That’s the first time little Jason’s left your side all day,” Jazz says. “You might be Pop’s girl, but it looks like there’s more than one Ross ready to stick his dick inside you.”

I fight to keep my face neutral. “What the fuck do you want?” I blurt out, my nerves fraying.

“Sweetie,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m just calling it how I see it. My baby brother’s been following you around like a lost puppy ever since you showed up. And I meant what I said about those fucking shoes. The minute Dornan’s done with you, you’re wearing them while I bend you over a bike and show you a real good time.”

I laugh. “Over my dead body, buddy.”

He shrugs casually. “That can be arranged, darlin’.”

I just shake my head, looking at Jase as he steps in front of us. His hands are covered in blood, and his white shirt is splattered with red, as well. I cast a dirty look at Jazz before I push off on my heels.

I seethe as we walk back to the car, Jazz’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

Maximilian Ernesto Ross has just earned himself a spot at the top of my hit list. And Jazz, if he isn’t careful, might just find himself next.