Page 121 of Diesel's Perseverance
“Tomorrow we’re heading home.”
“I want to go back with you on your bike.”
He shook his head. “It’ll be too hard with the heat and the miles. We’ll do it sometime when you’re more accustomed to riding and when it’s cooler. Nevada’s heat is a fuckin’ beast. I’ll have Welder go back with you like before.”
“I’m glad we’re going home. I love it here, but going home is always nice.”But where ishomeexactly?She didn’t want to bring that point up because she didn’t wantanythingto ruin their day together.
“I’m anxious to get back to the business. Wheelie’s been slammed with work even though Bones and Puck are helping him out.”
He held out his hand, and she climbed on board. After she was settled, he jumped on the bike and brought it to life. Myla folded her arms around his waist and melded her body into his, dusting her lips across the back of his neck. Diesel looked over his shoulder at her, their eyes locked.
“Come here,” he growled as he turned sideways and looped an arm around her waist.
He seized her mouth in a furious, possessive kiss, sending needles of pleasure to every nerve in her body.
“You’re awesome, woman,” he smothered against her lips.
Then he pulled away, righted himself, and gripped the handlebars again. The heat of their kiss still throbbed on Myla’s lips as he backed out of the parking space. Holding tight, she leaned with him as the motorcycle turned onto the street and roared away.
The rushing air on her face was warm, and she breathed in its briny scent. They rode along the coast with the ocean to their right—glimmering blue white-foam crests at the top of small waves—and above, the sky was clear blue, a perfect blue, like Diesel’s eyes. The rugged cliffs, beautiful and distant, shimmered in the afternoon sun.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ten days later
Hayes, CO
The funeral belltolled, its sound muffled as it spoke of sobs, mourning, and lamentations. The black hearse drove slowly and steadily east of Custer Street, making its way to the town cemetery two blocks away.
Diesel sat in the back of the black limousine, which followed the hearse, his fingers laced with Myla’s. He stared out the window as they passed the Dollar Store, the drugstore where he used to buy milkshakes for Freddy when they were kids, Ralph’s Butcher Shop, and the diner where he spent a lot of Saturday nights with his newest squeeze in high school. It was years since he’d been in Hayes, but it seemed like a lifetime for him.Nothing’s changed. Not one fuckin’ thing.
Diesel’s parents hadn’t wanted to ride in the limousine and told Myla they’d meet them at the cemetery. He had no idea why they didn’t want to drive with him—not Myla—but he didn’t give one damn. He figured they were probably feeling like crap since they hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Freddy’s disappearance, and if they were, he was glad.
“Are you doing okay?” He glanced at Myla. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red from crying during the service.
“Yes,” she whispered as she leaned against him.
They rode in silence the rest of the way to the cemetery. The limousine wound around narrow roads, passing rows of marble and granite tombstones, all surrounded by patches of dying grass and limp plants.
“Water must be hard to come by,” Myla said, her head resting on his shoulder.
“The land on the Eastern Plains is always parched. Droughts are common in this part of the state. I remember the wind always blowing dust around all summer, and the town looked like it was dying… decaying during those long, hot, brown days. Looks like that hasn’t changed either.”
The limousine parked, and the driver switched off the engine. A few people surrounded the grave in a semi-circle and spoke in hushed voices. Behind them stood his Insurgents brothers. They wore black leather jackets, and black bandanas covered the tops of their heads to show support for Diesel. The chrome from fifteen Harleys glared under the afternoon sun. Diesel noticed his mother talking with the minister and his father off to the side, smoking a cigarette.
He helped Myla out of the car and glanced over at the hearse. Six men varying in age from sixteen to around forty stood on each side of the coffin. The pallbearers were relations on his mother’s and father’s side of the family. He probably met the older ones years ago when he was growing up, but he didn’t recognize them or care to know them now. There were no plans to hang around the town; he was heading back home the next day.
Staring straight ahead, he walked with Myla; her arm looped through his. The minister came up to him, shook his hand, and then murmured some words to them that meant nothing to Diesel. His brother was dead. What could anyone say beyond that?
More mourners approached the gravesite, their shoes crackling under the dry grass. The minister motioned for Myla and Diesel to sit in one of the four chairs parallel to the grave. The smell of fresh dirt filled his nostrils, and he darted his gaze from the open grave to the coffin and back to the dark, dank hole.
Myla sat on the canvas folding chair and Diesel stood behind her. His mother walked over slowly and sat down while his father leaned against the back of her chair. Time didn’t do any wonders for his father: his face was tanned like old leather, the skin dried and creased by the sun. His old man’s hooded eyes skidded across Diesel’s face as though he couldn’t look his son in the eye. Time had been kinder to his mother, with only a few lines around her clear blue eyes and a couple of deep creases beside her mouth. She still had bleached blonde hair, bright orange-red lipstick, and powder blue eye shadow—a favorite of hers. As she spoke with the minister, she jabbed his arm with her hand, and her zillion bracelets jingled like crazy. He couldn’t remember his mom not wearing bracelets and blue eye shadow. She maintained her figure, whereas his dad had developed a distinct pot belly that resembled a bowling ball under his shirt.
“Are you ready to begin?” the minister asked Diesel’s mother.
She nodded, and her multi-looped earrings tinkled.
The minister’s gaze scanned over the mourners before he began reciting a prayer. Diesel’s mouth twisted as grief tore through his chest muscles.You didn’t deserve this. I’ll miss you, little buddy.Anger welled inside him for a life cut too damn short. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother dab her eyes with a tissue and swipe another under her nose. His father stared stone-faced at the silver-blue coffin.
