Page 179 of I Will Revel in Glory (Death by Daybreak MC 3)
“He was excited to be a grandfather,” Sin offers up, as if that makes things better instead of worse. “He mentioned it multiple times.” My throat closes up, and I turn up the music. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
Crown gets up and grabs a bottle of whiskey—Crown Royal, actually—and passes it around to everyone but me. After we listen to the song a few more times, I turn it off so we can listen to the crackle of the fire in the fireplace and listen to the patter of rain on the roof.
Then the guys start to open up. Grainger first, then Sin. Even Beast. Crown is last. But they start to dig up their best stories about Cat. My initial response is to bolt, to hide myself away and let sleep take me.
I make myself stay, drinking my juice and petting Fem, enjoying the brush of Beast’s warm fingers on the arches of my feet. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must because the next thing I know, I’m waking up in Sin’s bedroom and he’s cleaning, picking up clothes off the floor as sunshine streams in through the wood blinds.
And the song he’s singing … it’s the same one we listened to last night, Cat’s song.
I keep my eyes closed, fighting a smile as I try not to love the sound of Colton’s voice or the way the beams of sunshine feel like a warm caress on my scarred legs. Yesterday, I felt like the world would be forever dulled.
You know what? Sometimes, grief makes it seem that way. Music isn’t as pretty; TV shows aren’t as entertaining; colors are dull. Over time, things don’t necessarily return to the way they were, but the sound of the music morphs into something else. The TV shows hold different meaning. The colors change.
It’s never the same, but it can be okay again. Even happy.
“Hey,” Sin says, gently sliding the length of a leather belt across my calves. “You awake?”
I am; he knows it.
I turn over and stretch, lifting my arms above my head as I arch my back and yawn.
I’m starting to understand the purpose of funerals: they’re for the living, not the dead. I actually feel better today.
“I just wanted to hear you sing,” I tell him, and he smacks me gently with the belt on the leg.
“Naughty,” he says, and I know it’s meant to be a joke. It’s said casually enough, but then the air between us stretches, heats, darkens. Sin looks down at the belt and then up at me, and then he’s on the bed and I’m laughing as he ties my wrists to the headboard, pushes my panties aside, and fucks me in the early morning sunshine.
Yep.
Things are hard, but they’re going to get better.
We might live in the darkness, but that doesn’t mean we don’t understand how to appreciate the light.
Another four weeks later …
I’m standing in the kitchen in a pair of short-shorts and one of Queenie’s maternity shirts. A lot of her stuff is cheerful and covered in flowers, so I have a hard time making myself wear it, but this particular top is solid black with a deep V in the front that shows off a fair amount of cleavage, so I’ve taken to wearing it a lot.
I’m sort of a skinny bitch to begin with, so I feel like my stomach looks extra huge, like a cantaloupe shoved up under my shirt.
I open the fridge door as Fem waits beside me, hoping for a treat of some kind. I grab a packet of deli meat from the door and open it, peeling off a few slices and tossing them for him. Feminist likes to show off his skills, leaping in the air to snap the treats out of the sky, and then landing gracefully back on his three legs. He doesn’t even seem to miss the fourth which is a relief.
My throat gets choked up, and I close my eyes. I shouldn’t cry over my father in a moment like this. He truly deserved what he got when you think about it, when you consider that he shot my dog for no other reason than to teach me a lesson.
But that’s not how the heart works.
I miss him anyway.
With a deep breath, I remove the rest of the deli meat from the package and toss it over to Fem, throwing away the trash and washing my hands before I dig four cool, brown bottles out of the refrigerator.
Holding two in each hand, I cluck my tongue for Fem to follow me and head down the hall toward the back door. I bump my way through the screen door with my hip, pausing on the sun-warmed cement step with my bare feet.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
All four of my men are working in the yard, putting the finishing touches on what was once just a bare dirt patch. Now, there’s a fence that encloses a good quarter-acre, plenty of green grass, a small deck, and fresh plantings surrounded by mulch.
