Chapter 22: I'll Cry at the Funeral

Rhett took the slip out of my hand and held it up to the window.

"He writes his sevens like that," he said. "He crosses them because of a teacher he had in the fourth grade."

"Rhett."

"He told me that story at my father's funeral."

He laid the slip gently on the bar.

"It could be someone copying him," he said.

"It could."

"Anybody can cross a seven."

"Anybody can," I said. "Then we find out."

Mae put her hand over her mouth.

"The clubhouse is empty till dark," she said. "Everyone's at the storage yard planning the Founders' Run."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone but Morton. He's in the office doing the route sheets, alone."

We went in through the supply room.

It was the same room where I had done inventory alone the Wednesday I was supposed to have signed away my life.

Rhett shut the door behind us without a sound.

The office was on the other side of a single wall of cheap paneling.

I heard a chair creak.

Then I heard a voice I'd known for fourteen months, easy and warm and patient.

It was the voice that had told me to stay put at the party.

"No," Morton said. "Not the brakes again. She got lucky and he got lucky, and I won't count on that twice."

My hand found Rhett's wrist.

He didn't move.

"The bridge road, Friday, dawn," Morton said. "Full patch, staggered, Rhett out front and her beside him."

A pause.

"The truck comes out of the access lane at the narrow span."

A pause.

"I don't care what it costs. The Lords will take the blame."

His voice was patient.

"I've been feeding that story to the club for a year."

Keep reading free with an account. Start My Biker Chose His First Love from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.