Page 2 of Steel's Secret
THE FIRE AND THE FUNERAL
STEEL
It’s been six months since Tama, the General King, the original President of the Saints Outlaws MC, my father, died, and the air still smells like smoke. The ground is frozen now, snow crusted over the graves. We made a pact that every February, we will ride out to burn a cut and remember the General. The man who built our kingdom from nothing and left us to keep it standing.
The sky bleeds gray over Mt. Pleasant Cmetery, a color that feels too alive for death. Snow drifts sideways, slow and mean, settling on rows of cuts burned black by years of road grime. The whole club stands shoulder to shoulder. We are saints, outlaws, and ghosts in leather.
Flames lick from the steel drum in front of us, devouring my father's cut. Thread by thread, the fabric curls, his Saints Outlaws MC patch twisting into smoke. Each pop sounds like a bone snapping.
I keep my hands locked behind my back so no one sees them shake. Presidents don’t shake. Presidents don’t grieve. Presidents lead.
Rock stands to my right with a clenched jaw and red-rimmed eyes. “For the General.”
Engines ignite in the answer, a thunder that rolls through my ribs until I swear I feel my father’s heartbeat inside it. The flames flare higher, turning orange and white. Heat hits my face, snow hissing where it lands on the metal rim.
Aria stands apart from the others at the tree line, hiding in the shadows. I didn’t expect her to come back for the memorial since no one has seen or heard from her since the night we buried him. Questions pound into me as harsh as the falling snow. Her coat collar is turned up against the wind. Her hair whips across her face, but I can see the shine of her eyes. I look away before she catches me. If I meet her gaze, I’ll break, and Presidents don’t break.
The engines die one by one, their rumble fading into the wind until there’s nothing but the crackle of fire and the hiss of snow hitting hot metal. My men don’t speak. One by one, they climb onto their bikes, headlights cutting through the gray like searchlights through fog.
Rock nods once. No words are needed, just understanding, and the line of Saints Outlaws rolls out, tires chewing through slush, engines echoing against the trees. I swing my leg over my father’s Harley. The seat’s cold, stiff with age, but it feels like home.
The ride back is slow as a funeral pace. No one tries to fill the silence. Snow slicks the road, painting the world in white and shadow. I keep my eyes on the taillight in front of me and pretend I’m leading, not just following ghosts.
By the time we hit the lot, the night’s temperature drops hard. The bikes idle, heat rising off the engines in faint waves before the last one cuts.
The clubhouse feels wrong without the noise. Silence fills every corner the engines used to claim. My brothers scatter inside, their boots heavy, voices low, the smell of exhaust and grief clinging to leather and skin. A few linger at the bar, othershead straight for the chapel. No laughter, no banter, just the quiet scrape of chairs and the ghost of my father everywhere I look.
Hours later, I’m still standing at the head of the Church table. One bulb buzzes above me, throwing shadows across Tama’s gavel where he left it. His chair sits empty, carved edges worn smooth by thirty years of command.
My reflection in the tabletop looks older than he ever did. I think about his last words, the ones that never stop echoing.“The club isn’t a throne, boy. It’s a war.”He was right. And the war didn’t end when he stopped breathing, it just changed commanders.
I reach for the gavel. It’s heavier than I remember. The grain creaks in my grip, the wood warm from my palm, like it’s already absorbing my guilt.
Heels click in the hallway. Measured, careful, familiar steps come closer.
Aria.
She pauses in the doorway. The light hits her from behind, turning her into something almost holy.
“He’d be proud,” she says softly.
I don’t look up. “He’d call me soft.”
She takes a few steps closer. “He’d call you human.”
I tighten my fist around the gavel until the skin over my knuckles splits. “Can’t afford human tonight.”
Her breath catches. She doesn’t argue. She never wastes words on battles she knows I’ve already lost.
I leave her standing in the doorway without another word. I’m angry, I’m hurt, and I’m still confused as to why I can’t kill the feelings she left me with.
Outside, snow covers the bikes lined along the curb like tombstones. The wind slices through my cut. The cold keeps me standing upright. Aria follows, arms crossed tight over her chest.Headlights glow behind her like halos, too bright for this kind of dark.
“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she says.
I shake my head. “That’s what Kings do.”
She flinches like the words hit her. “Then maybe that’s what’ll kill you.”
