Page 130 of Property of Rattler

She turns to look at her man, who must have excellent hearing, as he tilts his head toward her. “We’d love to have that here.” His answering chin lift suggests he wholeheartedly agrees.

“In a city you must be limited.” I’d not seen much countryside around.

I notice she’s paused. Hanging on the wall beside her, her attention is drawn to something. Seeming to be in pride of place is a lighted glass shadow frame, inside of which is a black box with the Kings of Anarchy MC logo engraved on it. “What’s that?” I ask, as she views it as if it has significance.

In a hushed and reverent tone she replies, “These are the ashes of Kansas, a brother we lost recently.”

Bereft of words, I respond inadequately, “I’m sorry.”

Still with her eyes on the monument, she shakes her head. “He died as he’d had wanted. Protecting the Kings.”

Flynn’s near-death experience still fresh in my mind, I shudder.

She notices and places a hand on my arm. “The brothers don’t have a death wish, but they’re ready if it comes calling.”

“I nearly lost Flynn,” I confide. “He’s still recovering.”

“I noticed his limp,” she says, in a matter-of-fact way. “But he’s still here.”Unlike Kansas, but those words go unsaid. Then she continues the tour. “So this is really it, bar, kitchen, church, and rooms for visitors to crash.”

We return to the men who seem to be arguing.

“Not me. I can’t sing for shit. Creed, you’re a fuckin’ asshole.” Ghoul’s temper hasn’t improved.

“And your mouth shouldn’t write checks your ass isn’t prepared to pay,” Creed argues.

“I’m going to fuckin’ gut you.”

There’s something about Ghoul’s answering growl that gets the hairs on my neck sticking up. It makes me want to appease him, which is the only reason I can give for throwing my man to the wolves. “Flynn can sing.”

My new husband turns to me with a look of horror on his face.

I nudge him, and say quietly, “Well, you can. They look like they’re going to throw down. Please, Flynn, I don’t want a fight on my wedding night.”

He looks at them, then at me, then whispers into my ear, “I swear, woman, you’re the only reason I’m doing this.” Then he strides forward, picks up the mic and asks, “So what you got lined up for me to sing to my wife?”

“Nah.” Prowler steps forward. “You made the fuckin’ bet, Ghoul, you fuckin’ go first.”

“Prez, I only bet he…”

Prowler slashes his hand through the air. “Don’t want to know who put who up to what. You owe him? You fuckin’ own up to it. Line something up, Creedence, your choice.”

Creedence picks up a remote then flicks through a menu on the screen. His face widens into a huge grin. “Think you should sing something close to my heart.” He leans in to their sergeant-at-arms, “Picked an easy one for ya.”

Moving to the area that had been cleared while Taylor and I had been gone, Ghoul looks at the screen. “Fuckin’ Bad Moon Rising?”

Shrugging, Creed informs him. “Even you can’t fuck this up. And whatcha know, these kind folks might sing along to help.” He waves his arm to encompass the Kings from Arizona, who, I belatedly notice, are tending to stick together, rather than mingling as I’d expected.

Looking only slightly appeased, Ghoul gingerly takes the microphone, as Creed presses the remote, and the intro starts. When the words start appearing on the screen, Ghoul starts singing. Or at least, rasping the words. Doesn’t take long to notice he can’t hold a tune to save his life.

Grunts, and what sound like yips start from all around me.

“Oh fuck, make him stop. My fuckin’ ears.” This comes from Monster, who’s capping his hands to both sides of his head.

“Creed, you asshole, you’re to blame for this!” Bulldog roars so loudly it barely sounds human.

“Fuckers!” Ghoul steps away from the monitor and thrusts the microphone at his tormentor. “You see if you can fuckin’ do better.”

Creed refuses to take it. “I didn’t lose…”