Page 33 of Bitter’s Sweet

Chainsaw lifts his hand from where he stands against the wall. “Are they not?”

Deliverance elbows him.

Skibidi whispers, “I think they’re twins.”

Boogie smiles like a proud father.

Hyde looks tired enough to fire all of us into the sun. “Bitter, school side. Nevermore, vendors with me. Ghoul, roads. CSI, cameras. Carver, inventory. Scarecrow, mourners. Crypt, stay sober enough to sew. Boogie, don’t.”

Boogie frowns. “Don’t what?”

“Anything.”

“That’s broad.”

“You’ll survive.”

Church breaks just before noon, chairs scraping and boots moving. That is the thing outsiders don’t understand about a club like ours. They see booze, bikes, cuts, women, black humor, and blood on knuckles. They think chaos means weak. They mistake noise for lack of order.

But when Hyde gives an order, the Grave Prowlers move.

I spend the next couple hours making the school side and south gate my problem. I walk the fence line twice, check with CSI, threaten Skibidi only once, and watch festival crews turn empty gravel into something tourists will pay money to call charming. By the time lunch is over, more tents are up, the vendor field smells like fried dough and sawdust, and Raven’s people are finally beginning to thin out around the chapel.

Some dead men get boxed and forgotten before the dirt settles. Raven won’t be one of them.

His widow is still talking to Scarecrow with one hand on her chest while two old bikers argue about whether Raven once jumped a creek on a Sportster or just lied about it so well it turned true.

Probably both.

I pass the bulletin board where Boogie’s sign reads BOBBING FOR BONES NEEDS MORE BONES. Someone, likely Plague, has added beneath it, NOT REAL ONES THIS YEAR.

That incident is why we can’t have nice things.

The school doors stand open, voices spilling out bright and female. I tell myself the twist in my gut is irritation. I don’t like civilians around club business. I don’t like unknowns near funeral runs. I don’t like women who smile at dead bikers and look at me like I’m a storm worth standing under.

Mostly, I don’t like remembering the shape of Sweet’s mouth when she told me no.

No thanks. Not shocked. Not offended. Not flirting with the idea of changing my mind. Just no, like my rules weren’t a challenge. Like my body wasn’t bait. Like Bitter Adams was something she could appreciate and still refuse.

That ain’t natural.

I step into the School of the Dead and stop near the wall where I can watch both doors. Colored light washes through old stained glass over workstations, coffin samples, curling irons, makeup palettes, and women in black aprons moving like death is an ordinary Tuesday. Mercy stands in the middle with a clipboard tucked against her hip, silver-white hair piled high and red mouth sharp enough to cut thread. Lark and Junie roll a cart toward the work bay. Petal, pregnant enough to make every brother nervous around stairs, arranges brushes with the focus of a woman who might stab somebody over sanitation.

And Sweet is at the back sink, washing her hands up to the elbows like Mercy already scared germs into her soul.

The yellow cardigan is gone. She wears a black school apron over that floral dress, pink shoes still on her feet because of course they are. Her hair is pinned up messy, little curls falling at her neck. A mask sits under her chin. Gloves hang from one hand. She listens to Mercy explain transfer protocol like every word matters.

That should not be attractive. It is.

I cross my arms.

Sweet glances up and finds me.

Her smile does something stupid to the room. Not bigger exactly. Softer. Like she ain’t surprised I’m there, but she’s pleased anyway. Like I didn’t tell her this morning that sex was all I had to offer and she didn’t scrunch up that little nose and dismiss my whole damn system as terms and conditions.

I look away first because I am a grown man and there are rules about losing staring contests to women in pink shoes.

Mercy spots me. “If you’re here to lurk, at least lurk somewhere useful.”