5: Well Played

Wren

“May he rest in peace, and may those who loved him find strength in one another as they carry on,” the funeral officiant concludes.

We bow our heads as the casket is lowered to the ground. Ray and I grab fistfuls of damp earth and throw it down on the casket.

The words on the tomb stone blur together, and it takes me a minute to realize my cheeks are wet. I sniffle, and pat my cheeks with a napkin.

Ray slips a hand in mine, stone-faced. The hum of motorcycles sounds in the distance, and I don’t have to look to know that some of the bikers are here.

Including Ezra who’s been missing for a week, and suddenly, he’s appearing beside Ray.

“I’m sorry for your loss, accept my condolences,” Ezra says, then gives me an acknowledging nod. “Little bird.”

“Yeah,” I croak, hand tightening in Ray’s.

My dad was a deadbeat, but he was still my dad. There are no fond memories of us, and at this moment, I wish there was. Even if only one.

“Come on.” Ray tugs me toward his car, Ezra lagging behind. “How are you feeling?”

I shrug, sniffling. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. Not like he was much of a dad, anyway.”

“I know, Chirp.” His lips tilt in a small smile. “Believe it or not, we came out of his sac. So it’s okay to still feel attached.”

“You just had to be crass, Ray.” I scowl. “Ezra’s a bad influence.”

They both snort, and my lips twitch. I breathe deeply, blowing a breath through my nose.

“But you’re right,” I say. “It’s just a little sad that there’s no happy memories of us as a family. Mom disappeared, dad was nuts…we’ve had the worst parents, haven’t we?”

“That’s one thing I don’t envy about you, Ray,” Ezra quips.

Ray chuckles, squeezing my arms gently. “We’ve definitely had the worst parents. But they gave us each other, and I love you.”

“I love you too, Ray.”

“I know that,” he breathes. “I know I’ve not always been the best, I’m hardly around, rarely give you time or attention, but… I’m happy you’re my little sister, Chirp.”

I pout, lips wobbling and eyes glistening. “I’m happy you’re my big brother too.”

“I must say, I love a good family reunion, but you both need to wrap this up.” Ezra spins his index finger. “And Ray, we have the…” he glances at me, “—thing, remember?”

I can only imagine what that “thing” means.

“Shit!” Ray hisses, dragging his wrist watch up to his face. “I’ve got to go now, Wren. EJ will take you home.”

Ezra’s jaw ticks. “Ray, we’re supposed to go together. I’m tired of being on babysitting duty.”

“Excuse you?” I snap. “You think I need you to hound me every damn day?”

Ray pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t start, both of you. Please.”

“EJ, you can’t go with me,” Ray continues, eyes pinned on Ezra. “Your knuckles are banged up as it is, and honestly, I don’t think I want to know why.”

I glance down at his bandaged knuckles, sure enough little blood seeps through. I grimace.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Ezra replies. I scoff, and he glares.

My brother’s face goes blank. “You’re bandaged and bleeding. So no, EJ, you’re not coming with me. I’ll go with Devon, just take Wren home.”

“I’m your VP, Ray.”

“And I’m your President,” Ray says. “Go. Home. Both of you.”

They have a stand-off, glaring at each other for a solid sixty-seconds until Ezra cracks, his lips curving into a smirk.

Ray laughs, and they do the whole bro-hug thing—slamming into each other’s chest and harshly patting each other’s back.

Men will always be men.

I roll my eyes with a huff. “When you’re done doing whatever that is, I’ll be waiting in the car.”

“Alright, birdie.”

My eyeballs nearly get lost in my head with how hard I roll them this time. Then, I stomp my way to Ezra’s car and get in.

Pulling my phone out of my bag, I dial Tristan’s number again. The ring still sits on my finger, the diamond glinting.

It rings, and rings… and eventually goes to voicemail. It’s been a week, and not a single answered or returned call.

Some part of me wishes it’s all a misunderstanding, I still believe that I wronged him somehow. And I just need to know so that I can apologize, and hopefully go back to Seattle.

Ezra’s already getting on my nerves. I don’t think I can survive another week with him around, even though his absence this past week has been very much welcome.

I redial the number again just as the door opens, and my thumb smashes down on the red button when Ezra slips in.

And I wonder why I did that.

He raises a brow. “You have that ‘caught with my hands in the cookie jar’ look. What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “What happened to your knuckles?”

His eyes narrow. “Nothing. Well played, Birdie.”

I bite my lip, and wear my seatbelt, avoiding his heated stare that burns my cheek.

The car rumbles and soon we’re taking off towards the clubhouse, some of the bikes following behind and beside us.

“But seriously though,” I interrupt the silence. “What did the poor guy do?”

Ezra casts a brief look at me, brows raised. “Who?”

I nod at his knuckles. “The person you beat up.”

“Birdie,” he chuckles darkly, low. The sound rumbles in my belly. “The poor guy deserved it.”

“To be beaten to an inch of his life? I’m sure beneath those bandages is a nasty bruise.”

He shrugs. “I’m the VP, little bird. I do all the dirty work so others won’t have to.”

“Hm,” I hum. “Does it hurt?”

He smirks. “When did you start caring?” 

“I don’t. I’m hoping it hurts so bad that all your fingers swell up.”

A scowl lines his lips, then he chuckles. “Brittany would be sad if I can’t use my fingers.”

“Ew, Ezra.” I gag. 

The mental image of his fingers working me floods my mind, and I quickly shove it to the background.

He laughs, and it’s my turn to scowl.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I pull it up, ready to turn it off if it’s a text or an email because my dyslexia is much worse today.

But what I see has me freezing, my skin paling, and my head swimming.

“Stop the car, Ezra!” I shout.

Nausea rolls in my belly, bile rises up my throat. Ezra slams on the brakes and the car screeches to a halt.

“Are you okay…”

I shove the door open and I stumble out, my phone falling face up on the concrete, the picture glaring at me.

On my screen is a picture of Tristan, stripped, and beaten to a bloody pulp. He’s chained to the balcony of his home for the world to see. 

There’s so much blood…his naked skin streaked with red, blonde hair coated with blood.

Is he even…alive?

I hunch over and empty my guts, throwing up at the side of the road.