Page 12 of Inglorious (Unwanted Bastards MC #1)

Nanci

T wo days had passed since Inglorious attended his first AA meeting, and to say there was friction in the clubhouse was an understatement.

It wasn’t caused by me, Hercules, or Vortex but by Inglorious.

His struggle with not succumbing to a drink was tangible, and we all felt his urge just to have ‘one’.

However, to give him his due, Inglorious had managed to refrain from drinking, and I could respect that. It was early days yet, so I wasn’t handing over the presidency on less than a week.

Today, the new furniture I’d ordered was arriving for the clubhouse, but I had a huge task in front of me. Something I was dreading.

Tragically, I had to pack up the brother’s rooms who had died, including Seth’s. It was going to kill me to go through their personal items, and Moon had recognised that. He’d offered to do it, but it was the president’s job and fell on my shoulders.

I had the keys to their doors in my hands as I stood outside of Trip’s, one of the previous enforcers.

Slowly, I reached out and inserted the key and opened the door.

The room had been locked for a year, and while there was a musty smell inside, there was also Trip’s scent.

His aftershave wafted in the air, a lingering testament to Trip.

Trip’s image flashed into my head. A tall, rangy-built biker who regularly worked out but enjoyed eating and drinking.

Trip, despite the club’s history, loved to laugh, and his mouth and eyes had laughter lines around them.

His sandy blond hair never behaved and often fell into his eyes, leading to Trip wearing a man bun on top of his head.

He wore the biker uniform of tees and jeans with his cut. Trip had been a good guy.

I forced myself to take a step inside his room, and a tear trickled down my cheek as I saw his favourite cowboy boots by his bed.

On Trip’s bedside table was a photo of him and some of those who’d died, all laughing.

Seth was amongst them, and I couldn’t look at his grinning face.

Carefully, I placed the picture face down and continued with my check.

Trip’s wardrobe was ajar, and his clothes hung neatly inside. Several pairs of boots were at the bottom, and one of his drawers was open, displaying his boxers and socks. There was a tap, and I peered up and spotted Vortex standing there with Hercules.

“Might be the president’s job, but you don’t have to do it alone,” Hercules said, holding up some flat-packed boxes.

“Exactly,” Vortex agreed, showing me several reels of duct tape.

“What’s the plan?” Razor asked, appearing. His expression was agonising to witness. Pain was mixed with grief and love.

“For you, babe? Relax and allow us to do this. Razor, you don’t need to experience this as well,” I replied.

Razor shook his head. “They’re my brothers.”

That was easy to understand. Razor needed to be here.

“Okay. Let’s start by packing Trip’s clothes into boxes. We’ll contact his next of kin and give them a month to collect. If they don’t, then we’ll donate to charity. Trip would have liked that.”

“Yeah, we did a lot of charity runs,” Razor agreed.

“Yup.” What more could I say to that?

Painfully, we packed his clothing and shared memories of Trip.

Tears flowed from Razor and me. Once they were boxed, we turned to his personal belongings.

Honestly, there wasn’t much. Some photos on the wall, his wristwatch, some silver jewellery, a few CDs and grooming items. Trip’s aftershave I held for ages before packing.

I wanted to soak Trip’s smell and memory up and never let it go.

Even knowing it was stupid, I made a note of it so I could buy a bottle and remember Trips whenever I wished.

By the time we finished, Razor was tired and grief-stricken.

We held each other’s gaze, understanding what we couldn’t vocalise.

Trip’s body might be gone, but in memory, Trip remained here, where he belonged.

His presence lingered, and I thought it best that a new brother took this room, not somebody who knew Trip.

“Where shall we store these, Nanci?” Razor asked.

“In the attics. The other night I checked and found they’re empty. Label the boxes and stick them up there. If someone from Trip’s family wants them, we can locate them easily enough,” I muttered as my eyes searched the room.

With grief riding me, I left and closed the door behind me. All that remained were lingering memories and a blank space, just like Trip’s death had left in all our hearts.

Mouse had occupied the opposite bunk, and again his image sprang to mind.

Vortex reached out and grabbed my shoulder as flashbacks of Mouse nearly overwhelmed me. Bravely, I blew out my cheeks, straightened my shoulders, and entered his room.

◆◆◆

In the end, I could only handle emptying six rooms before sorrow took its toll.

I’d known all these men well. They’d been my support system when I fled from my parents.

Bitterness welled at their untimely and needless deaths.

They’d all been heroes, and I hope Rapid City remembered their sacrifice for a long fucking time.

Heartbreak sank into Razor, too, and he hit his bunk after room five, which had belonged to Chap. I’d not been able to face Seth’s quarters. Seeing my brother’s belongings would destroy me emotionally, and I was already raw. Miserably, I headed down to the common room, and King met me.

“Nanci, I got the photos, cuts, and the frames. Which wall do you want them on?” he asked.

“They’re all there?”

“Yup, and the shop did them proud, and inscribed plaques for them all too,” King stated

Throat closing, I swallowed tears. Shit, that was nice of the owner. The rec room had been repainted a warm beige colour, and nothing had been rehung yet.

“The wall there,” I said, pointing to the one that had held the club’s memorabilia before. Now it would become a memorial.

Most MCs had a space where they hung pictures and cuts of those who’d passed. Unwanted Bastards was about to receive a full one.

“Okay, leave this to me, Pres. I’ll do this,” King offered.

“King, I can help,” I replied.

“No offence, Pres, but right now you look like a strong wind will blow you over. I suggest you get a coffee and straighten up. You’ve got interviews this afternoon,” King reminded me.

“Well, fuck, that told me,” I muttered.

King chuckled. “Yeah, it did.”

I acknowledged King’s words and headed for my office.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw King leave, no doubt to fetch the pictures, cuts and plaques.

I couldn’t watch him put them up, not after what I’d just done.

The task wasn’t finished by a long shot, but I couldn’t stand any more grief, and painful, although happy, memories.

I was engrossed in reading the reports Vortex had prepared on our businesses when there was a knock at the door. King stood there, and I called out for him to enter.

“The first interview is here for the cook’s spot.”

“Thanks, King,” I said as he moved aside, and a woman entered.

She was about forty and slightly on the round side, but greeted me with a warm smile. I noted the tiredness around her eyes and the lightly greying hair. Despite her weariness, she was cleanly put together, although her clothes weren’t of good quality.

“Hi, I’m Nanci, the president here,” I introduced myself, holding out a hand.

“Meadow, thank you for interviewing me,” Meadow replied, and I liked her voice.

“Take a seat. Tell me a little about yourself.”

“I’m forty-one and divorced with three children.

Their ages range from six to fifteen. I’ll be honest, Nanci; I’m a housewife and haven’t worked for a long time.

Being at home made me a decent cook. The soon-to-be ex used to hold a lot of dinners, so I’m able to cook for multiple people,” Meadow stated, holding my gaze.

“What do you enjoy making?”

“Wholesome dishes like stews and casseroles, pot roasts and comfort food. I can do fancy too, though, and I love to bake,” Nanci said.

“Can you work from nine to five, Monday to Friday? How will that impact the school runs, etc.?”

“I can drop them off if I’m not needed till nine. The fifteen-year-old can watch over them, and there’s a neighbour who’ll help, if I need them.”

“What time do the kids finish school?”

“Around half four or five. They all have after-school clubs.”

“Okay, that sounds fine. The club only has nine members currently, but we’re growing.

Breakfast, we can sort ourselves, but I want lunches prepared.

Nothing complicated. Bikers aren’t all up in your face.

Hell, a stack of sandwiches and fries will do.

I’m also looking for dinners. Again, nothing fancy, stews, casseroles, bolognaise, and so on.

We’re simple folk. Saturday and Sunday, we usually grill.

But I’m hiring for a Saturday and Sunday person to do breakfast and lunch.

Those are the two positions we have,” I explained.

“Full time, please. I’m not proud, but my ex cheated on me with my best friend and is now shacked up with her in hog heaven.

He’s being a bastard and refusing to help with finances, and has cut me off from the joint bank account.

Unluckily for him, I have proof of the bank balances, so even if he tries to hide money, he’ll fail.

While the courts are processing the divorce, I have work.

My children need food and clothing, and he’s providing neither,” Meadow said.

Mortification crossed her face, and I noted some shame mixed in with it.

“Meadow, I understand. You have my sympathies. Don’t worry, life happens. Part of your interview is making a meal. It’s easy to say you can cook, and we possibly hire you, and then you’re awful at cooking! Not that I’m saying you are, but it has happened.”