Old Lady (Iron Disciples Book 2)

Copyright © 2014
Daniella Tucci

All rights reserved.
This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written
consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this
story are strictly fictional and any unintentional likeness to real people or
real situations is completely coincidental.

Prologue

One – President Eddie

Two – A Leader Without A Follower

Three - Balls

Four - Brothers

Five – Unexpected Guests

Six - Rat

Seven - Betrayal

Eight – New Beginnings

Nine – The Alzheimer’s Call

Ten – Sweet Lucidity

Eleven – Business As Usual

Twelve – Morgan Becomes Human

Thirteen – Who The Hell Are You?

Fourteen - War

Fifteen - Sanctuary

Sixteen – Charity Ride

Seventeen - Sacrifice

Eighteen - Letters

I never expected to see Cade in such a state.
If the best of us can come crashing down to earth, what does that mean for the
rest? He may wish to hide behind his faded black cut, worn jeans and black
Metallica tee shirt, but he can’t quite do it. Even with the uncharacteristic
black shades the pain in his soul explodes all around him. His presence is
humbling for those gathered around.

Abruptly a heavy grey cloud, pregnant with
moisture, passes in front of the sun and settles in place. A chill sweeps
through the crowd as the beginnings of an unusual rain storm is turned loose on
those gathered below. No one seems to care and no one is prepared for the
ensuing deluge.

I look across the sea of weathered black cuts
and what I find takes my breath away. There must be over three hundred Iron
Disciples, Latin Kings, and Outkasts represented here today. One would expect
to see a sharply segregated crowd gathered here but it would be impossible to
draw a line separating the three groups. I can see several prominent Disciples
old ladies being comforted by a small group of old ladies belonging to Outkast
royalty.

Cade is the first to approach the black
casket. I walk with him and stand at his side as he drops a fist full of
flowers onto the shiny black surface. It’s beautiful as caskets go, and with
the Iron Disciples patch it is stunning. I hand cade the bundle in my arms. He
takes the cut and carefully places it across the feet of a brother’s final resting
place.

Cade steps back to make room for the long
procession of bikers and civilians who have come to pay their respect. The
first biker to approach just happens to be the president of the Outkasts. With
him is, I presume, his old lady and a boy of about nine years of age. The woman
is a stunning blond, tall and stately looking. Not what I would have expected
for a biker old lady. The young boy sports a pint sized cut of his own
patterned exactly after his fathers. The Outkast president drops a piece of paper
onto the casket, then turns to face Cade. The two embrace briefly. It’s a
comfortable gesture not an awkward insincere move on the former rival’s part.

Then one by one outlaw bikers approach the
casket. Some mutter a few words, others add to the growing pile of objects that
must have had meaning for the fallen brother before embracing my man and
leaving. Following hosts of bikers come a surprising amount of civilians and I
have to wonder what their motives are. Maybe they think that showing up at a high
profile burial buys them a certain amount of protection. That’s just paranoid.
None of these guys gathered even rates a second look from any of the outlaw
groups gathered on this day. There are two separate worlds coexisting here. On
the fringe you have the two major outlaw clubs and a powerful Latin street gang
called the Latin Kings. Of the three groups represented here, the Kings are the
only ones who have any real dealings with the average citizen since they’re
selling drugs to them. No amount of showing up at burials is going to curry any
favor from the Kings who are all business all the time.

Before the endlessly long line of well-
wishers reached Cade I considered offering him a chair. He looked like this
giant oak tree that has been so battered in the wind it’s about to succumb with
a loud crack and come crashing to earth. But with each hug, each whispered
thought, he seems to be taking away a modicum of strength; just enough to keep
going and slowly he begins to stand just a little bit taller. He begins to
breathe just a little easier and I can see the weight of the world getting just
a little bit lighter on his shoulders. I think…I think that just maybe…maybe we
can get through this after all. Perhaps we can all go home, pick up our
interrupted lives, and find meaning in tragedy. I don’t know about anyone else
but that is certainly on my
agenda.                                                                                                                                                         

“Hello gimp!”

Suddenly my blood runs icy cold in my veins as my brain
struggles to come to terms with the person sitting at the head of the table
where Cade should be. How the hell can this be happening? I fucking know what
this means. It means Cade is dead. My heart begins to sink like a brick in a
dark ocean of sorrow…all the way down to the sedimentary bottom where it’ll
likely stay. My world closing in around me; suffocating me. I tear my eyes from
Eddie’s self- satisfied smirk and look to Scooter for…for I don’t know what. At
least the club’s Sargent at Arms seems to have some kind of heart. After a
moment I catch his eye but he just stares back with his poker face. He has
changed.

My eyes begin to blur and I wonder what the hell is going
on with me. It’s like I’m losing my vision or something. I look down at the
ground just as several drops of water splatter on my toes. What the hell? Then
it hits me. I bring my fingers up to my face and it’s wet. There are tears streaking
down my face. Holy shit and fuck me sideways…I haven’t cried since my mother
died when I was thirteen. I can’t believe this. I wasn’t able to shed a fucking
tear when my dad died, less than a year after my mom passed, but I cry like a
child because some biker dude I’m shagging has died? I raise my head, terribly
embarrassed and the whole fucking room is fading from my eyes. I cover my face
in my hands and all at once I’m taken back to the day my father died.

Fourteen Years Ago…

It was my fourteenth birthday. When I sat
down for breakfast before school that morning my dad gave me a letter from my
mother. It was one of many letters that my mother pre wrote to be given to me
on certain life milestones. My father tells me she wrote numerous letters before
she died of breast cancer and left them with instructions on when to be given.
I remember so clearly reading that letter. It was like my mom was alive again
and speaking to me from the grave. It’s like she isn’t completely gone and each
letter from her takes some of the sting out of her death. For me it made my
feelings about her death manageable. That morning so long ago I was actually
feeling happy when I went to school that day. I had a letter from my mom in my
purse and my dad was going to pick me up after school to spend the day
together. I was so excited. Then my father died in a car accident. That evening
I got another letter from my mother. Apparently my aunt also had access to the
letters. I was at my aunt’s house in the spare bedroom. Sitting cross legged in
the middle of the bed I was just staring at the walls. I couldn’t believe my
dad was gone. Life is so freaking unfair. I already lost my mom. Haven’t I
already had more than my share of misery? I guess not. I was sitting there
feeling sorry for myself when my aunt walked in with another letter and right
away I knew it was from my mom.

“Morgan,” my aunt said to me. “I hoped I
would never have to give you this letter; especially at your age. This is one
letter your mother prayed never to have to give you. I’m sorry sweetie.”