Page 7
“I will not.”
“Bet.”
She flips me off and walks out into the hall.
The door slams behind her hard enough to rattle the hanging tools.
I stand there in the sawdust, buttoning my jeans, staring at the coffin like it betrayed me personally.
“Damn,” I mutter. “That went real smooth.”
The side door opens before I can decide whether to laugh or go find a drink. Nevermore steps in wearing his cut, a black button-up, and the permanent disappointed look of a man who got promoted to vice president and forgot how to have fun. He is built narrow and mean, with dark hair slicked back, pale eyes, and tattoos crawling up his throat like inked vines. The women call him pretty until he looks at them. Then they usually remember pretty ain’t the same as safe.
His gaze flicks from me to the open coffin, then to the hallway where the woman disappeared.
He closes his eyes.
Just closes them.
Like he is praying for patience or my early death.
“Bitter.”
“Nevermore.”
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
His eyes open. “Use a customer coffin as a motel room.”
I shrug. “Customer ain’t using it yet.”
“He’s dead.”
“Then he ain’t in a hurry.”
Nevermore stares at me.
I stare back.
A saw blade hums somewhere in the wall because Plague wired the ventilation fan wrong six months ago and nobody has cared enough to fix it. Outside, a bike starts with a roar, then another. The night is winding up, not down. The clubhouse has that Thursday feeling, which means by midnight somebody will either be naked, bleeding, arrested, engaged, or all four if Boogie gets bored.
Nevermore points at the coffin. “That is a twelve-thousand-dollar custom piece.”
“And now it’s got a story.”
“It had a story. It was commissioned by a man who wants his ashes buried with his road name, his flag, and his first Harley key.”
“That man sounds exhausting.”
“That man paid cash.”
“Then he’ll appreciate quality control.”
Nevermore’s jaw flexes.
There was a time when he would have laughed. There was a time when Nevermore could drink all night, fight all morning, and still find a woman willing to let him ruin her Sunday dress. He used to be worse than me in some ways. Quieter about it, maybe, but worse. Then Hyde made him VP and suddenly my brother started acting like responsibility was a disease he caught from a toilet seat.
