Tanner
“Hey old man,” Tanner said to the tombstone planted just at the top of the slight incline at the back of the cemetery. The name “Logan Rainier” was chiseled across the front, with the epitaph “Loving Father and Blood Warrior to the end” just below it. On the ground, a spot next to the plot lay empty, just waiting for when Tova Rainier gave up the ghost. Hopefully, that'd be later, rather than sooner.
He drove up here after leaving Star at the park. He didn't tell his mom he came up here, sometimes. He didn't want her asking about what he talked about.
He hadn't brought his pops flowers or anything. Instead, he'd brought a little pint of bourbon that he clutched in one hand. It had been his favorite brand when he was alive. “Brought you some Knob,” he said, holding it up so his pops could see the label. “Wasn't sure what else you'd want, since you didn't ever like flowers or any of that shit.”
The old man didn't reply. Not that Tanner thought he would have. He leaned down and set the bottle up against the base of the big chunk of marble.
“Got the letter about your estate, you old goat fucker,” he said as he turned away and looked out down the rise to the opening of the cemetery. They'd interred him up here, near the back, so he'd always be able to look down at the highway that led to the Blood Warriors clubhouse. This way, he could keep an eye on the boys as they rode by.
“Still can't understand why you always wanted me to settle down, but always told me not to. Or how you'd fuck over your own wife like that. I get that there's hard decisions to be made, old man. I understand that sometimes we don't get a choice between an easy path and a hard one, or that if we don't choose soon enough, life will choose for us. But, you really fucked me over on this one, you know that?”
He turned back to the tombstone and squatted down next to it. He reached out, ran his finger over the inscription laid there. Loving Father? What a joke. What kind of father would put his kid through this shit? And what kind of husband would do to his wife what old Logan Rainier was doing right now?
“You know what, though? I made my choice. Found a hot little piece of a girl, one that's proper and shit. She'll be able to raise your grandchild, but she'll be out of this town. She won't slow me down, or tie me up and make me settle. Hell, I'll hardly know the kid's mom. That kid'll be your legal, alright, but it'll never know who you were, or bring you whiskey. Nothing.
“And, do you know what the best part of it is, pops? I'm going to use your money to fix this problem. I'm paying her half a million from your estate to help me beat this shit you threw at me.”
He grabbed the bottle of Knob Creek and cracked it open. He looked at it in its hand, flipped it around and looked at the back. His pops had loved this shit, had been his liquor of choice. God, the old man had been a drunk, though. Tova Rainier had to come drag him home, drunker than piss, from the Old Crow more times than Tanner could count.
Thankfully, he hadn't been a mean drunk. He'd never laid a hand on Tanner's mom, or him or Brendon. Well, not when he was drunk, at least. He'd whooped him and his brother plenty of times for being little shits. They'd more-than-deserved each smack from the belt, though.
He cracked open the bottle of whiskey and took a big, healthy swallow off it. The liquor went down hot and smooth, burning the whole way. He exhaled the fumes and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then poured out a drink or two for the old man.
He settled back against the tombstone and looked out on the highway. He saw a biker down there, ripping along the countryside. Maybe it was Tyke? Or Blade, the man who'd replaced Logan Rainier as President of the Blood Warriors? Could've been any one of his many other brothers.
“Brendon's still missing, by the way,” he said, conversationally. “Still haven't seen him since he left with that whore of his. Sorry, I know I said I'd find him before your funeral.” He took another swig of whiskey and sucked air through his teeth.
“The club's doing good, though. Tyke kicked down one of those Roaming Wolf bastards a couple weeks back. You'd have been proud of him. Left that poor fool bleeding in the street. And Blade's still doing a good job. He really cares about the club, just like you did. Cares about the guys in it, too, and our honor. Not just the name.”
He kicked at a tuft of grass near his boot. “Mom's not doing well, though. You left her in a bad place, old man. You let the house fall apart, and now it's coming down around her ears. Then, you went and did this shit with the estate, tied everything up in this fucking trust of yours. I know you did it just so I'd be backed into a corner, too. But, you could've left Mom out of it, Pops. You could've set some aside, just for her.”
He looked out at the highway, at the cars going by under the afternoon sun. “But then, you know, accidents happen faster than we care to admit. Life's with us, then it passes us by, right? Is that what you're trying to do with this shit? Give me some stability, so maybe I'll appreciate the world around me?”
Tanner shook his head and drank another swallow of Knob Creek. “Nah, you're just trying to be a dick, even from beyond the grave. Always were, always will be one, huh? Why let death slow you down?”
He set the now half-empty pint of whiskey down next to the grave marker and leaned it back against the immovable marble rock. “You keep the rest, old man. I gotta get going to see how the bar's doing.”
He hopped up to his feet and went back to his bike. He climbed on his motorcycle and took one last look at his pops' gravestone before he started it up and took off.
“Fuck you, old man. I'll beat you at your own game. Just you wait and fucking see.”