CHAPTER THREE

Undertaker tried to put on a brave face as he approached Skeeter. He gently took his hand and leaned over the bed. “Old man, it’s good to see you.”

An oxygen tube ran from a tank that sat next to his bed; the cannula looped over his ears and down to his nostrils. Even with the oxygen, his voice came out wheezing and gasping.

“Glad to… have you… home, Son.”

The man had lost weight, his face sunken and his skin sallow. His eyes were a watery gray, but the happiness on his face was genuine.

“Good to be home,” Undertaker replied.

“Sit.” Skeeter released his grip and patted the bed next to him weakly then waved his hand in a dismissive motion to Mooch who exited, quietly closing the door behind him.

Undertaker watched him go before turning back to his President. “I didn’t know. No one told me.”

Skeeter nodded, his eyes sliding closed as he struggled for breath. “I didn’t… want them… to tell you.”

“Why?”

“No use… you… worrying.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Cancer.”

“How long have you been sick?”

“Been fighting… it for… a year now.” He paused, smiling at Undertaker. “Been waiting… for you. They thought… I couldn’t… hold out.” He tried to laugh and ended up in a coughing fit.

Undertaker reached for a glass of water on the bedside table and lifted his head to help him drink.

When Skeeter got his breath back, he whispered, “Fooled them… didn’t… I?”

Undertaker tried to smile and nod, but he felt his throat closing up and his eyes starting to sting. This man had meant more to him than his own father. He’d been his sponsor seventeen years ago when he’d first prospected with the club. He’d guided him like a father, and Undertaker couldn’t have loved him more.

“Some things… we need… to talk about.”

“Maybe you should rest. We can talk later.”

He shook his head vehemently. “Now.”

“Okay.”

“I want… you to… take the gavel.”

Undertaker frowned. “What?”

“Already… talked to… the boys.”

Undertaker pulled back, and his head swiveled slowly toward the door. “Skeeter, I’ve been out of the life for eleven long years. The club’s changed… all the new faces down there… Hell, the world has changed. I don’t know if—” He broke off shaking his head.

Skeeter grabbed his hand in his frail but suddenly strong grasp. “It’s… done. You… understand me? They… already voted. It’s… you. It’s… what I want.”

Undertaker watched him fall back in exhaustion, his eyes closing. How could this be happening? Today was supposed to be a happy day! He wasn’t supposed to come home to find this; he wasn’t supposed to have the whole weight of the club dropped on his shoulders right out of the gate. Hell, he had a year of parole to get through. Had any of them thought of that?

Skeeter tightened his grip on his hand again and shook it. “I taught… you well. It’s… got to… be you.” His watery, gray eyes opened and focused on Undertaker. “You’re the… only one… who can lead… them… the way… I want.”

“I don’t know if I’ve got it in me.”

“Damn it, you do.” He gave a weak punch to Undertaker’s chest. “You got… the heart… for it. It’s in you. I know… cause I… put it there. Taught you… everything I know.”

“Skeeter—”

“Tell me… you’ll do it.”

What choice did he have but to nod his head? “If it’s what you want, and the club agrees to it, I’ll give it my best shot.”

Skeeter nodded, a small smile on his face. “Make them… remember your name. Do right by… this club. When you feel like… giving up, don’t.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He patted Undertaker’s hand. “Promise me… one more thing.”

“Anything. You know that.”

“Take care of… my boy. You… watch after… him.”

“Boy? What boy?”

“Johnnie Ray. He… was born while you… were inside. He’s… seven. Living with… his mother… in Hattiesburg.”

It was another thing that Undertaker hadn’t known about, but he nodded. “All right.”

“She doesn’t… want him… to have… anything to do… with the club. But if he… ever comes around… wanting to be… a part of it…” He paused to punch his gnarled finger into Undertaker’s chest. “You… sponsor him. You!”

“All right, Prez. I promise. He ever wants the life I’ll take him under my wing.”

That seemed to ease Skeeter’s worries, and he slumped back again. He was quiet so long Undertaker thought he’d fallen asleep, so he stood to leave. When he did, the old man’s eyes popped open. He lifted his arm and clasped Undertaker’s hand one last time. “We had some… good times… didn’t we?”

Undertaker nodded, barely able to get the words out. “We did, Brother. We sure did.”

Skeeter nodded, then drifted off to sleep.

Undertaker blew out a long breath, then stepped outside the room.

Mooch was waiting for him in the hall. He pointed to the President’s office. “He wanted me to tell you some things. Let’s talk in here.”

Walking into Skeeter’s office without him there behind the big desk felt so wrong. Mooch took one of the two chairs in front of it and Undertaker took the other.

Mooch gave him a sad smile. “I know you’re blindsided by all this, but he wouldn’t let any of us tell you.”

Undertaker nodded.

Mooch lifted his chin to the big leather chair behind the desk. “He’s serious about that being yours. I know you’re probably not ready to take it just yet, but the club’s behind his decision.”

“Yeah? Hell, Mooch, half those faces down there are strangers to me. They don’t fucking know me. And now I’m supposed to be their President? They’re supposed to follow me?”

“They love the old man just like you do. They want it because he wants it, and they will follow you. You’re a natural leader, Undertaker.”

He shook his head. “You’re all forgetting I’ve got a year of parole to get through. One screw up and I’ll be back inside to finish out my sentence. Hell, I’m not allowed to associate with the MC. How am I supposed to lead it?”

“The old man’s got it all figured out. You lay low for a while, finish out the parole, and stay clean. I step in as interim president until you’re done with all that, but you will still be running the show by proxy. We work out some discrete meets, keep it all under the radar.”

Undertaker leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and steepled his hands in front of his face. His eyes slid to that chair. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it; he did… someday, just not now. But how could he not take it? It was Skeeter’s dying wish.

“The club needs you, bro. When Skeeter passes, it’s gonna hit hard. They’re gonna need a strong hand leading them out of this.”

Undertaker studied his brother and had to ask, “You don’t want it?”

Mooch shook his head. “Too many headaches.” Then he grinned and added, “But I’ll be glad to be your VP.”

***

Three days later, Undertaker found himself standing graveside as the club buried their President. It was all happening too fast, and he felt like he could barely breathe. There was a tick in his jaw as he tried to keep his shit together, tried not to let the emotion that squeezed his heart show as reality sunk in that Skeeter was truly gone. The finality of it was almost unbearable.

When the service was over, Undertaker had the honor of preforming one of the MC’s most sacred traditions. They called it The Last Rev.

The club stood next to their bikes, which were parked in a long line. Bam-Bam, the club’s Road Captain, started his engine and everyone else followed suit. He then revved the throttle five times, and the rest joined in, all except for Undertaker who stood at the back with Skeeter’s bike.

When the sounds died down to a quiet rumble, Undertaker—with a lump in his throat—gave the last rev, letting heaven know that another biker was on his way home.

Then, without a word, they all mounted and rolled slowly out of the cemetery, two by two, with Undertaker bringing Skeeter’s bike back to the clubhouse in that final ride.