Lili Germain - Six Brothers

“He’s not breathing,” I heard a panicked voice say, and I froze. My mother.

I threaded my way over to them, needing to know what was going on. The can of drink that had ended Chad’s life sat innocently on the counter, a cleaning rag perched next to it.

“Came in to clean the benches and I found him like this,” I heard my mother crying. I stepped forward to see her kneeling on the floor in front of Chad’s lifeless body, Dornan on the other side with two fingers pressed to Chad’s neck, Jase’s hand loosely on Chad’s chest as if feeling for breathing.

I gasped.

It wasn’t a faked reaction. Suddenly I was terrified. I had just killed someone. If they found out it was me, I’d be a dead woman. Firstly, a horribly, painfully tortured woman; but ultimately a dead woman.

“Somebody help him!” I cried, rushing forwards. Jase stood and grabbed my shoulders, holding me back.

“What are you doing?” I demand. “I know CPR. Let me help him!”

Jase gripped my elbow so tight, it felt like he might snap it. “It’s too late,” he said, an air of finality in his voice. “He’s cold. He’s been dead awhile.”

We drove to a funeral home in silence, Jase behind the wheel, me riding shotgun, Chad’s body laying in the back of a van, Dornan kneeling beside him the entire time.

It was almost like he was saying his last goodbyes to his firstborn son.

When we got there, Dornan asked for somebody by name. He was still calm then, still in shock.

I remembered that feeling well.

The guy wasn’t happy to see us, but he told Jase to pull the van around back, where he had a gurney waiting.

Dornan sat in silence, as did Jase. I hovered in the hallway, slightly removed from them. I almost wished I hadn’t offered to tag along, knowing that if it hadn’t been a Ross son, if they hadn’t been so damn shocked to find him, that I’d never have been allowed along to what they would classify men’s business in a motorcycle club.

After many hours, another man approached Dornan, a piece of paper in his hands. He spoke to Dornan in hushed tones, but two words jumped out, the words I already knew, because I had been the one to put them in his drink.

Pure. Methamphetamine.

I watched as Dornan asked several questions. How much had he ingested? There had been no needles, so how had it gotten into his body? And was there any way it could it have been an accident?

When the man walked away, Dornan took a deep breath, turned to Jase, and bit out, “I’m going to kill the fucker who did this.”

There’s another reason why I chose Chad to kill first, you know. Not just because he was an asshole and a rapist.

I chose him because he was Dornan’s favorite son.

I chose him because I knew, if anything could drive that man to tears, it was losing his oldest son and VP.

It was a good choice.

The church is completely packed, with men in leathers bearing club patches, spilling out onto the front steps. I am without my usual escort for once, since the entire Ross clan is occupying the front three rows of the church, and I have been relegated to the very back row, away from the cutting glares of every female in the family.

The service is boring, people talking about the family and blood being sacred and all that shit. I tune out for the most part and am startled when everyone suddenly rises. At first I think it must be over, until I see everyone lining up to receive communion. I join the line and bear the time patiently, studying the women who have chosen to be a part of the Ross family. I remember some of them from when my father was alive. Others are new but look just like the rest. I have a moment of judgement as I wonder what kind of stupid bitch would choose a life like this, until I stop and remind myself that it might not have been their choice at all.

“The body of Christ,” the Priest says when I reach the front of the line, pressing a wafer onto my tongue. I close my mouth and savor the thin piece of cracker as it dissolves on my tastebuds. We make our way back to our seats, me in the back and Jase sitting with a row of his surviving brothers. Dornan is in front with his current wife—the mother of his fifth and sixth sons—on one side, Chad’s mother on the other. He holds both of their hands with the desperate resignation reserved only for parents who are grieving the loss of their child.

I wonder, briefly, how my mother grieved for me.

Or, if she grieved for me at all.

Everyone stands for a final prayer before the casket is closed. I watch with a sense of satisfaction as Dornan disentangles himself from his current wife and stands, helping Chad’s mother to her feet. The woman is bawling, and inside I feel nothing but cold and bitter intent. Maybe if she had tried harder, her son wouldn’t have grown up to be such a fucking asshole. I feel no regret. The world is a better place without him.

The burial in the cemetery attached to the church is much shorter than the service. A large crowd gathers around, the Priest says a few words, everyone clutches at their rosary beads and at each other, and the coffin is lowered into the perfect rectangular hole that reaches six feet into the ground.

One by one, the immediate family take turns scooping a small shovelful of dirt from next to the hold and emptying it down there. I watch, my eyes alight behind my dark sunglasses, as Chad’s wife, Dornan, and Chad’s mother all drop dirt into his grave before stepping back. Dornan’s bulky arms are around Chad’s wife now, as she weeps for her husband.

My hand itches to take a turn, to press that shovel into fresh earth, scoop it up and fling it down the black hole where Chad will rest forever. Only, in my fantasy, the coffin is open and he is still alive, screaming, open-mouthed, as I shove dirt down his throat, choking him to death all over again.

It is a sickening, yet oddly comforting thought.

As the undertaker takes over filling in the hole, the crowd disperses. Across the crowd, I see Maxi, the third brother, walking away from everyone else and toward an older section of the cemetery.

Someone catches my elbow and I turn to see Jase with a look of thunder on his face. “Come on,” he says, walking abruptly in Maxi’s direction, with me tripping on my heels trying to keep up.

“Where are we going?” I hiss, struggling as he walks faster.

“My car,” he says, pulling me along. We are walking away from most of the crowd, who are offering condolences to Dornan and Chad’s wife at the cemetery gates.

As we pass older gravestones, I see Maxi, the third brother, clearly drunk and pissing on a grave. I continue walking behind Jase, mildly disgusted, until I see the name printed on the headstone.

Juliette Portland.

I look at Maxi’s face, and realize in an instant that he is not so drunk, and that he knows exactly what he is doing. He is laughing as his stream of urine hits the dry stone slab covering my grave, the noise of the liquid against the stone buzzing angrily in my ears.

My knees buckle, and Jase turns to catch me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I tear my gaze away from Maxi and smile weakly at Jase. “Yeah,” I say. “These heels are a bitch to walk in.”

“They look fuckin’ hot, though,” a cloying voice sounds from behind me. I turn to see Jazz, the fifth brother ogling me, his hands on his hips. I raise my eyebrows at him.

“I know,” I reply, looking him up and down before steadying my gaze on his. “That’s why I wear them.”