by Nina Levine
“I’ll make it happen.”
After he leaves, I pull my phone out and call Max. We had plans to hang out this morning that I now need to cancel on.
“Hey,” he answers.
“I have to cancel on you this morning, brother. Shit’s come up that I can’t put off.”
“No worries. I’ll find stuff to do. You okay?”
I blow out a long, frustrated breath. “How was Birdie last night?”
“Not good, Matt. She locked herself away in the bedroom and didn’t come out.” He pauses. “I don’t want to step where I shouldn’t step, but she did tell me she doesn’t feel like you listen to her anymore.”
“What?”
“She thinks you switch off when she’s trying to talk to you about stuff that’s important to her.”
King appears in the office doorway as I try to process what Max is saying. I wasn’t expecting King and am thrown by his appearance. Ending this conversation with my brother isn’t something I want to do because I feel he has useful insights and a perspective I could benefit from hearing, but I’m going to have to. “You wanna come meet me at the clubhouse in a few hours? I think I need your help with this.” I don’t fucking think it; I know it. My marriage is fraying and I need my brother’s help fixing it.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Thanks.”
We end the call and I stand to meet King. “King.” It would seem he and I are about to butt heads again if the ferocious look on his face is anything to go by.
“I’ve got a meeting scheduled with Torres this afternoon. I want you there for it.”
“Fuck. That was fast.”
He ignores that and demands, “I take it that’s a yes?”
“I take it you’re planning on pushing this negotiation through?”
His eyes glitter with the hard glint I know so well. “The ball is rolling, Winter. Are you with me or not?”
“I’m against you pushing Torres. Let me do it. He’ll play ball with me.”
“I’m not fucking arguing with you over this again,” he snaps.
“Christ, you’re fucking infuriating sometimes, King. Would it fucking kill you to listen every now and then? I’ve worked with Torres for seven years; I know him far better than you, and I’m telling you he’s going to walk. We’re going to lose his coke and all the money that goes along with it. Are you willing to risk that?”
His nostrils flare as he takes that in. He was already worked up when he got here; I’ve pissed him off even more. Not something King’s used to from me. He and I have a good working relationship and a lot of respect between us, but this is worth fighting for. I just hope he fucking sees that before it’s too late.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” he finally says before stalking out of the office.
Fuck, this day is going to shit very fucking fast.
I get through church, during which I advise everyone of the Silver Hell development and the need for them to keep a close eye on themselves and everyone else at all times. After church, I let Striker know I’ve organised for him to head to Adelaide tomorrow. I then tell him to pack his shit up and leave the clubhouse. I want him gone now. It surprises the hell out of me how angry I am with him; I don’t tend to hold onto anger in this way, but he’s drawn it out of me.
King hasn’t come back to me about our meeting with Torres, and after trying unsuccessfully to call him, I head out to the bar area to see if anyone knows where he went. I’m halfway down the hallway when the sound of gunshots comes from out the front of the clubhouse.
Fucking hell.
I pick up my pace and bolt outside to see what’s happening.
The first thing I see is Striker crouched down at the front gate.
The second thing I see is the body on the ground in front of him.
The third thing I see shoots fear like I’ve never known through my body.
Max.
I race to where my brother lies, riddled with bullets.
“Max!” His name tears from me, ripping my heart out with it.
I shake him.
“Max, open your fucking eyes!”
Why the fuck isn’t he opening his eyes?
“Winter.” It’s Ransom’s voice, but it filters out of my consciousness as fast as it filters in.
Club members surround me.
Their anger blazes in the air.
The noise and the chatter and the goddam fucking buzz crash into me until I can’t fucking hear myself think. Yanking my brother’s body to me, I roar, “Stop! Stop fucking talking!”
Max has no pulse.
The life in his eyes has bled out.
His blood oozes from him.
My brother is dead.
Dead.
The oxygen I need refuses to enter my body.
He can’t be dead.
I just spoke to him on the phone.
He was alive.
Coming to see me.
“Max. Open your fucking eyes.”
Ransom crouches next to me. “Winter. He’s gone, brother.” I hear every drop of regret in his voice. I want to take that regret and smash it into pieces. I do not want to hear it. My brother can’t be fucking gone.
Ransom touches my arm. “Winter—”
I push him away.
I push away everything he’s saying.
His words slash and gouge and hack.
I can’t listen to them.
I just fucking spoke to him.
And then reality shatters through me like a fucking wrecking ball.
I told him to come here.
I did this to him.
I killed my brother.
24
Winter
* * *
Striker comes through for me one fucking time in his life; he tells me who shot Max. It was the brother of the girl he got pregnant. He took aim at Striker, but Max got in the way when he tried to push Striker to safety.
King comes through for me when he cancels the meeting with Torres and backs me on whatever I want to do to avenge Max’s death.
We take fifteen men with us when we go looking for the shooter. I won’t need fifteen men, but Ransom insists. “I know you plan to kill him with your bare hands, brother, but I want back-up to ensure you get that chance.”
I don’t just plan to kill this motherfucker; I intend to torture him and fucking gut him. I intend to look my brother’s killer in the eyes while I fucking dismember him. I intend to drag his pain out until he’s begging me to take his life.
A bike is parked outside his house when we arrive. I wonder if it’s his or if it means we’ll get two for one with this.
Without bothering to knock, I kick the door down and force my way in. The asshole is sitting on his couch watching fucking TV while smoking a joint, like it’s any old fucking day rather than the day he took Max’s life.
His eyes come to mine and flare with hostility. He doesn’t have a chance to move before I’ve reefed him off the couch.
“Hey asshole,” he snarls. “He fucked with my sister. He deserved everything he got.”
I pull him close to me so our faces are inches apart. “Wrong. You killed the wrong man. You killed my brother.”
The hostility in his eyes turns to panic. “Fuck.”
I grip his shirt hard so I can shove him with force against the wall. When he lands on the floor with a thud, I crouch in front of him and punch him. I then yank him back up and let King secure his hands behind his back, and allow another club member to gag and hood him. I then drag him out to our van waiting in his driveway.
Except for the grunts coming from the motherfucker we just nabbed, we drive in silence to our storage warehouse where I haul him inside and thrust him to the ground. Ripping the hood off, I grasp his hair and stretch his head and neck back. Bringing my mouth close to his face, I growl, “It was too fucking easy finding you, Ricky, and that’s a damn shame. I would have preferred to fight harder for you; would have preferred to get my hands
dirty. So we’re gonna do that now before we get to the part where I gut you.”
His eyes go wide and he madly shakes his head while trying to speak. The gag prevents him from forming words I can understand; all I hear are garbled grunts.
King reaches for Ricky’s hands and pulls him up. He holds him in place for me and I punch the fuck out of him. Repeatedly.
As I settle into a rhythm, my mind fills with images of Max sprawled on the ground, dead. I see the blood. I see his lifeless eyes. I see the life he never got to finish. The marriage he never got to have. The future torn from him.
My punches become more brutal.
More relentless.
I need him to feel what I feel: pain like I’ve never known.
And he does. By the time I’m finished getting my hands dirty, his body is limp in King’s arms and he’s almost unconscious. His cries of agony stopped a good ten minutes ago, but I kept going. I needed to keep going.
He’s almost as lifeless as Max was when I stop, breathless, sweaty, and covered in his blood.
King lets Ricky fall to the ground. “Time for a break, brother. We’ll get him strung up ready for you.”
I step outside. I’ve lost track of time and day; all I know is what’s behind me and what’s directly in front of me. Max’s death and my vengeance. Nothing else matters right now.
When I go back inside, Ricky is hanging from the roof, face down, gag removed. This is one of King’s preferred ways of inflicting torture. For the first time in my life, I understand King’s need for it. Max’s death has stirred the demon residing in the black pits of my soul.
I grip Ricky’s face and crush it between my fingers. The pressure rouses him and he jerks before crying out in pain.
Bringing my face close, I rasp, “Keep screaming. It’s the best fucking sound I’ve heard in my life.”
He tries to move out of my hold, lurching to the side.
I grab him again when he swings back. Holding his face with one hand, I punch him with my other fist. He screams again and my demon howls with pleasure.
We play this game for a while. Until I need more to sate my beast.
Reaching for a knife, I slice his clothes off, and inch by inch, I carve up his skin.
I lose myself in the process.
I slice him up as a movie reel of the life my brother never got to have plays in my mind.
He stops breathing long before I stop stripping him of skin and limbs and blood.
And when I’m finished, I collapse onto the pool of his blood and let my torment consume me.
Max is never coming back, and knowing that is the worst pain I’ve suffered in my life.
Birdie is at the clubhouse when King, Ransom, and I arrive back there just after 8:00 p.m. I changed clothes after I finished with Ricky, but after digging a hole and burying the motherfucker, I’m dirty again. Birdie takes it in, but doesn’t let it stop her arms coming around me.
My mind is a mess.
Tangled thoughts I can’t stop.
Max’s lifeless body.
Blood.
Regret.
I can’t fucking silence the thoughts.
“Baby,” Birdie murmurs, trying to get my attention as my arms hang by my side and my mind twists in another direction.
How am I going to tell his kids that their father is dead?
Why the fuck didn’t I just stick to our original plan for today?
He wouldn’t have been anywhere near the clubhouse if I had.
“Winter,” Birdie says, her voice growing more insistent, her hands coming to my face. Gripping my cheeks, she forces me to look at her. The tears and devastation in her eyes grip me harder than her hands are. “What happened?”
Her words are strangled. They punch me in the gut and I feel it physically as if she did punch me there. I clutch her arms like she can stop me from doubling over. “He came here to spend time with me and got in the way of something he shouldn’t have been anywhere near.”
Fuck.
I suck in air as the events of today crash down on me.
As they smother me with grief.
It’s overwhelming.
Too fucking much to accept.
Max is dead.
Birdie’s tears stream down her cheeks. A fucking waterfall that I lose myself in while trying like fuck to avoid the pain slamming into me.
“I can’t believe it,” she sobs. “He was right there… at home, with me, this morning…. We made plans to see a movie tonight, to make you come with us. He told me about how much he loves Georgia and all the things they want to do in life—” Her words cut off as she gasps. It’s like all the air in her lungs evaporates. Her hand flies to her mouth and she covers it as her wide eyes stare at me in horror. “Oh God, he’s never going to do those things. Oh, Max….” She buries her face in my chest, clinging tightly to me.
My heart wrenches as my arms wrap around Birdie.
I want to help her through this; I want to comfort her. But there’s nothing left inside me to do any of that. Max’s death has sucked everything from me and all I can do is stand here and hold onto my wife and hope like fuck she has something left to give. She’s gonna need to be the strong one tonight; she’s gonna need to be the one to get us through.
We hold each other for a long time before she pulls me into my room. Stripping my clothes and boots, she curls up with me on the bed. Her arms stay around me and we simply lie together. She doesn’t utter a word; she allows her touch to speak for her.
Hours pass and finally, I say, “It was my fault.”
She cups my face as she looks up at me. “No, it wasn’t.”
“I told him to come here. If I hadn’t done that, he’d still be alive.”
She moves so she’s on top of me. “Baby, no. You can’t think like that. You didn’t take that gun and shoot him. It’s not your fault.”
I don’t want to fight with her. Not today. So I nod and let her think I agree.
“Do you wanna shower?” she asks. “I’ll make you something to eat while you’re in there.”
“Yeah.” As she moves off me, I reach for her arm, stopping her. “I want you in the shower with me.”
“Okay,” she says without hesitation and I let her go.
She heads into the en suite and flicks the shower on. When I meet her there, she’s got her clothes off and is reaching for her bra to undo it. I take over, growing hard as my hands glide over her skin. It’s been over a week since I’ve fucked her. This is exactly what I need to forget everything that’s happened today. If only for a small amount of time.
I bring my lips to her breasts as her bra hits the floor. Sucking a nipple into my mouth, I push her panties down and stroke her clit. Her arms slide over my shoulders and she grinds herself against my hand.
I kiss my way down to her pussy before pushing my tongue inside her. Gripping her ass, I eat her. The pleasure of having my woman in my hands and between my lips helps me escape the nightmare on repeat in my head.
Birdie’s hands come to my head and she pulls my hair as she comes. The sounds she makes reach deep in my gut, and I stand and lift her into the shower. Her legs and arms wrap around me as I thrust inside her.
“Fuck,” I growl, pulling out and going again.
My veins fill with more need the closer I get, and I pick up the pace, slamming harder and faster into her. I come long before I want to, because going without Birdie for as long as I have always results in a fast orgasm.
Dropping my head, I take a moment to get my shit together.
She tilts my chin up and finds my eyes. “I love you,” she says softly. Three little words that I fucking crave from her.
I kiss her before saying, “I love you, too.”
We shower and once we’re dressed, Birdie says, “Take me home. We need our bed.”
She means we need our space. Birdie isn’t a fan of spending the night at the clubhouse. Tonight, I agree with her. We do need our bed. But more than anything, I just need
her.
25
Winter
* * *
There’s nothing in the world like burying a loved one. Fucking nothing. I’ve done it three times now and, fuck me, each time has shredded me a little more. Saying goodbye to my brother has been the hardest. We’d grown closer than ever over the last eight years; losing him feels like someone has hacked through my veins and spilt my blood all over the fucking place. We might have held a funeral to say our goodbyes, but I don’t know how to begin saying goodbye.
I scrolled my phone for photos of him yesterday and every memory killed me a little more.
The fishing trip we went on last year during which he counselled me over Birdie’s and my latest IVF disappointment.
A photo of the two of us at my fortieth birthday party Birdie organised.
The time Birdie convinced him to dress up as a dick for another party she threw.
There won’t be any more fishing trips or parties or Christmas’s or anything with Max and I can’t fucking imagine a life without those things or him in it.
Birdie and I flew to Brisbane for his funeral. I wanted us to spend some time with Max’s sons, and we did, but their mother restricted it to half a day. Jesse and Thomas are as broken over their father’s death as Birdie and I are. That half-day with them didn’t come close to being enough time together. I’ve made it clear to Melissa that there’s no fucking way Max’s death will stop me being a huge part of their lives.
Birdie steps out onto the deck where I’ve been sitting lost in my thoughts for the last half hour.
I run my eyes over her, taking in the sadness that clings to her. “Did you sort the shifts out?” She’s been on the phone trying to rearrange shifts at her work so she can take another couple of days off. We arrived home from Brisbane this morning and I told her I want us to take some time together. Fuck knows we need it.
She slides her hand over my shoulders and bends to kiss me before folding herself into the chair next to mine. “Yeah. Andrea’s taking care of it. I’ve got two days.”