by Voss, Deja
All the lights are out in Dad’s trailer except for the one in the kitchen and the soft glow of the TV in the living room. I can smell the stench of black mold and old newspaper before I even hit the steps to the porch. That smell used to follow me everywhere I went. I feel a migraine coming on as I knock on the door. My stomach churns.
“Dad! I know you’re in there!” I shout, pounding on the door. “Josie! Come on! It’s me!”
I press my ear to the door, the only sound inside the hum of the television. I try the knob, but it doesn’t turn. At least he keeps the doors locked at night, I think, trying to reassure myself that everything is going to be alright.
“I’m coming!” he shouts. “Hold on!” I stand on the porch in the darkness for what feels like an eternity. I try to rehearse everything I need to say in my head, but all I can think of is busting in there, grabbing Josie, tossing her in my Jeep without a word, and going from there. My dad isn’t a man to be reasoned with. He might have been able to use brute force on me in the past, but I’m not that girl anymore.
He opens the door just a crack. “You here to arrest me or something?”
“Dad,” I say, “I’m here to check on you and Josie. I just want to make sure everything is alright. Your phone’s not working.” I’m greeted with silence, but he shuffles off, leaving the door open. I take that as my cue to enter.
This place gives me the chills. It looks like I never left: the same pile of beer cans tossed in the corner, same stains on the disgusting orange shag carpet, same overflowing ashtray next to Dad’s recliner. I’m sure the furniture from the 1970s isn’t flame-resistant, and I’m surprised he hasn’t burned the place down yet. That might be the only solution to this mess.
“Where is she?” I ask, following behind him as he walks towards the kitchen. There’s a limp in his walk that I hadn’t seen before, and it looks like he’s using the walls to brace himself. He’s breathing heavy, and my eyes grow wide when I hit the kitchen tile.
“Dad! What the fuck happened here? It looks like a murder scene!” The kitchen table is flipped on its side, and there’s blood and broken glass everywhere. “Where is Josie?”
When he finally turns to face me, I gasp. His face is bruised, his lip swollen, and there’s dried blood down the front of his t-shirt. A lot of dried blood. Where is all this fucking blood coming from? A “good” daughter might insist that I take him to the hospital right now. I don’t think I fit that bill, though. A “good” daughter would call the cops. A “good” daughter would be crying, doing whatever she could to tend to him.
He hobbles through the glass and straight for the fridge. “Want a beer?” he asks.
“No!” I stand in the corner, afraid to move. If this is a crime scene, I don’t want to taint it. “I want to know where Josie is! What did you do, Dad?”
“She’s fine; I mean, I think she is. This is all me.” He thrusts a beer can in my hand. “Your old man can still throw down, you know.”
“Josie!” I scream. I need to see her. Even if she wasn’t a casualty in whatever the hell this is, she’s gotta be traumatized.
“She’s not here,” he says nonchalantly. “I need to sit down.” He slinks himself down into the only upright chain in the room, grimacing the whole time.
I hate him so much right now. He’s such a pathetic excuse for a father, for a man. He’s trying to play cool and coy. He thinks he’s such a badass.
“Where is Josie?”
“They took her,” he says. “I’m not supposed to say anything. Can’t get the law involved or something bad will happen.”
I am seeing red right now. I charge across the room, broken glass and all. I need to check my temper, even though I have a wild desire to finish whatever ‘they’ started here. Finish this fucker off for good.
“I’m not the law right now, Dad. I’m your daughter. And that’s my sister. Now please, can you tell me everything you know so I can get her back? She was kidnapped?”
He just shrugs. I can’t read the expression on his face because of how swollen it is. I can’t tell if he’s pretending like he’s hard, or if he’s actually scared.
“Dad, please, I’m here to make things better,” I plead. I go to the freezer and grab a bag of frozen peas. I’m pretty sure, from the blood on the bag, that these have been recycled from a previous incident. I hand it to him and he puts it on his eye with an emphatic groan. “I’m not going to do anything to get you in trouble. I don’t even care about how this happened. You just need to tell me who took her.”
“Brooks,” he says. “Brooks and Gavin, some other guy I don’t know. They were here to pick up some money I owed them.”
“Brooks Harrison? Gavin Boden?” I stammer. They were the only two guys by those names that I knew, and the two were thick as thieves even when we were in high school. We actually graduated together. I knew very well who they were, but they probably had no idea who I was.
“Bikers,” he says. “That Misfits gang.”
I could only imagine what kind of debt they were collecting from my dad. The fact that they took my underage sister in return makes my stomach churn. I knew they were badasses back in the day, doing odd jobs for the president of the Mountain Misfits and riding their motorcycles to school. Fighting, fucking, denim, leather, beards… those were their calling cards. I always wondered what it was like to be part of their world, what it was like to be the type of woman that got the attention of guys like that. My wish was about to come true, and not in the way that I dreamed of. I was going to have to get their attention now if I wanted to get my sister back.
“What’s the ransom?” I ask. “I have some money saved up.”
“No ransom,” he says.
“They just took her? Did they hurt her?”
This doesn’t make any sense at all. Were they going to sell her? Were they going to torture her for fun? I didn’t want to think like that, but nothing seemed logical. These mysterious guys who I lusted after in high school really might be bad guys. And now they have the one person I should’ve done whatever it took to protect.
He just shrugs and takes a sip from his beer.
“If they did anything to her, Dad…” I trail off. I think he knows what I’m about to say. If he can’t hear it in my voice, he’s gotta see it in the way I’m reaching for my pistol on my hip.
“Let me come with you, Lena.” He tries to get up from his seat, but falls right back down with a groan. They really fucked him up good. In any other circumstance, I would’ve been impressed.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say. “You had your chance to make this right. What did Desmond have to say about all this?” I can’t hardly believe he would walk into the house and see this scene and it wouldn’t raise any red flags to him.
“Desmond? That chump you sent over here to babysit us? He’s been off the force for damn near a year now.”
I throw my full beer can across the room and it smashes off the wall, fizzing everywhere. It doesn’t make this place look any worse, and it damn sure doesn’t make me feel any better. What in the actual fuck is going on? Why would he lie to me all this time? Desmond was the only reason why I could even begin to justify leaving Josie here. He promised me everything was going to be alright. Hell, he convinced me everything was alright.
“Be careful,” my dad says behind me as I sprint for the door. “You don’t know what those people are like. They don’t take kindly to the police.”
“I’m not the police, Dad,” I growl. By the time I get to the driveway, I notice porch lights on everywhere. People are milling around in the street. Apparently, my arrival got someone’s attention. How many of these people knew what happened to my sister?
You’re not the police, I remind myself as I get in my Jeep and start tearing down the dirt road, throwing dust and watching people scatter. Being a police officer wasn’t going to do anything for me now. Being one pissed off sister who needs to do the right thing… that woman was scarier than any police office
r I’d ever met.
Chapter 7
Brooks:
I lay back on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. I don’t know what Jasmine is doing between my legs, but it’s not working. She’s dragging her tongue up and down my thighs, and I rest my hand on the back of her head, trying to will myself hard.
She’s a good-looking enough girl; hell, any of my brothers would probably give their left eye to be in the position I’m in right now. She’s been nothing but kind to me since Esther died. Patient with my mood swings. Patient with the fact that I’m only in my late thirties but my dick is functioning like it’s in its late nineties.
Most women would be off-put and offended at this point, but I think she likes the challenge. It doesn’t help that whenever we fuck around, I can see Esther sitting there on the foot of the bed. She’s not mad, she’s not sad, she’s cheering me on, telling me it’s time to let go and move on. It’s definitely not the kind of threesome I imagined. It’s fucking warped.
Her tongue grazes the tip of my half-hardened cock. The way she giggles as she starts to take it in her mouth just makes me feel disgusted. Everything about her, this, everything right now is disgusting.
“Just stop,” I groan. Maybe my body wants it, but I can’t lay here, looking down at her mop of black hair, and pretend like anything about her is what I want.
“What do you want, babe?” she asks, looking up at me and batting her eyes. “You just want to cuddle? You want to put it in my ass? I know you like that.”
“I want you to stop being such a thirsty whore,” I say, pushing her off to the side. She rolls over on all fours and puts her ass in the air. She pulls her panties off to the side.
“Come on, Brooks. Give me your worst,” she purrs. “You know how much it turns me on when you’re mean like this.”
I’m not ‘mean like this.’ This, whatever this is, was never me. And yet, for some reason, as I ram my dick into her, palming her thighs and feeling my body slap off of hers, I realize this is the man I’ve become. I’d always loved the ladies, and in the years I spent chasing Esther around, I definitely had my share, but it was always fun, always light. This hate fucking thing, it’s a new development.
The only thing going through my mind right now is that the utter truth is I would slit this whore’s throat in one second if it meant I could get Esther back for an hour. I’d slit the throat of a thousand whores, drown this mountain in blood. Instead, I grab her long black hair and tug it in my fist.
She moans and writhes, grinding into me, and I wonder if she’s entertained the thought of going into the porn business. I feel like she’s one hell of an actress. I know exactly what she’s doing.
“That feels so good, babe,” she groans. “Don’t stop, prez.”
This isn’t working for me.
This bitch is no friend to my late wife. She isn’t trying to help our family through a hard time. She wants what every outsider wants, what every other average club whore wants. She wants a piece of my power.
I pull out of her, slide my jeans back up, and walk into the master bathroom, my half-hard dick now completely soft. I splash water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror. I look like shit. My eyes are darker than they’ve ever been, sunken in, nearly black. I’m skinnier than I’ve ever been in my life. I look mean. Rough. Lost.
“Brooks, come on,” Jasmine says, appearing in the bathroom mirror behind me. She presses her lips to my shoulder and wraps her arms around my waist. In my state, I’m not into tender gestures. “It’s going to be alright.”
“Jasmine, I don’t like you,” I say. Maybe under different circumstances I might. There’s nothing inherently wrong with her.
“I know,” she says, squeezing me tighter.
“I hate you,” I say.
“Good,” she says. She unwraps herself from my body and turns on the shower, testing the temperature with her hand. She steps in and pulls the curtain shut. If I wanted to murder her right now, this would be the perfect opportunity. Her blood running down the drain… would that make me happy? It seems like it just might.
But then what would I tell Josie?
I promised that girl I wasn’t going to hurt her. It’s bad enough she’s out there on the couch with her headphones on while I’m in here entertaining club sluts. She doesn’t need to be a part of any of this shit.
Besides, I’m not a murderer. I don’t want to kill her. I just don’t want to be near her.
The water turns off, and I realize I’ve just been standing there, getting lost in my thoughts, the new norm for me. I pull back the plastic shower curtain and hand her a towel.
“You’re an odd one, Brooks,” she says with a sigh, wrapping the towel around her body. If she only knew what I was just thinking about, odd probably wouldn’t be the word of choice for how she saw me. Threat, monster, psychopath?
“Most guys get off on their power,” she says, shrugging. “You’re the president of a motorcycle club. You could have whatever you wanted.”
If only it was that easy. To have whatever I wanted would mean that I would have to want something other than my dead wife back.
“Here’s some money,” I say, grabbing my wallet from my back pocket.
She has a disgusted look on her face, like she’s completely unaware of exactly what this is. Like she thinks she’s next in line to be my old lady or something.
“I’m good,” she says, storming into the bedroom, her wet hair leaving a trail on the floor behind her.
“Jasmine,” I say from the bathroom. I’m paralyzed here. Decent human being Brooks would follow her, tell her something that would make her laugh, tell her I appreciate her efforts, probably peel back that towel and make her scream all night. That is not me right now. All I can do is stand here and hope that she disappears before I start to cry.
Chapter 8
Helena
Back in high school, I had always heard rumors about the parties up on this mountain, but I never dared to show up for one. I was never cool enough. I was always too shy. I saw how my father lived his life, always high or drunk, always in trouble with the police or the mafia, or some random drug dealer, and I was scared to even touch a beer until I turned twenty-one because I didn’t want to end up like him.
I would go home from school and imagine what it would be like to have the courage to show up at these bonfires that everyone talked about for weeks on end, or even better, to be personally invited. For Gavin or Brooks to say, “Hey, Helena, be my date. I don’t care if you don’t want to drink. I still like you,” and I could get on the back of their motorcycle and we would fall in love and live happily ever after. It’s funny how delusional the teenage mind is.
Now, I’m definitely not a welcome guest here, and I’m certainly not looking for a boyfriend. All illusions of the fantasy that these are the good guys, that these are the kind of men who I want to date, go out the window. They have my stepsister. I have no idea what I’m going to have to do to get her back. I pull up to the mansion in the middle of the woods. The Mountain Misfits logo is carved into a giant wooden beam in front of the parking lot out front, and a row of bikes is lined up out front. I have no idea what I’m going to say when I go in there, or what I’m going to do. What if they killed her? What if they’re going to murder me, too?
I try not to walk like a cop. It really is a thing, and I’m sure these guys notice those types of things. I just need to act normal. Act casual. Like a big sister picking up her little sister from the movies or something.
I swing the door open to the mansion, hoping that I wasn’t supposed to do some secret knock. It’s dark and smoky in here, some old country music blaring, but the loud talking goes silent as soon as the door swings shut behind me. They’re all staring at me, all these rough looking bikers sitting around the bar in their leather cuts.
“Can we help you?” a blonde guy who looks a lot younger than the rest asks. I swear he knows I’m a cop. Some people can just sense that vibe. He looks like on
e of those people. I just stand there and blink like a deer in headlights.
“I bet I can help her,” the oldest of the lot says with a loud chuckle. He’s oddly attractive, even with the scar on his face that runs from his cheek to his ear. “Here, you can sit here if you want,” he taunts, pointing at his lap.
“Don’t be fucking weird, Heat,” a familiar voice says. When he turns and looks at me, my hands start to tremble. I haven’t seen Gavin Boden since I graduated high school, and shit, he aged real well. “God, you look familiar. Are you one of my sister’s friends?”
I do remember his sister, Esther. She was a year younger than us. She was a wild child, drop-dead gorgeous redhead with the mouth of a sailor, and Brooks and Gavin were constantly trying to scare the guys in our school off of her.
“I’m Helena Sampson. We graduated high school together,” I say sheepishly. Of course he’s not going to remember me. I didn’t exactly stand out. I don’t think we’d ever said more than two words to each other.
“Holy shit, girl,” he says. “You look amazing. I seriously didn’t recognize you.” He hops off his barstool and walks over to me, grinning from ear to ear. He’s a lot taller than I remember. He’s definitely collected some tattoos over the years. The way his black t-shirt hugs his biceps, I can tell this guy works out. The wedding band on his hand snaps me out of whatever momentary weakness I was feeling in my knees. “Holy shit,” he stammers again. “How much weight did you lose?”Ah yes, then there’s that. Not only was I a bookworm and nerd in high school, I also drowned my sorrows in food. It was the only thing that comforted me. My weight was just another thing that I could hide behind. It was my way of making sure that none of my dad’s creepy friends would pay attention to me. Being severely overweight worked about 90 percent of the time to ward off the bad guys.