Sin & Suffer

by Pepper Winters

  My heart cracked open.

  He’d die a thousand fucking deaths for touching Cleo.

  My wound was a strange mix between hot and sticky, cold and damp. I didn’t want the distraction, but at least the injury couldn’t compete with the agony inside my head. My tolerance of pain had increased the past few days—no thanks to him.

  I snarled, “She told me everything. It’s only added to my conclusion.”

  Fury bubbled in my gut. I wanted to let loose and attack. But I couldn’t afford to let anger get in the way. Emotions caused mistakes. This had to be coldhearted and calculated.

  I would kill him. And I refused to die trying.

  “Oh, and what’s that?”

  We continued circling, just waiting for the other to slip.

  “That I’ll kill you and never think of you again.”

  Rubix glowered. He suddenly threw the knife, lodging it into the mattress where his whore had been. “You never stopped believing in fairy tales, did you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You want to kill me? Fine. Let’s see you fucking try.” He raised his fists. “No knives, no guns. We do this the old-fashioned way.”

  I cricked my neck, corralling my muscles to attack. “Fine by me.”

  A pause.

  A single pause.

  Then, war.

  I didn’t know who charged first. But in perfect sync, we stopped circling and met in the middle.

  Everything inside me let loose. I’d dreamed of this moment—I’d begged for this chance. And now it was here.

  I roared, clouting his chest.

  He kicked and darted away, granting enough space for a brutal uppercut.

  Stars burst in my eyes; blood coated my tongue.

  “See, Arthur—you’re still a pussy.” Rubix darted away, fists raised. “Cleo will be such a lucky bitch to have me over you.”

  Red-hot rage combusted my veins like volcanoes. “You’ll never touch her!”

  We fell together again. Attacking, blocking.

  The fight felt rehearsed. As if we followed some ordained path and choreography.

  His fists connected. Mine connected.

  His parries landed. So did mine.

  We hurt each other but neither of us gained ground.

  A purgatory of fighting where we both suffered to make the other bleed.

  “Had enough?” Rubix panted, blood pouring from his nose.

  I smiled, bordering feral insanity. All I wanted was his life to snuff out. I wanted him gone.

  “I won’t have enough until you’ve paid for what you’ve done!” I launched myself into him, fists flying—all uniformity scrambled in favor of granting as much agony as possible.

  Each punch was cathartic. Each knuckle to his jaw healing.

  Time lost all meaning as we chipped away at each other. For me, I only grew stronger with every strike—becoming weightless thanks to redemption granted piece by piece.

  But for him, he faltered. Swing after swing, he lost his confidence, turning messy.

  Breathing hard, he growled, “You’re a waste of space, Arthur. Just give up already. Stop making a fucking fool of yourself.”

  I grinned, swallowing back metal and gore. “You’re losing, Father.” Every fumble and missed strike fed me like a beast. Rubix might’ve tried to turn me into him—but somehow, I’d become better. Stronger. Quicker.

  Almost every night of my teenage years, he’d taught Asus and me how to throw a punch. He’d forced us to fight—cultivating hatred between brothers.

  I’d loathed those nights, but I’d never forgotten the lessons. Never forgotten the way my father operated or favored his left fist over his right.

  Energy poured into my tiring body. I used my trump card. “He’s dead, you know.”

  Rubix’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the fuck are you—”

  “Dax. He’s dead. I slaughtered the son of a bitch.”

  For a moment, grief clouded my father’s face; then putrid anger replaced it. “You mother—”

  I sidestepped his attack and let every lesson and memory guide my fists. He no longer scared me, controlled me, owned me.

  Not this time.

  My hand barreled into his face.

  This is for Cleo.

  My knuckles connected with his cheekbone.

  This is for Thorn.

  My boot thundered against his kneecap.

  This is for fucking throwing me away like I was nothing.

  My uppercut sliced through his jaw, spurting red rain from his mouth.

  Rubix reeled away, groaning. He hurtled himself forward, going for my stab wound. He punched me right in the gaping slice. Nausea raced through me.

  He dodged my retaliation to wallop my kidneys from behind.

  I cried out, gritting my teeth against the whitewash of unconsciousness. Blood ran over my brow; sweat drenched my hair.

  Rubix might’ve been a better fighter when I was younger, but the past had changed me.

  He’d taught me to funnel my anger. When I’d been imprisoned at Florida State, his lessons had been a saving grace. I’d been able to defend myself—make a name for the barely adult convict and prevent worse tragedies.

  My skills had been noted. I’d been recruited for the prison boxing team. For years, I served as entertainment for inmates and guards alike—learning, evolving, honing my skills for this very moment.

  He didn’t stand a fucking chance.

  You see, Father. Payback is a bitch.

  Pummel after pummel, we grunted and glared.

  “Give it up, Arthur. You won’t win.”

  I laughed because the words were false bravado from a dying man.

  Accepting pain from his deadly aimed strikes only fueled me more.

  I bared my teeth. “You’re losing ground, old man.”

  I served an uppercut. Connecting with his chin, rattling his teeth like bones. He slammed to his knees, shaking his head. Before I could deliver another, he staggered to his feet, spitting blood in my direction.

  My hands tightened. My heart lightened.

  I’d made my father bow.

  I’ll make him do it again.

  Breathing hard, I served a heavy slug, snapping his head back. He crashed against the bed, whirling away from me.

  I’d never felt such freedom. Every punishment was medicine to my heart. His every cry soothed me, knowing I destroyed the monster of my past.

  He deserved this and so help me God, I would end this.

  Rubix slumped to the floor, shaking his head from dizziness.

  I advanced.

  We both knew who’d won.

  It was schematics now. Inevitable.

  For a moment, I paused. I could drag this out. I could wait for him to climb to his feet and torment him again and again. Memories of the past—of a childhood where firing guns, smuggling drugs, and assassinating business rivals was more common than barbeques or homework—I struggled to let go. To stop my tangled history having any sway over me—to stop pining for Cleo’s teenaged ghost before she was scared and inked.

  I hadn’t been strong enough or cold enough to do what was needed all those years ago. I wasn’t able to protect her.

  But by fuck, I’d do it now. For as long as I lived, Cleo would always be safe, loved, and protected.

  Rubix stood up. His nose was broken and his right elbow didn’t bend correctly. My heart thumped to think of the agony I’d caused the man who gave me life.

  Then I remembered his threats toward Cleo. I recalled his every torture and trickery, and nothing could stop me from exterminating him.

  I was doing the world a favor. I was doing the only thing I could to finally find happiness.

  Spinning in place, I roundhoused him. My boot landed squarely on his chest. The crunch of ribs cracked in the stagnant room as he folded to the floor. His scream bounced off the walls, sounding sickly weak.

  Standing over him, I said goodbye to every hatred I’d carried for so
long. I let go of what’d driven me and embraced a fresh beginning.

  “Goodbye, Rubix.”

  He raised his hands. “You’ll fucking regret it, boy. You’re my son!”

  I raised my boot. “Not anymore.”

  I kicked him. He rolled to his side, bellowing in agony.

  Then I did something I wasn’t proud of.

  I stood over my father’s body and kicked him in the head.

  One last severance to end it all.

  My father twitched and fell broken.

  It’s done.

  The silence that followed didn’t make any sense.

  I was eerily empty.

  Strangely calm and not entirely satisfied.

  After four million minutes—eight long years—I finally had cessation. However, there was a part of me that didn’t settle. It didn’t feel final.

  He’s dead … isn’t he?

  I bent to check his pulse.

  There was a faint beat—his last attempt to cling to life.

  Goddammit.

  Why couldn’t anything relating to my father be easy?

  The fact he wasn’t dead destroyed my inner calm. Even unconscious and barely alive, he still made me go into the pitch black to win.

  Standing, I did the only thing I could. Grabbing the knife from the bed, I rolled Rubix onto his back and hovered over his unconscious body.

  Hatred heated my blood, warming me despite the torrent soaking my T-shirt and jeans. Not only had I beaten him to a pulp, but I now had to murder in cold blood too. End an unconscious man—put him down like some sick dog.

  Sucking in a breath, I wrangled my thoughts in order.

  He’s a monster.

  He has to die.

  Almost ritually, I pierced the blade between his ribs and plunged the knife deep into his heart.

  He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t flinch. There was no sign of him slipping from one world to the next. Only the barest stutter as his pulse ceased.

  The room seemed to contract and exhale. Relief dripped down the walls and finally I felt a thawing inside me.

  Everything I’d been carrying suddenly shot free.

  The guilt, the fear, the betrayal—it all disappeared.

  It was as if I’d somehow found my innocence that was lost that horrible night. Finally believed I deserved Cleo, even though I’d become a monster in order to slay one.

  Everything was as it should be.

  I’m finally free.

  The only thing left was to drench the place in gasoline. To destroy the scene of carnage once and for all and say goodbye forever.

  So much fire in my past.

  So much destruction.

  There would be no need for such violence ever again.

  No need for revenge.

  No need for hatred.

  It’s over.

  The flames devoured the corpses.

  The Night Crusader Clubhouse was nothing but ash, and the women left behind scattered like mice.

  We stood there, retinas burning with bright orange and skin prickling with heat—each man closing this chapter of his life in his own way. Never again would I kill. Never again would I wear someone else’s life on my soul.

  The victory wasn’t celebrated. We’d won, but lost. Mo’s and Beetle’s empty presence blemished the night.

  No one spoke as we waited for the fire to fully take hold. Crackling and spitting echoed in the darkness as the fire chewed its way through filth. We waited until the evidence was consumed by the blistering heat before straddling our bikes and roaring for freedom.

  The battle had been a success. However, there’d been casualties.

  Terrible, terrible casualties.

  My hands clutched around the throttle.

  That ever-elusive happiness was finally mine.

  I had my vengeance. I had my closure. And finally I had my woman.

  But I’d also paid a heavy debt.

  Two lives.

  Two lives that’d belonged to me—that’d trusted me to keep them safe.

  The wind in my face dried the streaks of blood, seeping the crimson through my skin to my soul. The slash in my side burned with agony. I’d torn up some sheeting to wrap around my chest, doing the best I could to stay conscious.

  I needed a doctor—and this time, I would obey every instruction. Along with my body, I would fix my mind … I would get better—spiritually, physically, and emotionally.

  The hum of my tires soothed my jagged nerves and for the first time in almost a decade, I could fucking breathe.

  Breathe knowing I’d avenged Cleo.

  I’d claimed what I was owed.

  Even my headache couldn’t take that away.

  Everything would be better. I had a new future, new possibilities, new horizons.

  My heart fisted as Mo and Beetle came back to mind. I couldn’t shake off their sacrifice. I would never stop being grateful for the termination they’d given me.

  Grasshopper looked over, his bike keeping pace with mine. He smiled sadly.

  Tonight was a celebration and mourning all in one.

  Our fallen comrades were with us on the road, even though their souls were not.

  Their death would forever taint our victory.

  Squeezing the throttle, I picked up speed, trying to outrun the sadness and enjoy the freedom just a little longer. I was selfish in a way—wanting to bask in the knowledge that my father no longer existed.

  Mo had been a gruff, guiding force, invincible. And Beetle had been my protégé. They were good men.

  I pushed my bike faster. Wind gushed harder and I shot forward from the crowd of my brothers.

  No matter how fast I pushed the engine, it wasn’t enough.

  I wanted to see Cleo. I needed to be in her arms and bury my sadness for causing the deaths of two brothers.

  But then … it didn’t matter.

  The concussion I thought I’d broken returned with a vengeance. Agony worse than the stab wound in my side splintered my skull.

  I cried out.

  The road disappeared before me.

  Noise, touch, sight, sound—it all shut off as if I’d driven into a silent black hole.

  The headache compounded. It didn’t return with vise or needles, but with machetes and machine guns.

  It tore through my head. It hacked through my thoughts. It careened me into agony.

  One moment, I was lucid.

  The next, I was falling.

  Skidding.

  Sliding.

  The road came up to meet me.

  My body tumbled to embrace it.

  And that was the last I remembered.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Cleo

  I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

  I didn’t want to teach or be a chef or fly the world. I wanted to heal animals. I needed to fix helpless creatures who suffered at the hands of sinners. I needed to put goodness back into the world. But mainly, it was because of Arthur.

  He was fading before my eyes, withdrawing from me. He thought withholding information protected me. It didn’t. It only made me worry more and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t save him. —Cleo, age twelve

  “Take me to Pure Corruption.”

  Switchblade looked up, his baby face wreathed in cigarette smoke, his jacket absorbing moonlight. His eyebrow rose, but he didn’t have time to speak.

  Charging past him, I straddled his bike resting in the forecourt. With my voice soft but lethal, I demanded, “I won’t ask twice. Take me to the compound.”

  Switchblade shook his head. “You know I have orders to keep you here.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “It’s for your own safety.”

  “Think about your own safety if you don’t take me to Pure Corruption this very second.” My temper helped hide my fear, but once again the sinking, suffocating feeling of being untethered consumed me. It was like hurtling through space with no rope. Like jumping off a building with no
parachute. Like amnesia for my heart.

  It took all my power not to fall to my knees and scream. I squeezed my eyes. “Take. Me. To. The. Compound.”

  The unhinged beg in my tone sent alarm skittering through his eyes. Coming closer, he looked me up and down. “Whoa, everything okay?”

  Tears were a diabolical enemy, doing their best to stream from my eyes. I wouldn’t let them fall. Not until I knew. Not until I found Arthur and saved him like I should’ve done all those years ago. “No, everything is not okay.”

  Fear shadowed his face. Understanding animated his pudgy limbs. “What do you mean?”

  Please, please let me be wrong.

  Please, let this empty sickness disappear.

  When my prayers went unanswered and the aching loneliness gaped wider, I choked, “Something’s happened. We need to go. Now.”

  It’d been too long.

  Far, far too long.

  I’d paced and fretted and gone out of my mind with worry.

  For hours, I’d tracked paths through the Clubhouse, desperate for any news. We’d received nothing.

  To start with, it’d just been Switchblade and me—rattling around in a space with my soul missing. Then, others trickled in. Melanie, Feifei, and more.

  Cell phones had been called. No replies. Theories had been conjured. No answers.

  We were back in the telephonic dark ages, waiting for our soldiers to return home. I had to hope the sickness inside me was wrong—that they’d appear any second and not some god-awful telegram with bad news.

  The waiting was torturous. We suffocated on excruciating worry.

  I could understand why women who lived through WWI and WWII signed themselves up for danger. Enlisted as nurses. Gave their services to sew buttons and build tanks. Anything would’ve been better than the endless waiting.

  I can’t stand it.

  I felt helpless on the battle lines.

  A mourning girl dying to tend but completely useless.

  “Any news?” I asked for the billionth time, glaring at Melanie and Molly. They sat huddled on the couch in the main room of Pure Corruption.

  “No, nothing,” Melanie said sadly, never relinquishing her death grip on her phone. “No one has called and every time I dial, the connection fails.” Her eyes met mine. “What if—”

  “Stop it. Don’t say it.”

  Molly curled her legs beneath her, looking dejected and lost. Gone were the capable businesswomen from Church. These women loved their men deeply. They felt their absence as deep as any wound.