Avenging Devil Part 1: Satan’s Devils MC - San Diego Chapter #3

by Mellett, Manda

  “Sure,” Token answers quickly. “Er, I’m confident in my skills, but this is a matter of life and death. Stormy, any problem with me keeping in contact, and picking your brain?”

  “No problem, Brother. I’ll set up a closed comms channel between the both of us.”

  Token grins. “You gonna tell me how I can send messages direct to your screen?”

  It had been a bone of contention for a while, when Stormy had managed to get under Token’s more than adequate defences and do just that. I wonder how the other man will answer.

  “Share trade secrets? Why the hell not? We all bleed Devils’ blood.”

  As Lost, Dart and I exchange glances, I note I’m not the only one surprised. Token though, well he’s beaming as if he’d just won the lottery.

  On that positive note, the call is ended.

  I leave the meeting, my head spinning with all I’d heard. When I allow myself to dwell on the things Saffie must have suffered, I rush to the heads, only just making them before I vomit.

  Saffie. Fuck. Five years. How could I have ever thought I could fix her? How much time does it take to get over something like that? And top of which, she’s just lost her baby.

  I’m impressed as fuck that she keeps on breathing.

  I splash my face, rinse out my mouth, then stare at my face in the mirror.

  Saffie has very good reason to be wary of anyone wearing an MC cut and I don’t see how she’ll ever get over it.

  Would she ever see beyond the patch on my back? Would she accept we’re trying to help?

  And lastly, however much I want to personally keep her safe, she might not give me a chance.

  And who could fucking blame her?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Saffie

  It’s been almost a month since I ended my baby’s life. A lonely month with nothing growing inside me. I feel empty, wondering what’s worth living for.

  Each day, I regret having to make the decision I had, but I don’t doubt it was the right one. Time’s a healer they say, but I’m not so sure. I’ll never forget the dream I once held within me. If it were possible, I hate Duke more and more. Vying with my own guilty feelings, I’m convinced he caused the harm to my baby, before I even knew it was growing inside me.

  It’s also a month since I last saw Niran. I miss him. Why, oh why did he have to be a biker? Why did he have to be so wedded to his club? More times than I can count, I go to pick up the phone, then pull back my hand, knowing he won’t change, and I can’t.

  I’m lonely, longing to hear a friendly voice. When I’m not at work, I stay in the apartment, living my life through the sounds of my neighbours—a new couple has moved in next door, newlyweds who have sex a lot, while I lie in my bed, knowing I’m no longer a fully functioning woman and unknowing whether I ever will be again.

  Sex is a weapon. Duke used it to hurt me. Sex with my previous ex was pleasant at first but ended up being just a chore.

  I wonder what sex would be like with Niran? I’ll never know, and am not even sure if given the chance, I’d want to find out.

  Something died within me that day I lost my baby.

  I go through the motions of life—going to work, coming home, doing laundry, eating only to keep myself going. I’ve no pleasure in anything anymore.

  Call Niran. What does it matter that he’s a biker?

  No, the devil on my shoulder replies, he’s Duke in disguise, or if not him, one of his brothers will be. Women are property. Nothing more.

  Today is just like any other. I sleep late as I’ve nothing to get up for. I tidy the apartment though it barely needs it, wincing as a cockroach runs across the floor. Perhaps I should look for somewhere better, there’s nothing to save my money for now. The thought brings those never far away tears to my eyes. Just a few short weeks ago, I had a future to look forward to, me and my child. Now there’s nothing, and no one.

  Not that I deserve anyone to make my life easier, not after what I’ve done.

  Duke’s fault, not mine, I try to tell myself. But I can’t absolve myself of all the responsibility. If I’d been wiser, and never been with Duke at all, any baby of mine would have had a different father.

  When I’ve done all that I can to the apartment, which is only the equivalent of polishing a turd, I slump on the couch, and once again my mind relives my history. The ever-present question in the fore of my mind, how was I ever sucked in by Duke? Quickly followed by, will I ever be free of him, or is he still searching for me?

  About mid-afternoon, a knock on the door startles me. My heart rate speeds up. I’ve no family and have made no friends who would visit me. Although it’s almost been a month since I last saw him, I’m certain Niran would call, and wouldn’t just turn up at my door.

  Or would he?

  I’m surprised my heart beats faster, and not just in fear. Could it really be him?

  He’d certainly be the least of all evils.

  No one knows my address. I didn’t tell work that I’d moved, and I’ve been so terrified in case Duke was tracking me down, I haven’t wanted to get close to anybody for fear that they would learn enough of my story to inadvertently sell me out.

  No one brings up my mail, not that I really have any, no one pops in to ask for a cup of sugar or see whether I have spare eggs. In the few months that I’ve lived here, there’s never been anyone knocking—except for that one occasion when the addict came to the wrong floor, something that’s luckily never been repeated.

  Except, maybe up to now. It could be a drug dealer out there.

  At least it wouldn’t be Duke. He wouldn’t wait to be let in; he’d kick the door down. But he could have sent someone else to check up on me. My recurring nightmare is that it’s only a matter of time before he finds me. I’d be naïve to think he’d give up. I’m still his property, and his wife in the eyes of the law.

  When the rapping comes again, overly cautious and silently, not giving away that there’s someone home, I tiptoe toward the door and use the peephole to look out.

  It’s a woman. The lines on her face suggest she’s older than me, but attractive in a mature looking way. Her face looks open and friendly. She’s wearing subtly applied makeup, a flowery blouse, and a light jacket over a pair of well-fitting jeans. I’d put her down as someone who might be collecting for charity, but if so, she’s come to the wrong apartment block.

  She doesn’t look dangerous in any way, but she’s a complete stranger to me. I’m not in the mood for company and she’ll have nothing I would either want or need.

  But as she stands there, alone and vulnerable, I know she’s in danger just by being there and wonder how the hell she doesn’t know. That she’s made it to the fourth floor without being robbed is a miracle. If she knocked on a wrong door, she might get more than she bargained for. I start feeling sorry for her and think I should warn her to get out of here fast. Even a do-gooder should be given a chance.

  Another glance out and she’s still there, staring at the door expectantly. While I watch, her expression turns into a frown.

  I take a breath. I can tell her to go away politely enough, and if I’m right about her purpose, explain she won’t get any response from my neighbours. Checking the chain is on, I open the door a crack.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she says, as soon as I give her the chance. “But did you lose your purse? Because I’ve just found one with nine dollars in it.”

  The password. And she’s got it right. The last contact is etched on my memory, and the amount was eight dollars at that point.

  Smothering my gasp, I drop my voice. “Why are you here?”

  Equally quiet, she responds, “It’s just a routine check to make sure you’re alright, and no one’s been bothering you. You moved from your original accommodation.”

  I suppose it’s not surprising they’d kept tabs on me and found out where I’d gone though I’ve no idea how. I suppose I should have questioned it more, but that password only known by the Freed
om Trail literally opened the door.

  I do think, clearly, I’m low priority, as my move was more than three months back, so why bother checking up now?

  “I’m fine,” I manage to get out without choking on the lie.

  The woman doesn’t look convinced. “Could I come in and have a chat?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Please?” She looks left and right and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I don’t feel comfortable standing here in the hallway.”

  I can understand that. Especially as I hear the heavy clump of boots coming up the stairwell. Who knows who is going to appear? My neighbours might know I have no money, but her? While she’s not overdressed, her understated clothing is smart. Easy pickings for a mugging.

  As I don’t want someone from the Freedom Trail who’d helped me so much being stolen from or hurt, I close the door, undo the chain, then open it again.

  She hurries in as if only too well aware of the threat she’s leaving outside.

  “Thank you,” she breathes out relieved. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  Still in my pjs—I only get dressed before I leave for work—and all too conscious I must look the world’s worst mess, I want to object, but innate politeness makes me nod. She doesn’t comment or even raise an eyebrow at my appearance. If she’d challenged me, told me I hadn’t been rescued just to allow myself to go to the dogs, I probably would have reacted snappily. Instead, I wave my hand toward a chair.

  Maybe tolerating her presence will force me out of my head for a while. It’s been a very long time since I last had company.

  “I’m Patsy,” she says, sitting neatly with her hands folded in her lap. “And I moved to San Diego under witness protection, so I know what it’s like starting over in a new town.”

  It falls into place, why she’s been sent to me. She’ll understand what it’s like to cut ties with friends and family and move to a different state. Not that after Duke chased them away I had any of the former, and the latter has disowned me. Still, the principle is there.

  “Where were you from?” I ask to be polite and with little interest. “And how long have you been here?”

  “Colorado. And, oh, about a year now. It’s hard, isn’t it?” She grimaces. “I had to leave my daughter and follow my son. Beth was doing okay, she’d settled down with her man, but Connor, my son, had fallen in with bad company, and even at twenty-two needed his mom to keep him on the right track. I made a rational decision to leave Beth, but absence doesn’t just make the heart grow fonder, it makes it positively ache.”

  There wasn’t anyone in particular who I’d regretted having to leave. Duke had isolated me years back, and there wasn’t one member of his club I missed. But I suspect I’d feel the same in her place. Never having friends in the first place doesn’t make the loneliness any less. I miss Niran, I remind myself. Even if it was my fault he left. But my phobia of bikers is real, and always present. We could never have gotten past that.

  I force myself to be friendly, an alien action for me. “It must be awful not knowing what your daughter’s doing and how she’s getting on. Have you anyway of getting news about her?”

  Patsy smiles warmly. “Yeah, now I do. I talk to her and we visit each other. I’m a grandma now.”

  Good for her, I think bitterly. But I’m also intrigued. “How did you manage to do that? Isn’t it forbidden or dangerous?”

  “I was lucky enough to fall in with a good crowd, and the threat was removed. The man my son and I were hiding from is dead.”

  How I wish the same fate for Duke. I should feel bad for wishing him six feet under, but that man hasn’t a redeeming bone in his body. As long as I live, he’ll feel I belong to him. I’m even permanently marked with his name and property patch on my body.

  “You were lucky,” I agree, wondering who the crowd is she’s referring to, and whether they would do the same deed for me. Assassins for hire? What am I even thinking about? It’s not Duke’s demise that would bother me, it’s knowing I’d never be able to pay them. My savings wouldn’t stretch to that.

  “Was it expensive?” I still find myself asking, intrigued. Then correct myself, feeling my cheeks burn red. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re probably talking about the cops.” I flush with embarrassment, knowing my original thought was because I’d been around bikers for too long.

  “What?” Then she laughs, seeming to find my erroneous mental leap amusing rather than something to question. “It cost me nothing. What they did, they did because it was right.”

  My eyes widen, then narrow suspiciously. That doesn’t sound like the cops. It sounds more like my initial reaction was correct.

  But if so, who does something for nothing? Not in my experience they don’t. A thought triggers more suspicions. Our discussion has verged into dangerous territory. Those words spoken to the wrong person could bring a heap of trouble down on her head. And why is she divulging so much about her when she said she’s here to talk about me?

  I rub at my eyes which are red and sore from my habitual sorry-for-myself crying jag this morning, noting she’s not commented on the state she’s found me in. I’m obviously distressed and not coping which was what she came to check. Maybe it’s obvious? The Freedom Trail knew I was pregnant, but my baby bump has now gone. Except for some stretch marks only visible under my clothes, you’d not know I’d been with child at all. Any weight gained had been lost through me not eating properly over the past few weeks. That she’s ignoring the topic makes me suspicious and wonder if she already knows.

  Could the Freedom Trail have gotten into the hospital’s databases? But why would they check? They’d done what they promised, got me to a new town, set me up with enough to get me started, and never said they’d keep tabs on me. I’m just one in a long line of people they’ve helped. I was given a new chance in life. What I do with it is up to me.

  I begin to wonder whether Patsy really is from them?

  How else would she have known the password?

  All my misgivings rush to the fore. My trembling hands and shaking voice betray my fear as the words tumble out. “Why are you really here, Patsy?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saffie

  Patsy’s kind-looking eyes gentle, though instead of answering me, she poses a question. “You’ve had a bad experience with an MC, haven’t you?”

  Abruptly, I stand. I should have shut her out, shouldn’t have let her in and shouldn’t have given a damn what would happen to her in this apartment block. Now I’m tolerating a stranger’s presence in my home, and one who’s broached the one topic guaranteed to send terror shooting through me. “I’d like you to leave.”

  “Saffie, I’m here to help,” she says, imploringly.

  “No, you haven’t offered a word of help or asked about me.” Except for that worrying reference to an MC. “I’m not telling you anything. It’s best you just go.”

  Patsy’s eyes sharpen slightly. Good, I’m getting her riled, but she makes no move to vacate her seat.

  “Have you heard of the Satan’s Devils MC?”

  My hands curl into fists. Yes. That’s Niran’s club. But I choose to lie. “No and I don’t need to. Motorcycle clubs are all the same. They’re outlaws and threats to normal people like me. If you’re after information, take my advice and leave them well alone.”

  She chuckles softly. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that. You see, I’m very happily married to the president of the San Diego chapter of the Satan’s Devils.”

  She’s what? The words take a second to resonate, then I realise she’s an old lady, just like me. “Get out!” I shout, feeling all the blood rushing from my face. I won’t listen to a lecture about how I’m still a man’s property. Duke must have sent her, although, admittedly, sending a woman to do a man’s work isn’t his normal approach.

  “Saffie, you need to listen to me.”

  “Get out now. I’ll call the cops if you don’t.” That threat had worked on Niran
and Mary, I’ve no doubt it will work on her.

  But she proves a more difficult nut to crack.

  “And say what?” She scoffs, obviously unimpressed. “That a middle-aged woman is trying to have a conversation with you? Have I threatened you, pressured you? Pulled a gun on you? No. Unfortunately for you, I’m not Black.” She crosses her legs and folds her arms. “Until you listen to me, I’m staying right where I am.”

  She’s not Black? Very belatedly, I realise why the threat had worked so well on Niran, and at the same time realise it has no power on the woman in front of me now. I had more ground to stand on when there was an actual biker in my living room. It makes me slightly ashamed that calling the cops and adding the words Black and threat would have had them here in no time, and him taken out in cuffs if not worse. They’d laugh if I called Patsy a danger to me.

  Neither would my neighbours look kindly on me calling the police to the apartment block. So, it seems like unless she leaves of her own accord, she’s staying.

  Shaking, thinking the whole world’s against me, I wonder what her purpose is. Is she here to persuade me to go back to Duke?

  It seems though, I have little option but to hear her out. If she mentions Duke, just once, I’m calling the cops and to hell with it. If she confirms a relationship with him, hell be damned, I’ll base my accusation on her association with an MC which I suspect has a high chance of not being legit.

  Forcing my voice to sound a lot firmer than I feel, I demand, “Just spit out what you’re here to say.”

  Patsy’s eyes soften, and she keeps her voice calm as she begins, “I knew of the Satan’s Devils before I moved here. My daughter got friendly with one of the Colorado members. That’s who she’s married to now.”

  I’d told myself I’d only pretend to listen, but it’s hard to block out her words. Poor girl comes into my head. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone to marry a biker. Hold up, but Patsy said she’s married to one as well, and to the president to boot. But she seems happy enough and doesn’t look abused. Bruises don’t need to show. There’s nothing to say she wasn’t coerced into coming here but it’s the why I don’t understand. Are the Satan’s Devils in league with the Crazy Wolves? If so, I’m on borrowed time.