by Kerri Ann
With a melancholic stare, I inspect the position Scarlet takes beside my brother. She’s upset, but not in the way I’d expect. “What would you like, Bracken?”
“We have an opportunity in the club, and with the recent events—”
“Events being that your leader is dead.” Crossing my arms across my chest, I try to hide the fresh scars. Bracken rises from the chair, pissed.
“You know, Father, I feel you owe the club now. After all, you didn’t complete the task set forth by your God.” He glides his tongue along his teeth. “You’re a poor excuse for a priest if you ask me, Father Kyden.”
“Not my problem. I’m absolved by my God. I’ve atoned for my sins tonight.”
“Ah.” He points to Scarlet. “Yes. Let’s address that.” Tromping around the small space, touching small trinkets here and there, he says, “How was it again that you atone, Father Kyden?”
“Through the needs of my confession. My confession is my own and personal, brother.” If this is going where I think it is, I’m in a heap of trouble.
Clapping his hands, the evil grin he gives enlightens me to the full scale of the activities of his machinations of tonight.
“I see you get it. Bravo. At least I don’t have to explain it to you, Kyden.” Stepping toward Scarlet, he places his arm around her waist and kisses her full on the mouth, passionately.
Breaking away and moving toward the door arm in arm, I see the extent of my mistake. She was a tool of my demise as much as I was to myself.
“We’ll be expecting you at the clubhouse within the week, Father.”
“And if I decide to ignore your request?” I ask flatly.
“You can’t.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can.”
Laughing darkly, he pulls the door partially closed after Scarlet exits. “Your current skills will be immeasurable, and your past skills will be accepted with open arms, Strike.”
Leaving with a crass clunk of the door, I stand immobile in the center of my room, shocked and pissed off at what I let happen tonight.
CHAPTER NINE
~
LAST NIGHT, MY OWN ACTIVITIES, the outcome, and the derisive decision created a sleepless night. With my brother’s unwelcome invitation, my mind was scattered and seething with anger. Even the thought of a further atonement caused disgust in my actions. Tucking my tools away in a cupboard, I wept. For a while, I was unsure of how I would find peace, of how I could face my parishioners as their cleric as the Godly ambassador. My heart was extra heavy.
Leaving after my brother and Scarlet, I exited my small cottage and returned to the chapel. Finding it devoid of any reminders of DG’s poorly enacted funeral rites, I slumped down in the front pew. Staring up at the Christ on the cross, I considered my overall performance as of recent.
“Forgive me, Father. I’ve represented you in an ungodly light. How can I ask others to repent and refrain from repeating their sins if I, as their priest, cannot do the same? I’ve never doubted that my position was here, that the Bows had no need for me. But am I any different than their executioner ways? Have I really condemned a man to the gates of Hell because I couldn’t refrain from letting my past cloud my image of him? Will he be stuck in purgatory because I couldn’t send him to be judged? Did I really hate him that much?” Asking question after question, no answer came. Did I expect that he’d answer me, granting me the wisdom after my sick performance as his representative?
“Tell me how to fix this? Can I fix this? What can I do, Father? Guide me.”
Sitting alone in the chapel, taking in the motion of the light as it danced across the stained-glass frescoes that line the halls, I watched the sun rise without an answer.
As morning arrived, so did the parishioners. Their needs and wants were above any of mine, so accepting their confessions became a driving need. As the morning wore on, I gave them more leniency than I normally would have, but with a heavy heart. How could anything else be expected?
Sitting in the confessional, awaiting another repentant, I’m melancholic. Hearing the door beside me open and the shutter slide closed instead of open, I know the person next to me wishes to be unknown in every way.
“Father?”
“Yes. How may I help you today, son?”
“It’s not how you can help me, but how I can help you.”
Taken aback by the man’s response, I wait for further explanation.
“You see, I know of some pictures that are circulating today.” The man sits back against the stiff wood, just as someone from the outside slips an envelope through the base of my door. Picking up the plain case, I open it and find a small stack of transgressions. They’re not just from last night, either. They’re current selections of my penance ritual in my residence, the day I stroked out one with Scarlet in the very seat the man now sits, and of course last night. Seeing Scarlet’s mouth on my cock with her hair spilling over, my pants tighten unbidden.
“Fuck!” I say, a little louder than I should. I select the tattered, stained, and faded picture of a past I thought dead.
Regaining my composure, I pocket the pictures and ask what he undoubtedly is waiting to hear. “What do you have to gain from this?”
“Father, forgiving sins is only one part of the job. There’s many things that a man in your position can help…accommodate.”
Understanding his request, I curse myself for the position I’ve put myself in. “What accommodations are expected? I’m not naive, but I still need further leading before I’ll accept any blackmail worthy of my eternal soul.”
“Bows bend, not break, Father.” Rising from the seat, he opens the door and the light streams in, showcasing his leather cut. “We’ll be in touch.”
With the door closing quickly behind him, I’m given no chance to respond.
CHAPTER TEN
~
LEAVING, AS IF MY CASSOCK was on fire, I gave directives to the Sisters that I was unwell, and that the duties of the day were in their control.
Reaching my cottage, I strip off my outfit in a manner unlike any other time. The ritual of care has been lost. I dress in civilian clothes that I keep at the back of my closet. Most of them are dusty and lacking in care, but it makes no difference. Grabbing my wallet, lacing my boots and grabbing the pictures, I leave the house and property as fast as I can. I need to get away, as far as humanly possible. In essence, stripping off the better parts of me and leaving the darkness to take back what it never released.
For the past ten years, I’ve hid the evil man inside the wardrobe of a saint. The pictures today reminded me that you cannot escape your past. With no real direction or care, I let my body lead me as it wished. Pulling down past the rundown row housing, the odd person greets me with a shocked stare and gaping jaw.
“Now, now, I know you’re out of your element, Padre.” The young black punk, Conry, sneers at me, showcasing his gold capped teeth. “What are you doin’ around here? No one needs blessings.” He swings around his baggies of crank. “I got what they need to escape their sins.”
Walking on, I ignore him and his small-time street thugs. “Blessings and confessions aren’t on my mind today, Conry.” I’m not the police, and right now, I’m not even their priest.
“Suits me fine. Have a nice day, sir.” He snickers as his friends all laugh at his quip.
Moving along, I can still hear him making snide remarks, but I don’t care. To be honest, I feel every bit of tension leave me. It’s been resting on my shoulders over the past, the current, and it certainly will into the future. Have I ever been enough?
Absently tracing the scars on my arm, the pain of the current marks give me more determination to follow through with my plan. I’m not sure when it formed or solidified, but it’s in place now. Nothing will stop me.
The day is clear, cool, and crisp. It may smell like despair and homeless shoes, but to me it’s perfect.
Step after step, I think of the fucking pictures.
Fucking Bracken and
his taunting need to bring me back to the family. “Well, you want me, brother, you should be wary of what you’ll receive. Not all news is good, and not all gifts are wanted,” I say aloud.
My steps are sure, and my mind is clearer than it has been in a long while. I hope that this decision is the correct one. There are no fears, no trepidation in my steps, no unnecessary second-guessing of my decision. This is right.
“Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin.”
God help them. God help them all for what they wrought upon themselves.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
~
COMING UP ON THE CLUBHOUSE, I see that nothing has changed in all these years. I’ve not stepped onto this street since I left. Never once did I think of it as a place I needed to visit again.
The chain link and brick is solid, yet aged. The gates are manned by young recruit members, holding it still as bikes rumble by. The sound of custom exhaust choppers are revving in the yard as they tune them, fix them, and prepare them for a ride.
In the yard, there are a few dark SUVs and vans for transports. One of them I suspect carried DG to my chapel less than twenty-four hours previously where his blood spilled across the bare metal of the floor, his life leaching out. Do I hate that he’s gone? No, I don’t. But I’m almost disappointed that he won’t be here to see me do this, to see me walk through these doors.
Stepping up to the gates, the youngster manning it does a double take. Looking to his friend holding the other side, he shrugs his shoulders, clearly in as much confusion as his counterpart. Unsure of what to do, the two of them wave me in.
The yard looks no different to me. There are grease stains on the ground, brick and mortar holding the plain unassuming gray building together, and the garage on the side has the door high in the rafters as bikes are worked on.
There are bikers, cock bunnies, old ladies, daughters, sons, and babies playing at the dirty playground that Marksman set up for us when we were little. My memories and my fears are tied up in this building. Today, the fears are muted and the strength of determination is riding high. They shouldn’t have fucked with me.
My monsters have been simmering in the background, held at bay by God’s teachings, my preposterous repentance ritual, and the idea that I was a better person than them. Handing me the pictures—that picture—cracked open the gates of hell that have been inching wider day by day.
Striding across the grounds, the odd person stops what they’re doing to watch me, whether in confusion like the two at the gates, or in recognition. It doesn’t matter. I’m here with a hellish purpose.
Looking at the building, taking in the crest of my corruption, the symbol pulses with the fear of what I’m here to do. The blood red eyes of a buck skull struck through the center, pierced by an arrow as a crossed set of bows back its antlers, I read the motto beneath it, ‘Blessed is the Arrow that Strikes True.’
My heart was never here, but my blackened soul was born of this building, this lifestyle, and this one percenter don’t-give-a-fuck mentality. Quint started this club and he raised his sons to be the successors to the hierarchy.
Tugging on the door, the light of day seeps into the dank windowless space. Men rest at the bar top, drowning their sorrows in cheap bourbon and beer. Women sit across their laps, hoping for a bit of fun, or crowd the various couches that litter the edges of the space. Nothing at all has changed. Debauchery, disregard of women, overindulgent fucks and cocksuckers that only wish to ride or die.
Letting my sight adjust to the dim light, I let the door close behind me with a bang. A few turn, but most keep on with their own needs. Searching out the space, the first person I’m looking for is the asshole who brought me the pictures. Finding him resting along the side wall with his feet propped up on the edge of the pool table, I smile. Rising, he grins a sickly grin that tells me he knew I couldn’t resist showing up.
Turning a nod his way, I keep looking for Bracken. Tried and true, he sits to the side in DG’s chair, king over all, keeping an eye on the rabble. A woman rests her head between his legs, bobbing up and down, sucking him deep. His head is rested back on the top of the chair as he holds her head in place. If she can breathe, it’s a fucking miracle. Me swearing, even in my own mind is a miracle. But if they wanted Strike, they got him.
Turning, I find what I only halfheartedly expected to find. A sick happiness courses through my demon. Touching the edge of the shaft, I read out the inscription, ‘Wild and True.’ Petting it like I do my favorite knife, the soul of it sings its joy of being with its master once more. Pulling it off the rack, taking down my quiver and a selection of flights, I feel excitement. Notching a mark, drawing the arrow, the target has no idea that he’s the one I’d thought of the whole way over here. Swinging back to the pool table, I find the big bastard oblivious. Releasing, the feel of the string reverberating the draw in my hand is like a heavy breath being expelled. The weight of tension in my shoulders is twenty pounds lighter, my neck is fluid and relaxed, and my jaw lets out a single click of relief.
I don’t turn to see the arrow hit its mark; I know it was perfect. “Ahhh!” he yells and the room stills. Parker Grane, known as Single Miss, now has an arrow lodged in his right shoulder, holding him to the wall he was leaning against. Notching a second, I aim it straight at my brother.
I yell out his road name. “True!” His eyes slowly open, like he was expecting a show such as this.
Tapping the woman in his lap, she lifts her head. The mass of curls sling back to show a young girl of no more than eighteen. Dragging a thumb across her lips, she rises off the floor, stalking to the side.
“Strike. Good to see you, brother.” Moving to lift out of the chair, I cock another arrow. Releasing it fast, it lands to the right of his face.
“Stay there. We’re not talking.”
Tipping his head to the side, he touches the feathers of my custom arrows. He knows how much that irks me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as SM cracks the shaft to release himself from the position I left him in. A few of the men stop their game to assist him, while others grab up their pistols. Without turning, I shake a finger at them, to alert them that I’m watching their every move.
“Oh, we’re talking, Strike. I don’t think you came all this way just to put holes in the members then leave without a conversation.” Lifting out of the chair, he pulls the arrow out and sets it on the bar top, lovingly.
“Maybe I came for my toys.”
He laughs. “Doubt that. Come on. We’ll go to the old man’s off—my office.” Correcting himself, he turns to the bar and picks up two bottles of beer. “Come. It’s not blessed wine, but it’ll do in a pinch.” Not looking to see if I join, he walks off, popping the caps on the bottles as he moves.
Slipping the quiver and bow across my shoulder, I tromp off after Brace.
The door to the office is the first in the hall. Stepping inside, Bracken takes a seat in the chair, slugging back a good helping of his beer. Setting the other in front of where I’m to sit, Bracken motions for me to take a seat.
“Consider this reverse confession, Father. I’ll tell you what I want and you do the penance.”
Laying the bow in the spare chair, I sit. Before leaving the church today, I had no misgivings that I’d be sinning in some form, or two. I pick up my beer. “In for a penny, in for a pound, right?”
“That’s right.” Clinking the bottle neck to mine, Bracken smiles. It’s sweet, something that I thought was lost. Maybe even a psychopath can have a good smile.
Sipping back on the fermented concoction, I relish the cool bubbles as they work their way down. “Tell me what you want, Bracken. You always have a plan. Two to three steps ahead, so this has been coming long before DG was shot the other night.”
Pursing his lips, he nods. I know that look. He knows I see through his shit. We’re of the same cut, cloth, and genes.
“I need a front. Our crank is being intercepted. It’s time you used that
church of yours for something good.”
Okay, I expected something of me, but that? “No! No fucking way, Brace. You’re not using the—”
“Look, we’ll compensate the church. You’ll get a new roof, new pews, the stained glass can be upgraded and no one will know you’re a cutter that covets what he can’t have.”
Absently touching the fresh scars, the fear I had coming here is now a fire burning to tear this place down, brick by brick, motorcycle gear by gear. I’ve heard enough.
“No.” Rising, I slam the beer on the table. “Fuck you, the devil you rode in on, and the wings of the demon that bred us.” Grabbing up the arrows and bow, I start for the door.
“Don’t you want to know about the picture? About Scarlet after the other night?”
I halt. He’s said the one name that is my weakness. I’m pissed that I fell for his evil workings.
“What do you want to tell me? Fucking spill it, Brace.” Tossing me his phone, I turn it over. Pressing play, I watch.
Shuffling feet across a dirty floor, the camera pans until Scarlet comes into focus. Bound, gagged, and naked, she’s strapped to a chair with her legs splayed wide. The tears stain her makeup. Her usually perfect hair is nappy with dirt and bits stuck here and there. The voices of various men can be heard in the background as they converse about who will go next. An obvious bruise is just rising on her cheek, and her breasts show bite marks. Stopping the feed, I throw the phone across the room and it smashes to pieces.
“Struck that final chord, have we? So will you do as we need, Father?”
My blood beats in my ears, drumming a heavy tune of hatred, retribution, and vengeance. A dark sinister laugh escapes me. It’s a sound I didn’t even think I could make. “Do as you want. You’ll be punished as you punish others. Vengeance and blood.”
“Oh, brother, no. Your punishment. You’ll be the one receiving, not vetting it out.”