by Amo Jones
His hot stale breath stuck to my skin like poison air brushing over me in hot waves. His sticky tongue slid out of his mouth and across my neck as his hand began rifling around in his pocket. My panicking quickened in the knowledge of what was about to happen. Pushing his cracked, cigarette stenching mouth over mine, his tongue pushed its way through my tightly sealed lips leaving the tangy residue of his saliva lingering on my tongue. The cold metal of his switch blade pushes up against my thigh, ready to slice another cut and the blood to trickle over my other one hundred and thirty-six scars. He liked to do it every time he raped me, starting it the day he stole my virginity at the tender age of twelve. One hundred and thirty-six times he had raped me. One hundred and thirty-six times he had scarred my skin to match the ones already embedded in my soul. With my chest heaving, and tears descending faster, I clamped my eyes shut again, taking me to my happy place.
Red roses…
Crashing waves…
Bungalow on the beach...
The dark shadow that his body held over my shut lids now shone with light. The heaviness of his body pushing mine down into the sofa had now evaporated, and the air was mild and fresh again, no longer poisoned with dirt and vile.
The sounding of a fist connecting with skin shocked me awake as I shot up off the ratty sofa to see a large—no not large—massive frame of a man standing over Donald. His elbow swinging back before his fist crashed into Donald’s face again and again. I gasped out in shock, my feet rushing me to the wooden front door where I slammed it shut, sliding the heavy metal lock closed.
I brought my attention back to the man who was beating on Donald. He was dressed in a dark hoodie with dark loose fitting jeans that were held up with a spiky belt. His hoodie was pulled over his head, and his shoulders were as one could only describe as monstrous. My words faltered at the sound of bones cracking.
“Stop,” I said, reaching my hand out toward the man.
His head turned over his shoulder. “I’ve been watching you,” he began. “For the past few weeks, I’ve heard your screams and I’ve heard your sobbing through these walls. How long has he been doing this?” he asked, his voice dark.
“I—I—uh,” I stuttered, covering my front with my hands and pulling my shirt down in an attempt to cover myself.
“Just tell me. Be honest with me,” he demanded, keeping his head turned over his shoulder.
This was the first time I’d spoken about what went on between these walls. But because this man already knew, it didn’t seem as hard as I thought, I opened to him like the Red Sea.
“Since I was four, but he didn’t rape me until I was twelve. I don’t know why he waited until I was twelve,” I whispered.
Silence. The air thickened with anger, hot molten anger that was vibrating off him in waves. He walked to me, took hold of the throw blanket that was on the sofa and covered me before he walked back to Donald.
“Let me finish him,” he growled, turning his head back down to the lifeless body on the ground.
I could’ve pretended that I needed to think about this, but I didn’t. This man had stolen every single part of me. If there was one thing I would never give him, though, it was my wrath. I would never let him steal away my grace, no matter how haunted that grace may have become.
I ran my fingers through my hair, the greasy, matted mess leaving a residue behind on my fingers. I didn’t care how dirty I looked. “Okay.”
And with that, he knelt down to Donald, gripped his face with his hands and with one snap he dropped Donald’s limp head and lifeless body onto the worn vinyl floor. My breath hitched for a second and although I’d just witnessed a death, a murder—I felt relief.
Walking to me with his face still covered slightly by the hoodie, he pulled out some keys from his pocket. “Go to my room. Don’t talk to anyone. Go there now. Do you understand?” I didn’t answer, I was still partially in shock from what I’d just witnessed. To my shock, was a tidal wave of relief that was waiting to come crashing over me.
“Can I see you?” I asked, swallowing down the lump which had formed in my throat.
The shadow caused by his hoodie accentuated his strong jaw. His large rough hands reached up to the rim of his hoodie, grasping the material with his fingers. I watched carefully as he lowered it over his head to lay around his neck.
He was younger than what I would have guessed. I thought for sure by the size of him he would be well over thirty, but he had to be only around six years older than I was. His eyes were dark, like marbles from a deep orbit shaded by dark eyelashes. His hair in a military cut and the soft olive skin that framed his face had not one defect.
He’s beautiful, I thought to myself.
When he moved his head sideways to look at Donald’s form lying on the ground, his hoodie moved and revealed a hint of his neck where a long slash appeared, it looked as though it ran from behind his right ear right across his neck. I didn’t get a good look at it, and I sure as hell don’t want to ask about it. He just killed someone, I won’t be the one asking questions right now.
“You need to go. Now. I’ll need to wait until it’s dark out before moving the body, but you need to go next door and wait for me.”
“How old are you?” I whispered.
He stilled. “What? Why?”
“Because your body seems older, but your face looks… young.”
“I’m twenty-one.” He pushed the cold metal keys into the palm of my hand. “Now, go!” I winced at his commanding voice, but turned in my footsteps and walked toward the door anyway. Grasping the handle in my hand, I paused, glancing over my shoulder to him. His hoodie was back on his head.
“Thank you,” I said briefly before walking out of the door. I reached his door, slid the key in and turned it open, quickly walking in and slamming it shut behind me.
One hundred and thirty-six scars—that was the most Donald would ever get out of me.
And with that, the tidal wave of relief flushed over me as my legs gave way, dropping me onto the floor. They’re waves that I would ride for an eternity. Physically, I was free. However, under my tainted soul was still the girl rocking in a corner with shackles tied around her ankles, praying for God to save her. God never came, though. Instead, he sent a dark knight.
Twenty-One-Years-Old
“Beast you can’t do this. Hella, tell him he can’t do this,” Jada demanded from her pace walking.
“He can,” Hella added. “And I’ll be going with him.”
Hella had been here for ten years and was recruited at age ten. He was a lost boy. Caught up in the foster care system. One night he was sleeping under one of the local bridges in NYC when he was found. I guess they took him because of his tender age and because he had no family, no-one who cared—a lost boy. He was utterly ruthless and shredded anybody with the snap of your fingers.
“What?” Jada gasped. “You can’t leave, Hella. I’ll have no-one with the both of you gone.”
“Then come, Jada. You don’t have to stay here.”
“I can’t. If they find me…” she trailed off.
“They won’t. We won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry,” she answered, tears streamed down her reddened cheeks. She swiped them away angrily, spinning around and walking out of our tent. The entire section of where we were was surrounded by white tents. When we were younger, we had to stay in the confinement building that sat right in the middle of the property. But once we hit eighteen—and stopped trying to fight the system—they put us out here with the rest of the soldiers. There were around thirty-eight, and we all kept to ourselves. Hella and I had been planning our escape since we decided to stop fighting against Kurr. We’d studied each detail with careful precision. We knew when the guards switched shifts or when they were at their busiest, therefore, giving us a ten-minute window of opportunity.
“We can’t leave her here,” I said to Hella while tying up my combat boots.
“We can’t do
anything else about it. She doesn’t want to leave.”
“We’ll come back for her.” Throwing my black vest over the top of my hoodie.
“Yeah,” he swallowed. “We will come back.”
“Ready for this?” I asked with an arched brow.
“Born fucking ready,” he replied, eagerness and determination boring through his eyes.
Once the clock-tower that sat above the guard’s headquarters struck nine, we began our escape. Throwing my backpack over my shoulders, I pulled my hoodie over my head, shading my eyes.
“Let’s go,” I whispered to Hella, who was following closely behind in my footsteps. The dry leaves crunched under the heavy weight of my combat boots, and the darkness of the night leaving any visible vision impossible. Pulling out the night vision goggles I’d stolen a few weeks ago, I handed a set to Hella as we continued our trek. Dodging the bright spotlights that swung around the entire compound, we made it to the corner of the diamond metal fence. We’d both been working on it for a few weeks, with full knowledge that this part of the fence was weaker than the rest. We decided to cut all the metal and then re-bind it back together with our own wire, making it easier for us to remove it easily when the time was right.
Unhooking all of the hooks, I passed them to Hella, who then placed them in his pockets while still keeping watch, his head moved from side to side, his gun cocked with his finger on the trigger. Hella and I were around the same height and the same build. We could pass as brothers, only where my hair was dark, his was blond. We could both bench around the same. One of the only things that mattered in the compound when we weren’t training was how much you could bench. It was all about the size of the man on the outside and the size of the fight on the inside. Hella and I both had plenty kills on our hands, Kurr always made it clear just how successful we were and how much we contributed to the cause. The cause of what, I never fucking knew. Taking out people who they said or sending us into Iraq, it didn’t matter. We had to do it. But where I had patience with my kills, Hella would just tear you to shreds like a Pit Bull with a lockjaw and not bat an eye.
“Done,” I whispered, stretching out the wire and rolling it back to form a hole that was only just big enough to fit us both. Pushing my body through, we both made it to the other side of the fence and ran. Ran like we’d done many times before, but only this time—we didn’t get caught.
My feet were pounding the pavement in heavy strides, and the air was dead silent with nothing but our heavy breaths and the crunching of leaves under our boots breaking the silence. With my hoodie thrown over my eyes, my legs found their fifth wind and I boosted forward. The freedom surging through me was surreal. I’d wanted this for so long. All the failed attempted breakouts, all the punishments, the whips, the cuts, it wasn’t all for nothing.
“Have you heard from your contact?” I asked Hella as we found the first car that was parked under a single street light. The only beacon lighting up the darkness of the night. The fog was thick and the air ice cold. A cold sweat broke out all over me. I took out the screwdriver from my backpack, popped the lock quickly and slid into the driver’s seat.
Hella took a seat on the passenger side, throwing our bags to the back. “Yeah, we’re good. She’s a cop.”
That got my attention. What the fuck was he thinking bringing a fucking cop into this. One thing I knew was to never trust anyone in the law. Pussy or no pussy.
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Calm down, not her,” he responded nonchalantly.
I placed the screwdriver down, ripping the hoodie off my head. “Don’t give me this she’s different fucking bullshit.”
“She fucking is Beast. Like I’d get us in the shit. You need to trust me.”
“What’s her name?”
“Abby,” he began, running his palm over his chin. “I knew her from Boston, one of the foster homes I was in. She was a rebel, wanting to get into trouble every single corner we turned. We made a pact that we would always find each other, and then she got taken to a family in Westbeach. I followed her move as much as I could. The night I was Blacklisted, I’d just seen her. She was happy, found a family within an MC club in Westbeach called the Sinful Souls. She was fucking happy. She wanted me to stay, said I could have a home there, but there was no way I could barge in on her life. I was just fucking happy that she was happy, you know?” He ran his hands through his short hair. We all had our hair in a buzz cut. We weren’t allowed to have it any longer. Blacklisted is what it’s called when they take you. Not sure why it was called listed, they chose people by random. The younger, the better and with no family—Hella was perfect and fit the mold.
I continued my job at getting this car started as he carried on, “Anyway, I’m hoping she’s still there.”
“If she’s not, at least we’re out,” I said, turning the screwdriver until the light roar of the engine and the exhaust smoked to life.
Shutting our doors, I pulled it into drive and got the hell out of there.
“To Westbeach?” I asked, glancing at him in the passenger side.
“Yeah. I’ll show you where to go.”
He better, because I haven’t driven anywhere outside of the compound before.
Two days later and one stop at a hotel, we were in Westbeach. Rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands, I shoved a sleeping Hella awake.
He stirred from his seat as the passing streetlights shone through into our car at each passing.
“We here?” he asked, sitting his seat up.
“Yep, where now? It’s three in the morning. We need to check in somewhere.”
“Fuck, I’m certain we’re almost out of cash,” Hella answered, running a hand over his stubble.
“We’ll worry about that later. I have some cash left in the backpack, take it out and count it.”
He leaned over the back, pulling the cash out of the front pocket of the backpack.
“Holy fuck, where the hell did you get this from?” he asked, skimming through the hundred dollar bills with his thumb.
“I’ve been saving since I was little. Every bit of dough I got my hands on, I took.”
Hella smirked. “This will do us a solid, bro. Nice.” He placed the money back into the bag, dropping it onto the floor at his feet. “Hook a left up here,” he pointed. “There’s a motel we can crash at.”
The next morning, we were driving toward the clubhouse still in the stolen car.
“We need to drop this car, and pick up another,” I said, scanning the surrounds for police officers.
“Yeah, we can’t take this back to the Sinful Souls. Can’t imagine them being happy about us arriving in a boosted car. Pull over up here, there’s a park, we can drop it and walk the rest of the way.”
I nodded my head, swerving into the parking lot that was covered under trees. I took out a microfiber cloth that I kept in my bag and began wiping down the areas that we’d touched. We both knew not to touch the surfaces, but shit happens.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked Hella as we were just about to reach the high wire gates. The front gate had a sign of a skull face wearing a cowboy hat and a cigar hanging out of its mouth, with the lettering ‘Sinful Souls MC’ reading in an arc rounding the top of the image and the wording ‘California’ in an arc under the image. I looked to Hella with a single shake of my head. “You better be fucking right about this.”
Not two minutes later, a young fella with spiky blond hair walked toward the gate, eying both Hella and I up and down. “Can I help you?”
He wore a patch that read ‘Prospect.’ I almost laughed. This boy was the bum boy of their operation.
Hella answered, “Yeah, looking for Abby?”
“And you are?” the spiky pretty boy looking kid answered. His demeanor irked the shit out of me.
“Her fucking past. You gonna get her or what?” I growled from where I was standing. Pretty boy’s eyes drifted to mine before he slanted them. I laughed again. “What? Th
at supposed to be intimidating?” I asked, attempting to chain my thoughts of wrapping this little fucker in saran wrap and ripping each of his eyelids out.
He smirked. “You come here…” he pointed to the ground, “…and try to step on me on my own turf?”
“Travis!” a low voice interrupted from the patio of what one could only assume was the actual clubhouse.
“Get the fuck over here.” The man began making his way to the gate and Hella mumbled next to me, “Just don’t lose your shit. Rein it in.” I looked to him, eye brows drawn. It was usually me telling him to hold off on his anger, not the other way around.
“Can I help you?” the man said from his position. I eyed him up and down, resting my vision on his patch. Where pretty boy’s patch read ‘Prospect’ this one read ‘President.’
This was more like it.
“Yeah,” Hella began. “Looking for Abby. Not causing any trouble, I knew her when we were kids,” Hella stated, placing his hands against the iron fence, clutching his fingers through the triangles.
President’s eyes slant. “What you say your name was?” Eying Hella up and down, he reached into his pocket and fished out his phone.
“Hella. Or as she would have known—Braxton.”
Braxton? The fuck. If the situation weren't completely serious, I would’ve laughed at him. Then I remembered, at least someone gave enough of a shit to actually give him a name.
“Yeah, got a couple big motherfuckers here. You know a Braxton?”
“Yeah? All right then.” He hung up his phone, twisting his fingers in the air when no-one moved he looked to the prospect. “Open the fucking gate, Trav, or what? You scared now. Hold your fucking tongue next time, boy.” The prospect snapped to action, pushing a red button on the gates, causing them to slide open. We both walked in, a few other men stepped down from the patio area, looking skeptical.