“There, there,” I mock him as if he were a dog, “it’ll all be over soon, Chad. You won’t suffer as long as you made me suffer. That’s unfortunate, but necessary.”
His eyes blank out for a second, and I shuffle backwards, not wanting to be pinned by his burly weight when he keels over in about ten seconds.
“Who are you?” he splutters, holding his chest.
I smile as a feeling of supreme triumph washes over me. I kneel in front of him and lean close to his ear, my breath on his skin the last thing he will ever feel. “My name is Juliette,” I whisper, “and you just got fucked, Chad.”
I climb to my feet and continue to watch as he struggles.
“You bitch,” he spits, his face turning red. He keels over, his shoulder hitting the floor with a solid thwack.
It takes forever for him to die.
When he is good and dead, I smile. Because it feels good. It feels even better than I thought it would.
One motherfucker down. Six to go. I wipe my fingerprints off the can, place it back on the bench, and step over Chad’s motionless body. Making my way out of the garage with the tenacity of a stealthy cat, I head to the roof unseen. Along the way, I grab a beer from the fridge and knock the lid against the timber bench to pry it loose. Taking the stairs quickly and quietly, I burst onto the roof. Jase is sitting in a beanbag he has dug up from somewhere, watching the sun set over Venice Beach. I stand behind him, admiring the view.
“Hey,” he says. “I just came out to watch the sunset before I go to work.”
I sit cross-legged on the enormous beanbag beside him, sinking into the beans, my body so tired, so spent.
“You even brought me a beer,” he jokes, gesturing to my full Corona. I smile and take a sip, holding it in front of him. “Here,” I say. “I only wanted a taste.”
His hand brushes mine as he takes the bottle from me, and I wait a second too long before I let go. Our eyes lock together, a dark worry settling over his features as he, too, must feel the spark that alights between us.
“Samantha–” he says.
I shake my head. “Don’t.”
He frowns and takes a swig of beer. “Don’t what?”
I stare at my hands. “Don’t say it.”
He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “How do you know what I was going to say?”
I put my hand back over his, both of us gripping the bottle. “I just do,” I reply, squeezing his hand tight.
I think about how much I love him, how much I have always loved him, and it is enough to make me sob. But I don’t. I can’t.
I’m not finished yet.
There are still so many things I have to do.
“To be wronged is nothing, unless you continue to remember it.”
- Confucius
I would never forget.
And so, for me, being wronged was everything.
ONE
Some people would call me a whore. A girl who sold her soul to the devil. Who let him inside her, with no remorse. Who danced with the monster who destroyed everything.
To those people, I say only this: I didn’t have to sell Dornan Ross my soul. He already owned it. And once I’ve killed him, maybe I can get it back.
When I think about life before Juliette Portland supposedly died, I think of the midday sun, and the way it caught the water, making a million tiny diamonds glisten in the Venice Beach waves. I think of laughter and first kisses, of ice cream, stolen beer, and Ferris wheels.
I think of how much I loved Jason Ross, and how valiantly he fought to protect me when the rest of his family were beating and fucking me to within an inch of my life.
I think about my father, and how whenever he was near, I felt safe, no matter what.
I think about my mother, and how indifferent she was to my existence, to the point where my father was going to take me away from everything, including her, so that we could have a life free of the constant danger that a club like the Gypsy Brothers meant.
I think of how, if he had succeeded, what a wonderful life that would have been.
It’s true what they say—keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Only, they forgot to add: Don’t keep your enemies so close that they can strike without warning. That was my father’s mistake. That was our fatal undoing.
When I was planning my revenge, I vowed not to make the same mistakes he did. Allowing the enemy too close—Dornan was VP of the club, my father had been the President, but he had been quickly losing control as Dornan and his sons outnumbered him.
I remember my final moments, before I blacked out, when Chad and Maxi were loading me into the back of a van to get me to the hospital.
“Why don’t we just finish her and be done with it?” Chad asked his father as he struggled with my nearly dead weight.
Dornan smacked the back of his eldest son’s head and pointed to me, beaten, covered in blood, one of my eyes swollen shut and the other cracked open enough to see where they were taking me.
“We can’t fucking kill her,” Dornan spat. “She knows where the money is.”
“What money?” Maxi asked.
Dornan sighed. “Don’t you boys fucking listen? The mil her daddy embezzled from this club while I was busy with you boys and your fucking mothers these past years.”
Chad whistled, dropping me into the back of a van like a sack of soggy potatoes. “That’s a lot of money.”
I whimpered as my head connected with a hard floor.
“It is, son,” Dornan agreed. “But it’s not about the amount. It’s about the principle, you understand?”
Chad nodded. “You don’t steal from your own club.”
“That’s right. Now get this bitch to the hospital so we can find out what the fuck they did with my money.”
“And then?”
I shivered, watching them from my spot on the dirty floor of the van.
Dornan sighed. “And then we finish her.”
I vowed not to make the same mistakes my father did. But here, now, laying pinned beneath Dornan as he fills me with his rage and grief, his eldest son dead by my hand and the funeral in just a few hours, I have to wonder if I’m heading down the exact path that led to our destruction all those years ago.
TWO
The morning is cold, the wind coming straight from the frigid sea, forcing strands loose from my messy ponytail. I jog in the street, a free woman for now, my new found exit a fire escape in the very back of the clubhouse, probably forgotten long ago.
My bright pink Nikes pound the pavement in stark contrast to my tanned legs as I sprint away from the clubhouse. My destination is just a few blocks away, in the opposite direction from Va Va Voom.
I take the scenic route, even though it takes longer and is out of my way, because I haven’t lived near the ocean for so long, and I can’t get enough of it.
About ten minutes later, I am puffed, strands from my ponytail sticking to my neck. I used to be a lot more fit than I am now, but the only exercise I’ve been getting lately involves sucking Dornan’s dick, which doesn’t exactly burn the calories.
The abandoned shipping yard in front of me is surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire, but I find a hole torn in the chain links and shimmy in. The yard is messy and unattractive, with high weeds, a derelict building in the middle of the block complete with broken windows. Just the way I like it for an incognito meet up.
We’re supposed to meet on the far side of the building, a brick complex that once housed an open-plan office. It now sits empty, home to stray birds who can get in through smashed windows to make their nests in the wooden rafters.
As I turn the corner at the far end of the building, I see him.
“Elliot,” I say, breaking into a smile. He grins, and my stomach does a flip. It’s been a week since I’ve seen him. Amongst all of the crazy shit that went down after Chad died, I haven’t been able to leave the club by myself for more than five minutes, much less get across town t
o Elliot’s tattoo studio or a pay phone.
He’s drinking coffee, bleary eyed, and dressed in jeans and a hoodie. “Hey,” he says, a slight pause after he says the word, as if he can’t decide what to call me. Good. He’s learning.
As I get closer, he opens his arms, pulling me into a bear hug. I flinch at first, not used to the sudden display of genuine affection, before I melt into his chest.
He gives me a brotherly peck on the forehead and steps back, surveying my ordinary clothes. “Where’s your slutty costume today?” he asks, putting his hands up when I go to punch him.
“Shut up,” I say, stealing his coffee and taking a swig. The liquid is black and bitter, without a trace of sugar or milk. I make a face and hand it back to him. “Dude, that is disgusting.”
He smiles and winks at me before his face turns serious.
“I heard about Chad,” he says, a deep frown etched into his forehead. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Elliot crosses his arms against the bracing wind, looking at me apprehensively. “Gee, I’m not sure…maybe because you’re the one who killed him?”
“Elliot!” I protest. “Jesus Christ.”
He shrugs and sips his coffee. “Well, what should we talk about? The weather?”
“It’s fucking freezing.”
“You never used to curse when we were together,” he says. “It’s sexy.”
“A lot’s happened since you left me,” I say, placing emphasis on left and me.
“Why’d you want to meet in this place, anyway?” Elliot asks, apparently ignoring my not-so-subtle jibe at him breaking up with me. He cranes his neck to look around. “Surely there are nicer spots for our rendezvous.”
I roll my eyes. “Did you bring the stuff I asked you to pick up?”
He sighs. “I’m still not sure how I feel about delivering this shit to you, Ju-“ he stops mid sentence, peering at me. “What was your stripper name again?”
“Astrid Jewel,” I say, “asshole.”
“Astrid Jewel Asshole?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, okay, that’s an interesting name.” He pulls a small plastic package from his jeans pocket and slaps it into my open palm.
“Dick,” I say, pocketing the package.
He grins like a Cheshire cat, showing his teeth, before dropping it and becoming serious once more.
“I’m worried about you. Jesus, Julz, you’re all I can goddamn think about.”
“I’m fine,” I respond in a clipped voice.
“You’re not fine,” he argues, slamming his coffee down on the windowsill behind him. “You think I don’t know what it would take to get into the clubhouse of a man like Dornan Ross?
Just like that, his entire demeanour changes like the flip of a switch. I can practically feel the rage radiating from him, the frustration.
The terror.
And I understand why he’s acting like this.
Because he saved me from Dornan once.
We both know he won’t be able to save me twice.
“You think I’m some scared little girl, Elliot? Because, I’m not. I grew up in this life, remember? My first goddamn childhood memory is of me walking in on my mom sucking Dornan’s dick, for Christ’s sake. This life isn’t new to me, as much as you wish it was.”
He rubs his jaw, agitated. Suddenly, I regret saying what I did.
“Elliot,” I implore him, suddenly close to tears. “I can’t do this with you. I can’t. If you can’t accept what I’m doing, maybe we should stop seeing each other like this.”
“Stop seeing each other,” he mutters under his breath in a mocking tone. “No, that’s not going to happen.”
We continue to stare daggers at each other. His eyes are shiny and his hands are balled into fists. I chew on my lip to stop an avalanche of emotion from pouring out. I can’t lose him, not now. He’s the only person in the world who I can count on. He’s the only person who’d know to come looking for me if I went missing in a sea of treachery, leather, and Harley Davidsons.
He’s the only person in the world who actually cares about me.
I open my eyes wide and roll them around so the tears forming in them won’t roll out onto my face. The stupid thing is, I’m not even sure what I want more right now—to get my revenge on the Gypsy Brothers?
Or to be not so fucking alone.
Part of me wants to tell him how much he ruined me when he left me. Built my shattered soul back up, bit by bit, for three long years, only to smash it all down when he left me standing, barefoot, in his grandmother’s driveway.
But I won’t. I’ve been living inside my head for so long, I wouldn’t even know how to say those things to him.
He deserves better than someone like me, anyway.
It is Elliot who finally breaks the silence.
“You should call grandma,” he says pointedly.
Emotion slams into me again, and homesickness. I may hate Nebraska, but I love that woman with every bit of my soul. Elliot’s grandmother. My guardian angels, her and Elliot both.
I swallow sharply. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You just don’t want to.”
“I do want to,” I argue stubbornly. “It’s not that easy.”
He sneers at me. “It’s called a goddamned pay phone, Julz. It’s not like she’ll see your face.”
He says face like it’s the ugliest thing in the world, and I shrink back, anger and grief swirling in my chest.
I want to walk away, but I can’t. I never could walk away from Elliot.
“She misses you,” he adds, gentler this time.
“I miss her too,” I mutter, looking anywhere but at him.
“I still don’t understand why you had to go all the way to Thailand to get your face re-made. We’re in L.A. Plastic surgery capital of the world. Although,” he says, brushing a finger against my cheekbone, “they did a damn fine job of turning you into a stranger. If it wasn’t for…“ His eyes flick to my hip, and I just know he’s talking about my scars, the ones he’s turned into a beautiful work of art instead of an eyesore. He looks affronted, like he isn’t sure how to end that sentence. “…I wouldn’t even believe it was you.”
“That’s kind of the point,” I say, remembering the first time I met Dr. Lee; the first time it occurred to me that I could actually strike back at Dornan and his sons. For the first time, revenge had seemed possible and my tongue had salivated at the sweet taste of vengeance.
I was eighteen. Elliot had been gone for several months. I was barely holding it together. I was going through the newspaper, trying to think of a creative way to kill myself once and for all.
After all, he was gone. Grandma worked all day at the diner. There wouldn’t be anyone to find me.
Of course, the local newspaper didn’t report too much on suicides. It’s more that I was flicking through the paper idly, my brain stretching to think of ways for a painless release.
I’d heard of a drug that one could source in Mexico. Something that helped you to slip away, to fall into a coma and drift into death unbidden. But Mexico was too far away and I didn’t exactly have a passport.
I didn’t want to hang myself. If I failed, I didn’t want to be a vegetable, or in the spinal unit with a broken neck. The car fumes had been unbearable when I’d tried to gas myself in the garage. I wasn’t going to do that again. And, as much as I hated to admit it, it had hurt so damn much when I’d cut my wrists. I wanted a more painless solution.
But death by my own hand seemed painful and elusive, no matter how creative I got. It was a horrid realisation—waiting to die and being too afraid and miserable to live. I had acute survivors guilt, too. I was so ashamed that my father had died while I had been saved, only for me to waste my life wishing for death.
When reading that newspaper, my eye caught an article, and something dangerous began to flutter in my chest as my heart hammered at my ribcage.
I didn’t recogni
se the feeling at first. It had been so long.
Hope.
Thin and trembling, its shoots reached out and wrapped around my blackened heart, squeezing gently, making me wheeze. Goose bumps sprang up on my bare arms unbidden, and something hard and uncomfortable bobbed in my throat.
Fear. Excitement. Devastation. Longing.
On the surface the article was nothing special. A surgeon’s convention, being held in Lincoln, only a few hours drive from Grandma’s house. The feature article was about a plastic surgeon, Ilio Lee, whose entire family had been killed by a psychotic patient of his. He had dedicated the rest of his career to helping the underprivileged who needed surgery for facial deformities and horrible accidents.
I can’t say I even came up with the idea to change my appearance and wreak my revenge, because in that moment, staring down at his face, it was like someone else planted that seed in my mind. And as I sat there, tracing the doctor’s eyes with my trembling fingers, that thump-thump-thump in my chest was, for once, a comforting reminder that I was still very much alive.
I stole Grandma’s car that day and drove through a massive thunderstorm to get to the hotel where the conference was being held. I almost turned around so many times. What was I going to say? What if he told Dornan about me being alive? And yet, I was at the end. I had nothing else left in me but the hope that blossomed under the burden of what I was about to do.
When I got to the hotel, it was already three, and the conference had finished.
I was devastated. I had missed my chance to see the doctor and try to plead for him to help me. I didn’t even know if he would, but to have lost the opportunity to even try was the final straw. I stormed out of the hotel lobby to the parking lot out front. My final plan emerged, to smash the car into a freeway overpass pillar at high speed and just get this over and done with.
And then, as if by magic—as if by fate—the kind doctor was there, waiting under the shelter of a taxi rank out front, his suitcase in hand.
I hesitated, but only for a second, before I charged over to where he stood.
I could tell you what we spoke about, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters was that he agreed to help me, and that he did.
Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series Page 9