by Wilde, Kati
“I’ll get around to it.”
Some day when I can look them in the eyes. Some day when Mom won’t pull me aside and get past my defenses with a few words, until I’m blubbering against her chest and telling her exactly what I’ve done.
I’ve got a feeling that day is never going to come. Better that way. They’ll remember the son I was. Not the rotted and empty thing I am now.
Anna stops at the base of the porch. “Was Gunner with you?”
“No. He said he had some shit to take care of.”
Like buying her an engagement ring. That’s the one positive bit to come out of this entire fucking ordeal—that he and Anna got together while they were searching for me. That after ten years, the two people who I love the most in the world finally pulled their heads out of their asses.
But I should be happier for them. Should be over the fucking moon. But I’m just...numb. When I’m not hurting, I’m not feeling anything.
Except glad that my sister has Gunner to look after her. And that they’ll have each other when Handlebar and I settle up.
Uncertainty tinges her voice. “Did Gunner say anything about...me and him?”
Just that he loves her. And that she loves him. Which I already knew.
But I shake my head. “Not a thing.”
Because so much shit’s gone bad. I’m not touching what they’ve found, not when I might poison it with the rot inside me. And I won’t ruin the surprise of the ring he’s buying for her now.
Her uncertainty deepens. Like maybe she’s doubting Gunner now. But they’ll work it out.
I open the screen door. Daisy’s going wild, so fucking glad to have me home, her tongue lolling out of her doggy smile and dancing in circles around my feet.
And, Christ. I don’t want anything more than to just kneel right here, let her slobber me with all her kisses. Dogs are so damn simple. They just love you. Just love you. They don’t give a shit that you can still feel your friend’s spine popping apart in your hands.
But Daisy deserves better than a man who’d kill a brother. Throat thick, I tell her, “Stay with Anna, girl. I’m no good anymore.”
And that damn dog. Even after I slam the screen door in her face, she’s still staring after me through the netting with her doggy grin, waiting to welcome me home, wanting me to pet her.
And I want to. Want to let that simple affection in every wild wag of her tail sweep all this pain away. But I’ve got shit to do.
I just shouldn’t have come home.
* * *
I unload my bike and leave Gunner’s truck at Anna’s. It’s cold as hell but the roads are dry, no ice or snow. About twenty miles on the other side of Pine Valley, an old dude ranch serves as the Hellfire Riders’ home.
Another home I should stay away from. Riding a bike without wearing my kutte feels like riding with my skin peeled away, but as symbolism goes…it’s real spot on. I’ve been wearing that vest since I patched in. Since I became part of this club and swore loyalty to every brother.
Now I’m returning to the clubhouse without my kutte. Seems like that should clue some of these assholes in, but every Rider I’ve met up with has greeted me the same way, real glad I’m alive and welcoming me back.
But they didn’t know Crash. He wasn’t any different to them than some other random man in the Cage. Gunner knew him, but we’ve been through so much shit together that I could probably shoot Gunner’s mama and he’d give me a pass.
The other Riders, though…they ought to be looking at me like the Bedlam Butchers did. Because Crash wasn’t in our club, but he’d been my brother in the Marines, another man I’d sworn loyalty to. And I betrayed that loyalty, that trust. A fucker who does that doesn’t deserve to wear a kutte.
The Riders are better off without me. But I need them to finish this shit. So here I fucking am.
The ranch sits about a mile off the main road. Dead grass blankets empty fields until a cluster of pines appears up ahead. The old lodge near that grove serves as the Riders’ clubhouse. A string of what used to be guest cabins were built farther back. Cherry’s stowed away in the last of them.
My gut clenches with the urge to head straight there, my cock stiffening as I imagine sinking into that hot and ready pussy. I barely touched her the other night and she got so damn wet. If it was arguing with me that had her dripping…fuck knows, I’ll push her into fighting me again.
Maybe fighting me while I’m inside her. Staring up at me with that defiant lift of her chin, rage burning in her eyes, her tits bouncing as I pound my thick cock into that drenched little slit. Fighting, her pussy tightening up with every rough stroke, until she comes and her hot little cunt sucks me off like her mouth did.
I’m about to go off right now, just picturing it. The hard spike of my erection threatens to rip through my jeans.
But business first. And paying respects that ought to be paid. Red’s buried not too far from here.
I park my ride in the clubhouse’s lot. This early on a Sunday, not too many brothers are here yet. There’s the prez’s bike and Blowback’s. I expected them. A few others who are likely sleeping off whatever they were up to last night, a couple more on watch and serving as the clubhouse’s security. Then Duke’s and Bull’s bikes—because they’re always the ones on babysitting duty, watching over whoever we’ve got in the cabins.
Usually we’re providing protection, and that’s how the club makes most of its money. We could have gone the way of other outlaw clubs, running drugs or weapons or girls, but none of us have a real high opinion of fuckers who do that. Luckily, there’s enough fuckers who do it—and enough bastards who run afoul of those fuckers and need protection from them—that we pull in a good sum. Usually the people we protect are pure garbage, but their cash smells the same as everyone else’s.
It’s not real often that we hold someone in the cabins to get information. The more expedient route is a sledgehammer.
But Cherry’ll be screaming for another reason.
I head into the clubhouse. Bottlecap’s standing at the door—prospects always get shit duties until they’re patched in as members. Duties that include fetching whatever a patchholder orders them to fetch.
I bump the fist he raises in greeting. “Did you pick up the shit I told you to get?”
“Food is in the kitchen just waiting to be warmed up, the other stuff is in a sack behind the bar,” he says. “I had to hide them, or they might not have gotten to you still in their shiny packaging.”
Because it looks like there was an orgy in here last night. Most of the owners of the bikes outside are sprawled half naked over the leather couches, legs and arms tangled up with miles of smooth skin belonging to club pussy.
Maybe celebrating the raid on the stables. Maybe just for the hell of it. Don’t fucking know, don’t fucking care.
Once upon a time, I might have been tangled up, too. Or might have responded to the texts I’ve received since I got my phone back, instead of deleting the messages and blocking the senders.
Hooking up used to be real damn easy. But I can’t stand the thought of touching anyone now. Or the thought of anyone touching me. Not when I know they wouldn’t really see what they’d be touching.
Cherry sees it.
She knows real well what’s inside me now. And what isn’t inside me now. Because she’s willing to pay for the part that she helped tear out.
But I still won’t let her touch me. Because I know what happens then. That sweetness, that softness starts filling me up. The pain starts easing.
And what would be left without the pain, the rot? Just emptiness. Just the numbness I can already feel moving in. If that fills me up, I won’t give a fuck if I ever get to Papa. Won’t give a fuck about anything.
So I’ll be touching her, fucking her. But she won’t be touching me.
I take the stairs two at a time up to the second level. The main floor is the heart of the clubhouse, but executive meetings and the prez’s office are upsta
irs. The door’s open. Blowback’s inside with Saxon, who’s standing at the window, looking out over the trees. Despite the chair behind his desk, Saxon doesn’t spend much time relaxing on his ass.
He glances over when I rap my knuckles on the door. He’s a good-sized man, about an inch taller than me and thirty pounds heavier—every bit of it muscle—and a tough motherfucker. A few months back, he caught a shotgun blast in his shoulder and chest. Wasn’t even healed up before he was out at the Eighty-Eight Henchmen’s compound and taking out some skinhead trash. That injury’s got to twinge hard now and then, but you’d never think it to look at him.
But then, he’s always hard to read. Even right now, when he’s staring right at me with those eyes made of pure fucking steel. He’s not the smartest man in the Hellfire Riders—that’s probably Gunner or Widowmaker. And he’s not the deadliest—that’s Blowback, no question. Not the most stubborn, either—that’s likely Zoomie. But Saxon’s right up there in every single category, and he’s got something the others don’t: the way he can look at a man and see everything that makes him up. Sees everything weak and everything worthy.
My chest tightens as Saxon steps forward. And he must see a sliver of something still worth having in the club, because he reaches out, locks his big hand with mine. A welcome back.
But he didn’t miss the rot. Quietly he says, “Crash served in the same Force Recon platoon as you, yeah?”
Fuck. Throat too raw to say it aloud, I nod.
“Is killing these Cage fuckers going to help?’
This time I can speak. “Might be the only thing that does.”
“All right, then.” He sits back on the edge of his desk, folds his arms over his chest. “Where are we at?”
That’s to Blowback, the Riders’ warlord and Saxon’s right hand man. There’s a pretty good chance that he sees the rot in me, too…but just doesn’t care. In a battle of ‘who’s the most fucked up,’ Blowback might still win. Because I’ve got a big jagged hole in me, but I don’t know if Blowback ever had anything inside him to start with. If maybe he was just born empty.
Empty, and deadly. In the Cage, I might have lasted a minute against him. If he was going easy.
All of which makes him real fucking scary, except he’s got lines he won’t cross. So the only people who need to fear him are those who threaten Saxon or the club.
I used to have lines, too. Until I threw Crash’s body right over them.
Blowback lays it out for the prez. “I’ve got Spiral and Picasso keeping eyes on the Iron Blood. Hashtag’s running down a lead that the Butchers dug up on some girls who were being moved the same way their two men were moved up to the Cage. Might be another stable owner, might just be a money trail. But he’s following it.”
Since I’ve spent the past few days with Blowback, there’s nothing he says that’s a surprise. “In other words, a big fucking nothing.”
“Until it’s something,” the prez says. “What about the girl? What’d she give you?”
I shake my head. “Another fucking nothing.”
So far.
My stomach curdles when Blowback says, “Says her name is Christina Anne Miller. Twenty-five years old, born in Santa Fe. Doesn’t know who her parents were, was raised in the foster system. Gave me the name of her nursing school, all the foster parents that she can remember, and her last address—which she says is probably rented out to someone else now that she’s been missing so long. And says she doesn’t know anything about Papa.”
Christina Miller. “When the fuck did you talk to her?”
No one was supposed to talk to her. Or touch her.
“Saxon sent me in a couple of hours ago.” Blowback shrugs, maybe knowing that going in pissed me off but there’s not a damn thing to say when the prez tells him to. “Not a word was true.”
Hold up. “What?”
“There’s no Christina Miller. No one with the birthdate she gave me registered at that school or in the New Mexico foster system. Every other piece of information that I checked also fell through. But it was a good story. Might have held up if someone didn’t know how to dig under the first layer. Consistent, too. I bet if you ask her, she’ll give the same details.”
Like something she practiced over and over. Maybe for three months.
Saxon’s eyes narrow. “Why’s she still hiding?”
“She’s afraid of Papa,” I say. “And not afraid of us.”
“I led by saying we’d protect her,” Blowback tells us, lips quirking. “Might be she didn’t believe me.”
Didn’t believe the scary fucker with dead flat eyes. “I might get more headway in that direction.”
The prez nods. “Try that. But I don’t give a fuck who she is. Just what she knows, even if it’s not about Papa. Because every string we pull might lead to him. So how did she get picked up? These assholes snatch a girl, usually the girl ends up being sold. So how’d the nursing angle come into play? Was that even legit?”
Yeah, it was. “She’s got medical training of some sort. Maybe a nurse, maybe a paramedic. Might be a link to the doctor.”
“Anything there yet?”
I shake my head. “I never saw him. And every fighter who did describes him as a whole lotta medium topped by pervert hair. Medium coloring, medium build, medium height.”
“What the hell is pervert hair?”
“A combover.”
“Ah. Yeah. Fuckers just need to shave that shit when it starts falling out.” The prez’s gaze sharpens. “But this girl spent more time with him?”
“She did.” And must have picked up more than just ‘medium’ from him. “The drill sergeant, too. Victor. He had Papa’s direct number and my sense is that Papa hired his militia as a separate deal from the Iron Blood. But I figure he’ll be the hardest to pin down. He’s smart enough to go to ground and stay hidden for a long time—unless he plans to come gunning for revenge over what we did to his boys.”
Saxon frowns. “You think him gunning for revenge is likely?”
“Hard to judge. He hates bikers. But he’s not stupid. Maybe fifty-fifty.”
“So look for him and watch for him coming.” The prez nods. “Anything else?”
“Might be,” Blowback tells him. “I’m setting up a meet. Someone who used to be with the Devil’s Hangmen, might have info to trade. You want in on that?”
That last part was directed at me. “Yeah, I do.”
Because Crash and I killed two of the Devil’s Hangmen in the ring. Those assholes used to be friendly with the fuckers who run the Cage, until the powers-that-be decided the club screwed them over. Now the Hangmen are pretty much scattered to the wind. Probably running scared.
But I’m not surprised Blowback dug someone up. And I won’t be surprised if ‘setting up a meet’ turns out to be that he’s got the man up on a meat hook somewhere.
“That it, then?” the prez asks.
“Yeah. I’m gonna go work on Cherry.” Work on her real damn hard. “But heading out to pay my respects to Red first. How’s Jenny doing?”
Red’s daughter, Anna’s best friend—a woman I’ve known my whole life, and who is the prez’s woman now.
“She’s hurting, but she’s holding up,” Saxon says, his jaw clenched. Because he’s hard to read…but not when it comes to Jenny. Worry is written all over him. “She’s already back to work.”
Of course she is. That’s Jenny, and how she deals with hurt. She finds something to keep herself busy.
And me…I find a hole to fill.
22
For four days, I don’t do anything but sleep and eat, then sleep some more. I still wake up before six, my body’s alarm clock set to get ready for the day. But there’s no Elton, no clunk of the unlocking door. So I just close my eyes and sleep again.
Maybe it’s just another reaction to stress. Maybe it’s because I feel so safe.
And that’s probably the greatest danger in this place—thinking it’s safe. Getting too comfortable, be
cause I’m warm and no one’s telling me to smile, and they bring me more good food than I can eat. But the truth is...I’m still in a cage.
So on the fourth morning, I begin looking for a way out.
It quickly becomes apparent that there’s not supposed to be one. It’s just a single-room cabin with a small bathroom that holds a toilet and a shower. There’s one door—with a deadbolt that can only be unlocked with a key from inside or outside. The window beside the door is shuttered closed. On the back wall is another window, but with bars over the glass—which isn’t glass at all, I realize, but a thick plastic. No doubt chosen so that it can’t be broken or shattered. Outside, a few trees grow by a stream. No one to signal to for help, unless the deer around here are super smart and can talk. But the one deer I see just stares at me with big soft eyes before wandering off.
In the main room, a full-sized mattress—thick foam, no box springs—rests on a simple wrought-iron bed frame...with all the joints welded together. So no taking it apart and whacking someone. A small electric stove keeps everything warm, and I’m not messing with that. Not when I’m locked in here with no escape route and not really sure if anyone will hear me screaming ‘Fire!’ In the corner of the room, two wooden chairs are tucked under adjacent sides of a small square table.
In the bathroom, there’s not much more. Just a toilet, which doesn’t give access to the flush mechanism or offer any easy way to muck up the workings—the same kind they had in the stables. Like there’s some kind of prison supply warehouse for toilets.
But there’s a vent in the wall over the toilet. The slats in the vent are tiny, but when I stick my fingers through, there’s nothing blocking the other side. Just cool, fresh air. The vent itself is a rectangle that’s maybe eight inches by eighteen inches. Narrow, but so were the bars over my stall. As long as I can get my skull through the opening, I should be able to squirm the rest of me through. And if I can’t, then the rest of me is breakable.
I stand on the toilet rim to study the metal frame, and hope lifts through my stomach. Screws fasten the frame to the wall, the screw heads flush with the metal surface.