by Paula Cox
She couldn’t think of another situation when she would have accepted ending a person’s life as fair payment for what had gone past. In self-defense, that was something. But that moment there, on that dark night, had been ending something that had been started so many years ago. She had seen in Pedey’s eyes that he remembered it. She suspected that he had lived out that murder — maybe not every night, maybe he wasn’t haunted by its after effects like she was. But he remembered it. He’d never forgotten. Had he even recognized her? Maybe.
And now, she rested easily on the back of Tex’s bike. She steadied herself against him, but she didn’t need to cling to him, afraid that she would do something to unsteady the bike. He’d talked this morning about getting her one of her own, teaching her to ride, and she thought that might be nice, but at the same time, it was good to be behind him, protected from the wind, feeling the muscles of his stomach flex as he guided them smoothly along the road. Riding on her own might be amazing, but it wasn’t necessarily the kind of freedom she was after. She’d see.
Now, they rode into the desert. They weren’t following a road that she could see; Tex had her put goggles over her eyes and a bandana over her mouth, and still she tasted dust. She imagined it was worse for those who were riding behind them. Not too many, this time, nothing like the caravan that had ridden out to take on the Racketeers. But enough. A few more bikes, and then a 4x4. Inside the 4x4 were Take, one of the lieutenants she hadn’t really gotten to know, and the man who had once called himself her father. John Hendricks. Smokey. The junkie who had caused this entire mess.
Tex had left his fate in her hands, and she wasn’t entire sure yet what she was going to do with that gift and curse. She didn’t want to make another hole in the world. It wasn’t good. But was it right? Was it just? She couldn’t decide.
She found herself wondering what Danny would do. Obviously, if he were alive, none of this would be a problem. But she cast her mind back, trying to remember what, if anything, Danny had said about their father. In those days, he’d come home more often, though “more often” was still once or twice a year – when he wasn’t in prison, which he was as often as not. Mom had never seemed happy to see him there, but he’d always ended up sleeping in her room.
Danny had always been defiant and absent when Smokey was around. But was that because he was angry their father was there, or because he was angry he still hadn’t earned their father’s approval? How could she know for sure when he probably hadn’t known himself?
There was no help from the past. What mattered was the future. Tex had said she was the only person who could make this decision, and as much as she hated him for doing that, she also understood why he had. If her father was killed, and she later regretted it, he didn’t want her to regret him. But at the same time, it would be kind to have the burden lifted.
There were no easy answers. Maybe the easy answers weren’t worth seeking.
She didn’t know why this bit of desert was different from all the parts they’d already driven through, but Tex pulled to a stop like he knew what he was seeking. The others stopped behind him, turning off their bikes and leaning them up between legs. She dismounted from the back of his bike. Tex made a “come on” gesture in the air, and the doors of the 4x4 opened. Take stepped out, then reached into the back of the vehicle and hauled Smokey out.
Jessie wanted to believe in second chances. She also was tired of being taken advantage of. And then she knew what she wanted.
She’d packed a bag and tucked it into the saddlebag of Tex’s bike when they’d headed out. She drew it out now and waited. Take led Smokey up to her. The man’s legs were unsteady, his hands were shaking so hard they hadn’t bothered to tie him at all, and he was stained with shit and vomit. Take had made him sit on a tarp in the back of the 4x4 and hold a bucket. When Take let go of his arm, Smokey dropped to his knees at her feet.
“You’ve never been a father to me,” she said, her voice steadier than she expected as she looked for the words she wanted, the last ones she ever planned on speaking to this man. “You weren’t a father to my brother. I could have forgiven you that. But you got him killed. You got him killed for a stupid drug, and you never even tried to make amends. You let us believe it was our fault when it was yours. I can’t forgive you for that.”
He looked up to her, his eyes clearer than they had been in her mother’s house. “Girl, I’m—”
“No,” she said. “You don’t talk. I talk. There’s nothing I want to hear from you. Do you understand me?”
He nodded.
“We drove all the way out here because it would be easy to kill you. No one would know.” She thought of the feeling of a weapon in her hand, and the intense kickback after she’d pulled the trigger. It had jarred her whole arm. It had felt deeply wrong and strange. And she didn’t really want to do it again, she found. But he didn’t need to know any of that. His eyes didn’t look panicked at the thought of his imminent death. With the intensity of his withdrawals, how much was he even hearing?
She pushed herself on. She dropped the pack at her feet and kicked it toward him. “This is the part where you get to make a choice, John,” she said. He winced at that, at her calling him by his given name and not ‘Dad.’ That broke her heart, just a little bit. The idea that, somewhere down there, he still wanted to be her father. That almost made her change her mind. But it wasn’t enough. His regret was not enough to undo what he had done. “There’s a couple things in that bag. Enough water that you can get back to town, if you don’t get lost. Enough drugs to kill you.” She shrugged. “I suppose if you’re careful, you could get yourself to stop shaking and make it back without ODing. Or stay here until you get your shit together and can make it back. I don’t know. But the point is, you have a choice.” She knelt down, trying not to inhale the stench of the man. “But no matter what you choose? I don’t ever want to see you again, John. You never darken my path again. Or there will be no choice.” She reached for all the dark authority Tex could muster when he chose, letting her features darken and twist. “You feel me?”
It was a long moment. His eyes were focused on her face, as if he was memorizing her. And then he nodded.
She was done. She slid back on to Tex’s bike behind him, and he didn’t wait. He turned the bike around, starting at a slow pace while the other bikes turned and followed them, the 4x4 bringing up the end again. She didn’t turn around to see if John had opened the bag. She didn’t look to see if he’d found the knife in the bottom, that she’d left there in case he decided that the solution was to end things quickly. It didn’t matter to her anymore.
She wrapped her arms around Tex’s waist and let him drive them into the future.
Epilogue
Jessie sat on the porch of what had once been Logan Polanco’s citrus farm, watching the sun set. Summer was in full bloom now, and it was getting hot, even by California standards. Castello was busy, full of tourists, and she’d started spending more time out at the orchard. It was calmer than in town, and she’d started liking both the peace, and the rough voices of the various club members.
Take had gone back to Los Angeles, and taken some of the members along with him; others had come from L.A., looking for a more relaxed pace than the busy city. The clubs were both still branches of the Sons of Chaos, but Tex had managed to keep both of the clubs running clean, while still keeping territory safe from those who might have tried to take it over.
Besides, she had news for Tex tonight. It would keep, but not for all that long. Sure, they’d tried the pills for a few months, but they’d made her moody and swollen, and they’d decided together that they had waited long enough. They were sure, and whatever would come would come. And now it would, in about 7 months, if the timing in her mind was right.
They’d have to talk about names. It would be too morbid, she thought, to give her child her dead brother’s first name. Maybe the middle name, though. Dannyander, or Dannyandra. To honor him. To honor what had
driven her baby’s parents apart, and then eventually brought them back together. Yeah. That would be nice.
When Tex’s bike pulled into the yard, she put her boots up on the rail. He could come to her. A broad smile spread over her face as she watched him light up at the sight of her. Yeah. This was going to be a good conversation.
THE END
Read on for your BONUS book – TORCHED!
TORCHED
Chapter One
Hope
As I shuffle by the table where the Satan’s Martyrs sit, a shortish, fattish man calls out to me: “Hey sweetheart, how about a kiss with that beer?”
How about a slap instead? I think.
But I just giggle, because being a waitress sometimes means you have to giggle when you get heckled like that. It sucks, but nobody ever said that life was fair. I weave through the tables with trays balanced in my hands, propped on my forearms, and cradled in between my inner-elbows. For somebody who doesn’t really want to be a waitress, I’ve definitely picked up a few tricks, that’s for sure.
“Enjoy your meal,” I tell the family of four.
The father is a business type. He wears a dark blue suit and an earpiece. You rarely see people wearing things as extravagant as earpieces in Rocky Cove, California. The woman wears a white shirt so tight her face has turned red, like a finger wrapped in a rubber band. The two children are miniatures of their parents: a boy and a girl dressed like little businesspeople.
“Excuse me,” the man says, as I lay the last plate on the table.
I smile my respectful, I-am-here-to-help smile. No matter how many times I smile like this, it never feels real. For the hundredth time tonight, I think: I should be in the kitchen. I’ll never become a decent chef dancing around the tables.
“Yes, sir?” I say, my voice syrupy sweet.
“Who are those men?” The way he accents the last syllable makes me think he doesn’t see them as men at all, but rather as affronts to his idea of manners. Can’t say I blame him, exactly. The restaurant is three-thirds full, mostly with couples on their Friday date night. The Harrises and the Clarks and the Moores and the Johnsons all sit on two-people tables. Plus half a dozen couples I do not recognize. Maybe out-of-towners.
I lean down. “Don’t let them hear you,” I whisper.
The man does a double take, looking from his wife and then to me. “Excuse me?” he breathes.
“They’re the Satan’s Martyrs. See that shortish, fattish one? That’s Patrick O’Connor. He’s the leader's brother, Killian O’Connor. Patrick just got out of prison. They’re celebrating. They’re going to be loud all night, as far as I can tell. But a bit of advice, sir, don’t let them hear you. They can be . . .” I’ve heard the rumors. Everybody in Rocky Cove has heard the rumors. But I leave my sentence hanging. I don’t want to break my own advice.
The man swallows. “A motorcycle gang, huh?” he says.
They all wear the leathers with the sigil of a man impaled with knives, his face crooked into a smile. Message: Devil on my shoulder. The words ‘Satan’s Martyrs’ are scrawled above the man in jagged blood-red letters.
“A club,” I correct. “Enjoy your meal, sir,” I finish, standing straight and turning away from the table.
The last thing I need tonight is an out-of-towner making trouble with the Satan’s Martyrs.
There are eleven men sitting around the table.
I don’t recognize all of them, but I see Killian and Patrick O’Connor, the one they call Gunny, and the Remington brothers. Patrick O’Connor is an uglier version of his younger brother. He’s short where Killian is tall, fat where Killian is muscular. Killian’s blonde hair is ragged, wild, but not so wild and ragged as to make him look unkempt. It’s more like he just rolled out of bed and hasn’t touched a comb. His face is strong, his jaw square, a light sprinkling of blonde hair covering his cheeks. His lips are pensive and his eyes are bright blue.
Patrick has dirty blonde hair which looks wet, it is so greasy. His face is pudgy, squashed. His features seem to collapse into each other. Despite all that, he still looks like Killian; you would never struggle to believe they’re brothers. Gunny wears a leather jacket with the sleeves cut away. And the Remington brothers are both tall, thin, with egg-bald heads and tattoos of guns under their left eyes.
They laugh loudly, pound their drinks on the table, shovel food into their mouths and pay no mind to the other patrons in the restaurant.
All except for Killian.
As I walk back toward the counter, ready to greet any customers who enter, I notice that while the others are like animals in a zoo during feeding time, Killian sits with his elbows on his knees, his jaw clenched, staring.
At first I think he is just staring into space. But then I notice that his eyes follow me. Two chips of blue trailing me across the restaurant. His eyes burn into me. I feel his gaze on my neck, on my chest. I have shoulder-length brunette hair, dark brown eyes, and an elfish face. My ears poke out of my hair and I am on the busty side. My breasts are squeezed into my waitress’s shirt and my skirt hugs my bum. My tights are taut around my shapely legs.
His eyes move over me, up and down, openly staring at me.
A shiver moves through my body. I feel like I’m being watched by a wolf.
My mind is unruly tonight.
I try and focus on my work, but it’s difficult when my mind is a staging area for so many other problems.
I know that Dawn, my sister, is at home climbing the walls. Dawn was a drug addict until recently. She’s in recovery, but not the rehab kind. No, she tried that, got the t-shirt, and then fled. Now I’m her rehab, and it isn’t an easy task. I’m constantly worried that she’s run from the apartment to score. Maybe she’s shooting up in my bedroom. Maybe she’s found some scumbag who’s willing to take advantage of her in exchange for some drugs.
And then there are the selfish concerns, like why the hell aren’t I in the kitchen when I’m far superior as a chef than I’ll ever be as a waitress? That one's on Lucca Berelli, my boss. A man so creepy he makes snakes look good in comparison.
And at the back of my mind—always—is my art. An artist’s burden, I guess, is to always be thinking about it. Painting is my craft. I keep thinking about the pieces I have hanging in the local gallery at the end of Main Street, which makes me proud. But then I think about the fact that not one of my pieces has ever sold, and the pride wanes.
Add to that the fact that I’m $2,000 in the hole with rent and bills, and keeping my attention on the mundane routine of the restaurant is impossible.
I let out a long sigh and want nothing more than to collapse into a bubble bath and let all of this soak away.
The restaurant is almost at capacity and I shuffle around, taking orders for drinks and carrying them to the table, on auto-pilot.
After about an hour—it is now nine o’clock, an early autumn night with the wind whistling outside of the restaurant—I look back to the Satan’s Martrys’ table.
Killian O’Connor is still watching me, his eyes narrowed, almost like he’s trying to puzzle me out.
“Sweetheart!” Patrick O’Connor calls, waving his hand at me, five thick fingers beckoning me over.
I walk from the bar, past two tables at which couples sit, and to the Satan’s Martrys’ table.
Standing with my notepad and pen at my side, my other hand fidgeting nervously, I say, “Yes, sir?”
The table is a graveyard for beer and whiskey. Glasses upon glasses stack on the table, until every inch of its surface is glittering with empty glass. The restaurant’s lights are set in sconces in the wall; yellow light bounces off the glasses, causing the long table to become its own source of light.
“Sir?” Patrick throws his head back and laughs raucously. He wipes a tear from his cheek. The rest of them laugh, too. All of them except Killian, who continues to watch me with his wolfish eyes, his unflinching gaze. I am more discomfited by Killian’s expression than the laughter. At least I under
stand the laughter. I have no idea what to think about Killian’s expression, about his focus on me.
“Don’t call me sir, honey,” Patrick says once his laughter has passed. “There’s no need to be so distant, is there? I’ve been locked in a cage for what seems like my entire life!” He pounds his fist on the table. The glasses lurch up and then clatter back down. He taps his knee. “Why don’t you come and sit on my lap, eh? Show me what freedom really means.”