As he sped through the miles and the developing morning, the world came slowly to life around him. Every town that he passed through, or skirted, was a little bit more awake than the last, had a few more people moving around, was a little more noisy. By the time he reached Absolution, all those not laid low by the excesses of their celebrations had started their day.
Chiz pulled into the clubhouse, which was so silent it was like winding the clock back by two hundred miles. Of course the New Year’s Eve party would have been epic. Chiz hadn’t even thought about the fact that he’d be missing it. He’d checked in with Samuel as usual, and neither of them had spoken about it. Normally it was the highlight of his year, after Mardi Gras. This morning, his only thought was the hope that no one had picked the lock to his room and passed out in his bed.
The bikes lined up outside the building bore sentry to the carnage that lay within. There were bodies passed out all over the main room. It looked like someone had lobbed a grenade full of sleeping agent into the room. People had passed out in their chairs, or on the sofas. They were slumped over the tables, lying on the bar, or curled up on the filthy floor. Some were dressed, some weren’t. Some had succumbed to unconsciousness while in the middle of fucking. One sweetbutt appeared to have passed out in the act of giving Kong a blowjob; his flaccid penis was still mostly in her gaping mouth. Since Kong himself was slumped on the sofa with his head back, snoring loudly, Chiz figured he’d probably gone first, and been followed shortly by the girl.
The room stank. Chiz had often heard Moira and Dolly comment on the smell, but he’d never been able to understand their problem. He got it now. Sweat, smoke, alcohol and sex combined to form an almost tangible fog of stench that caught in the back of his throat, and made Chiz feel the urge to physically push his way through.
He picked his way carefully over the prone bodies, pausing only to rescue a mostly full bottle of Jack, that was in jeopardy of slipping from Fletch’s loose fist, as he made his way to his dorm room. The door was still secure, and his key still worked in the lock. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find it changed, either through prank or warning.
The first thing he did once he was inside, was to lock the door behind him. His bike outside would announce his arrival, but he didn’t want anyone and everyone barging in. The second thing he did was strip. He could still smell Elmo on his clothes. That did little to help; she was all over his skin. He showered in the attached tiny bathroom, scrubbing his skin until it was pink and a little sore.
His kutte was lying flat in the middle of his bed, exactly where he had left it. He hung it on the hook on the back of the door. Having dressed again in clean sweatpants and t-shirt, he set about pouring the contents of the bottle of Jack down his neck as fast as possible. It burned, and he had to fight not to cough and sputter the alcohol back up, but drinking so much and so quickly on an empty stomach soon had the desired effect. He had known it was the only way he’d be able to attain a state that even remotely resembled sleep.
Swaying slightly, unsure of his vision, and feeling sick in body, mind and spirit, Chiz collapsed face-first onto his bed, on top of the covers, and passed out.
~o0o~
At first he mistook the knocking on his door for the jackhammer pounding in his head. He woke slowly, feeling acutely more miserable than he had when he’d closed his eyes.
“I’m comin’. For fuck’s sake, give it a rest.” He called to the locked door.
Groggily, he scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the rasp of days’ worth of stubble. He knew he looked like hell and smelt like a distillery. He didn’t care. Whoever was on the other side of the door could take him as they found him. He wouldn’t be the worst thing they’d encountered, if they’d fought their way through the bombsite that had been the main room.
Of course when he opened the door, he found Samuel on the other side. It was obvious from the bags under his eyes and his own fuzz of stubble on his cheeks, on the skin either side of his goatee that he normally shaved, that his president had partied hard as well. But Samuel, being Samuel, was not bowed by something as inconsequential as a fucking awful hangover.
“Hey, boss.” His voice sounded like he’d swallowed sandpaper for breakfast.
“Hey, brother. Saw your bike outside.” Samuel sounded a little raspy, too, probably from shouting over the music. Samuel’s brows drew down at the empty liquor bottle on the dresser. “You kill that this mornin’?”
“Don’t worry, boss. I rode straight.”
At Samuel’s pause, Chiz stepped back into the room and allowed his president to cross the threshold. Samuel shut the door behind him.
“You take the time you need? You back with us now?”
“Yeah. I’m back. Rarin’ to go.” Chiz coughed, a hacking bark. “Just as soon as I’ve got some coffee in me anyway.”
“There’s some on the go, and the girls have ordered breakfast in. Most of the bodies outside are upright, or nearly so. Your brothers are lookin’ forward to seein’ you. We’ve missed you.”
“I’ll be right out. Just wanna catch a shower first.”
Samuel nodded his understanding. “And what about the lady-friend that kept you away from us for a week?”
Chiz didn’t mean to turn such a dark look on his president, Samuel didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t help the way his mind clouded over. He’d have to get that shit straight before he saw the rest of the club. Samuel’s eyes slid over to the empty bottle again.
“S’alright. Guess that’s answer enough. I’ll get a mug ready for you. It’s good to have you back, brother.”
Chiz nodded. He wasn’t sure whether it was good to be back.
“Boss...?”
Chiz wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask the question that was on his mind, but Samuel was waiting patiently while he decided.
Chiz huffed, impatient with himself for being a pussy-whipped wimp. “Boss, do the others know I’ve been keepin’ time with someone?”
Samuel’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t say anythin’, brother. I figured if she was important to you it was your call, and if she wasn’t, then it didn’t matter. You know what they’re like, though. You’re gonna get some hassle ‘bout foreign gash.”
“Yeah. I know. Thanks, boss.”
“No problem, brother.”
Chiz let Samuel leave, and locked the door after him. He appreciated that Samuel hadn’t asked any questions about Elmo. His president had faith in him again. He was trusting him not to have done anything stupid. Technically, he had lived up to that trust, but it sure didn’t feel like it.
Chiz showered again, more quickly this time. The soap stung his still raw skin a little. He dressed in jeans and a shirt, not at all ready for the clubhouse in the full light of day. Putting his kutte back on felt like donning body armor for his soul. He hadn’t realized what a big piece of himself had been left in Louisiana. He sucked in a deep breath, patted his pockets to make sure he had his lighter and cigarettes among other things, and went to face his brothers.
“So, the prodigal returns!”
Fletch’s rough, low bass was the first voice Chiz heard. The old man was sitting at the bar, and the carafe of coffee was at his elbow. Chiz knew that facing things head-on was the only way to go, but he’d have been lying if he’d have said the caffeine didn’t play any part in his choice of direction.
“Hey, grandpa.”
“Didn’t lose your smart mouth wherever you’ve been then?” One of those bushy eyebrows rose a full inch.
“Nah. Just rechargin’, brother.”
“Rechargin’ my ass. You look like you got hit by a Mack truck.” Kong’s booming voice and his hearty clap on Chiz’s shoulder doubled the tempo of the drums in Chiz’s head.
Chiz nodded to Morse, who was on a stool on the other side of Fletch, and received an acknowledging nod in return.
Scrat was behind the bar. He slid a mug along the bar to Chiz. Chiz caught it and poured himself some liquid energ
y. The coffee was lukewarm, but it was strong. He downed half the mug in one gulp and refilled it.
Chiz tried to slip back into his personality. He called over to Sinatra, who was a pale shade of green, and slumped at a table with his head resting on his folded arms. “Hey, ol’ blue eyes. I hear you’re ready to take me on. Wanna jump in the ring?”
He got a long, pained moan in answer. Chiz was surprised when he heard himself laugh.
“You should be worried, brother. He’s lookin’ sharp.” Shark had come to his side and was accepting a fresh jug of coffee from Scrat, who also poured a hefty slug of whiskey into Shark’s waiting mug.
“I ain’t been sat on my ass for a week, brother. As soon as he can hit the canvas without pukin’, we can find out how well you’ve been trainin’ him.”
“Where’ve you been workin’ out, brother? You go to Vegas? Train with Mayweather maybe?” Ahh, that was Terry fishing for some answers.
“No.”
Chiz could tell his VP was displeased by his short answer. But when Chiz glanced up at Samuel, his president nodded his approval.
“We’re hurt, brother. You didn’t even send us a postcard.” Kong clearly thought his hangover made him a comedian.
“Didn’t have time,” Chiz muttered into his mug.
Sinatra, obviously still riding a wave of alcohol-induced bravado, raised his head long enough to call, “Couldn’t get your dick out of whatever pussy it was in long enough to pick one out?”
Chiz fought down the urge to walk over and knock the younger man out of his seat. Today it would be like shooting fish in a barrel, but he would make damn sure to meet him in the ring soon. “Your momma just didn’t want to let me go, brother. What can I say? I made her scream like a cheerleader.”
Sinatra grunted as he dropped his head back down onto his arms.
Chiz felt a small, light touch, a feminine hand, on his shoulder. He half turned, swallowing his heart as he did so. But it was Ashleigh standing behind him. Shark was already slinging his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Ashleigh was fairly big now, not enough to make her look awkward, but enough that there was no room for doubt about her condition.
“Glad you’re back safe, Chiz.”
“Sure you are, Tink. You’ve been wantin’ to ride off into the sunset with me for years.”
Shark’s face was carefully impassive, but Ashleigh smiled. “You know it, Chiz. Tell me where and when. ‘Cept I’m gonna struggle to ride bitch with this belly.”
“You look beautiful, darlin’. You really do.” Chiz tried to return her smile, but he knew the expression hadn’t reached his eyes.
“I’m gonna take my old lady home now, before you sweep her off her feet with that silver tongue of yours.”
Shark’s eyes were promising a bout in the ring soon, too. Chiz didn’t mind having a full dance card. It’d be a good distraction. As Shark escorted Ashleigh out of the building, Fletch eased off his stool to hit up the john. Chiz was mostly alone at the bar, and had no enthusiasm for seeking out company, but he didn’t move when Crash slid onto Fletch’s stool.
“I know where you were, brother, but I didn’t tell no one but the pres.” Crash’s voice was low, only for Chiz’s ears.
“Thanks, brother. I owe you. I might have a little somethin’ for you to look into for me in a couple of days. It’s ain’t club stuff, though.” Chiz cursed the absence of his brain to mouth link, even as he was speaking.
“Does it affect the club?”
“No. It ain’t the missin’ persons list, so forget about the smart ass remarks you were puttin’ together. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, bro. S’good to have you back.”
Crash disappeared as unobtrusively as he’d arrived. Chiz concentrated on letting the coffee work its magic in his blood for a while, before he turned around and faced the room. Looking at all his brothers, aged by the ravages of their partying, the thought occurred to Chiz that it was time to speak to Samuel about looking at the hangarounds to see who was worth bringing on as a Prospect. The Charter had lost three members, Dizzy to Texas, Dean and Tag both dead, in the space of a year. It was time to shore up their table, and new blood would be good for the club.
There was no sign of Moira and Dolly. They were probably still sleeping their hangovers off. Neither of them would appear without their outfits and makeup done to precision.
Chiz tried to keep up with the banter and made a heroic effort to fend off his hangover with food and coffee, more coffee than food, and as soon as he thought his stomach wouldn’t violently reject it, some hair of the dog. He thought he’d made a good show of being himself, but by the end of the day, he was ready to go to sleep and never wake up.
Chapter Thirteen
He’d gone. She’d told him to go, of course, but he’d actually gone. After promising that he wouldn’t, he’d upped and left in the night like the worst kind of pussy.
At first, Andy had thought Chiz might have been in the living room watching the TV, or in the kitchen making coffee. It hadn’t taken her long at all to figure out that Chiz was nowhere in her house, and neither were his clothes. His bike was missing from her driveway.
Her stomach rolled at the smell of the stale takeout in her living room. She threw the remnants of their meal into the trash, and then she showered. She used every exfoliating lotion and scrub that she had. Her skin was fragrant, but tender, by the time she was finished. Andy dressed in jeans and the biggest, sloppiest sweatshirt that she owned. It was a tattered thing that bore the remnants of the logo of her college football team. It might have belonged to an old boyfriend; she couldn’t remember any more. She intended to make herself a nutritious breakfast, but somehow she found herself at her breakfast bar sipping coffee with no plate or bowl in front of her.
Going against any rational thought, she drove over to the motel. His bike wasn’t outside his room. She was about to leave her car and ask the clerk whether Chiz had checked out, when she saw the cleaning service exit the room. The wheels on the rickety cart squeaked mournfully as the bored maid pushed it along to her next job.
Although he’d always kept his room neat and tidy, not once, in the week that she’d known him, had he allowed the room to be cleaned by a stranger. It was all the confirmation she needed. Not only had he left her bed, he’d left town.
~o0o~
Andy existed in a weird state of automation for the rest of the day. She was due at the club, but thankfully did not have any clients booked for a couple of days. Mostly she was covering Jackie’s role while her right hand took a break. She dressed in her smart outfit, she styled her hair, she applied her makeup, but she knew that her coworkers could see the mask for what it was. They didn’t pry, but she felt their concern in the way their eyes followed her constantly.
Only after the club had closed, when she was ensconced in the silence of her house, curled on her sofa, wrapped in her fluffy robe, and the better part of halfway through a bottle of top-shelf vodka, did Andy allow her mind to wander back to Chiz.
The edge play itself had not been the problem. It wasn’t her favorite thing to do, and because of the amount of trust involved, it was rarely on her sexual menu, but she had done it before, and she knew the rush was worth the risk. The problem had been the moment that she had seen the Devil take Chiz. For that moment, she had meant nothing to him. She had not been a person, only a being, a thing, something for him to toy with, to control, to demonstrate his authority over.
In itself, that had been scary enough, but that feeling of being an inconsequential participant, nothing but a sack of responsive skin, coupled with his tenderness and care afterwards, had caused some very unpleasant memories to surface.
She hadn’t lied to Chiz at all about her history, but she had omitted a reasonably major period, a period that she didn’t like to revisit if she could help it. There was no helping it now, though; the memories were too fresh to ignore.
The workmate who had tipped her off to the world of profession
al domination had worked at a local dungeon. Andy hadn’t known anything about BDSM other that the nudge-nudge-wink-wink references that made their way into popular culture. When she had decided to investigate the idea of becoming a dominatrix, her colleague had introduced her to the dungeon that she worked at herself.
Andy still remembered, with some shame and regret, her wide-eyed innocence of that day. The Dungeon Mistress had shown her around the building, given her a tour of the various rooms, and explained many of the toys. She’d even, having asked permission of those involved, allowed Andy to watch a couple of sessions in progress. Andy had been fascinated and certain that, although she felt no personal inclination to the world as a lifestyle, that she could engage sufficiently to make a success of it as a job.
Breath on the Wind Page 14