Devil's Fall: Dust Bowl Devils MC

by Britten Thorne

  “I don’t know those,” she said, “Those are some advanced level superstitions.”

  “I’m in love with you.” She tensed. Shit. He’d hoped she’d keep on humoring him, keep talking and saying soothing things and running her hand through his hair. He’d hoped she’d lie and say it back just to make him feel better, just so he could pretend she meant it for a little while.

  “It’s bad luck to say that when you’re fucked up,” she said.

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Well, it’s bad form.” She sounded strange but he couldn’t lift his head. “Bad fucking form, Gunner.” She kept stroking his hair, though, how mad could she be? “Some things you should only say completely sober, when you can look the person in the eye, and that’s one of those things.”

  “Say it anyway,” he whispered. “Lie to me.”

  “I love you,” she said, her voice small, weary. “Will you even remember this tomorrow? I love you and I want to stay with you and I’m not a liar. But I don’t like you like this.”

  He mumbled something about liars. He mumbled something about remembering. The words didn’t matter and he wasn’t listening to himself anyway. But he wasn’t cracking apart anymore; he was mending. As long as she held him together he would be all right.

  ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙

  Neither spoke of it the next day. She was quiet, and he let her be. He knew she was afraid though she didn't show it.

  Bill sent for her just before sundown.

  "It's time," Mort said. He'd come to pick her up.

  Gunner would be damned if he'd let her ride with anyone else. "I'm coming."

  "Bill said no."

  "Let him tell me to my face."

  Mort grimaced through his red beard. "It's too public, brother. The cops haven't forgotten what you did." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Senna hadn't overheard that. She was keeping busy in the kitchen again, needing an outlet for her nervous energy.

  "I'll keep my head low. I'm coming, Mort, and that's it."

  Short of disabling his bike, Mort couldn't stop him. He followed behind him with Senna wrapped around his back. Where she belongs. He looked down at the hands clasped around his middle and his chest constricted. I meant what I said. God help me.

  They drove through the bustling commercial part of town. Restaurants, bars, and little shops lined the street and people made their unhurried way from one to another, enjoying the cooler evening air. He hadn't been to this part of town since he'd been banished so many months ago, but nothing had changed. He suspected he could return in a decade and find it still exactly the same.

  The bar they'd chosen was called Digger's - it was a smoky old place they’d only picked because it had a pair of private party rooms in the back.

  Bars ushered Senna inside but Bill stopped him at the door.

  "Did you seriously think I'd just stay back?" Gunner asked, squaring his shoulders, ready for a fight already.

  "Part of the bargain. No thugs."

  He flexed his fingers; his vision narrowed, centered in on Bill’s impatient face. His fists were going to fly. He was going to hit the president of his club. It wasn’t going to end well.

  “Gunner,” she called to him. And that was all it took for the worst of his tension to dissipate. “It won’t take long. Just a few signatures. Order me a drink? Please?”

  He nodded.

  Bill smirked and followed her and Bars into the back room. Jester shouldered past him, imitating the sound of a whip and then cackling like a bastard. Normally such disrespect would send him into a frothing rage, but he only shook his head. He’d punched Jester many times before. It changed nothing. The man couldn’t feel his own face half the time, anyway.

  He was surprised to find his father at the bar. “You didn’t want to join the party?” Gunner asked.

  Nomad hitched a shoulder. “Couldn’t give a shit about her negotiations. Bill wanted the room watched, so here I am.”

  “Watching a beer.”

  Nomad gestured to the bartender and said, “Well, watch one with me. They won’t keep your old lady too long.”

  “I don’t want them to keep her at all.”

  The bartender finally brought him a beer, and he downed half the glass in two swallows.

  “I guess you got the message,” Nomad said.

  He had. That afternoon, just before they’d left. The wake and the funeral dates and times from Rosa. He’d pushed it out of his mind immediately, focusing instead on Senna. But of course Rosa would have kept his father in the loop. She’d only managed to get Gunner’s number thanks to him.

  “What of it?” Gunner asked.

  “You better be going.”

  He sure as hell didn’t want to. As far as his own feelings were concerned, he’d said goodbye. I guess I sort of did all those years ago, too. “I am.” Rosa would want him there. It would be shitty to stay away. And he knew he could handle it, as long as Senna went with him.

  “You overreacted. We weren’t going to kill you. You didn’t have to run halfway across the country, we could have negotiated something.”

  Senna blinked and kept her face calm despite the dread sitting heavily in her gut. “Are you aware of the sorts of messages your lackeys were sending me? Did you know they were leaving notes at my home, that they were following me on the streets?”

  “They may have been a little enthusiastic but you were just being paranoid. Crazy.” He looked up at Bill, standing over her shoulder. “Women, am I right?’

  She could hear Bill shift, though she couldn’t see him. “If she says you were threatening her, then you were fucking threatening her.”

  Bill? Defending me? It was hard to believe.

  The room was larger than she thought it would be based on the bar in the front, likely used for birthdays, or conferences, or budget wedding receptions. All it contained at the moment was one folding table and five chairs right in the center of the space. There was a row of windows along only one wall.

  Colin’s boss sat directly in front her. A middle-aged, overweight man, who’d introduced himself as “Call me Mr. Farelli.” Another man with a false name. Maybe these guys aren’t all as different as they seem to think. He was flanked by his lawyer and by Colin himself. A bodyguard wearing an ear-piece and sunglasses like the damn secret service stood behind them. On her side of the table, Bars sat to her right, and Bill stood over her shoulder. Jester guarded the door.

  She had a really bad feeling about the whole thing.

  She’d signed what they wanted. Bill had taken the suitcase full of cash. He counted it. She didn’t particularly want to touch it. Go away. All of you, go away. She didn’t care about her shares in the company. She didn’t care about her father’s legacy - maybe she would have if he’d been a different person. Let it go. Let it all go.

  But when they accused her of overreacting, that was just too much. The texts traced back to phones with false names attached or no names at all. The emails had come from a flurry of faked addresses, sent from libraries across the city. These guys knew how to run a campaign of fear as easily as they made their morning coffee. She’d be lucky if she managed to wrangle a restraining order out of the whole ordeal, nevermind pressing any kind of charges. But for them to try to downplay it to her face, to lie, was too infuriating to ignore.

  She couldn’t tolerate liars anymore.

  “You haven’t left the building yet,” she said, “We can still burn those contracts.” She leaned across the table, drawing her bravery from the fact that Bill had defended her a moment before. She was gambling on him continuing to do so - even if it was all a bluff. “This is a quiet room. Apologize.”

  The big man chuckled. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  Bill grunted. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, either. When a lady demands an apology, you give it to her if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Or what? You resort to violence?” He shook his head. “I
thought we were being reasonable. If you imagine we came without considering our own defense, though, you’d be very mistaken.”

  Bluffing. They’re all bluffing. Her eyes flickered to the windows anyway. She couldn’t take the tension anymore. Lies or not, she didn’t want this to resort to violence. She wanted this to be over. She wanted these suits to leave and to never bother her again.

  “Just go,’ she said, turning away in disgust. “Quit your fucking staring contest and go.”

  But Bill wasn’t having it. He leaned across the table and grabbed Farelli’s tie. The table rocked with his weight as he leaned in. “Say you’re sorry,” he snarled.

  Something tiny struck the outside wall, sending a shower of white dust down in front of the window. A bullet. A sniper?! What the fuck?

  Bill released the man’s tie and showed his palms. “You realize my guys can kill you before your man can kill us,” he said.

  “Yes.” Farelli stood, straightening his tie and jacket. Colin and the lawyer rose around him. “But my guy would kill you before you could leave the room. Which is why you’re keeping your money right now and I’m keeping my contracts.”

  Bill was unconcerned. “I’ve known men to die with idiot grins on their faces for lesser reasons.” She could see his fingers twitch out of the corner of her eye, hovering near where he hid his weapon beneath his vest.

  Farelli cleared his throat. He spoke as if it pained him. “We apologize for any misunderstands and wish you the best in your future endeavors.”

  “Right,” she said, though he barely looked down her nose at her, instead speaking over her head, “Good luck to you, too.” It was a non-apology if she’d ever heard one, but she’d take it if it meant getting out of there alive.

  He turned without another word, not even sparing her a glance. She would have expected at least a sneer or a glare from Colin, but he too made his exit as though she’d ceased to exist. They left through the back, avoiding the bar altogether.

  “Fucking rich people,” Bill muttered. “Out. Fast.” He ushered her through the door that led them through to the front, pushing her ahead, standing between her and the threat out the window.

  “Thank you,” she said once they were away from the room, feeling oddly sheepish. “For defending me, I mean.”

  “You’re one of ours whether I like it or not.” He held up the suitcase. “Sixty forty.”

  She nodded. “I trust you.” The split was in the Devil’s favor, of course. Originally he’d demanded an even larger portion but she negotiated quickly, before Farelli arrived. Not because she cared about the money, aside from possibly getting herself back into school - which even ten percent would have covered quite easily. She couldn’t let herself look like a pushover, though, couldn’t let anyone smell fear on her, no matter how afraid she actually was.

  She was still afraid; the bad feeling hadn’t dissolved one bit. It should have, it was over. But it had been too easy. She didn’t think she’d stop buzzing until they were all the way back at the clubhouse.

  When she didn’t spot Gunner right away, she stumbled outside, suddenly desperate to escape the smoky claustrophobic bar and breath in some fresh air. He was probably out there himself, chain smoker that he was when he got nervous. As long as he’s not hanging out with Jester again. She hadn’t forgotten the previous night - everything he’d said from from deep within his drugged-out haze. But she wasn’t ready to process it yet. Later. Not until this bad feeling goes away.

  The night air did nothing to alleviate her dread. Rather, it grew; she felt sick with anxiety. Time slowed.

  Senna wasn’t superstitious like Gunner. She didn’t believe in fate, karma, destiny, things coming full circle, none of it. Coincidences were only coincidences. Bad timing was simply bad timing. Luck wasn’t real.

  It was quiet out front. As expected, she found him smoking a cigarette at the curb, watching one of his brothers peel out down the road.

  “Hey,” she said as he turned.

  “Hey.” He’d worn the same look of concern all day, and the end of the meeting hadn’t changed it. We do need to talk about yesterday. “Everything go okay?”

  “Yeah.” She took his hand. “I think I’m a little rich again. So’s the club, now.”

  “It’s robbery,” he snarled, and she laughed.

  “It’s not robbery if I negotiated. I’m just relieved. Do you know if they’re going to set up something similar with Dawn?”

  “According to Irish, she’s still considering it.” He grinned as she kissed his knuckles. “Want to get out of here?”

  “Yes, please.”

  But the luck and the fate that she didn’t believe in were working against them.

  She thought nothing of the man that walked towards them down the sidewalk. He was just another pedestrian, a barhopper, nobody worth noticing. She wasn’t even conscious of his presence until he ducked low, out of her vision in one swift motion. But Gunner saw. He swung her aside, wrenching her arm as the attacker’s knife just grazed her behind her knee. I knew it. I knew this was too easy. She watched in horror as Gunner advanced on the knife-wielding man. She didn’t recognize the stranger - the only thing that stood out about him was the eyepatch he wore.

  They didn’t even speak. No taunts, no blustering. She screamed in the direction of the bar’s open door, for Bill, for Nomad, but even that was too late. The confrontation was already over when she turned back.

  Gunner was kneeling, facing away from her.

  The stranger was gone.

  She dropped to her knees in front of him. “Shit.” Blood blossomed on his black t-shirt, welling from a gash in his chest, dripping slowly to the ground. She pressed her hands to the wound. “How deep is it, did you see?” she asked. The blood seeped through her fingers. “Shit! Nomad! Stay with me, Gunner. Look at me.”

  His eyes focused on her, unfocused, focused again. “I deserved it.”

  “What? No, no you didn’t. Stop that.” Where were they? People had gathered at the bar’s entrance. Someone was talking into a cell phone, reporting their location. Yes, please, get an ambulance.

  “It’s okay,” he said, “It’s all come full circle. I was… was I here?” He groaned and crumpled over.

  “No no no,” she chanted, leaning into him, catching him so he slumped against her, keeping him from hitting his head on the concrete.

  Nomad and Bill both finally appeared, and Jester behind them just a moment later.

  “An ambulance is on the way,” someone in the crowd reported. She couldn’t see who through the gathering tears.

  “We have our own damn doctors,” Bill said, kneeling at her side, then “Shit,” as he took in all the blood.

  “He needs a hospital,” Nomad said, “How long?”

  Their voices faded away, replaced by a ringing in her ears, her fear robbing her of any sense of her surroundings. All she saw was the blood coating her hands and his eyes, hurt and confused and locked on hers. “Stay with me,” she said again.

  “You stay with me,” he said, his words sluggish. The sound of sirens finally pierced through to her ears.

  She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. “I will,” she whispered, “I’ll stay. I want to stay. Just hang on, all right? For me?”

  “Senna.” He reached up as if to touch her face, but someone was dragging her away. Hands lifted him onto a stretcher - the ambulance had arrived.

  “We’ll follow,” Bill said. She tried to pull away but his grip on her arm was immovable. She watched the EMTs cover his wound with gauze as they loaded him into the ambulance, Nomad jumping in after them. The watched the vehicle accelerate up the street, a storm of sirens and lights carrying him away.

  “Better get ahold of yourself, girly. You aren’t getting on my bike if you’re shaking like that.”

  She didn’t know that she was. She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves as she always did, burying what she felt beneath a cool and steady exterior. Her stomach churned like a washing m
achine but to Bill she appeared ready to ride.

  “Did you see who did it?” he asked, leading her around the corner to where he’d parked.

  “No. I mean, yes. Some guy in an eyepatch.”

  Bill tensed. “Motherfucker. I knew this would happen.”

  “What?” They stopped in front of his bike. “You knew the guy?”

  “Yeah, we both did.” Bill was shaking his head as he spoke. “Gunner bashed that guy’s face in half a year back. Rockwell. He was an officer back then. Guess he’s still pissed.”

  “Full circle,” she mumbled. “He said it all came full circle.”

  “Superstitious bastard. It happened right around here.” He cursed one more time before finally swinging a leg over his bike, nodding behind him for her to get on.

  “Will he be okay, Bill?” she asked, rubbing her arms. He was the last person she wanted to be there with, the last person she wanted to ride with. He hated her; he wanted to tear them apart. But she had no one else.

  “No doubt. I’ve seen him get shot and stand back up.”

  She didn’t need to know the details of that at the moment.

  Just pull through. Bill roared up the street, following the path of the ambulance. He wasn’t as wild of a driver as Gunner but he caught up to the emergency vehicle all the same. Be okay. I can take care of you, now. Nothing else matters. The contracts were signed. The club wasn’t after her any longer. The danger was supposed to be over. They were supposed to be in the clear.

  Just make it, Gunner. Maybe it was bad luck as he seemed to think, but it couldn’t be a permanent affliction. She refused to believe it. Luck could be changed. She swore to herself that she would change it for him. Stay with me.

  Time passed in a haze of pain that only gradually lifted as one day turned to night, turned to day and so on. “You’re lucky to be alive,” the doctors told him. He didn’t believe them. Life was a curse and he deserved to keep suffering through it.

  That changed during visiting hours when Senna came to see him, lighting up his gray world with one of her rare smiles - the secret ones that she let no one else see. She spoke to him as much as he would tolerate. Bill had delivered her cut of the money and she told him about the car she’d bought. “Not a minivan,” she gleefully described. The club was searching for Rockwell to deliver their own justice. He didn’t like the sound of that - it was justice that had been delivered upon him. They were even in his eyes, and he told her as much.