by Jc Emery
“You are out of your damn mind if you think I’m getting involved with this. Besides, it’s not like they’re going to listen to me anyway,” I say. Truly. It’s not like any member of Forsaken has ever listened to a Lost Girl. We’re here for show and for fun. We’re not here for our brain power or our diplomacy skills.
Parting from the crowd is Grady, the club’s Sergeant at Arms. He’s the lead enforcer of the club, and he’s probably the last of the men I’d be inclined to piss off. As President, Jim may hold more sway over the club, but it’s Grady who has the tenacity and position to take matters into his own hands when it’s in the best interest of the club. He’s a mean son of a bitch when he means business, but I’ve seen him with his daughter a few times. It’s times like that, where he’s soft and sweet with her, that make me think that if Grady, who they call Bloody Knuckles, can be gentle, then maybe they all can with the right person.
Grady’s somewhere between Jim and Ryan’s ages. He’s seasoned, but not exactly old, and he certainly doesn’t carry himself with that youthful arrogance that the younger members have. His chestnut brown hair is tucked behind his ears, and his green eyes narrow as he approaches. Placing his hands on his hips he looks me over and says, “You cause this?”
“Fuck if I know,” I say and meet his eyes.
“I break this up, you talk it out with Duke. I don’t want you pitting brother on brother again.”
“Yeah,” I say. My eyes slide over to find Jeremy, but Chel is partially blocking my view.
“You Duke’s girl?” he asks. His deep voice practically vibrates with every word he bites out. The second his tone changes from grouchy to pissed—for no reason I can figure out—Chel backs up and wanders off. I’m about to answer Grady when I see Jeremy leaning up against a bike. My heart spasms at the sight, and my entire body tenses up. I imagine this is what being electrocuted feels like. Touching one of the brothers’ bikes is a big fucking no-no, and that’s an understatement. I can’t tell whose bike it is, but it doesn’t really matter. Nobody—not even Chief—will let this kind of offense go. He’s watching the fight from the back of the crowd and nobody is paying attention to him so far. Though he wears a bored expression on his face, I know he’s really excited as shit that he’s here. That excitement is going to wear off the minute somebody sees how fucking stupid he is. I want to scream at him—maybe even slap him—and tell him to get off the bike, but I don’t dare while Grady’s talking to me. If I think Diesel can be mean, then Grady is one fucked up bastard.
“I don’t know,” I say, and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s complicated.”
Grady nods and gives me a questioning glance before turning back around and pushing his way through the crowd. Just as I see his brown hair making progress, the crowd shifts and sways. Hoots and hollers come from the entire circle and beer bottles are raised in excitement. Grunts and groans followed by muted sounds of skin hitting skin reverberate off the crowd.
On my way toward the crowd, I catch Jeremy’s attention. I signal for him to get off the bike and shake my head with the coldest expression on my face that I can manage. He nods his head and lifts off the Harley, then takes a step forward. Disaster averted.
Chel points to the picnic table just behind Jeremy and the bike he stupidly used as a perch, before rushing over and climbing on top of it. I rush over and follow suit.
I can see what’s going on much better from up here. Duke and Diesel both stand in a fighter’s stance. They hop around and then one of them swings, the other blocks, and then the process is repeated. Finally, Duke throws his arms down at his sides and screams at the top of his lungs and barrels forward. Just as he reaches Diesel, he reaches his arms out, grabs a hold of Diesel’s head and slams his forehead into Diesel’s nose. Instinctively, I cover my nose with my hand. Out of sympathy, my nose pounds in my face.
I hate what I’m seeing, but I can’t look away. Blood sprays from Diesel’s nose as he wipes it off and then pulls back and slams his fist into the side of Duke’s face. As Diesel out-manuevers Duke, he manages to take advantage of the situation and slams a few good blows to Duke’s face before tackling him to the ground and slamming his head into the concrete. From what I can tell, Duke started it, but this is horrible. I don’t even realize I’m screaming until the crowd stops and Chel shakes my shoulders from behind. As I come to my senses, I realize my hands are over my mouth and I’m freaking out to the point where everybody’s noticed—including Duke and Diesel. I move to the edge of the table, but Chel grabs my arms and says, “No, it’s too dangerous. They’re way too charged for you to run into that. You could have stopped this shit.”
“His head,” I say, looking down at Duke whose head is twisted, his eyes on me. “Diesel could have hurt him.”
“Christ,” Chel mutters and keeps hold of me. “You used to live for this shit.”
Grady doesn’t waste any time. He strides through the crowd and grabs Diesel by the shoulders and pulls him off of Duke, then pulls Duke off the ground. Chief holds Diesel back, and Ryan takes control of Duke. Neither man gives up much of a fight, but they do shrug off Grady’s intervention. Their shoulders heave in anger, and they walk in circles on the inside of the crowd.
“Are you two fucking idiots done yet?” Grady asks as he looks between the two men. Each gives a non-committal grunt and mutters words of discontent under his breath. “Good. Sort out whose dick is bigger, and we’ll let the winner fuck Trigger in the ass for starting this whole mess.”
My attention snaps from Grady to Duke, who’s holding the back of his head with one hand. He keeps removing it to check for blood and then putting it back. I shove Chel off of me and climb off the table, ready to push through the crowd. By the time I get there, the crowd of people has moved out of my way. I don’t even have a chance to throw up an elbow. In the center of the crowd, Duke stands with his head down. I don’t even think about it as my feet carry me over to him.
Stopping a foot away, I stand awkwardly, unsure what I should be doing. In the back of my head I think I want to tell him that we’re done, but I can’t quite bring myself to feel the words. At least, I know I should. But then he lifts his head, and the way he looks, so sullen with his mouth turned downward and his eyes empty, I can’t bring myself to hate him, even though I want to.
“Gonna pick a fight?” he snaps. I flinch, realizing what Chel meant about them being charged, then narrow my eyes. I take a deep breath and remind myself of the talk Diesel and I had last night. Not in public.
“We need to talk,” I say. He waits a moment before nodding his head and reaching out for me with his arm. I take the step forward and welcome the way he wraps his arm around my waist, holding me close. The crowd scatters now that the fun is over, and the few people who hang around seem to be primarily on-hand on case shit starts up again.
We turn to walk into the clubhouse when Duke’s eyes catch sight of something near the picnic table. I follow his gaze, and my stomach feels like a thousand butterflies are let loose at once. Directly in the line of Duke’s sight is Jeremy. He’s leaning up against that same fucking bike again, which I now recognize as Duke’s. He’s locked eyes with Duke, and his shoulders are straight. He’s always trying to prove how tough he is at school, and he’s always trying to show me how he can be the man of the house at home. And now here in front of the club he’s trying to be the man he thinks he’s already become. But he’s not, and suddenly I’m horrified for a whole new reason.
“Are you on my fucking bike?” Duke asks. He removes his arm from my waist and rolls his shoulders as he strides toward Jeremy, leaving me behind. I scurry to catch up with Duke, but it’s too late. He’s already reached my asshat brother, who has his chin stuck up in the air like he’s an O.G. or something. Idiot.
“I like the paint job,” Jeremy says, giving the gas tank a pat. The air is forcibly sucked out of my lungs, and the entire world disappears with the exception of Duke and Jeremy.
“Off,” Duke says, hitching
his thumb backward. “Before I break your fucking kneecaps.”
“Chill,” Jeremy says and gives Duke an incredulous look. As he pushes off the bike, a grating, scratching sound sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t move a muscle, nor do I take in a breath. Very slowly, Duke moves toward his bike and shoves Jeremy to the side. Before I can react, Duke’s got Jeremy by the collar of his tee shirt, and he’s holding him so they stand nose to nose.
“You scratched,” he says very slowly, “my bike.”
“Sorry?” Jeremy says in a casual way, like it’s a question he doesn’t really care about. Before Dad went away, he tried to teach Jeremy what it means to be a man, and part of that lesson was to never back down. Only bitches back down, and no son of his is a bitch. Actually, no daughter of his is to back down, either. But Dad isn’t 5’5” and barely a buck twenty. When you’re my size and going up against someone Duke’s size, it’s totally okay to back down and plead for mercy. It might even be okay to beg, I think. But does Jeremy do any of those things?
No.
He smirks.
He fucking smirks.
“You’re going to pay for this, shithead,” Duke says and shoves Jeremy away. The second I see the opening, I stand in front of my brother and stare up at Duke. He grits his teeth and, with rage in his eyes, says, “Move.”
Knowing that this could turn out to be a very bad idea, I take a step closer to Duke and place my hand on his chest. Leaning in, I say, “Please, we need to check your head.”
Duke shakes his head and pushes slightly against my hand. Being sweet is all I got in my toolbox to get Duke to chill out enough so that my brother can keep his teeth, and unfortunately for Jeremy’s smile, sweet doesn’t always come easy for me. Stepping off to the side, I remove my hand from his chest, and look at the pavement. Diesel said I just have to do better and demand better of Duke, and that’s all I really got. So I bite back my temper and gently place my hand on Duke’s back. His muscles tense at the contact. I keep my hand still, but make circles over his cut with my thumb. It takes a good, long minute before the tension dissipates and he screams, “Fuck!”
“He’s lucky he’s your brother or he’d be in the emergency room right now,” he says without taking his eyes off Jeremy. The words are clearly meant for me, so I give him an “I know, baby,” Grady strides up and grabs a hold of Jeremy by the back of his neck, giving him a menacing grin.
“I’ll babysit while you two talk your shit out,” Grady says then drags Jeremy, who’s finally catching on that he did something wrong, into the clubhouse.
Duke turns around and stares at me with a blank expression. I move slowly, reaching out and taking his hand. With a quick squeeze, he moves forward, and we walk into the clubhouse, hand-in-hand.
I’m sick of the walk down the hall to his room. Nothing good ever comes of us going to his room, but I have orders from Grady, and I don’t want to be the next person he babysits after he gets done with Jeremy. As far a I’m concerned, Grady and I can be like ships passing in the night. This time, though, it’s different. I lead the way, and I’m the one to open the door. I’m the one who waits until Duke walks in, and then I shut the door behind me.
He says nothing at first. He just walks to the dresser in the corner and places his hands on the edge, shoulder-width apart, and leans in. When he finally stops huffing and puffing like he’s a character out of The Three Little Pigs, he says, “My bike. He scratched my fucking bike.”
“He fucked up, and I’ll bet he’s paying for it,” I say. I feel like such a traitor, but really, how many times can I cover for his ass?
“My bike,” he says slowly. “There’s no paying for that shit. It’s about respect.” If I wasn’t so infuriated by how dense he is, I would tell him how hypocritical that is with a few choice curse words. Instead, I remain silent because I can’t even get my vocal chords to work right now. Dick.
“Have you taught him nothing?” he snaps. My fists ball up at my sides, and I squeeze my eyes closed for a minute to let out a silent scream.
“I’m trying here,” I say. I can’t stand here and talk about respect with him right now. Try as I might, I still see Dawn in my head, riding his dick, and smirking at me.
“What?” he grinds out and turns toward me with anger still in his eyes. Pushing off the dresser, he closes the distance between us and presses himself up against me while keeping his arms at his sides. “You got something to say, so say it.”
I keep myself steady and refuse to bend to his heavy frame as it pushes against me. “Your bike can be replaced, the scratch can come out. But that shit you pulled last night? That shit won’t come out.”
Looking down, his face softens, and he takes a step back. Screaming, he slams his fist into the exposed brick just once before pulling back and flopping himself onto the bed. He wipes his now bloody knuckles on his jeans and flexes his hand. With his elbows on his knees, he puts his face in his hands. I want to go to him, and comfort him, but I don’t. All of this frustration he feels needs to happen. He has to feel how much it hurt me to see that shit, how much it’s going to continue to fuck with my mind, and what that means for us. So instead, I stand here and watch as he freaks out.
It starts with the tapping of his foot, and then migrates to the shaking of his leg eventually becomes the scrubbing of his face with his hands. Outside in the forecourt he was losing his shit, but in here, he’s unraveling. When he gets a hold of himself, he stares up at me, elbows still on his knees, and says, “I fucked up.”
“Yeah, you did,” I say, but the words have no real venom to them. He lifts an arm for me to go to him, but I don’t. Keeping my eyes trained on his, I shake my head. He drops his arm and says nothing. He just stares at me. One of us has to give in, and since I know damn well it’s not going to be him, I go first.
“We both fucked up, but that was not okay,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Yeah,” he says and stands to his full height. He comes to me and places his hands on my hips. “Past is the past.”
“No, that’s a fucking cop out,” I say. I’m not screaming and I’m not whispering. I’m neither livid nor afraid; I just feel kind of dead inside. “What you did was wrong.”
“Tried to call you, got no answer. Last I heard from you, you told me I’d never touch you again.”
“Since when do you listen to what I want or what I say? It’s awful convenient for you to start now.”
“I was pissed, okay? That shit you pulled pissed me off, and I fucked up, did something I regret,” he says, giving my hips a squeeze. “You shouldn’t have seen that shit.”
“Say it,” I demand and take a step backward. He pulls me back to him, and even though we’re quasi-fighting—I’m not sure this counts as fighting since nobody is screaming and no punches are being thrownI like being in his arms. It feels right and safe.
“Say you’re sorry,” I say again. His jaw tenses, and he stands stone still. I stand resolved even though I doubt this is going to end well. Forsaken don’t apologize, and they don’t beg. The silence in the room eats me alive while I wait for words he’s determined never to say.
“You have to trust me,” he says. “You gotta trust that from here on out I’m gonna do right by you.”
“I can’t,” I say. Trusting him isn’t that simple, not after what I saw. Leaning down, he kisses the shell of my ear and basks my neck in his warm breath.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m really fucking sorry that you had to see that shit.” I almost feel the victory of getting him to say he’s sorry, but it doesn’t happen.
“I don’t want you to be sorry that I saw it. I want you to be sorry that you did it,” I whisper. Letting my head fall against the crook of his neck, I close my eyes and breathe him in. Everything about him and this situation is painful. From the first time I saw him and he looked right through me, to the years he spent sleeping around and bragging about every Brenda and Amy and Mandie he hooked up with, to us finally hookin
g up, to every fight, and every soft moment. It just hurts. And I don’t think relationships are supposed to be this hard or this painful, so I give up.
“And that’s why I can’t trust you,” I say and pull back. The disappointment tears at my open wounds and sends me reeling for something—anything—to make me feel better. He fights me, trying to keep a grip on my hips, but I shove him off while whispering the word no until it’s the only thing I understand about what’s going on.
Finally, he steps back and slowly shakes his head. “Don’t do this,” he says in a pained voice.
“This only works one way,” I say, feeding him his own club’s bullshit lines. “We have to respect each other, and I don’t respect you enough to be your woman.” I move around him, but don’t get very far. He reaches out and grabs my wrist. I don’t look back when I beg, “Please, just let me go.”
I asked for it, but still my stomach sinks when he drops my hand and doesn’t protest anymore as I walk out of the door. I walk quickly down the hall and into the main room. A crowd at the bar catches my eye. In the center is Jeremy and he wears a solemn expression on his face. Around him is Ryan, Grady, Chief, Diesel, and Wyatt. All their heads rise when I stop in the center of the room and turn toward them. Diesel lifts his chin in silent question and I just shake my head in response. Every emotion I’ve been keeping at bay wells in my chest, but I fight it back.
Diesel stands from his seat and grabs Jeremy by the back of his neck, escorting him out of the clubhouse. I follow behind, and when Diesel releases Jeremy and shoves him toward the car, I give Diesel a sad smile. He grunts and says, “Got his ass beat and he still fucks it up?”
“Nah,” I say quietly, “I’m just not his girl.” Diesel shakes his head and narrows his eyes. Turning around, I reach out for Jeremy, who’s stalled in place, and tug him toward the car and then peel out like there’s no tomorrow. Grocery shopping long forgotten, I speed back toward the house and come up with a game plan. Jeremy sits in his seat in perfect silence as I drive. He doesn’t dare utter a single word until we’re a block from the house.