by Bijou Hunter
Maybe one day, I’ll have a kid who thinks I’m a weirdo. Before I can get too comfy with the family feeling, though, a few people need killing.
After more men arrive at the house, Bronco heads to the basement. I feel Wyatt’s gaze on me as I walk in front of him. Rather than react, I ignore his fucking attitude. Everyone knows his wife is a cunt. DeAnna is uppity and low class at the same time. I see how the other honeys can’t stand her.
Does DeAnna ever worry that Wyatt will get bored of her? Or, more likely, some club bunny will turn up pregnant with his kid. Then she’ll lose her shit, and he’ll kick her out of the house. What can she do? Take him to court for alimony? The people in this community refuse to involve the law in our problems. If DeAnna breaks that rule, her body will never be found for the funeral.
But for now, she’s in good with her husband. More importantly, Bambi protects her. Bronco’s sisters hold a lot of power in the Woodlands. But even they aren’t around for this meeting.
“Hitting the Village is more complicated than we thought,” Bronco says once everyone’s corralled in his basement. “The Volkshalberd called in what’s left of the Killing Joes.”
My club brothers all look accusingly at me. Even after the others refocus on Bronco, Wyatt refuses to look away. I continue to ignore him. Conor treated me real nice today, and I suspect he’ll be the man in charge soon. Caring about Wyatt’s opinion isn’t something I have to pretend to do.
“John Marks might have other people in Elko or in the Village,” Bronco continues. “We don’t know what they’re planning. We could be walking into an ambush.”
“So, is the plan to pass around and fuck one of their bitches to make things square?” Wyatt sneers, bringing up a sore spot for our president from a few years back.
Sighing, Bronco glances at me. “If he speaks up again before I’m finished, punch him in the face.”
My president is well aware of how these men are terrified of his giant. My fist is as big as most of their fucking heads. Not Hoagie’s moon-shaped one, though.
“The Killing Joes like to set up booby traps,” Conor says, and Wyatt opens his mouth to complain about how his cousin gets to speak. Then the blond shithead remembers my fist and closes his trap. “Drummer almost lost a leg when we hit one of their drug houses. Let’s assume they’ve set up a few in the Village.”
Crossing his arms, Lowell adds, “But they’re limited to how much they can protect or patrol. The area is too big, and there are plenty of weak spots in the fencing running around the Village.”
Bronco looks over the men and explains, “We know the Killing Joes aren’t at any local hotels within twenty miles. They might be shacked up with a chick or sleeping in a tent in the woods. That’s why we’ll bait them with Conor’s idea.”
His nephew nods. “The problem with attacking the Village is that we only want to kill John Marks and his allies while avoiding the deaths of a shit-ton of civilians.”
“Do we know Marks is in the Village?” Rooster asks.
“He was there the night those assholes shot at Anders. Based on the way Gunther behaved yesterday,” Bronco answers, “Marks is still in the Village. Sneaking around Elko won’t be easy now. We have everyone in town looking for Marks. Let’s assume he’s there and in communication with the Killing Joes.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Rooster asks after his son—Wyatt—gets antsy.
“We use drones,” Bronco says and gestures for Conor to continue.
After his nephew explains the plan, I notice Wyatt wanting to bitch. A few other guys seem unsure, too. Bronco’s been in charge for too long to remain blind to their signals.
Trying to settle them down, he says, “A week ago, we didn’t know about Marks or the Killing Joes. Going in half-assed will get people killed. Maybe some of us. Now, I know a few of you might like to catch a bullet just to avoid dealing with your woman. Personally, I like my wife and would prefer to see my kids grow up.”
Squirming around in his chair and breathing heavy, Wyatt can barely keep his mouth shut now. He always acts like an ill-tempered child rather than a guy prepared to lead.
However, Wyatt keeps his mouth shut. No way has he forgotten how my hand felt wrapped around his throat.
“We have the chance to clear out two enemies at one time,” Bronco continues. “The Killing Joes never put their club back together. These assholes are mercenaries now. They have no loyalty to Marks, and he doesn’t play well with others. Neither side is coherent enough to take us down, but that doesn’t mean one of us can’t end up buried.”
“What happens when Marks and the Killing Joes are dead?” Rooster asks.
“Then we pick a new leader for the Volkshalberd,” Conor says, seeming to startle Bronco with this idea. “The Village needs to fall under our control. We’ll claim we’re doing them a favor after Marks destroyed our trust. In reality, the club can’t worry they’ll crown a new madman to run the place.”
Though Bronco might approve of this plan, he’s on edge now. His nephew is acting like the man in charge. Wyatt notices the shift in mood and stops fidgeting. A smug grin takes over his face.
“The Killing Joes,” I say, drawing everyone’s attention away from Bronco and Conor, “are muscle. That’s it. They aren’t coming up with strategy. They just want money and a shot at punishing the Executioners. Don’t waste time viewing them as a threat like the Reapers. They’re no more than trigger-happy clowns.”
“Do you think we could hit the Village from the back, where Pixie slipped out and met you?” Lowell says, glancing at Conor.
Bronco clears his throat. “First, we attempt to draw out the Killing Joes. Once they’re dead or we’re certain they’ve bailed on Marks, we hit the Village.”
My club brothers nod, approving the idea of attacking the enemy. But none are ready for dead kids. I know that much. If we hit the Village too fast or hard and kids die or cry next to their dead mothers, the men in the Executioners will struggle with their choice to attack.
I know I will. Back with the Killing Joes, I likely did horrible things. Those memories can’t haunt me, though. My mind was too far gone to remember my sins. But I no longer enjoy such a luxury. If I accidentally put a bullet in a child, I’ll never be able to shrug it off as an accident or the cost of war.
PIXIE
For a long time, Anders owned my thoughts, even if I only saw him every few days. Occasionally, we went a week without meeting. Now in his house, I should be able to enjoy his company. Except people and circumstances keep pulling us apart.
“I have to go out,” he said earlier while changing clothes. “I’ll be at Bronco’s. It’s two blocks away. If you need me, I can get back fast.”
Anders handed me a phone as he prepared to leave the bedroom. I tugged hard on his hand, making him stop. Despite his frown, I maneuvered him closer to the bed. Then I climbed on the mattress, using its height to hold him against me.
“I love you,” I said, stroking his head. “You are special. Your heart is filled with sunshine, and I want it to belong to me.”
Anders’s tension faded, and he looked up at me. “I’m glad you’re here. It drove me crazy not knowing if you were safe.”
I ran my fingers over his forehead before kissing the tanned flesh. His arms wrapped around me. My lips pressed against his, careful to avoid encouraging his sexual urges. Walking around with an erect penis-cock seemed distracting.
But Anders still deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue against mine, wanting more. His fingers gripped my thighs, tugging them apart and demanding what he knew he couldn’t have.
“When you come home,” I said once my lips were free.
“We can be quick,” he muttered and then shook his head as if coming out of a trance. “When I come home.”
“No, when you come home, we’ll take our time,” I whispered, kissing his cheek. “How long will you be gone?”
Rather than enjoy thoughts of our future sexual fun, Anders started explaining
how we might be attacked. He showed me all the security and a special room in the basement. He told me a lot of rules. Mama followed us, listening too. I hoped she remembered better than I did.
By the time Anders leaves the house, I understand to avoid answering the door and to stay inside with everything locked.
Yet, despite us hiding, my family is safe. Future naps in a chair while holding a block. Dove sits in another chair, looking outside rather than at the television. Mama relaxes on the same couch as me. We watch a show where three people cook very quickly before three other people judge the food. I like how sweaty the chefs get.
“Why didn’t you say more when those women browbeat me?” I ask Mama during a commercial.
“I’m trying not to feed my monster,” she says, holding her stomach. “This home is not what I imagined for my life. I don’t understand how things work here. But I want the gifts of my womb to have food and a warm bed. If I have to bite my tongue, I will do it.”
“But they were rude.”
“You’re no longer a child. You stood up to them. And, most importantly, you learned which of them would help you. My silence was a good thing.”
Reaching for her hand, I whisper, “You seem sad.”
“I couldn’t figure out how to feed my children,” Mama mumbles and waves at the stove. “If left up to me, we’d starve.”
“Three of us tried to figure it out, Mama.” When I recall how easy the solution turned out to be, I start giggling. “Three women couldn’t figure out how to push in the knob.”
Mama smiles before laughing behind her hand. Dove smiles nearby. We are so clueless in this world.
“I want us to be together,” Mama says, reaching over to hold Dove’s hand. “The Village was killing us, but I didn’t know where to go. I kept waiting for John Marks to fall over and crack his fat head on something. He’s so clumsy, but that was a dumb hope for a dumb man. He never would have died, and we would have starved. It’s good that you helped Anders. He opened his house to us. His people aren’t Dandelions, but they’re better than the Volkshalberd.”
Suddenly, Dove walks to the back doors and looks out over the yard.
Worried, I ask, “Do you see danger?”
“I’m wondering about the water,” she says dreamily. “Is the big area like a bath too?”
“I didn’t go in the pool.”
Dove touches the glass door. “Do you think Anders would let us go in it?”
“But it’ll be dark,” Mama says.
“There are lights in the pool,” I say, causing Dove’s eyes to widen. “I don’t know if it’s cold, though. The hot tub has the word ‘hot’ in the name, and the pool doesn’t. I’m not sure what the rules are.”
“Anders will explain when he returns,” Mama says and then frowns at the doors. “What’s that in the corner of the yard? I see movement.”
“Birds,” Dove answers.
I smile at Mama. “You need glasses.”
“They have some at the one dollar store.”
“Those are for reading. You need the kind for far away.”
Mama sighs. “More money to spend. Anders won’t let us stay if we keep wasting his money.”
Frowning, I don’t know if she’s right. Anders wants me. But he’s also been agitated since I’ve been in his house. Maybe he won’t want us around after John Marks is dead, and we can return to the Village.
“It’s only been two days,” I tell Mama. “It’s all very new.”
“He only wanted you.”
“Well, I only wanted him,” I admit and shrug. “Not all his friends or his club or those women from today.”
“Topanga is nice. Lana too. And the one sister voted for a chicken coop.”
“Yes, and you, Dove, and Future are nice, too. Anders only wanted me, but he got my family. I only wanted him, and I got his club. It’s even.”
Mama looks at me as if I’m too young to understand. She might be right. I feel overwhelmed by the rules and the many buttons to push and the names of people. When I dreamed of Anders taking me for a ride on his big bicycle, I never imagined this house. I didn’t even know places like this existed.
I’m curious about what the rest of this area looks like. Are the houses all the same? Who lives here? Those people come to this house, but I don’t know where they go when they leave. I feel as if my fantasy about Anders was very small—him and me and his loud bike—and the reality is very large and complicated.
That’s how he probably sees his new life with my family. His house must have been very quiet before we arrived. I don’t think he ate here often. That’s why the fridge had no food. What did Anders do with himself before we arrived? Did he sit in silence?
No, he went to the clubhouse named after a chicken. He also watched movies in his special room downstairs. At home, he was alone. At the clubhouse, he was with his friends. Also, I think Rooster’s is where the bunny women live.
Sighing, I rest my head on the back of the couch. “It’s only been two nights here. One for you. It’s still confusing and new. I don’t know what Anders will be like tonight. He’s always different. But I believe he enjoys doing stuff for people. Not everyone. But he smiled at Future playing with the toys.”
Mama remains unconvinced. Anders isn’t like the men she knew at the Collective or even at the Village. Money confuses her. I think the real reason she didn’t stand up to the women today was that she feels out of sorts. Mama hasn’t figured out how to be herself in this place. I feel the same way. I’m not me now. Maybe Anders isn’t Anders anymore, either.
Change isn’t bad in itself. The world has to keep moving, or it’ll die. We’ll just have to find a way to change without losing what makes us special.
ANDERS
The men remain in Bronco’s basement for another forty minutes, bullshitting mainly. I hear some of them mention tomorrow’s party at the Woodlands’ clubhouse. Others talk about wanting to hit the Village as soon as possible. I sense a disconnect between the troubles outside the Woodlands and the carefree life inside these gates.
After a while, Bronco takes me aside to his gym. Lowell joins us while Conor doesn’t.
Once the door is shut, Bronco asks, “How would the Killing Joes handle a situation like this?”
“They’d go in guns blazing,” I say, and Bronco glances at an unreadable Lowell. “But that was Lonnie. He didn’t know how to do strategy. If he did, killing Wheels wouldn’t have happened.”
“Why did they come into the clubhouse?”
“My guess is they wanted to be seen. Shooting up the place was suicide. They didn’t know who was still at the clubhouse, which is why they kept close to the front doors. If things got messy, they had a better shot at escaping. They weren’t looking to kill anyone. Their goal was for you to worry.”
“Well, I am fucking worried,” Bronco mutters, running a hand through his dark hair. “Never before did those assholes come to Elko. They got Wheels near Cleveland. Now, they’re here.”
“Two of them are,” I point out. “There’s no club anymore. They’re just mercenaries now.”
“How is that better?”
“Mercenaries care about making money, not dying for a cause that isn’t theirs. Marks wants Elko. Gak and Roadrunner don’t. They might like the idea of revenge, but they want it to come easy.”
Bronco considers my words before asking, “Do you think they’ll try to get into the community?”
Earlier, I got paranoid about my family’s safety, but that was just me feeling attacked on all sides. When I think rationally about the situation, I find myself chuckling.
“The first time I came to the Woodlands, I got lost leaving your house. Sure, Gak and Roadrunner might jump the security fence. But how will they find their targets? They want you or me. That’s it. No way are they willing to die to kill Hoagie or some other guy they’ve never heard of. You probably can’t see it, but this community is confusing. I can’t imagine Roadrunner and Gak tracking down your exac
t address before managing to jump the right fence without being seen. Just so they can get killed on their way out.”
Bronco breathes a little easier. I ought to keep my mouth shut, but I keep talking anyway.
“That doesn’t mean they won’t take a shot at you if you’re at the clubhouse or riding around. If they thought they could kill you or me without paying any cost, they’d do it. But they’re here for the money. Once they get all they can out of Marks, they won’t stick around to die. If they were feeling that fucking brave, they would have come after me after I killed Lonnie.”
Bronco crosses his arms and frowns hard at the wall. Fatherhood was his one weakness. After nearly losing his oldest kid, Bronco’s been burdened with the idea that his family isn’t safe. These days, he’s even got his fragile-as-fuck baby upstairs.
And Bronco just brought Lana into his world. Probably made promises about how he had shit locked down in Elko. Then the Village went sideways, and he’s dealing with another resurfaced threat. Bronco is right to be on edge.
But I’m not the guy to help him decide his plan of attack. For years, I’ve watched Bronco brainstorm without once offering a suggestion. Why change today?
“Do I have to go to this party tomorrow?” I ask Lowell while Bronco thinks.
“Yes.”
“Bambi and Barbie already got into it at my house today.”
“That’s how shit works in the Woodlands, Anders,” Lowell says, seeming tired. “Topanga jumped through the same hoops when she hooked up with me. Lana recently went through that shit, too. Just like how a prospect has to eat shit to prove his worth, the old ladies expect new honeys to pass their tests.”
“I feel as if those tests are more stressful for Pixie and her family. Not because they’re mine, but they come from such a different world. Now, they have to learn all new shit while people push them to conform.”
Bronco shoots that testy side-glance he leans into whenever I act too friendly. I suspect trusting me on a deep level is a step he’s terrified to take.