by Lena Bourne
A sweet scent is riding the air just beneath the stench of destruction—burned human flesh? I don’t want to know.
What the fuck happened here?
“Blaze, we’re over here,” Colt says beside me. I didn’t hear him walk up.
He points at a vast field of dried grass and drier shrubbery. In the distance, I can just about make out a group of men, black against the night with here and there a glint of silver.
Colt gets on the back of my bike, directing me to take the long way around to reach them.
The silence of the group is a physical presence, so charged with hatred and the frustration of not being able to do anything that it’s almost visible.
Cross isn’t among them yet, but Tank and Ice are, along with about fifteen others including Ace and Rook, their eyes glowing black.
“What happened?” I ask Colt as we take our places at the edge of the group.
“We don’t know for sure yet. As far as we know it was just a regular Tuesday night until all of a sudden a bunch of explosions went off. At least two in the bar. More in the bunkhouse. Luckily, since it was a Tuesday, not many guys or girls were in there. Cross was supposed to be.”
Colt is talking a mile a minute the way he always does when he’s nervous. I wait for it all to sink in, because it’s too much too fast. That’s not the whole reason I’m having trouble comprehending it. The real reason is that I don’t want to.
The cloud of smoke has detached from the ruined building and is now floating higher and higher into the starry night sky, destroying the vision of its perfection that I’ve been basking in for the last two nights. The air still stinks of fire and things destroyed, things broken beyond repair.
This is my life.
Revenge will follow. Sweet and black and more destructive than the scene I’m witnessing.
There is no place for pure Misti in all of this. It’s a good thing I left her tonight, still untouched. The way she should stay.
“How many dead?” I ask hoarsely.
Rook turns to me. The tightness in his eyes makes them look black and dead. He’s our Sergeant at Arms and it’s very obvious that he believes he should have prevented this.
“At least fifteen of ours, dead or injured, we don’t know,” he says. “About ten others, maybe more.”
The Vegas Clubhouse bar is members only, though that policy is not strictly enforced. Brothers are allowed to bring dates and buddies in.
This is some kind of retaliation for something. It’s gotta be. How did no one see it coming?
But I kinda see why.
The Devils never get attacked, especially not on our own turf. We’re the ones that do the attacking. The ones who destroy clubs for pay. Whoever did this must have a huge death wish, because none of us will stop until every one of those fifteen brothers is avenged. And we’re a gang nearly two-hundred killers strong.
The phone Rook is gripping in his fist starts flashing and he slams it against his ear. I can hear someone talking fast on the other end of the line, but not what’s being said.
“Alright,” Rook finally grunts and hangs up.
“Heads up,” he growls in his commanding voice. “Cross, Hawk, and Doc have arrived. They’re looking over the scene now. We’re to go to the bunker in the desert and wait for them there.”
The group of previously still, silent men turns into a chorus of mumbled agreements, the creaking of leather and the scuffle of boots against gravel sounding as though wind has picked up, rustling us all.
The men start moving further into the darkness of the vast field, like night come alive.
Colt grabs my arm and halts me from following.
“What?” I snap, but he just shakes his head, and silently stares after the retreating brothers.
Only when the last of them is lost in the darkness does he turn to me. “I was in the bar with Buddy and Slate, the boys from back home.”
I stare at him, the full impact of what happened tonight finally fully hitting home.
“You were in there?” I somehow manage to say even though my throat is so clamped up I can barely get any air into my lungs.
He nods. “Lucky for me, Brenda started complaining that it was too boring and that she knew of a much better way to spend the night. And even luckier, her idea of a better time wasn’t going to one of the bedrooms.”
I just stare at him, trying not to imagine how close it came to me never seeing him again.
“The boys said they’d just finish their drinks and follow us,” he continues. “But it wasn’t just the two of them, they brought Crow, Hijack, and Mouse.”
The faces that flash before my eyes as he names them are young. I haven’t seen any of them since high school. While Buddy and Slate were good friends of ours, the other three are members of the family that has vowed to destroy mine.
“Why were they all here together?” I ask.
“They’re all members of Snakeskins MC now,” Colt says. “I only found out in the parking lot of the clubhouse right before we went in. “
His words make a sound much like a warning siren going on.
“Do you think they did it?” I ask.
“I told them you were sleeping it off at the clubhouse,” he says. “That’s the excuse I made as to why you weren’t there to hang out with them.”
“They wouldn’t attack the Devils just to kill me in my sleep. Would they?”
He shrugs. “Snakeskins were never very bright. Or cared a whole lot whether they lived or died.”
My family is the same way. Too many loved ones lost on both sides in our generations-long feud have turned most hearts to stone. I lost my baby brother to it right before I left. He was twelve and it was either leave or stoop to that same level in revenge. I still wake up in a cold sweat some mornings, regretting my choice, regretting not plunging a knife just as deeply into their hearts as they plunged it into mine. My own family has disowned me because I refused to travel that dark road.
I didn’t believe the feud I left would follow me to the Devils, but maybe it has.
“I have to come clean to Cross,” I say and Colt nods.
Death follows me, I’ve known that for years. It’s why I’ve been able to deal it out without getting swallowed up by guilt.
But if tonight’s destruction is down to me, I sure believe it will suck me under for good.
I should’ve let myself have Misti tonight, because it was my one and only chance.
The bunker is a weapons storage facility in the desert just outside of Vegas. It’s a concrete building, constructed in the 1980s or thereabouts, and wasn’t meant to hold men, just weapons. Unlike the bunker down near San Diego, this one is much smaller and comprised of two stories of doorless cubicles where crates full of weapons are stored. Most are empty now, since the last deal we made cleaned it out.
Colt and me are leaning against the main door, which opens into a hallway about six feet wide. One wall is windowless concrete, the other lined with dim cubicles. Directly opposite us is a concrete staircase with no railing that leads to the second story, which is identical to this one. The flickering fluorescent light illuminates the hall just fine, but leaves the cubicles in near darkness. Here and there the orange glow of cigarettes breaks it.
While Devil’s Nightmare MC started as a mercenary club, our current president Cross has been trying to restructure and move away from trading in death to only trading in weapons. Just a different kind of death, some of the brothers have been saying, but I prefer it to the more hands-on variety.
We’re on the brink of slipping back into those roots though and every man huddled into this bunker knows it. The near-silence screams it.
Brothers keep arriving, some in groups, some alone. By the time Ace, who was standing outside, pokes his head in and announces that Cross is approaching, the bunker is nearly full.
My heart feels like a rock in my chest, frozen still. Past sins will always catch you. I don’t know who told me that, maybe my grandmother, bu
t it’s true. I just hoped it wouldn’t be.
The silence is as thick as a heavy wool blanket as the sound of boots thudding against the packed earth outside reaches us. A few moments later, Cross enters the bunker, followed by Hawk.
The brothers are filling the hallway now, standing so close together not an inch of grey concrete is visible between them. I stand aside to give Cross space, Colt just beside me.
“I’ll make this brief,” Cross says. “Five brothers died today, six more are fighting for their lives. Three club girls are dead too. We will remember them all. But first, we will avenge them.”
Grunts and yells of assent interrupt him. There’s nothing excited about the sound. Only cold hard purpose, as hard as a knife slicing flesh.
“We don’t know who it was yet,” Cross says. “But we will soon. And then they’ll know what happens when you attack Devil’s Nightmare MC.”
Louder sounds of agreement erupt this time, speaking in perfect unison it seems, as though the night itself is vowing revenge.
“Go find a place to sleep, but stay close,” Cross says. “I’ll need you all soon.”
“We’re staying right here, Prez,” one of the older members—Bear, says and nearly everyone agrees.
Cross nods and leaves the building. The time has come for me to share my story with him.
“Cross, can I have a word?” I call after him before I’m ready to. But I’ll never be ready. Better do it now, while the hope and bliss Misti’s kisses filled my veins with are still a clear memory.
I interrupted Cross and Hawk discussing something hurriedly and now they’re both staring at me. The headlights of many bikes are on, creating a pool of near-white light in front of the bunker, and they’re standing right in the middle of it.
I clear my throat. “It’s about who might be behind this attack.”
“Tell us,” Cross commands, his piercing black gaze even more intense in darkness than it is by the light of day.
“Back home in Two Forks, Nebraska I was a hunted man,” I say. “A family allied with Snakeskins MC has vowed to see every member of my family dead. I never imagined they’d follow me all the way here, but five of them were at the clubhouse bar last night.”
“On my invitation,” Colt says, earning a sharp look from Hawk whose assistant he recently became.
“Why didn’t I know about this?” Hawk asks. He’s the MC’s tech officer and excels at neutralizing every threat before it becomes a problem. The fact that he didn’t see this one coming must weigh heavy on him.
“I just thought I was meeting very old friends of mine. I didn’t know they were Snakeskins,” Colt says. “Not until we got to the bar. And even then, they pretended to only be there to visit me and Blaze.”
He turns to me. “They hinted that your two families reached some sort of a truce, but wouldn’t say anything more until you got there. It’s why I called you the first time.”
“Can one of you get to the damn point?” Cross snaps, somehow fixing both of us with his piercing gaze without moving his eyes. “Did these men come here to kill Blaze?”
I nod. “It could very well be.”
My words land heavy, the thud they made echoing into the silence.
Hawk shakes his head. “It sounds far-fetched. Why take out an entire clubhouse and make an enemy of us all just to get one man? Much easier to kill you in secret.”
Cross nods. “I agree, it makes no sense at all. But look into it anyway.”
He fixes me with his gaze and the look in his eyes isn’t quite as piercing as it was. “Good of you to tell us this, son. Stay here to answer all of Hawk’s questions when he has them for you.”
“Of course,” I mutter looking down at the ground.
Did I just make a complete fool of myself in front of the man I have come to respect far more than I ever respected my own father?
Better that than the alternative. Namely, that the baggage I brought with me when I joined the Devils has now claimed the lives of five brothers and counting.
Cross turns to Hawk. “Go get me the answers now. I want them as soon as possible.”
“You’ll have them,” Hawk says.
Cross takes his leave and Hawk turns to us.
“Come on, we’re going to look for these buddies of yours,” he says. “With any luck, they haven’t left town yet. But even if they have, we can still catch up with them if we move fast. I’ll be right back, be ready to ride.”
He strides off and Colt watches him leave.
“Do you think we just jumped to a dumb conclusion?” he asks. “We could be wasting Hawk’s time with this.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “The Snakeskins want me bad. But I’m hoping it wasn’t them, if you know what I mean?”
“I do,” he says and looks at me with concern in his eyes. “But you’ll get through it.”
“Let’s just wait to find out what’s what before you start commiserating with me,” I snap, because I know exactly what he’s thinking. Namely, that I’ll find it very hard to live with the guilt if all the death tonight was aimed only at me.
He’s not wrong at all.
Misti
Birdsong is filling my bedroom, clear and so timelessly beautiful I could just lie here, under the warm covers with my eyes closed, basking in pleasant daydreams all day. Together with very real memories of being kissed properly for the first time in my life, kissed by a man who looks better than any I’ve ever daydreamed about no less. Or dreamed about, for that matter.
But he left me alone on the porch of my dark and empty home last night, and I don’t know how I feel about that. Not entirely good, that’s for sure. He didn’t even ask for my number. Or tell me when I’ll see him next. Just that I will.
Is that how dating works?
I throw off my covers and sit up too fast. The room softens at the edges and for the next few seconds, my mind is filled only with the awareness of my fluttering, yet racing heartbeat and trying to get enough air into my lungs so it can continue.
I know the sensation well. My world becomes very small when this sensation washes over me. It consists only of my heart and the intense wish for it to keep beating, everything else is a blur of bright, vivid color, usually bright yellow and red.
I haven’t felt this in months now, not since soon after the operation. Fearing that it’s now back for good is not doing anything to calm me down.
I take deep breaths, in and out, each to the count of three, and think of nothing but the refreshing oxygen entering my body, just as a doctor taught me a long time ago. And slowly the attack passes. Birdsong once again reaches my ears, melodic and beautiful despite the chaos of sounds it’s comprised of. Colors and clarity return to the room too.
The vibrant colors of Stormi’s old outfits that she’s letting me have are in a messy pile on the armchair by the window. Once, long ago, when my grandmother was young, that chair was bright yellow with beautiful pale pink and white roses stitched into it, but now it’s a drab dull grey and even the roses have lost all their color. I practically lived in that chair growing up, watching life unfold outside. Not much unfolded, since this has always been a pretty quiet neighborhood. It was almost like watching TV, which I also did a lot of. Though sometimes the action scenes and poignant love stories proved too much for my sickly heart.
Is that what’s happening now?
Is the love story I’m living proving too much for my poor heart?
I don’t want to answer those questions. I don’t even want to think about them.
I get out of bed slowly to prevent another attack and get dressed even more so. I opt for the tank top with the kissing lips and a pair of cut-off jeans that come down to mid-thigh on me, whereas they barely covered Stormi’s butt back in the day.
I mean to live every day now. Truly live. I never could before, I just pretended to be doing it. But now I can and it starts with dressing the part.
I wish I had more money so I could afford my own clothes, ones that
fit me well, but my disability checks were never really enough to splurge on myself. And never will be.
I should find a job.
But every time I brought that subject up after my surgery, Mom and Stormi were both dead set against it, saying they’ll always make sure I have enough and that I shouldn’t overstrain myself.
But I don’t want to under-strain myself either.
I’m tired of being a wallflower.
I want to live all the life I’ve only watched until now.
The house is quiet and I try to make as little noise as possible descending the stairs just in case Stormi is sleeping, though more than likely, she never came home last night.
I’m almost in the kitchen when I hear her thudding footsteps coming down the stairs after me.
“So, how was last night?” she asks with a huge smile on her face and her eyes still half-closed. Her long honey-colored hair is a messy nest around her head.
I smile at her, my cheeks heating up. I want to tell her everything, both about what happened and about what I wanted to happen, but I’ve never had a conversation like that with her, or with anyone for that matter. I’m even a little embarrassed to think about it, to be honest.
“That good, huh?” she says and strides towards me, wraps her arm under mine, and starts marching me into the kitchen. “Come, you’ll tell me all about it over coffee.”
I’m glad for the respite and busy myself with getting the coffee going, while she rummages in the fridge for some breakfast.
“Ace really eats for ten,” she says. “I’ll have to go shopping again today. This is about all that’s left.”
She puts a nearly empty packet of sliced bread, half a stick of butter, and a jar of pickles that’s mostly just a jar of vinegar on the counter.
“Great, I’ll come with you,” I say.
A tight look passes over her eyes, and I can just hear her objections, but then she clears her throat and nods firmly. “OK good, we’ll go after breakfast. I’d love some help. Especially if Ace plans on eating here regularly.”
She chuckles at her own joke and reaches back into the fridge for the milk.