by Lana Grayson
The jukebox finally kicked on. Even Led Zeppelin couldn’t distract me.
I sunk into a booth as the patrons split from the diner. Suzy and Dominic fluttered over Steve, though he panicked and ran as soon as they sat him up.
“What the hell happened?” Suzy wailed.
Good question.
My brothers happened.
Anathema happened.
Violence and anarchy happened.
The same thing always happened. No matter how far I tried to run, and no matter how much time elapsed between visits, nothing I did, nothing I said, would free me from the club.
The specter of Anathema shackled me just like the handcuffs that so often shackled my family.
Except this time it was my fault.
I invited them back. I asked for their help.
No amount of money was worth this life.
It was time for me to sever my ties and escape from it once and for all.
But no amount of money existed that could hide me from Anathema.
One of Anathema’s brothers was a traitor.
I didn’t know who. That bought them some time.
But it wouldn’t be long until I figured it out. Then they’d know how bad they fucked up.
No one betrayed Anathema.
No one betrayed me.
The ride to the clubhouse should’ve been easy. Times changed, but even in the worst battles, no one harassed Anathema in broad daylight.
But the traitor tipped off members of The Coup.
They didn’t need to make their presence known, not when every breath they took was an affront to the scarred demon on their vests. They decided to ride today just to fuck with me.
I didn’t have the patience. The gun holstered against my back weighed two bullets too heavy.
I rolled through a stop sign. The two bikes behind me didn’t slow. They cut off a car and swerved to avoid an oncoming truck. A horn blared, but they didn’t care if it gave them away.
I doubted they had any shame. What little honor they had washed away with our brothers’ blood, diluted by rain and gasoline in the street after our last war.
First they forged an alliance outside Anathema’s charter. Then they started their own club. Now they didn’t even hide.
And why would they? They stole Anathema’s colors, the black and red that declared the city ours for generations. They followed us through the streets. Even thought they had rights to our territory.
They thought they had a right to fucking live after their betrayal.
And sending their enforcer after me? It didn’t matter if a Coup prospect followed me or they sent their best damn shot in the club, the city was still mine. And as long as they wore Anathema’s rockers on their vest, they belonged to me.
Following me through the city was some bullshit intimidation. The Coup didn’t have the balls to attack, and I had the brains to know my former brothers couldn’t touch me. If they wanted to fight, wanted to piss me off so I’d knife them in broad daylight and get my ass thrown in jail, they’d learned nothing serving under me.
I didn’t become president because I fucked around with vendettas.
I was in charge because no one dared to tempt my wrath.
Two in the afternoon wasn’t a great time for a street fight. It also didn’t make sense for a hit.
They crossed the bridge. It was a half-assed line of delineation, but it stopped the bloodshed. Two months without a funeral was worth chopping the territory in half for a momentary peace. The Coup understood that. Their usurper president, Exorcist, tried to destroy Anathema, but after five of his men died, even he extended a truce.
But Exorcist knew how the feud would ultimately end. I’d fight until they flayed the tattoo off my back and tossed my corpse in the river.
The city wasn’t big enough for two clubs. Both sides of the river shrunk as the days passed, and money pinched tighter than fingers on triggers. But Anathema never rolled over when cornered.
I stopped at a red light. Thursdays meant the Cherrywood Valley farmer’s market spilled into the street. A quaint pain in the ass. Every kid with face paint and little old grandmothers looking to score a discounted peach loitered in the road. Wasn’t like I meant to lure The Coup through the middle of the civilian festival, but the constraints on our territory gave me no other option. They didn’t belong here anyway.
I’d make sure it was the last time they lost themselves on our side of town.
The light turned green just as a polka band harrumph’ed their first melody. My bike roared. A group of teenage girls shrieked as I rode past. The cop on the corner shifted, recognized the cut, and focused his attention on directing traffic away from me.
I surged forward. Steady. Not speeding or recklessly driving through the cluster of innocents darting between booths selling freshly picked vegetables and fried chicken. We didn’t need a confrontation. Not after the last massacre drew the Feds and cost me a road captain and fifty grand to cover up.
The Coup gained on me, encroaching into a sloppy formation. I grimaced. First they tried to intimidate me. Then they started a war, destroyed our alliances and crippled our business. Now they insulted the colors they stole.
Hell if I let those amateur bastards kill me.
I squeezed the throttle and braced myself for the sudden turn. The left wasn’t legal, but it was quick, and The Coup hadn’t expected I’d break from the safety of the farmer’s market and circle into the city. Within a block the pedestrians cleared, but trucks cluttered the road.
The industrial district haunted Cherrywood Valley like an ignored addiction. No matter how many banks or Starbucks or pretty little opera houses they built, the city existed on a rail-yard. It lived, breathed, and bled distribution of both the honest and unsavory type.
I sped and ducked in front of a flatbed. It wasn’t the protection I needed. The driver honked, but the rumbling horn cut off as the driver got a clear view of the lettering on my vest.
I checked my mirrors. The Coup didn’t care about a truck. They flanked his sides, and I got a look at the asshole following me.
Priest.
I once trusted him as our Enforcer, and I used to love him as a brother, but that didn’t mean I’d turn my back on him when he sat at our bar. I’d be damned if he got the jump on me now. Priest earned his handle. Too many men had their last rites read in his presence.
It wasn’t a death-wish if I could see the fire at the end of the tunnel. I braced for the impact of the road or a metal slug and accelerated, heading deeper into the depots and stock yards. A double-axle truck belched a black cloud of exhaust as it pulled from a parking lot. I took my chance. The bike roared, and I burst forward, cutting off the truck and dodging Priest and whichever prospect he forced to tail me.
I didn’t have much time. Disappearing from their immediate view was like tossing down a checkered flag or patching a bulls-eye over my back.
I pushed the bike fast, splitting the lane between the depot trucks and the white-pickups of the gas and oil companies setting up shop outside the city limits. Half a dozen crumbling streets and alleys tied the industrial sector together. Priest knew the area as well as I did, but Thorne Radek didn’t cower in oil-slicked alleyways like a whore waiting for the slap of a pissed off pimp.
I was better than a bullet to the head or eviscerated on a hooked knife.
I had a clear lane to the highway, but so did Priest. The intersection light blinked red before I blasted through the crossing, but my bike gained the edge on a turning truck. Priest lost momentum avoiding the collision. I cut up the on-ramp as my side mirrors seizured with red and blue flashes.
I grunted.
“Not my day.”
The cop cruiser zeroed in on Priest and his prospect. My fist curled over the throttle. Better them than me. I didn’t want to end up on the fucking news.
Or with my brains splattered on Interstate 9.
The on-ramp turned into an impromptu launching pad. My bike growle
d along the road, bursting onto the highway and through traffic like I ditched the Harley for the bullet aimed for my head. I gripped the bike and hauled ass into the passing lane. The stretch of road always moved slow. Tractor trailers limping up to speed from the on-ramp, delivery trucks missing exits and jamming on breaks. It was a commuter nightmare, but Anathema ran the route so often the choke points didn’t surprise me.
But my guts still bled ice when I gunned it through the closing gap of two semis. I bit back my breath. Didn’t help. My vest whipped against the steel of the trailer, and I fought the turbulent under-draft swirling beneath the trucks. The truckers blared their horns, and I skirted the screaming engines and dodged an oblivious Chevy to come out a quarter mile ahead of the wailing sirens and Priest’s pursuit-turned-get-away.
And that’s how we did it.
That’s how we survived.
That’s how we owned the fucking city.
We didn’t accept men into Anathema. We wanted gods. Warriors on bikes who rode like the demons they’d eventually face in Hell. The club was life, and riding the blood pouring through our veins. Nothing nobler existed than spilling crimson for our brothers.
The club tested every man who joined Anathema. Judged their efficiency. Their speed. Their bravery on the road and their skill on the bike. Our business didn’t welcome pussies unless we meant to sell them for cash, and guns and drugs were in more demand than worn-out women with fresher tits than breath.
I didn’t bother checking my gauges. The dusty crust of the drought-cracked ground blurred into the haze of dead-on-impact speed. Running out of town wasn’t an option, especially when riding alone. More dangers existed outside the territory than one pissed-off splinter club, and I wasn’t about to square off in another dispute when we could only limp around our borders.
The bike wove between cars and trucks, dipping low into a tight-ass bend as I squared myself for the next exit. I ducked behind a creeping Honda and swore as the jackass on his cellphone nearly ran the cage off the road. The rumble strip kicked up a chunk of rock that grazed my cheek.
It was bad luck to end a fight without bleeding. The cut under my eye would serve as sufficient sacrifice to whatever fucked-up god demanded the tribute. Better a gash on my cheek than a bullet in my head.
I eased off the exit and made a right, skirting the airport lanes and heading into town. Priest and his prospect didn’t follow...or couldn’t follow with two police cruisers dipping their donuts in the bikes’ exhaust. Didn’t envy them. The good ol’ boy Cherrywood Valley police chief had a hard-on for me anyway. A reckless driving charge would blow his load quicker than head from his teeny-bopper mistress dorming at the community college.
I kept to the back roads and texted my crew at a red light to warn them against riding single tonight. Exorcist wasn’t stupid enough to fail twice, but vengeance poisoned all rationality. I rode through the shadows of our uncontested territory, but the twisting unease never left. Not anymore.
Constantly looking over my shoulder did worse than hurting my neck. It exhausted me.
We’d either lose our edge or our necks would snap. Neither option was appealing.
Keep’s bar and Brew’s warehouse composed half a block of Anathema safe-houses. Their old man had the common sense to set his boys up with some real estate, though the crazy bastard didn’t hide his bloody handprint as well as his financial assets. The bikes stayed in back, away from any wayward civilian dumb enough to wander inside the bar. Keep reserved the rear entrance for the MC, and I shut and locked the door before my fingers stopped itching for my gun.
“Hey.” Keep sprawled on a wooden bench. He ignored his cigarette in the ashtray and the laptop copying trucking schedules into Excel. He rubbed his bare head. “Lyn’s here. She wants you.”
“Fuck me.”
Keep smirked. “She’s too pissed for that. Been there, got slapped, my friend.”
“What’s she want?”
“Wouldn’t say. She looks ready to torch the place.”
“Great. Where is she?”
“Where do you think?”
Displaced from his own damn office. Just like Lyn. Good thing Keep didn’t have his old man’s temper or his older brother’s wrath.
Fortunately for the MC, Keep did have a natural aptitude for business. The bar stayed clean, financially and literally. Every bill, every receipt, every W-fucking-4 for the last decade filed away in his office. He kept the bar stocked, the tables clear, and every indigo pulsing light-bulb humming with pure, unsullied profit.
Unfortunately, that meant the bar was the only place Jocelyn “Lyn” Hart would grace her sweet ass when she traded favors. She might have started out dancing on one of the pool tables, but Lyn’s principles prevented her from entering the chapel locked inside the warehouse. Claimed she could stay out of prison and enjoy a shot on the house that way.
She was probably right.
And a hell of a lot smarter than me.
“You look like shit.” Lyn greeted me with an insult as soon as I shut the door. “Should I ask why you’re bleeding?”
“Take a guess.”
Lyn tilted Keep’s executive chair, settling within the thick leather like a court concubine inheriting her rightful place as queen. The blonde ruled with a bump of her hips or a strike of her fangs, and each carried enough poison to cripple a man if he wasn’t careful.
Lyn thrived best when underestimated. Learned that lesson a long time ago.
“Not a lover’s scratch,” Lyn winked.
“I prefer a tender touch.”
She crossed her legs over the desk. The black leather pants might have seemed like an invitation to less informed men. Jocelyn displayed the goods—might have let the corset dip low to expose the swell of her tits—but looking was free. Besides, she didn’t deal in money. Lyn came at a far more expensive price. Also learned that lesson long ago.
“Sit,” she said. “You’re a hard man to pin down, Thorne.”
“Maybe I have the common sense to avoid you.”
“Avoiding me isn’t fun.” She stretched her arms over her head. Her chest arched up. “You haven’t been to the club in a while.”
Flirting was free. I took a seat across from her. “You miss me?”
“Parts of you.”
“Which part?”
She didn’t break my gaze. “The muscle.”
“So this isn’t a friendly visit.”
“All my visits are friendly.” Lyn frowned, though even a scowl looked good on her lips. “You’re about the one friend I still trust.”
The club joked Lyn’s eyes got greener the more cash she made. Wrong. They brightened when she needed something. When she knew something.
“Likewise,” I said.
“You’re still bleeding.” Lyn stood, snapping the chair upright. She rooted through a drawer until she found a first-aid kit.
I touched the cut on my cheek. “I’ve been through worse.”
“Yeah. I remember. But something tells me you aren’t keeping out of trouble.”
I clenched my jaw as she came at me with a cotton ball dipped in alcohol. She scoured my face like she meant to clean the scratch with steel wool. I knocked her hand away.
“Christ, Lyn. I didn’t get shot. Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Yet. You didn’t get shot yet.”
“Your optimism is appreciated.”
“The girls at the club have an over/under on you. Odds are three to one you’ll get a bullet in the head within a month.”
“Great.”
“I gave you six months.” She slapped a piece of gauze over my cheek. “How’s that for optimism?”
“We better be getting part of that Vig.”
“What happened?”
“Found out what our buddy Priest has been up to since shacking up with Exorcist.”
Lyn raised her eyebrow, as much a threat as cocking a gun. “You mean he does something besides molest my dancers?”
“We
ll, he was up my ass today. Maybe he’s not into your girls anymore.”
“I’m not that lucky.” She crossed her arms. “Was he making a move?”
“Gotta talk to my guys about it. He won’t shed any tears if I dump my bike on the 9.”
“This can’t keep happening. More people are going to get killed.”
“Oh, a stripper and a prophet now?”
Lyn hopped onto the desk. She crossed her legs and nearly took out my chin with a high heel. Probably her intent. At least it’d be a good view before I got knocked unconscious.
“Fine. I’ll take my five grand and find someone else to stick their elderly, decrepit brothers at our door.” Lyn snorted. “The last bouncer couldn’t even get it up with a girl straddling his face. Did nothing for her self-esteem.”
“What’s your point?”
“I want my money back if you won’t hold up your end of the bargain.”
“You wanted a presence there. I gave you a presence.”
“Viper? He’s one chili dog from a quadruple bypass. I need someone else.”
I held my arms out. “Who? I’m stretched fucking thin as it is.”
“Find someone.”
“There is no one else, and you don’t need another guard. No one will cause any trouble with your girls. They know you’re in my territory.”
“Am I?” She asked.
“Are you what?”
“In your territory?”
I exhaled. “Your mouth is more useful when it isn’t being smart.”
“And if you ever want to put it to use again, you’ll listen.”
Lyn tapped her nails on the desk. The rat-a-tat-tat drumming wasn’t a stall. She tensed. Nervous. Ready to snap. I didn’t need her wrath going nuclear in my MC. She was hard enough to keep alive as it was. Lyn had a tendency to forget she only had a dick when she jerked someone off. I didn’t need her pissing off the wrong guys. Again.
“What the hell is going on?” I said. “No bullshit.”