by Lana Grayson
Rose would have broken down, but that was my fault. I never taught her how to be brave.
“You’re going to wait by the bike this time.” The old me might have accompanied the order with a slap across her ass to reinforce the message. The man I had become sickened at the thought. “I’m gonna take another look. See if I can’t figure out who did this.”
“I’m not staying out here alone.”
I tugged her through the woods and considered leaving her hidden in the trees and brush. But cowering in soggy, dying leaves and thick mud wouldn’t make her feel any safer. I pulled the bowie knife from my boot and pushed it at her.
“Can you use one of these?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, but the guy who chopped up all those men is more proficient than me.”
“I don’t want you seeing what’s inside the house.”
She shook her head. I didn’t free her hand from my grasp, and she tugged me forward. Dedicated. Resolved. Absolutely terrified, but she thought she’d hide it with an attitude and a sway of her hips.
Whatever. As long as she wasn’t screaming.
As long as she would stay near me.
As long as she was safe.
The cottage didn’t look as quaint now. Peeling paint and a rotten porch framed the discolored windows and hid the brutality inside. It was still a better resting place for the murdered men. Most of us figured we’d bleed out on a patch of road with a mouthful of dirt and the dignity of our cuts as funeral shrouds. Ruffled curtains, cherry furniture, and little doilies under brass lamps were beyond our class, especially since the room hadn’t been smashed to hell in a brawl before the end came.
I pointed to my bike parked in the gravel. Martini refused, and I didn’t have the balls to toss her where she belonged. She followed me into hell with only a knife to shield her from a murder scene that fit a Mexican border town, not Pennsylvania.
She kept her mouth shut. I respected her for that. She also knew to stay behind me and not react to the overturned coffee table, pervading silence, or faint stench of death lingering in the cottage.
I didn’t let her enter the dining room. She didn’t fight me on that.
The heads were just as stomach-turning as they were when I first visited. Worse, now that I saw what was stashed as fertilizer in the garden. Each man greeted me with the same shocked expression, the same scarred pain frozen in time.
They stared toward the center of the table, at the envelope served between them.
The envelope was fattened with fifties and scrawled with quick writing over the bloodied paper.
Brew Darnell.
I clenched my profanity between my teeth, along with every last question desecrating my soul in grime and hatred.
How the fuck did they know I would be here?
Not Noir. Not the persona I adopted to survive beyond Anathema’s president—the man who would probably kill me the instant my job was done and Rose wasn’t around to see. Noir was the name I invented riding coast to coast, border to border, transporting drugs, weapons, and other people’s crimes. I hid behind it, cowering from my own guilt as I summoned the courage to finally end the life of the man who created me, molded me, and made me into the monster I was.
They wrote my real name on the envelope.
I took the package and thumbed through the couple grand tucked inside. It was a sick trick. The asshole playing me probably thought I’d dump Martini in the center of the bloodbath and ride away.
I shouldn’t have taken it, but the money weighed good in my hand. It was enough to pay for a semester of Rose’s college. Or I’d buy her a new guitar and amp. Maybe rent her time in a real recording studios to make a quality demo for venues. Or maybe a laptop was a better gift?
I had no idea. Our conversations lasted only as long as I could stand before I had to make up an excuse, break her heart, and hang up so I wouldn’t slit my wrists.
I jammed the envelope in my jacket.
Someone knew I was alive.
And that put everyone in danger. Me. Martini. The Anathema MC.
Rose.
I edged out of the room. Martini waited in the kitchen, two steps ahead of me. She took a swig of one of her flasks and jiggled it at me.
“I didn’t pack enough.” She watched me drink. “I should have brought the good stuff.”
“You don’t drink the good stuff now.” The burn did its job. It had enough of a kick to clear my head and make a plan. “You guzzle the cheap stuff until you can’t feel the pain.”
“Been through this a lot?” Martini rubbed her face. Even her hands were bruised and cut, tore up where my best intentions dumped her on the pavement. “Sacrilege has their after-fight shots, get-out-of-jail shots, and lost-all-our-money-on-dumbass-ideas shots. But not...headless shots.”
The alcohol kept burning, set aflame by the brimstone weighing down my gut. When I left Anathema I bought one drink after another and tried to drown myself in whatever proof I could find. Whiskey never dulled it. Only blood would fix me.
But my name on that envelope meant I was running out of time. Thorne didn’t offer anyone evidence of my bullet-riddled body. Rose clung to his arm like he was a fucking Disney prince. My own brother still served as Anathema’s secretary.
My death wasn’t a ruse. It was a plot with more unplugged holes than a goddamned whore house.
I handed the flask to Martini. “Let’s get out of here.”
She eyed the entrance to the dining room. “Did you...find what you were looking for?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who killed them?”
“An enemy.”
She waited. “…Who?”
The money padded my jacket. “Doesn’t matter who. They find us, they’ll kill us.”
“Us?” Her voice hardened. “Why are these men dead, Brew?”
I hoped it wasn’t because of me. I didn’t need another five deaths looming in my shadow. They made their decisions, and they chose that way of life, just like every one of us lucky to ride sun up to sundown without a bullet in our skull or crashed bike.
First Temple’s three scouts. Then Kingdom’s slaughter. I wasn’t a genius. I left most of the planning for my betrayal of Anathema to Knight, the man who promised to make the deal of a lifetime and solve everyone’s problems. But I felt anarchy in my bones, breathed treachery, and endured every act of contrition for my own sins.
Sacrilege wandered into an unspoken territory war when Temple MC infringed on Kingdom’s land. Kingdom sacrificed the first blood. It wouldn’t be the last.
It wasn’t safe here—for me or Martini.
Martini flinched as her phone buzzed in her pocket. A series of furious text messages furrowed her brow. Her eyes widened, the spark of silver lost to a flash of moonlit terror.
“Oh, God. It’s Red.” The phone rumbled in her hands. “They’re almost here.”
“Who?”
“Sacrilege.”
The tremor in her voice was the sort of complication that would fuck us. “So what? Let them come. You can go back with them. Stay safe and cozy in your bed tonight.”
Martini shoved me out of the way and hoisted herself over the counter to see out the kitchen window. “You don’t understand! God damn it! This is all wrong!”
“What?”
She spun around, her fingers clenched white against the sink. “They think you did it!”
“What?”
“They think you killed all these men!”
I scowled. “You said Red didn’t know what happened here.”
“He didn’t.”
“Then he fucking squealed and pegged me.”
“They called him, Brew.” Martini searched the house again with wide eyes. “Someone told Sam what happened. Sam already knew.”
“But who tipped off Sam?”
“It wasn’t Red. It doesn’t fucking matter. They think it was you.” She gnawed on her lip. “God. They’ll kill us.”
“Us?”
&
nbsp; “Goliath flies into a rage when he loses his keys or spills his drink. With the amount of money riding on the deal?” She grabbed the knife again. “We’re gonna need something bigger than this.”
Martini’s fear sliced through me like she came at me with the blade.
Three months ago, I died.
The bullet might have missed my heart, but that didn’t mean everything inside of me didn’t fester, rot, or flake away.
The man I was, the pride I possessed, the wealth I accumulated meant nothing once the weapon recoiled and the trace of gunpowder cleared the air. My heart broke into pieces and stopped, crushed at Rose’s feet even as I held her in my arms.
Three months I lived, but my life meant nothing. Revenge consumed me, but I didn’t tame that hatred. I couldn’t escape my guilt. I accepted that shame.
And now, for the first time since my exile, my heart beat.
Pulsed.
Thudded.
Roared to life.
No one was going to hurt Martini.
Not while I lived. Not while I breathed. And not while another innocent girl lived through a nightmare I could end.
I grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”
Too late. The rumble of bikes shattered the stillness of the bloody tomb. The pack howled like wolves, but I knew the type. They weren’t rabid. They’d descend like starving coyotes, too timid and weak to attack with the big dogs—the bastards who slaughtered the men in the cottage.
My decision wasn’t reasoned. I had no plan, but it wasn’t like I had a life to throw away or a name to protect. Brew or Noir. Didn’t matter worth a damn, not when I already failed the only one who ever cared about the man behind the handle.
I swore and grabbed Martini around the waist, slamming her petite body against my chest as she kicked and protested. I hauled her close with a pinning arm and pulled my gun.
“Sorry, Darling,” I muttered. “Hate to do this.”
“Brew?” She fought as I dragged her to the entry. “Stop. You don’t understand!”
I tightened my hold. She’d get an arm around her neck if she didn’t shut up.
“Brew! What are you doing!”
I kicked the door open. The light blinded me, but I counted four guns trained on us.
It wasn’t my first stupid move. These guys weren’t Anathema—they were meth-heads with expensive, fully-loaded toys that might have blown our heads off the instant I stepped outside. I over-estimated them. It was a free lesson they could have delivered in slugs of lead.
I didn’t believe in an honest God anymore, but it was a miracle they hadn’t riddled Martini with bullets for my careless mistake.
Sam hollered. His gun lowered first—a show of weakness he didn’t understand. He slapped at the Vet’s gun and pushed a prospect’s weapon down too.
That left Goliath. The hulking beast hadn’t rolled off his bike. He grinned, a slimy, lecherous grin. He got off on the gun in his hand and the power it gave him.
His finger drew tighter against the trigger. He wasn’t a hero, but I wasn’t giving him the chance to act like one.
“Don’t be an idiot,” I said. “Toss the guns on the ground.”
Martini whined as my gun pressed against her temple. Her nails dug into my arm. Hard. She pushed against me and pulled me closer. She couldn’t run, I couldn’t release her, and a bullet would pass through both of us like fucking butter.
Sam hissed at Goliath. “Christ, drop the gun! He’s got Martini.”
“Probably fucked her last night too.” Goliath tilted his head. “Thought you got in an accident, baby? Thought you were hurt real bad?”
“I was,” Martini whimpered. “We wrecked, but I got up here, just like I said I would, baby. Please put the gun down before Noir gets mad.”
“He can get fucked. Tell him to drop his gun.”
I tightened my grip. Martini yelped.
“I don’t think he will. Goliath, please, stop. Just for a minute, please, baby? For me?”
If he didn’t bend for the quiver in her voice, he wouldn’t break for anything. He wasn’t a hard-ass. He was a fucking monster.
And I knew monsters. I learned first-hand what they did to girls like Martini.
Rage prickled at my vision, and I saw everything with a hyper-clarity. The guns aiming for me. The muscles twitching in the bulk of Goliath’s arms. The fluttering breath of Martini as she clung and fought against me.
The gun rested against her head.
A bluff.
One of us would blink first, and I hoped to Christ it’d be Goliath.
“Baby!” Martini begged. I wondered how many other times she begged for her safety. “Please. I’m scared! Do what he wants.”
“Who the fuck knows what he wants?” Sam spat on the ground. “He already murdered five men in cold-blood. He’ll do the same to you!”
“Back off,” I said. “Guns on the ground. Get the fuck away from my bike. I’ll take the girl, and, if I make it somewhere I feel safe...” I shrugged. “She gets out of this untouched.”
“Where the fuck’s Red?” Sam shouted at a prospect furiously dialing a phone. “Martini, I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay.” She nodded too many times, her entire body shaking. “Just...do as he says. Please.”
Sam greyed as the seconds passed. So did I. Sweat rolled over my forehead, but the October chill sliced through the heat and imbedded the cold right into my spine.
Goliath snorted. “You touch her and I’ll cut your goddamned cock off and feed it to you.”
Martini flinched. I gritted my teeth. How many times had he touched her? Threatened her? Frightened her with all the violence the behemoth of strength could force over a girl as tiny as her?
His gun dropped to the ground. I didn’t release Martini.
“Walk,” I growled. “To the bike. Slow. Don’t even think of running again. I’m too good a shot.”
She nodded, shuffling to the bike. Goliath stared, strangling me with an untempered hate that might have earned a bullet to the knee from the old Brew. Instead, I slung onto the bike and glared back. Martini’s arms wrapped over my chest. I ordered her to grip tighter. Her nails dug in.
God, I loved the feeling of a helpless girl clinging to me.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Pure adrenaline might have started the bike. I grinned and peeled out of the driveway, gunning it through the mid-morning light as Goliath’s enraged profanity roared over the woods.
Martini sunk her head against my back. She still trembled. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t have any time to explain what I was doing.
I probably didn’t deserve the opportunity to explain.
I learned everything I needed about Goliath. The sweet words, the timid glances, the undeserved respect she forced herself to give.
Just like Rose and Dad.
Every detail was the same. She flinched when he raised his hand. The quiet disgrace shadowed her smiles. She suffered in endless frustration of a secret no one thought to uncover.
I tried to help Martini, but I only offered her more violence. More fear. Another gun, another threat, and another asshole abusing her.
My father did a lot of horrible things, but he never used Rose as a goddamned human shield.
Martini said nothing. Neither did I. I accelerated and hit the highway. The bike had half a tank of gas, enough to force distance between us, Kingdom, and Sacrilege. It’d give me time to find somewhere safe for Martini to go while she called for help.
Shame fueled what the gasoline didn’t. I pushed the bike until the afternoon swelled into evening. She’d need a place to sleep. That was easier than other decisions.
The hotel was nicer than the last one—continental breakfasts and vending machines instead of barred windows and vibrating mattresses. I pulled into the lot, but she hurried from the bike and into the lobby without the threat of the gun. The clerk tossed a key in my hand with minimal threat, and I pulled Martini to our rented room.
I slammed the door and locked it, but I didn’t turn around.
I couldn’t see what I had done.
Facing another crying girl would have killed me. Slit wrists, rope around my neck, gun to the mouth, high-speed crash.
Everyone I tried to save got hurt.
And everyone I didn’t save ended up worse.
I flattened my palms against the door and seized a breath. This was what a monster did. Kidnapped women. Threatened them with guns. Forced them into hotel rooms as the sun set. Christ only knew what she thought I was going to do to her.
Was this how Rose had felt all those years?
What the hell did Martini think of me now?
She unzipped her coat. The rustling leather landed on the bed. I closed my eyes. She probably thought that’s what came next. The weapon was too familiar a foreplay.
I didn’t expect the minibar.
Or the clinking of bottles inside the fridge.
She rummaged and tisked her tongue as I turned around. She glanced at me, a pout tugging from her lips and into that siren charm. She grabbed two little bottles from the shelf and stood before me. The whiskey chilled my hand. I feared I’d break the glass.
“So, my daring rescuer.” The silver in her eyes shimmered like sunlight on snow. She offered a toast. “I think this calls for a celebration.”
The bottles clinked.
Martini downed hers in a single shot. She smiled.
She fucking smiled.
She encouraged me to drink, but I felt like I already had one too many and followed the shot up with the crushed glass and a match. I wanted the fire to consume me from the inside out.
It never came.
Martini wiggled across the room and kicked off her shoes. She peeked out the curtained windows but didn’t draw them. Her hand tickled around the pink scarf at her neck. She picked at the knot, but left it on, flipping the silken tails over her shoulder.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Martini perked an eyebrow.
“You okay?” She asked. “It’s not the greatest digs, but we can at least clean up and rest here.”
She asked if I was okay. In my lifetime, I had enough guns point at my body to bluff a full execution squadron, and I answered every offered blindfold and cigarette with two middle fingers. Somehow I doubted a girl like Martini ever went toe-to-toe with a .45, especially one held by a man who had twice overpowered, manhandled, and threatened her.