by Max Henry
Truth is, I am trying to stay sober. Thanks to King’s support, and the fact he’s kept my problem on the down low, I’ve managed to at least admit I have an issue. Well, one I can fix anyway. Alcoholism is the least of my worries in the grand scheme of things.
“You know we’re only assholes about it because we care, right?” Tap levels.
“Yeah, I know.” Also know I wouldn’t have picked alcohol back up if it wasn’t for the head fuck Sawyer gave me.
Withholding my past is half of where my problems with the drink started. There’s something infinitely easier about drinking your woes away for a few hours, maybe a day, rather than having to try and talk it out with somebody who couldn’t possibly understand. Counselors, well-meaning friends in the club, they don’t know what it was like. They don’t know what I came from before I fell at Apex’s feet and found the mercy of a devil to help me.
How could they know when they weren’t there?
How do I explain what those kinds of experiences do to your head?
I can’t. Which is why I want to dissect Sawyer, find out if his brain plays the same tricks, if it skips the same cog. Find out how he keeps it from breaking down entirely.
But without sharing a single part of my own.
Tall order, right?
“I’ll leave you to eat in peace.” Tap pushes off the counter, and hesitates at the door. “You’re staying on the cot in my room tonight.”
“Why?” I ask around a mouthful. “Don’t trust your own men?”
He huffs heavily out his nose. “One in particular. One that’s not mine.”
“Sawyer,” I helpfully fill in.
“You might think it’s great to find someone as scarred as you are, but it never works out. I’ve seen what happens when you mix two explosive cocktails, and it doesn’t end well . . . for anyone.”
“Advice taken.” I stir the pasta absently, avoiding his gaze.
“Night, Abbey.”
“Night, Tap.”
TWENTY
Sawyer
Sleep is an elusive motherfucker. Doesn’t help that the night is as humid as hell. The overhead fan turns lazily, sending a breeze over my naked skin. I stare up at the sliver of moonlight that cuts a line across the ceiling and try to think of anything but women.
I told Dana I’d get her out, that I’d make her mine, and I fucking meant it. And then he took her from me. My own flesh and blood, the man who is supposed to protect and nurture me, shot the one fucking woman who could silence my devil, for nothing but pure narcissistic fun.
He hit me where it hurt the most. And fuck does it hurt. I had the answer to my greatest problem literally in the palms of my hands, and he fucking stole my one shot at a normal life and being okay away from me.
Connect the dots . . . .
Fuck.
Isn’t that what Abbey’s asking for? The chance at a normal life, at finding out if I’m the one who can silence her demons? And I shoot her down by playing on her desperation to get her to face her greatest fear: intimacy.
Still think you’re changing . . .?
I’m not so sure anymore. Fuck it all. I honestly thought I was making progress, that I had been taking steps toward becoming better. But damn—I’m just the asshole I always was. Can’t escape the root of who I am, it seems.
My foot twitches, the muscles in my legs yearning to leap from this fucking mattress and tear down the road toward his damn estate. All of this traces back to that soulless motherfucker. A normal father, even a drunk who gave half a fuck, could have raised such a different child. Every damn thing I hate about who I am can be traced back to that sadistic bastard.
Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s going to buy you a—
Funny. Real funny.
Any day now, and I’ll be hand delivering that fucker his date with the devil, yet I’ve never felt farther from the end than I do now.
King wants in. He wants my old man’s reign over. King will send loyal men hand over fist through the gates of hell to try and take down the one person who’s stood the test of time: fucking Satan himself.
I believe wholeheartedly in people’s souls being possessed, that damned spirits can occupy a person’s body and make them do crazy shit. Why wouldn’t I, of all people? Yet, ten holy men could absolve my father of all his sins, and they’d still find the heart that beats inside his body is as black and dead as the world around them.
You can’t save a person who hasn’t got anything left to redeem.
Which is why he has to die.
Which is why I have to do it.
Who better to kill the crazed man than the one who understands him best?
So poetic . . . .
Abbey asked how I’d do it, and I had the answer. It’s all I’ve thought about since kissing Dana’s corpse good-bye and running for my life like the useless motherfucker I am. I could catalogue the ways I’ve dreamed of taking his life over the years, segmented into categories, divided by weapon of choice. He’s breathed his last a million times over in my mind, and a part of me worries that the real thing, the day I truly put an end to his tyrannical reign, won’t compare.
That the dream will remain a fantasy.
And that I’ll leave feeling emptier than when I went in.
That you’ll fail . . . .
The despair, it’s a familiar and forever unwelcome surge that rolls through my body, radiating outward from my chest. Every time I do this, every time I think about how pointless and hopeless this whole crusade against my old man is, it comes again, worse than before. The weight begins in my chest, an invisible force pushing down, crushing my lungs, and leaving me fighting for breath. And then it spreads upward, choking me, wrapping its aching tendrils around my throat until I’m swallowing over and over, trying to find my way back to how I felt mere minutes before. Trying to save myself from being pulled under. But then, without fail, the black fog reaches my eyes, and the ache starts, building until I can’t hold them open a second longer.
It’s exactly what the pain wants—complete submission. The moment my eyes close, it’s all over. There’s no reason to fight it. I’ve gone under, drowning in my own miserable cesspool made up of all the reasons why I’m not enough, why I’m doomed to fail, and how I’m no good for anyone.
Reasons the world would be better off without me.
But as always, there he is, holding a candle in the dark and stroking the wet hair from my eyes as I’m gasping on the shores of relief.
You’ve got so much left to prove, he whispers. If they think your father is pure evil, they’ll be begging for him to come back once you let go and show the world who you really are . . . .
But I can’t. I can’t do that to the people who matter to me.
I’m all that matters, he says with a frown. I’m all you need.
It hurts. So much.
You know what to do . . . a midnight snack . . . ease the burden . . . save the world from one more leech on its soul . . . .
He’s right, my devil. He’s always right. He knows me. He gets me. He understands me. And in a fucked-up kind of way, he raised me when my father was too busy to pay his only child any attention. When I needed advice, my devil spoke. When I needed to unload, he listened.
He’s the only one who’s been there no matter what.
The only one I can count on.
And yet I still want to end him, to silence him for good.
You’ll never be rid of me, boy . . . .
Maybe not, but I can drain your power.
No . . . .
Yes, fucker.
He’s scrambling, pulling madly at his levers and slamming heavy fingers on switches, but he’s wasting his time. The panic has passed and I’ve taken control again. I’m in charge.
The floor is cool beneath my feet as I cross to the short set of drawers and open the top one, revealing the black leather ring box I keep tucked in the right-hand corner. It’s been a while since I’ve done this to my devil, resorted t
o this madness, but seeing those lines on Abbey’s skin a few weeks ago got me thinking. What if this isn’t such a bad thing? What if it’s excusable from time to time? I lift the box out, the texture beneath my fingers bringing almost as much relief as what I’ll do next.
My devil cries out, screams at me to put it down, but my devil, oh my poor devil . . . I’ve got him on mute.
The lid snaps open with a jerk, revealing the most precious weapon I’ll ever have in my arsenal. It’s the only one that can reach him. The only one that can beat him into submission for a little while. The one I swore never to use again when I ran a little deep, tried a little too hard once before.
You shouldn’t do this . . . I can behave . . . .
The blade is clean, never left dirty from the time before. I stare at it, marveling at the way the moonlight bounces off it as I cross over to the bed again. Selecting some tunes on my phone, I set the mood as I lift the blade out and set the box aside on the floor.
Put it back . . . we can talk about this . . . .
I’d be worried too if somebody was literally about to drain my life force.
I find the sweet spot on the top of my thigh. Arms are so obvious—something Abbey is yet to learn. Scars on your wrists or forearm beg for questions. The leg? It’s personal. It’s a place that only those you choose can see, know of, and let’s face it, when was the last time a girl looked at a guy’s thighs as he pummeled her needy cunt? Never, right?
He’s screaming, my devil. Begging me as I bring the blade along my flesh in a smooth line. A burst of bright red erupts, morphing into a deeper shade of crimson the bigger it gets. I set the blade on my opposite leg and simply watch the blood as it trickles over the curve of my quad.
People take it for granted, the color. They fall and scrape their skin, or cut themselves preparing food, and their first thought is repairing the wound. But when was the last time you stood back and marveled at the perfect shade of red blood is? It’s life. It’s the one thing we share: we all bleed red.
It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m human, and not born straight from hell like my father makes me believe.
It gives me reassurance that somewhere inside me, I’m the same as everyone else. I bleed red, so therefore I must be able to be saved. Fixed? No. But saved? Maybe.
I add another line, engrossed in the trickles of red as they mingle and run in a braided river of life over my flesh. My devil’s quieter now, whimpering as he puts himself to bed to rest. And much like a tired parent, a sense of relief washes over me when I realize that with him quietly tucked away I can also enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet.
Finally.
A mere ten minutes later and the blade is clean, my leg has stopped bleeding, and I’m back as I was, spread-eagled on the bed, yet alone. The quiet is welcome, the silence refreshing, however I seem to have developed a new problem.
Eyes open: gray ceiling, lazy fan.
Eyes closed: Abbey.
Eyes open: lazy fan, crack in the plaster.
Eyes closed: Abbey.
Fuck. Clearing the mess from Dana seems to have simply opened the highway for the curiosity over Abbey to kick into high gear.
She didn’t mean for me to see her wrists, but I can’t deny that was one of the things that cemented by obsessive curiosity with her. She thinks we might work the same way, that she can find what’s missing for her by understanding me better.
What if she’s right?
Now isn’t the time to think about that, my devil whispers from his position curled in on himself.
Yeah, I know, but I can’t help but wonder what the hell went down when she went on her roadie and I visited Fort Worth to . . . well . . . .
Fuck things up?
Yeah, that.
Got to watch my back every time I’m in the room with one of those Butcher Boys now. Couldn’t blame them if they did dig the knife in. Fuck, I’d do a hell of a lot worse if roles were reversed and somebody murdered my friend.
You don’t have any friends . . . .
Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?
Still don’t regret the kill, only who it affected.
That’s your problem, isn’t it? The devil stretches out, rolling to his back.
That I don’t mind the kill? Yeah, fucker, it is. And you.
Easy now . . . .
Be a whole lot simpler if you weren’t up there confusing everything.
You can’t blame me for all of it.
Sure gonna try.
You do realize we’re one and the same, right? I’m a part of you, a manifestation of your desires, your better half—
Shut up and go to sleep, cunt.
I block the thoughts of Abbey and her cute butt the only way I know how: popping in my earbuds and cranking up the music. Dark notes fill my ears, slow haunting rock with heavy bass and screaming vocals. It’s the only thing that totally blocks the mess in my head. Can’t concentrate on anything else when I’m focused on the drumbeats and guitar chords echoing around my skull. One song bleeds into the next, my playlist enough to last me for a good hour if need be.
Heart slow.
Head light.
Sleep near.
Somebody in my bed.
What the fuck? Somebody in my bed.
“Ah, damn it! Stop it!”
“What the fuck are you doing in here?”
Abbey stares wide-eyed at me from her position laid out on her back on the floor beside the bed, my hand wrapped around her throat and her body pinned between my thighs as I kneel over her.
“Why the fuck are you yelling?” she asks.
“Fuck it.” I let go, backing up as I rip the earbuds out.
She leans up on her elbows and stares.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re naked.”
“So? Never seen a dick before?”
She smirks. “Not yours.”
“Fuck’s sake.” I rip the pillow off the bed and throw it over her face before searching out my boxers. “Let me guess: you sleep in a cute little pajama set with hearts on it?”
“Skulls, actually.”
“You never answered my first question.”
She sets the pillow back in its position and climbs onto the bed, sitting square in the middle with her legs folded Indian style. “Need somewhere to sleep.”
“There are twelve rooms down this end of the place.”
“Are there?” she sasses.
You going to let her dictate what’s going on here . . .?
Great—he’s awake too.
“Have the bed then. I’ll sleep out in the main hall on one of the sofas.”
“It’s big enough to share, you know.”
“I don’t play well with others.”
“So you’ve said a thousand times over.”
Fuck this girl. How the hell am I supposed to ignore this macabre curiosity I have for her when she’s on my bed with her knees apart like that? I scrub a hand over my face and sigh. “What’s the end game here, Abbey?” Fucking shorts are so damn close to showing it all . . . .
“You get company,” she says, pointing at me. “And I get company.” Her finger moves to her chest.
“Who said I need any company?”
“Just a hunch.” She shrugs, letting out a short, sharp sigh. “And I guess I wanted to say sorry too. For having an agenda, for being selfish and wanting you to do the exact same thing I refuse to, and most of all for making my problems yours.”
The girl has a conscience . . . bravo . . . . The devil in my head inspects his nails, unimpressed.
Yet the way she fidgets with the sheets at her feet, the frown on her face, and the little shrugs she gives as she talks—that all says something about how vulnerable she feels right now, saying a word that I don’t think I’ve ever said more than a dozen times in my life.
A better man might be touched by it.
I’m wondering how I can exploit it for my benefit.
I’m a sick fucker like tha
t.
“Company helps you sleep, huh?”
She nods, a small smile playing on her lips as the curtain of her hair hides her eyes. “I’m not the cuddling type, though.”
I chuckle at her dry humor. “Neither. But company I can do.”
The hopeful look in her eye almost undoes me as she scoots backward, making room for me. I shake my head, lips pressed tight.
“I’ll hang out over here.”
She follows the direction of my thumb to the corner of the room. “But there’s nothing there.”
“There’s space to sit, solitude, and somewhere to sleep.” And at least ten feet between me and a huge fucking mistake waiting to happen. I turn away, heading for my makeshift camp for the night. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
The sheets rustle behind me as she gets comfortable. “Yeah. Me too.”
Not another word is spoken as I settle onto the floor, back to the junction of the walls and legs kicked out in front. The timber is hard and unrelenting under my ass, but at least it’s level and dry. She fidgets under the covers, tossing around for what feels an age before she finally settles down and her breathing grows quiet, barely audible.
Perfect opportunity . . . .
To try and do this all over again, the right way—yeah it is.
Such a gentleman . . . .
TWENTY-ONE
Abbey
His huge shoulders curl inward, restricted by the walls as he sleeps sitting upright in the corner still. I don’t know exactly what time it was when I came in last night; maybe it was early this morning? But either way, it’s far too long to be sleeping like that on a hard-as-fuck floor.
I started out in Tap’s room like he wanted me to, but as soon as the big guy fell asleep I slipped out to appease my curiosity. I’ve watched Sawyer since I arrived here, seen how he interacts, his habits, and his body language. The cockiness he’s known for, the level of self-righteousness he usually presents to the world . . . it’s gone.
Something’s been eating at my pretty boy, and I want to know what it is. Maybe he isn’t as infallible as I’ve always assumed? Maybe he really is a lot more like me than I gave him credit for.