by Marie James
“Thank God,” someone in the crowd mutters. My eyes snap up to try to determine who it was. “Glad someone stopped it. That chick has been passed out for the last ten minutes.”
My eyes narrow on the guy across the room. Shock and dread wash over his face as I make my way in his direction. Hitting this fucker in the face is just as satisfying as the first two. I grip him by the hair as he falls to his knees.
“If you see something wrong going on,” I kick the stupid fucker in the gut, “then you fucking put a stop to it.”
I lift my eyes to my captive audience. “Quit being fucking sheep!”
People grumble and turn to look away. I fucking hate people.
“Give me your keys,” I tell the guy, shaking him by the hair still in my fist.
His hand pats his pocket, and less than a breath later he’s pushing a keyring into my palm.
“Now get the fuck up and show me where you parked.”
I release him, but the guy must be an all A student because he doesn’t try to get away. He even waits to the side while I lean over and scoop Kaci up. She’s dead weight in my arms, and I hate that she’s put herself in this situation, but even more so because showing her how I feel about her behavior wouldn’t even be remembered by morning time.
“Will you return it?”
“Fuck no,” I grunt. He opens the passenger side door, so I can lower Kaci inside without jostling her too much, and for some reason, I’m less angry because of the kind gesture. “I’ll park it back on the street in a couple hours.”
“Thank you.”
Ignoring him, I walk down the block to grab my cut and jacket off my bike.
“That’s badass,” the guy praises when I slide the double layers of leather over my back. “I’ve always wanted to be in a motorcycle club.”
“You don’t have the fucking nuts for it.”
With that parting declaration, I hop in his truck and take off.
I strapped Kaci into her seatbelt, but with each sharp turn and equally crappy road I take, her head just rolls back and forth. I should’ve strapped her into the middle seat so I could put my arm around her to keep her steady, but the console between us is loaded down with shit.
I slam on the brakes, noticing the stop light mere seconds before blowing through it. Paying attention to Kaci instead of the road nearly just caused a wreck.
“Ughhh.” My eyes snap to her again.
She’s moving her hands a little but making no effort to open her eyes. Either she’s been out of it for a while, or they didn’t give her much. My teeth clench.
“I’m getting you home safely.”
She makes a sound like a snort, but she doesn’t say another thing. She doesn’t jolt when I place the truck in park, or when I open her door. Goosebumps sprout all over her exposed flesh, but I’m too pissed right now to even enjoy the sight of her pushed up tits and the way the skin pebbles there.
As fucking usual, the key is under the goddamn mat. I don’t know why she fucking bothers to hide it. She might as well just hang it on a damn string from the doorknob. Not locking the door at all would require the least amount of effort.
“You’re gonna end up dead,” I hiss when I unlock the door of her studio apartment and push it open with the toe of my boot.
“Sounds like a good time,” she mumbles.
Without conscious thought, my head shakes, and my mouth tilts up in a frustrated smile.
“Why would you put yourself in harm’s way like that? Those guys could’ve hurt you tonight.”
She doesn’t bother to open her eyes, but her lips tilt as if what happened tonight happened exactly as she’d planned.
“I think you were drugged again.”
She sniffs, more clearing her nose like a coke user than as if she’s getting sick and in need of a tissue. I have a long history with my dad being a user. The signs are all over this girl. ”Happens a lot.”
“You drive me insane,” I grumble, shifting her weight in my arms so I can pull back the covers of her bed. I’m surprised the thing is made with how chaotic her life is.
“You’d still fuck me if I spread my legs for you.” Her words are low, without a hint of seduction. “You’d probably fuck me even if I didn’t. Just like those guys would’ve tonight.”
Her words are heavy like she’s using all of her strength to get them out, but her eyes never open again.
Leaving her on the bed, I enter the small but tidy bathroom, grabbing and wetting a washrag before returning to her bedside.
“Do you believe in angels?”
When I first place the warm cloth against her cheek, she tries to pull back. I cup her other cheek with my palm and soothe her the way I imagine you would a startled child.
“I think a better question,” I begin as I press the cloth to her closed eyelid, “is why do you believe in angels?”
Her small smile grows.
“Angels keep saving me from myself.” My hand stills, the washcloth covering one cheek. “I wish they’d leave me the fuck alone.”
Chapter 7
Kaci
Tears warm my cheeks before my eyes even open. My head is pounding just like every morning after going out, but the pain radiating behind my eyes isn’t the cause. Waking up, plain and simple, is what upsets me. Within minutes I’m sobbing because I know I’m in my own bed. I’m not waking up in an alleyway, or some abandoned house. It’s clear by the familiar scent of my own sheets that I’m home and safe.
It would be a relief for most people but knowing what day it is makes being alive even more unbearable. I wanted last night to be the night all the pain and guilt finally ended. As much as I want to die, ending my own life isn’t an option. I’m not religious or not considering suicide because of some tainted vision of what the afterlife holds. I’m just incapable of doing it. All my attempts in the past have been failures, and somehow, I know living and waking up each time I put myself in danger is part of my punishment. It’s penance for what happened nine years ago.
Remorse and my need for continuous suffering are why I climb out of bed and make preparations to go to my parents’ house. I strip out of my clothes from last night and cry harder when I look in the mirror and see no reminders of last night. There are no bruises or scratches anywhere on my body. I have nothing to beat myself up for, and I know it only means that I’ll be forced back out of the house sooner than usual.
Ice-blue eyes fill my head when I climb in the shower, and they don’t dissipate when I towel off and get dressed. I’m haunted by them but tormented even more by not knowing who they belong to or what purpose they serve in my life.
The people from the party last night wouldn’t recognize me. Hell, taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I no longer see the girl who’s wearing a prim dress with knotted hair at the nape of her neck. Even though that’s exactly who’s looking back at me, my reflection is as fake as the actress that will go home and pretend life is the opposite of what it actually is, however, with any luck, I won’t have to pretend to be someone else today.
The car I drive to my parents’ house is the same one I was gifted in high school. The hand-me-down BMW has seen better days, but I’ll continue to drive it as long as it continues to crank. It fits in my life just like everything else that could be upgraded but hasn’t. Smaller rundown houses transform into nicer homes before transitioning once again to large estates as I leave Andover and draw closer to Newbury.
My childhood home brings bittersweet feelings when it comes into view. I hate coming here, but at the same time, I need the shame that settles on my shoulders the second the gate swings open, giving me access to the last place I’m welcome. This isn’t home. This is where my parents live in their own grief and blame.
True to form, my father merely grunts when he opens the door and sees me standing here. He doesn’t let his eyes linger for even a second before turning back around and refilling his whiskey glass. Almost as if I’m allergic to this house, my throat constricts
the second I step inside and close the door behind me.
“Why are you here?”
“You know why I’m here.”
I don’t see Mother in the living room with him, and I didn’t really expect to, but knowing she’s isolated somewhere in the house makes my gut clench.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he grunts before turning his tumbler up and draining the glass.
Inwardly, I wonder how much he’s drank today, or if he even stopped from the glasses he poured last night.
I don’t respond to him. Once a year my shadow darkens his door, but for him, that’s one time too many.
“Where’s Mom?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“I put money in your account every month, so I don’t have to see your face.”
It burns even more that there isn’t a trace of emotion in his voice. His demeanor isn’t angry or aggravated. He’s had decades of perfecting his responses to coincide with political requirements. Even at home, he has the ability to school his face. It’s been years since he’s had any viable political aspirations, but most of the time he remains in character.
“Of all days, today is the worst time for you to show up here.”
“It’s Seth’s birthday.” My words are almost a whisper, but I know he heard them because he flinches, his eyes closing tightly before he can shove the emotion away. My words hit their target, and I tense waiting for what I know is coming.
“So you think the reminder that you killed my only son is something that I need?”
Swallowing repeatedly doesn’t remove the lump in my throat. I shouldn’t be upset. Coming here and being treated like this is exactly the reason I show up year after year. The reminder of what I did nine years ago feeds my pain for a while.
“Kaci.” My mother’s dry, weak voice forces another wave of chills over my skin. “You look nice, dear.”
I don’t bother running my hands down my dress to make sure it’s sitting just as it’s supposed to. My mother gives me empty compliments every time she sees me, but they don’t mean anything. Years ago, she wasn’t like this. Before Seth died, she was brutal in her reminders on how a lady is required to act, and I never once met her standards.
“How are you, Mother?”
“Good.”
I know better. Her hair is a mess, blonde, natural curls springing from her head in all directions, and the sagging clothes on her body don’t even coordinate. This is the woman she became years ago with the help of Vicodin and vodka, and she shows no signs of slowing. Like myself, my mother also has her own ways to fast track herself into oblivion. The drugs and liquor are her own slow spiral into death. We all have our methods.
“It’s Seth’s birthday,” I whisper the reminder just like I did with my father, only her reaction is stunted. Her eyes were already glassy when she walked in, and there isn’t a change even now.
“Is it?” I’m not surprised she wasn’t already aware. Most of the time she doesn’t even know what month it is, much less the actual date.
“Are we doing lunch?”
“I don’t want you here, and I’m definitely not sitting down at the table with you.”
Mom nods her agreement with my father, more out of habit than understanding of his words.
“I’m your only child.” I know reminding them of this is only twisting the knife deeper into his gut.
“You murdered my son!”
Only now do his eyes turn to me, and his emotions begin to show.
Last year when things took this turn, I reminded him that Seth died from choking on part of a toy he bought for his three-year-old son. I made sure he remembered that mother had told him that the toy airplane had an eight to ten age range, but he put her in her place, making sure she knew he’d buy Seth whatever he wanted.
“Seth is smart enough to play with the damn plane,” he’d said to her before they left the house with me in charge of watching him. Just like always, she agreed because, in her eyes, he was always right. My father’s word was the law in his house, and no one was to contradict him.
Three hours later, I was making him a grilled cheese sandwich while my parents were at a town council meeting, my little brother died with one of the plane’s tires lodged in his throat.
In my father’s eyes, I’m one hundred percent to blame. Something he reminds me of each and every time I see him.
The yelling brings me back to being fifteen again, alone in the house while I tried desperately to get him to breathe while waiting for the ambulance. My efforts were hopeless, and the blame was immediate. I didn’t fault my father for pinning me with the blame. His anger was warranted. If I hadn’t answered the phone that day, things could’ve turned out very differently, but after hearing rumors around school that he liked me, I’d been anticipating Desmond’s call for days.
Shaking my head to clear it of the past, I just watch my father. The tips of his ears redden, and his grip on the whiskey glass in his hand is so tight his knuckles begin to lose color. Apparently, he’s easier to anger than he was a year ago, so I don’t bother to remind him that the toy plane was his idea.
“I’m going to go lie down.” I don’t bother to acknowledge my mother as she leaves the room, and neither does my father.
“I want you gone. You never should’ve come back six years ago.” His words have a drunken edge to them, but the fire in his eyes makes it very clear that he’s speaking his true feelings.
That reminder is a slap to the face. He’s always blamed me for Seth, and I’ve always shouldered that. My guilt weighs me down every day over what happened to my little brother, but my father bringing up six years ago is a low blow, even for him.
Having fulfilled my yearly need of disgrace from my family, I don’t utter another word as I walk out of the house. I don’t even bother closing the door behind me, knowing it will anger my father to no end for disrespecting his house.
If I’m lucky, this will be the year he cuts me out completely. Having nowhere to live would be the icing on my shit cake, but I know that won’t happen. My father will continue to pay my bills if only to prevent me from coming back home.
Chapter 8
TJ
“You seem agitated tonight.”
I’m beyond annoyed, but it’s not Legs’s business that I’ve been grounded to the damn clubhouse like a child. Lynch’s order earlier in church is still ringing in my ears, but I know why he commanded everyone to stay close tonight.
Tomorrow we head down to Richmond to meet with Luis Jiménez’s crew. Not long ago Jiménez practically forced a contract for cocaine down my brother’s throat, and in two days we’re handing over a ton of cash for over thirty-five kilos of coke. I’m not upset about the run. Thanks to the ever-raging war on drugs, riding down the highway with enough snow to land me in jail for the rest of my natural life is a thrill I look forward to. It’s the distance and my inability to get to Kaci if she pulls some more stupid shit that frustrates me.
“We can always go back to your room.” The coo in Legs’s voice and the brush of her hand down my arm is driving me insane, and not in the strip your clothes off and let me fuck you kind of way either.
I haven’t been an angel in the last couple of weeks. I’ve dabbled with some of the girls at the club. I mean a man has to come, or he’ll go mental after all, but these women here no longer bring the same thrill I used to get from them. Thinking of teaching the girl in Andover a lesson or two is all my cock gets excited for these days. I know once I have her things will go back to normal, but it’s all I can focus on in the meantime.
“Hitting it kinda early aren’t you?” I ask Briar as he plops down on the sofa across from me, spilling whiskey out of his glass because he’s too wasted to know he’s got the damn bottle in his other hand.
As if realizing he has both, Briar tilts the glass up to his lips before dropping it on the wooden table between us.
I know why he’s acting like a surly bastard. The man is head over heels for my litt
le sister. I’ve known it for a while. Lynch, my older brother and club president, asked me about them the other day, and even though I confirmed we both had the same suspicions, he wasn’t ready to do anything about it. If it weren’t for the VP’s oath of celibacy and his loyalty to the club the last ten years, he’d be in the fucking ground already. In the meantime, it’s an absolute fucking blast to mess with him.
“I saw Molly at the vet’s office today.” I know I hit him in the right spot when he narrows his eyes and lifts the bottle to his lips.
Molly recently got a job at a vet’s office in town, and the animal doctor has garnered some of her interest. It’s eating him alive, because there isn’t shit he can do about it without going against a direct order from his president.
“She seems to like him, I mean likes working there.” He doesn’t acknowledge me, and before I can say something else, a leggy brunette blocks my line of sight to him. I stare at her back as if I do it long enough, I’ll be able to see straight through her.
Legs huffs next to me, and I can’t be bothered to feel guilty that I forgot she was even sitting beside me. I also don’t realize she has her hand on the front of my jeans. My dick doesn’t even respond to her. Picky motherfucker.
I grunt before moving her hand from me and placing it back on her lap. “Don’t ever touch me without my permission.”
Her head snaps back, and I know why she’s baffled. I’ve had this woman in every way imaginable. Her blood has flowed over the blade of my knife more times than I can count, and each and every time she begged me for more. A couple weeks ago, I was seriously considering making her my old lady, or choosing her to entertain me exclusively. Things changed when I saw Kaci lying in that bed covered in blood. I can’t explain why, but an immediate connection was formed, and I’m just as confused by it.
“You’re wasting your time,” I tell the girl vying for Briar’s attention. “Briar doesn’t—”
“Hey, doll,” he slurs as he pats his lap.
“Well then.” Surprise and anger fill my voice as I watch the brunette take the proffered seat, and when Briar grins at me, it takes everything I have not to stab him in the neck. Acting this way now is getting him closer and fucking closer to a visit to the basement.