by Violet Blaze
“You seemed more interested in trying to make out with that girl from Rayna's communications class,” I say as I drop a notebook on the tabletop in front of me and glance over at Loren's pinched face. “Not that it's any of my business. I'm just saying, you didn't look like you were having a terrible time.”
Loren rolls his eyes at me as Nevaeh comes to stand in front of us; I pointedly ignore her.
“Listen, bitch, the next time you even think about touching my goddamn boyfriend—”
“I was thinking we could do our book club thing at the café again,” I say as I tap the fingers of my left hand on my notebook, staring at Loren as he tries to follow my lead and ignore Nevaeh. He totally sucks at it, but at least he tries. Then the bitch reaches out and grabs a handful of the necklaces I draped over my throat to hide the hickeys.
I don't even think straight when I follow her up and out of my chair, using both palms to hit her in the shoulders and send her stumbling back. Her fingers tear the necklaces and several of the chains snap, sending shiny silver pieces all over the floor.
Nevaeh goes down hard, but I'm already hopping over the desk and grabbing her by the shirt before she can stand up, shoving her back into the floor and wishing I could just let go and beat her batshit crazy. I'm so fucking sick of letting people treat me like crap because my dad's in the Wolves. It's such bull.
“I didn't touch your chlamydia ridden boyfriend, okay? And the fact that you keep coming after me like this just shows me exactly how stupid and pathetic you are. If you want to know who slept with that piece of crap—and let me just say, you should dump his ass because he's a cheating prick—then you don't have to look any further than your ride to school. Everybody else here knows Bristol and Cooper are fucking, so why don't you?”
I release her and step back, watching as she scrambles to her feet just in time for our teacher to walk into the room. Nevaeh gives me this monstrous glare, her brown eyes glittering black as onyx, and then she just spins and storms out of the room.
“What the hell was that?” Loren whispers as I slump back into my seat and ignore the pieces of scattered necklace all over the floor. Oh well. They were cheap pieces anyway. “You know she's never gonna let you live that down.”
I shrug, but I know Loren's probably right.
I'm sure I'll pay a hefty price for that later.
“Are you seriously fucking a biker from your dad's club?” Aletha asks me excitedly at lunch, sitting in our usual spot under a tree out in front of the school. Loren's put the plaid blanket down that we always use, the one that he keeps in his locker and even dragged to the park that one night. We make fun of him sometimes, call it his wubby, but I don't actually think he has a special connection to it.
“Wow. Guess the rumor mill was running big time after I left, huh?” I ask as I eye Loren and then Rayna and then Tom. But then I look back at Rayna again because there's a ninety-nine percent chance it was her.
“I didn't say fucking. Did I say fucking? I said dating. And that he gave you a really expensive bike. What?” Rayna fixes her black hipster glasses and smiles when one of the teachers gives her a weird look. If you think about it, it is a little strange that she sneaks back to the school to have lunch with us sometimes. Once I get out of here, I'm never coming back. Of course, I also have no clue what I want to do with my life. Except, you know, Glacier. I want him, and he's mine, and I refuse to give him up for anyone or anything.
I sit back on the blanket with my boots out, red and black striped socks climbing up past my knees, hooked to a garter belt. And it's not all fancy just for Saint or anything; I always wear stuff like this.
“I can't believe some guy from your dad's club bought you a bike,” Aletha says, twisting her curly black hair around a finger and leaning her head against Otto's shoulder as he unpacks a classic brown sack lunch—his mother still packs them for him and he turns eighteen in about two weeks. “Is this like, a dowry or something? Like he wants you to be his 'old lady'?” She makes nice quotes with her fingers as I roll my eyes.
“A dowry? Really? The club may be medieval, but come on. There are no fucking dowries.” I flip the top on my messenger back as a stray shaft of sunlight pierces the clouds and warms up the pale whiteness of my upper thighs. Mrs. Ferrera was already on me about the skirt today, but I'm making a statement and I refuse to take it off. “Besides, you know how my dad feels about women and bikes. By giving this to me, Glacier's breaking all the rules. It's why I like him. And he didn't buy it for me; he already owned it. He just gave it to me.”
“Ooooh, big difference,” Aletha says as she and Rayna exchange looks. “So he does want you to be his old lady?”
“I have no idea,” I say, but really, I do. I guess technically I'd be Glacier's old lady, but I just hate the term, so … I don't know. I pull a package of miniature doughnuts from my bag. Lunch of champions this stuff. “But we're not sleeping together,” I add casually. Total lie, of course, but I won't see anything happen to Glacier because of our relationship.
When I glance Loren's way, he's frowning. I never outright told him that Saint and I were having sex. He made the admittedly correct assumption, but I never confirmed it. Let him believe what he wants, as long as he keeps his mouth shut.
“So … those hickeys on your neck just appeared by magic?” Tom asks, chewing his sandwich and looking at me with renewed interest. Rayna chuckles and Loren sighs, dumping a bunch of food from his backpack.
“I never said we didn't kiss. We just didn't do anything illegal.”
“Sure thing,” Aletha says as she and Otto exchange a very couple-y sort of a look. “Sure thing, Ren.”
“About the book club meeting,” I say, because my friends and I like to get together at least twice a month and at least pretend to be a real book club, “do you want to do it at the café again? Free coffee and day old pastries for everyone.”
“Do we get to meet your boyfriend?” Aletha asks and I shrug loosely. But actually, I do kind of want to re-introduce them to Saint.
“You've met him before,” I say as I gesture with a white powdered doughnut. “Last time we had the café meeting. He's the cute one with the blonde hair and all the piercings.” I swirl my hand in a circle around my face.
“Oh!” Rayna says, like a lightbulb's just gone off. She snaps her fingers in my direction at least a half-dozen times. “That's the guy you've been in love with forever, the one that let you drive his bike that one time.”
“That's the guy,” I say as she wrinkles up her brows.
“Isn't he in his mid-twenties or something?”
“Just about,” I say because the word thirty just seems to set people off. “So are we on for Monday after school? That's the only day I have off from my new job at the mayor's office. There's, like, a press conference or something that day.”
“Sounds good,” Otto says, playing with the gelled up spikes of his purple mohawk. Loren refuses to look in my direction.
“Oh, and don't forget: Wednesday's a half day for a staff meeting or something. If you guys want something to do, I'm thinking of having a painting party to tackle a bedroom. I'll buy pizza if you want to help out.”
“You're painting your walls?” Loren asks, finally looking over at me. “I thought you liked them black?”
“Not my walls,” I say as I finish off the doughnuts and tuck the garbage into the front pocket on my bag. “Glacier's. Let me know if you want to come.”
And then I stand up, grab my bag, and head inside to hit the vending machine to grab a soda. Usually Loren follows after me and sips fizzy cola next to the door of our fifth period class.
Only … today he doesn't.
That sucks.
After school, Lyric picks me up in Royal's big, red truck, dressed in another one of those fancy black jumpsuit things.
“I brought my work clothes,” I say, holding up my bag as she smiles over at me. “I can change when we get to the office.” The thought of filing paperwork and taki
ng orders from Lyric's sister, Kailey, kind of makes me want to scream, but I console myself with thoughts of that beautiful bike, crouching in the woods and waiting for me.
Speaking of bikes …
“I heard you got a bike,” Lyric says, this interesting mix of pride and worry in her voice.
“I did,” I say, guessing that Glacier must've told Royal. That's a little scary, knowing the president of the MC knows about his supposed transgression against the club. But I guess if we can't trust Royal, we can't trust anyone in the Wolves. “And it's … it's fucking amazing,” I whisper.
“As much as the age difference between you two bothers me, I have to say … that was a nice gesture.” We exchange a quick glance across the seat of the truck, just two women in love with two men that they technically shouldn't be allowed to have. There's a sense of kinship there, a recognition of hardship served and hardship yet to be earned.
“I don't want to ride bitch seat,” I tell her and she cringes slightly.
“Not many people do,” she says, and her voice is soft yet somehow hard underneath, like she's put up with a ton of shit in her life. I imagine so, being in politics and all. “You know, it's like that Eleanor Roosevelt quote, 'no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.' If you don't want to sit in back, don't. Take the goddamn wheel.” Lyric's fingers curl around the steering wheel and she sucks in a sharp breath. “Just remember: as women we have to work twice as hard to be recognized, to fight for what we want. Loving Glacier, that just may very well be the hardest thing you ever have to fight for. The club is … a powerful and immovable influence and he's all wrapped up in it.”
“Speaking from experience?” I ask with a tight smile.
“Maybe,” she says, giving me a slightly more relaxed version of my own expression. “All I'm trying to say is, rules and traditions shouldn't be used as excuses to keep others down. You already have one strike against you because of your age; that's going to make it all that much more difficult. Even I threatened to cut Glacier's balls off if he touched you again.”
I raise my eyebrows at that, a little chill of fear racing through me. She told me that before, but still. Wow.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” she says with a small laugh. “Anyway, most of the time, when there's an age difference like this, it's usually because an older man's taking advantage of a young girl. The more I talk with you, the more I realize that that's not the case. It's just going to be hard to convince other people of that—especially if you're fighting a war on more than one front. The age, the bike, whatever else.”
“Do you know why I fell in love with him in the first place?” I ask and Lyric shakes her head, the short strands of her brunette bob scraping against her cheek. “Because he didn't look at me like Jack's daughter, like a girl, not even like a woman. He looked at me like I was a person. Glacier makes me feel like a human being and I think … no, I know that I do the same for him. I don't know what happened to him to make him the way he is, but he's never been loved. And he needs that.” I take a deep breath and put my hands on my knees. “And I want to give it to him.”
“Well, whatever happens,” she starts and the sound of her voice scares me, like she doesn't think we'll get through this without something happening, “you've got allies in me and Royal.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I feel my breath rush out of my lungs.
I keep telling myself I'll get through these next months, hit eighteen and everything will be okay. But then there's the bike, and the fact that my dad still hates Glacier, and the reality of his connection to the club.
Lyric's probably right, preparing for the worst like that. Something bad is sure to happen.
I just need to be prepared to handle it.
None of our leads from the vacation rental pan out into anything substantial, but everything seems quiet on the western front and there's no more news from our dealers about outsiders peddling product in town. But for a man like me, a man who turns the hunt into an art, the trail is never cold. I will find these two cartel fucks, and I will put one of them in my chair and paint with his blood.
I pull up the length of my driveway, and the censor on my bike activates the garage door, opening it for me, flashing me the sleek black and orange curves of Serenity's Hot Rod.
I feel the physical change in me, the sudden rush of hormones that flood my body from my brain, snap that cold front and turn me human for the briefest of instances. Unfortunately, that release also wakes up the rumbling heat of the monster and by the time I park and tear off my helmet, I'm breathing hard.
She's here? Already?
I told her she could take days; I meant that. Although the thought of being separated from her for that long turned my stomach. Whatever it is that she's done to me, she's made me crave her touch—and I'm not just talking about sex. No. Serenity isn't just some sex doll for me to fuck. She's a million things beyond that, more important things even. Although I do quite like the sex …
“Saint,” she says when I step inside and find her in my kitchen. My kitchen. My fucking kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I ask as strange scents surround me and I find Serenity bent over the stove, examining something black and charred inside the oven.
“I … my mom has one recipe that she's really good at. I've seen her make it a thousand times.” She pulls out the burnt food with an oven mitt and tosses it on top of the stove. “I'm not much of a cook, but I thought I could make it. Fuck.” She tears off the mitt and throws it at the … whatever the black lump is, turning to look at me with sweat sticking her blonde bangs to her forehead, her cheeks flushed red from the heat of the kitchen. “I'm sorry. I don't know if you've eaten yet, but there's always the salad. No cooking involved in that, so it should at least be edible.” She breathes out suddenly and then turns fully to face me. “What?”
I stare back at her, dressed in a short skirt, striped socks, boots, a tank that's not quite long enough to hide her belly button piercings. That fire and heat coils in my chest again and my hands curl into fists at my sides.
“I warned you not to come here until you were ready,” I say, feeling those unfamiliar urges sweep through me again. Possessiveness. Need. Hunger. Something else. Affection? I step forward and touch my fingers to Serenity's flushed cheek, trailing the tips back and into her hair, grabbing hold of it. Hard.
“Whatever it is that you need,” she tells me, her voice breathy and low, “then I'll give it to you.”
“You cooked me dinner?” I whisper and then I release her suddenly, taking a step back. She stares at me for a long moment, her eyes covered in liner and red eyeshadow with silver sparkles. Those lips of hers are full and curved and red, red, red. Shiny and glossy and inviting. When Serenity adjusts herself and crosses her arms over her chest, silver bracelets jingle on her arms.
“You do eat, don't you?” she asks with a small half-smile. “I mean, even monsters need food, right?”
“After,” I say, because so many things feel like they're crashing down on me at once.
“Okay, Saint,” she tells me, her voice still soft, but not weak. Gentle, soothing, almost comforting. She moves forward, and then past me, her sweet scent teasing my nostrils as she breezes down the hall. I follow after her and find my bedroom turned completely upside down.
The stark white sheets on my bed have been replaced with red, a tall beeswax candle burning on the nightstand, an open laptop with a pink skull and crossbones skin sitting open and glowing. On the mirrored dresser is Serenity's messenger bag, spilling its contents across the surface—books, pens, a box of colored pencils, some crumpled clothes.
“Sorry,” she says as she cringes and snaps the lid on her computer closed. “I just sort of … made myself at home here.” I stand stone still in the doorway and watch as she moves over to her bag, shoving the computer inside. “And I got the urge to write, so …”
“What kind of things do you write about?” I ask mildly, watching Sereni
ty shove her stuff back into the bag and wishing she'd just leave it there. Seeing her vibrancy splashed across this sorry white box I call a home is comforting at the most basic of levels. Primal. That's what this is.
My hands squeeze into even tighter fists. I'm like a wolf who's just found his mate, and I want her in my den, her scent splashed across everything, our shared space marked and lived in.
“Romance, mostly,” Serenity says with a slight smile, glancing over at me. “Trying my hand at erotica now that I've experienced it.”
She turns around and leans against the dresser, the flickering light of the candle highlighting the sharp, straight lines of her cheekbones, the angled slope of her jaw, the elegant slant of her nose. Her lips are ripe and full, shiny and red.
“I've toyed with … you know, being a writer or something. But my mom—”
“If you want to be a writer,” I say, moving toward her, my boots loud against the old wood floors. I pause with the toes of our leather riding boots pressed tight together, lifting my hand and cupping the side of her face. I like doing that. Can't seem to stop. I just want to cradle her head in my hands, stare into those pools of liquid sapphire. I'm so used to people looking at me with fear, suspicion, hate, disgust, confusion.
Serenity's eyes, they have none of these things.
“If you want to be a writer,” I repeat, and that snake uncoils in my chest again, strikes against … my rapidly beating heart, “then I support you.” My right hand presses against the leather of my cut as I feel the thundering muscle beneath my skin. So I do have one. That's what that snake is, that flame, that strange writhing beneath my ribs.
I shrug out of my cut, tossing the leather onto the bed and then lifting my shirt up and over, sending it to the floor near the closet.
“Tell me why you brought me sheets,” I say as I lift Serenity's hand up to my chest, press her palm flat against the pounding of my heart. She makes a little sound in her throat and stares at her white flesh splayed against the blackbirds etched into my skin.