“As soon as I can,” I promised. “It’s not a problem.”
“Not a problem?” Steve shouldn’t have followed me out into the diner. He spoke too loudly, and the bit of middle-aged pudge and receding hairline wouldn’t protect him. “Those two douchebags are gang members. Who the hell knows what they’ll do. If they rob this place, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”
“They won’t rob us.”
“I’m not giving them one dime in protection money.”
The diner didn’t warrant any protection money. A fire would probably improve the land value. I pushed Steve into the kitchen.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You better.”
I presented the whipped cream to my brothers with a smile. Keep and Brew scowled.
“He always talk to you like that?” Keep asked.
I thought decades of bike engines would dull their hearing. No such luck. “He’s just tipsy.”
“No one disrespects my little sister.”
“It’s nothing.” I shook the can, but Keep had finished most of his pie. Brew always did have the most patience in the family. I buried his slice in whipped cream and handed the can to Keep. “Forget about it. Please. I’d like to still have a job here tomorrow.”
Brew elbowed Keep. “How much you got on you?”
“Enough.”
Brew pulled his wallet and pushed a handful of twenties toward me. Keep took the last bite of his pie and did the same, though a few hundreds tucked inside his pile.
My stomach wound tight. “I don’t need that much.”
“Take it,” Brew said.
“Seriously, I won’t be able to pay you for a while.”
I flipped through some of the money and pushed it back.
Mistake.
“Look.” Keep dropped the fork and his smile. “You want a guitar? Fine. You want to stuff the rest of that money under your mattress and sleep like some goddamned depression era princess, whatever. But you don’t tell us what we do with our money.”
Brew took a bite. “You need tires on your car. And, knowing you, I’m betting an oil change and tune-up too.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
Brew scowled. “If you were fine, you wouldn’t need our help for your fucking guitar. You’d have money saved up. A reason to keep playing these gigs.”
“Brew—”
“Take the money. Get whatever you need for your music, but don’t forget to drop back into the real world once in a while.”
Sometimes I wished my brother would just smack me. At least a bruise would heal.
“You win.” It was the smartest thing I said all night. I wished I meant it. “Thank you.”
I didn’t count the money before stuffing it into my pocket. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough, and the cash exchange wasn’t as discreet as my brothers intended. Steve scoffed from the kitchen, stumbling out to the counter. He waved a finger in my face.
“What the hell is this?” He bumped into the coffee pot and spilled most of the container. “I thought you were going to get rid of them. Don’t tell me you’re their goddamned whore now?”
The hair rose on my neck. “Steve, go back to the kitchen. Please.”
“The fuck did you say?” Keep nudged Brew. “You hear what I heard?”
Brew’s eyes narrowed on Steve. “I hope I heard wrong.”
“I think he called Rose a whore.”
The alcohol on Steve’s breath reeked. He poked at my chest with a knobby finger.
Another mistake.
“This ain’t no whore house. You turning tricks for these dickheads? Should have offered me some first. I should fire your ass.”
Keep and Brew stood. I pushed at Steve.
“Please, leave,” I said. “I’ll close the diner tonight. Just go home.”
“Here I thought Suzy was the only hooker here. Had no idea Rose was a cocksucker too.”
I screamed as Keep launched himself over the counter, grabbed Steve by the throat, and tossed him to Brew. Both my brothers dropped Steve to the floor, but I couldn’t see how many times they kicked him. I rushed to their side and tugged on Keep’s arm. He shrugged me off and shouted at the elderly couple rushing to the door.
“Get your asses in that booth!” He kicked Steve again. “You ain’t running out on this bill.”
Brew seized Steve by what little hair remained on his head and slammed him against the counter. His nose broke, and I turned away as the blood gushed over the sticky pie plates.
“You calling my little sister a whore?” Brew gritted his teeth. The dark hair framing his face shadowed his expression into what should have been unrecognizable rage. But I remembered it. I expected it. “I should cut your fucking balls off.”
“God, no!” Steve choked on his blood. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know she was your sister.”
“Oh.” Keep snickered. “He didn’t know she was our sister.”
“Of course,” Brew shrugged. “It’s just a goddamned misunderstanding.”
“Please, Brew! Keep!”
They ignored me. I twisted my fingers in my apron. Three of the regulars pulled their phones. I darted to their table, my voice a panicked whisper.
“Don’t call the police. They won’t hurt you, I promise. You don’t want to get the police involved.”
“I’m sorry!” Steve groaned. I think he lost a tooth, but I didn’t get any closer. “Sorry!”
“You’re fucking lucky I’m in a good mood,” Keep said. “Saw my little sister for the first time in a while. Makes me pretty happy, you know? Means I won’t tear out your fucking tongue.”
Brew kicked him again. “But if this shitlord paid Rose a decent wage, she wouldn’t need to come to us for money.”
Keep laughed. “That’s true. Hear that? You better give that nice young woman a raise.”
Steve blubbered over his promises. “I swear, I swear, I swear.”
“Good man.” Brew pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the blood from his knuckles. “Sober up and apologize to Rose tomorrow. Someone asks you why you’re all bloody, you tell them you learned a lesson and that now you value your employees. You go to the cops, and I guaren-fucking-tee you’re gonna have an entirely new set of problems. You understand?”
“Yes, yes, I understand. I’m sorry.”
Keep winked at me. As if his sweet smile and shrug would have me forgive him. The roll of money in my pocket weighed me down. I wondered if they stuffed rocks in my apron instead of twenties.
“You call us, and tell us how the audition went,” Keep said. “Promise?”
I didn’t answer. My brothers stepped over Steve’s limp body and strode out the door as if they hadn’t just pummeled my boss nearly to death for an idiotic insult spoken in the moments before he blacked out drunk. Suzy rushed from the kitchen with clean towels, and Dominic peeked out from behind the stove, chef knife in hand. The Harleys revved outside, tearing up the gravel as they pulled into the street.
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.
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. But they decided to ride today.
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 the club, 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 pulled up to 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 every grandmother 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 studied the asshole following me.
Priest.
I once trusted him as our Enforcer, and I used to love him as a brother. That didn’t mean I’d turn my back on him when he sat at our bar. Damned if I would give him the jump on me now. Priest earned his handle. Too many men got their last rites 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 out 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 growled 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, but 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 tricks, 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 enough 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.
Warlord (Anathema Book 1) Page 2