“What happened to you—”
“Is none of your concern. And it has nothing to do with Anathema.” I stared her down. “Thank you for the breakfast.”
I didn’t let them answer, and I prayed they wouldn’t follow. I wasn’t lucky as a child, but I needed to be lucky as an adult. Exorcist, Temple, ATF, and Anathema were all watching, waiting, and all eager to catch me in a mistake. I tightened the straps on my bag and raced to my car.
I was out of options.
I was out of hope.
And I was far from anyone who might have rescued me.
But that didn’t matter. I had the money, and I was getting the drugs, and I was going to save my brothers.
If only because no one else could save me.
My car started. I braced for the tick-tick-tick of a bomb.
Nothing exploded.
I think I was disappointed.
I made it out of the diner. A solid first step. Now I only needed to exchange Ex’s money with Temple’s drugs and escape before ATF hauled me in for questioning, Anathema found me, or Thorne’s betrayal finally broke me down.
I never did allow myself to cry. About anything. And when I should have wept, when I should have screamed and shouted for help, I was given a guitar on my sixteenth birthday to keep quiet.
And it worked.
Keep and Brew were right. Everything in my life revolved around music. I lived only for the opportunity to pick up my guitar.
But what they thought was obsession was really my salvation. They cleansed their sins in blood. The cut was their shroud, and their hymn the rumble of their engines. The awful things they did for Anathema found absolution within their brotherhood.
I didn’t have that.
I never had that.
I shared their name, I suffered their crimes, and I tended their addictions, but when I needed to talk, I was punished. Backhanded, for speaking about things pertaining to the club. Secrets I had no business harboring.
When I needed protection, I was isolated.
When I needed help, I was ignored.
When I needed my brothers, I was abandoned in favor of their true family. Keep and Brew weren’t my siblings. They were Anathema. And Blade Darnell wasn’t my father. Just a monster wrapped in a vest with a Vice-President patch.
And so I played my guitar. I learned to sing. I produced my music and offered my talent anywhere that cobbled together a microphone and an audience. And only Thorne and the Feds listened.
ATF would destroy my life to complete their objective. They didn’t care about me or my pain or why I carried around a backpack full of non-sequential bills.
If they had asked, I might have shared. Explained why I agreed to do Exorcist’s dirty work. Confessed that I feared my brothers. Laughed about ducking when I got into my car because I expected a gun to poke me from the backseat.
I needed a plan.
It didn’t matter if it was to rat on my father or to steal the money and speed for the border. Both plans only bought me time, but I didn’t know what I’d do with those precious moments.
Either my heart or my neck would break. At least one could save me from the other.
I pulled out of the parking lot and lapped the block twice before hitting the highway, ducking between a couple semis and exiting the very next ramp to return to town.
I hated that I learned how to lose a tail. I hated even more how paranoid I was that ATF might have been following me. But Brew raised me well. He didn’t teach me to drive, he taught me how to peel out outside the clubhouse, dodge lanes on the highway, shift gears on the fly, and weave in and out of traffic when he needed the getaway.
His lessons failed my driving test six times, but I kept him alive twice. Failing to parallel park was worth it if it meant my brother was safe.
I fumbled for my phone and hummed a nervous warm-up to chase the trembles from my voice. It didn’t matter if I muttered along to the radio or belted out an entire opera. The words spilled from my lips like I shivered in a blizzard.
Luke answered on the first ring. “You shouldn’t be calling this early.”
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. It didn’t help. “I can’t do this.”
Luke’s connection scratched, like he smashed his hand over the receiver. I worried he hung up, but after a long minute and a few profanities, he returned.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“This is too dangerous. I just had ATF force me into the restaurant to eat with them.”
“You wouldn’t let me buy you a cup of coffee, but you snuggled up with the Feds?”
“It wasn’t by choice.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you fucking tell them?”
“Nothing, Luke!”
He exhaled, but I imagined he had a lot more to say than he did. “You better not be lying to me.”
“Look, if ATF is stopping me, they’re probably following me too. It’s too risky.”
“Did they ask about The Coup?”
I hesitated. He heard it. Luke hissed my name.
But something didn’t add up. Not The Coup trying to buy drugs from Temple, and certainly not my father suddenly making enough friends to spring him from jail years before his parole hearing.
My stomach twisted, and I was fortunate I hadn’t eaten any of the pancakes offered by ATF. They weren’t poisoned, but I’d choke just the same.
“No, it was about Anathema.” The lie wasn’t convincing. I babbled as best I could to prevent him from asking any questions. “I can’t do this deal right now. Not with them watching.”
“You have a hell of a lot more problems than ATF, Bud.”
“That’s not something anyone wearing a cut has ever said.”
“Sorry. You’re out of options.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Believe it or not, The Coup isn’t as organized as Anathema. Not everyone is thrilled that we gave a clueless little girl our money. I don’t care if ATF is on you or if Thorne is fucking your ass. You’re doing this deal because I can’t guarantee you survive today if you don’t.”
“And when I’m arrested for drug trafficking?”
“You know to keep your mouth shut.” He grunted. “For Christ’s sake, Bud, you’ve stayed silent about worse things.”
I didn’t answer. He exhaled.
“Nothing is going to happen if you stick to the plan and keep a low profile. Got it?”
“I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Call me when it’s done. I’ll pick up the merchandise.”
“Luke—”
The line went dead. I swore and tossed the phone into my purse. The radio murmured my favorite jazz song. Had Luke wanted a set list, a tuned guitar, and a Beatles cover, we’d be fine. Instead, he wanted to show off the eyes and nose I inherited from my father.
But I wasn’t a drug trafficker. Or a biker. Or even my father’s daughter anymore.
I was a musician. Struggling, but la boheme wasn’t known to be a glamorous life. Temple wouldn’t accept a jaunty tune for the drugs, and, apparently, ATF wasn’t a fan of contemporary acoustic music.
But some people were.
And then I knew exactly how I’d survive another few hours.
Plenty of places existed in the city where a girl like me, in her pink Aerosmith shirt strumming a guitar, blended in. Places where a sketchy, inked man wouldn’t dare show his face.
I could hide in plain sight, entertaining the masses with a folksy guitar and a smoky voice. It didn’t guarantee my safety for long, but at least Temple wouldn’t kill me out right and steal the money if I set up the deal in conjunction with an impromptu concert.
My brothers would never allow it.
Thorne would probably break the guitar.
But it wasn’t like I could go to any of them for help. Not when I needed to prove my brothers’ innocence before their president killed them both.
It was the most important performance of my life, and I didn’t have my music, looper pedal, a decent outfit to wear, or a freaking clue what I was doing. But if nothing else, I’d sound good before Temple gunned me down in the street. Like the modern day John Lennon, except without the fame, glory, and international success.
I parked my car in a nearby lot, clutched the bag of money, and pulled the guitar from the trunk. As much as I hated to combine music with the MC, at least Thorne would be proud to see his father’s guitar put to such a use.
The thought burned me. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I screamed and begged and demanded to be freed from this world, I strapped the guitar over my chest and strummed the first sweet note poisoned by the nightmare of what was to come.
So why did I sound better than I ever had before?
Temple didn’t pick the busiest corner for their deal. Just a little side street facing a bakery, hardware store, and a closed down metal shop. The area didn’t see much foot traffic. That didn’t ease my frantic heart, fluttering too fast for the beat of the song. A black sedan rolled to a stop at the red light across from my impromptu stage. The windows tinted, and my insides turned into a stage-frightened mush.
I doubted the car slowed to enjoy my acoustic rendition of a Lady Gaga song. The words bittered in my mouth. I jerked away, the guitar strap digging in the tender skin on my chest strained hard by a breath of air that refused to dip into my lungs or belt out in crescendo. The song faded.
My fingers clutched the guitar, trembling, shaking, and begging to be sliced upon the taut strings. At least then I wouldn’t have to pretend. At least then when the blood pooled from me and dripped onto the sidewalk, somebody would see how much trouble I was in. That I wasn’t just singing and hoping somebody would toss a couple bucks into my open guitar case.
The next song erupted from my memory. Classic rock. Biker rock. The bluesy, mournful songs about life on a highway, anarchy, and lyrics riddled with violence.
But I sounded good.
Comfortable and poised as every note draped over me in a protective shadow of confidence.
My heart cradled the song and welcomed the melodies like the prick of a needle with its aphrodisiac poison. Why did I even try to fight it?
The songs belonged to the MC.
Clandestine meetings between clubs on a busy sidewalk might have patched me into the club.
Anathema or The Coup wouldn’t trust a prospect to handle a trade like this. Now, the only thing separating me from the men I tried to avoid was the leather jacket and the police record. And, after a meeting with ATF, it wasn’t like my file was squeaky clean.
The guitar warmed the intersection with folksy rock. The rumble of motorcycles muffled the song. My heart stilled.
I sang to protect myself, to protect my brothers, and to protect my fracturing courage that wavered as the growling of fierce motorcycle engines added bass to a song that already beat my snapping mind.
A mother and child hurried past the intersection as the bikes pulled alongside my performance. Smart. I’d have run too, if I hadn’t bound myself in terror while strumming Vietnam era protest rock.
Only my father ever dealt with Temple. He spoke Spanish, an impressive feat for a man who cursed every brown-skinned person who wandered too near his bike. But Temple wasn’t just a “Mexican” gang, they were business associates. They respected my father.
For the first time, my father offered me protection.
His name became the Kevlar wrapping over my chest.
I didn’t stop singing, except my quivering voice didn’t project well enough for Kansas, Aerosmith, or Clapton. Not that the grinning man with the caterpillar mustache, scar across his forehead, and patch on his vest that read “Sergeant at Arms” cared. He laughed, gestured to both members of his crew tagging along after him, and glanced me up and down as if I were dancing in Sorceress.
His lecherous grin mirrored secrets I tried to forget.
“Do you take requests?” He licked his lips. “I’d love to have you play at one of my parties.”
I forced a polite smile and a shrug.
When I was seventeen, Keep threatened my skull with a hammer after a weekend of memorizing Freebird in his bar. My fingers wove over the guitar, quick and fast, relying on muscle memory to strum the notes that panic stole from my mind.
Without missing a chord, I edged the backpack of money toward Mustache, and powered into the song’s bridge.
“Daddy always said how pretty you were,” he rasped.
I stared only at the guitar case. The song neared a difficult solo, and I gritted my teeth, fought against the darkness threatening both my memory and my wavering stomach. Mustache laughed.
“When he said you are talented, he never mentioned music.”
Every college kid with a guitar and a red cup brimming with Natty Light fancied themselves a musician. They learned a song or two, played in front of a couple pretty girls, and maybe had a calloused finger or two.
They didn’t practice like I did.
They never needed to practice like I did.
It wasn’t for the music. And it wasn’t for any song.
It was because the music was the only reason I didn’t kill myself, and the only reason I could ignore what had happened, what would eventually happen again, and how only jail prevented the encore performance.
The music bandaged old wounds and comforted broken memories. I didn’t stop playing. I kicked the bag toward him, and concentrated on the solo complicated enough to distract me from the ugliness that forced me to run from home and seek shelter in a biker bar.
Mustache gestured to his brother. A second, identical bag dropped by the first. He took my offering and unzipped it only to verify that more than enough green stared at him.
“If it isn’t all there, I’ll flay you alive,” Mustache said. “But you’re Blade’s girl. I trust you.”
Mustache reached into his vest. I tensed as he dropped a hundred dollar bill in the guitar case.
“Daddy would be proud.” He gestured to his crew and climbed on his bike. He winked. “I bet your big brother is too.”
The strings snapped in my hand.
My guitar silenced.
No music echoed in my head. Only my thoughts. Only my fears.
Absolute revulsion swept over my body. The guitar dropped into the case as Temple’s crew sped away with fifty thousand dollars, a completed deal, and my brother’s innocence.
I stared at the bag on the sidewalk, filled with vile, horrible truth.
I wished they packed in a bomb instead. Something quick, something that could end me before the shattering remnants of my world slashed me apart from the inside.
I feared I was bleeding. I wasn’t.
I fought to be sick. Nothing came up.
I imagined I was alone.
I was right.
I slammed the guitar into the case, nearly breaking the frets as my trembling hands dropped the instrument. The backpack loaded next to it in the trunk of my car. But the cold sweat and selfish masochism of curiosity forced my fingers along the zipper of the bag.
All zippers sounded the same.
The drugs bundled inside.
Red.
The meth dyed red.
Just like the drugs in Keep’s drawer. Just like the drugs sludging through my brother’s veins. Just like the drugs that my brother used and craved and needed to function.
He sold his soul, his family, and his club for drugs.
Keep’s addiction wouldn’t just kill him. He killed all of us, and Thorne and Exorcist would fight over who would pull the trigger.
I didn’t have any time. My phone trembled in my hand. I dialed Luke, and steeled my voice with all the strength of a singer who practiced until her throat bled for the chance to escape, to save herself, and to lead a life far from the brutal violence of the MC.
I didn’t wait for him to answer. I slammed the door to my car an
d gunned it from the parking lot.
“The deal’s off,” I said. “If Ex thinks about me the wrong way, he can fish his drugs out of the river.”
Luke swore. “What are you doing, Bud? What the hell do you want?”
I sped out of the city and prayed the heartbreak hadn’t also shattered my sanity.
“I want my brother.”
The goddamned helmet choked me as I pulled it off. I slammed it against Pixie’s wall. It cracked.
Better than my skull. Maybe.
Two hours.
For two hours I prowled the fucking streets for her. Looked in her apartment. Checked Sorceress. I sped through every godforsaken puddle and nearly pissed myself when her brothers called. They couldn’t find her. Better than what I thought they’d say.
How the hell did she make me so angry? She was just a kid. A pissed off, confused, kid.
Woman.
I remembered a time when it was easy to demean a woman. They crawled all over Pixie trolling for a drunken biker to give them a ride. They didn’t care who was wrapped in the cut, and I didn’t care who was sucking my cock.
So when in the fuck did it start to matter? And why the hell did it have to matter with her?
I used the little diva as my own instrument. I imprisoned her. Rescued her. Seduced her. And, when she delivered the little bag of meth from her brother’s room, she fulfilled her purpose.
I fucked her and she rooted out the traitor. Two weeks ago the only thing sweeter than ripping out the heart of the man who disgraced his club would have been taunting him as he died about how enthusiastically his little sister ground against my cock.
But now that traitor wasn’t just a traitor.
And that little sister wasn’t just a little sister.
I would have ripped out my own heart, spilled my own blood, crippled my own body if it meant sparing Rose even the slightest bit of pain.
But the scarred demon patched onto my vest darkened everything with the grimace of evil. Wickedness begat wickedness. Sorrow fed sorrow. Violence submitted to violence. I wore misery like a crown and reveled in the few hallowed moments when I was blessed with the taste of something pure, beautiful, and good.
Warlord (Anathema Book 1) Page 22