This Is The Route Of Twisted Pain (Neither This, Nor That Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Get the girl up.” By not using her name, he was trying to minimize the impact her words had on the men. If they were willing to put their hands on her now, then she might not last the time needed for Po’Boy and the boys to make their way through the woods to the rear of the property.

  Shuffling footsteps behind her sealed the deal. There were too many who were either ignorant of who their enemies were, or blinded by the lies spewed about what a victory Saturday had been. They’d be swooping in to scoop her up any moment, rush her, take her to the cage, something she couldn’t allow. Leswayne hadn’t moved back after he’d struck her. He was so close she’d brush against him if she stood, the idea making her skin crawl with revulsion. She threaded her fingers into the top of her boot, gripping the folded handle tucked there for safe keeping.

  Knives had been a favorite way to pass the time when she was younger. She’d learned how to flare and flip a butterfly, wheeling blades around her fingers, sucking oozing cuts when she misjudged. Wielding needle and horsehair when she lost. Following Bagger from clubhouse to clubhouse, playing with the other club kids, she’d learned both bishop and mumblety-peg early. Bagger gave her this knife, and she never lost a game with it. Never had one that mattered this much.

  Orienting the handle by feel, she placed the bite in her palm, and pulled a breath, blowing it out slowly. Tugging the blade from her boot and flicking her wrist, she flung the tang. No flare here, no flash or show, just the security of feeling the safe handle slap into her palm while she straightened her arm, thrusting up and out, dragging it left to right as fast as she could move. Butterflies in your stomach. The handle grew slick and she pistoned it back and forwards a second time, dragging up through the resistance encountered, hearing the high-pitched squeal coming from Leswayne. “Three.” The word escaped in a whisper as she felt hands gripping her wrists, slipping in the blood covering her as they worked to pull her away from the slowly toppling body in front of her.

  “Jesus, fuck. You fuckin’ killed him, goddammit.” That came from right behind her and her neck bent as she tried to see who had her. Thin and dark-haired, this man was no one she knew, so she renewed her struggles to get away. “Penny, stop it.” His use of her name surprised her. Then he grunted as the heel of her boot connected with his knee. “Twisted—” He grunted again and slumped against her, the dead weight of his body carrying her to the ground. Po’Boy’s face appeared over his shoulder, and he grinned down at her, pistol in hand.

  Like a guard dog, Po’Boy stood over the top of her, head on a swivel, watching to see if there were more threats imminent. Penny shoved at the chest of the unconscious man, heaving him off and to the side without help. “I think he was trying to say Twisted’s here somewhere,” she wheezed and watched as Po’Boy turned, scanning. Then he locked in place. Finally free, she pushed up from the ground and ran, aiming to where he’d focused, hearing Po’Boy pounding behind her as they approached the shadows around the clubhouse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Twisted

  Twisted heard the roaring of a bike’s pipes. The engine throttled up twice and then cut off abruptly. Not an uncommon sound at a club’s compound, but for the past five minutes, he’d had chills. It felt as if something was on the cusp of happening. Goose walkin’ over my grave, he’d thought more than once, barking a laugh the first time but that changed to a groan as it set off waves of agony through his body.

  A scratching at the doors, the rattling sound of the chain they used to padlock it closed, then the cellar doors opened wide. Dirt and root steps leading down to the dank dirt floor where he lay illuminated by the bright sun coming from outside. Heat poured down the steps along with the light, and he shivered again. Where he was, stretched out between the two raised platforms on either side of the long, narrow room, it was cool, and he’d not been thankful for that until this moment. See, it can always be worse. He didn’t know he’d smiled in response to his internal dialogue until he heard Leswayne’s voice. “The fuck you got to be grinnin’ at? You one stupid muthafucka.”

  Standing at the top of the steps, Leswayne took up a significant amount of room. Not because he was broad as much as he was wide. Wide load, comin’ through. With a proud beer belly jutting out over the top of his pants, he looked like he was beyond the delivery date of triplets by about two years. It was a pure wonder how his pants stayed up unless that belly hanging over cinched them into place like a chip clip. Snap. It had been years since Twisted had laid eyes on the dread outlaw, hadn’t recognized him at first, with his puffy features and doughboy body.

  Not recognizing him had brought pain because Leswayne didn’t care about injuries Twisted might already bear on his body. He’d been free with his feet and fists when Twisted couldn’t stop a laugh at his outraged shout, “What do you mean, you don’t know who I am? I’m Leswayne, muthafucka.” Leswayne, you might be. But Samuel L, you ain’t, had been Twisted’s stupid, stupid response, drawing laughter from half the men standing in a circle staring down at him. Even before he saw how that yanked Leswayne’s features into an angry scowl, he’d known the men’s reaction, each one of them a patched member of the Vicars, would cost him much more than his words, because a man like Leswayne couldn’t be bested, not in front of men who didn’t respect him.

  “Lazy ass, get your fuckin’ ass up these steps. Got something I want you to see.” Twisted stared at him as the man coughed, hawked, and then spit on the first step before turning to walk away.

  Get my ass up the steps. Right. He was fucked-up. Knew it. Had known it the first time he’d regained consciousness lying in a pile of brush and trash, staring at the sunshine filtering through the pine needles over his head. Left side useless, he was pretty confident his arm was broken up by his shoulder, knew the collarbone was definitely broken, mostly because part of it was sticking out of his skin.

  When he’d forced himself to a sitting position, he’d passed out again, coming back to his senses slumped sideways. His arm hung slack at his side, shoulder drooping like a melting Saint’s candle. He’d seen his bike then, and that hurt nearly as badly as the bones. Front wheel warped and forks collapsed around a tree trunk, it had struck with enough force to break off the top of the dead pine, the fresh wood shining brightly where that deadly arrow had speared the earth not five feet to the left of where he sat. Attempting to stand triggered another woozy spell and he’d fallen hard when he tried to widen his stance to stay upright, left leg giving out from under him for no good reason.

  After that, he’d stayed on the ground, digging his pocketknife out and opening it with his teeth to cut away the strangling fabric of his shirt. No phone, that motherfuckin’ burner had been in his hand when he’d clipped the boulder he now saw hiding behind a tree, no doubt cartwheeling like the bike had, probably traveling even further than his body. The road he’d been on wasn’t well traveled, and he knew from the angle of the sun in the sky he’d already been there for hours without being found, so was surprised when a vehicle slowed and stopped, driving off the road right in that bend. He’d thought it might be a local dumping trash. Or that he was delirious from heat and injuries combined with no water. But he wouldn’t take a chance it was real, screaming out, “Hey.” Again and again.

  Only after he’d shouted the house down to bring the driver his direction did he realize he didn’t have to expend the effort.

  They were there for him.

  Vicar’s Wrath patches on their vests, hands like iron lifted and carried him to the truck parked in the ditch, then dropped him gracelessly to the bed. When he came to again, one man was riding in the back of the truck with him. It was someone he recognized as being a Ragman supporter, the man looking down at him, slowly shaking his head side-to-side. Oh yeah, he was fucked-up.

  They’d brought him here. The wind of the truck’s passage through the darkness keeping the heat at bay until they stopped in back of the compound, sweltering temperatures intensifying the pounding in his head. They’d dragged him out of the
truck bed by the waistband of his jeans, Twisted unable to hold back the groans when his legs buckled underneath him, sending him face-first to the dirt at Leswayne’s feet. Then Leswayne went to town on Twisted, enjoying himself with every kick, hit, and blow he landed. Powerless to fight back, all Twisted could do was take it. Take it without flinching. Take it without screaming. Take it knowing in his gut for the second time that day that he was going to die.

  During one of the times his body failed him and passed out, someone took him to the root cellar, locking him in. When he came to, he could see the links of the chain holding the doors closed, and laughed, knowing there was no way in hell he’d be headed up those steps under his own power. And now, here was Leswayne, asking the impossible.

  A face appeared at the top of the steps, and Twisted stared, unsure if he was seeing things. “What the fuck you doin’ here?”

  “Shut up.” Those two hissed words told him this was a friendly visit, and he nodded, giving the man the benefit of the doubt, watching as he moved silently down the steps. With the man’s shoulder propped under his good arm, Twisted held onto the man, grimacing when the movement set his injuries singing with pain. “Hold on.” A hand urged him to sit, and he did, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Gonna hurt,” the man said, producing a bandana and whirling it into a makeshift rope. With it knotted around the wrist of his injured arm, Twisted leaned his head back on a groan as the arm was pulled across his torso, bandana tied to a belt loop of his jeans. With his vest buttoned around his forearm, it was secured as best as it could be without a sling.

  “Holy hell, fuckin’ hurts.” Twisted ground these words between clenched teeth, feeling a sick sweat breaking out all over his body.

  “We got maybe two minutes before Leswayne comes back to roust you.” Ragman stepped back, staring down at Twisted. He hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, his cut gaping open to expose the pistol holstered at his hip. Twisted hadn’t seen him for a while, hadn’t cared to with so much shit swirling around. This sudden assistance surprised him. He’d never gotten the feeling that Ragman would be open to a direct strike against his old man, even if he’d made it clear he wanted to take the club in a direction opposite to everything Leswayne wanted.

  “What’s waiting for me out there?” By breathing in small gulps of air, he was able to keep the pain beaten back. Focusing on something else was helping, too, like trying to pick apart the puzzle standing in front of him.

  “Woman rolled in about twenty minutes ago.” That would be the bike he’d heard, the one that swept in carrying the feeling of deep unease. “Claimed to be your ol’ lady.” Oh, Jesus. Please, fuck no. “Said she was willing to trade for you.”

  “She give a name?” He lifted his good hand to meet the one offered by Ragman, pulling himself to a standing position with a grunt. He wouldn’t be winning any footraces, but he at least wouldn’t fall over.

  “Penny.” Ragman ducked under his good shoulder again, wrapping his arm around Twisted’s waist. “Up we go, man.” He tugged, and Twisted stood in place, unable to move. “Come on, we won’t have long to slip out.”

  “Penny? Penny Dane?” How in fuck had she found this place? Why would she look here for him? He’d hoped she was looking, hoped she’d call Wrench and get a search going, but had not considered she’d make her way here.

  “Penny was all she said. All she got out before Leswayne was on her.” Twisted was stuck in place again, unable to take a step or a breath or even think for a moment, an image of the bloated misery of a man touching Penny—my shiny Penny—nearly breaking him.

  “What do you mean?” His tone must have penetrated, finally, because Ragman turned to look at him.

  “Holy fuck, she actually is your ol’ lady? Oh, fuck. Fuck. Shit. Jesus.” The horrified tone Ragman used conveyed everything.

  “He hurt her?” Wouldn’t matter. If he’d touched a hair on her head, looked her way, breathed her air…Leswayne was dead.

  “He’s not that stupid.” That statement took Twisted by surprise, and he grunted, listening carefully as Ragman continued, “He hated your granddad, hates you, but there’s a healthy respect for you in the Vicar’s Wrath. Her sayin’ she’s your ol’ lady, boys won’t be down with fucking her up. Families are supposed to be off limits, but she rode in on a bike. Not just any bike, but Gollum’s ride.” Twisted’s breath stuck in his chest and he stood, waiting for Ragman to continue, because he knew for a fact that bike had headed to Alabama, which meant Retro was somehow in the mix of whatever Penny was doing. “You know that shit cannot stand. She was holding her own. He was playing with her, but she’d managed a standoff.” Ragman leaned forward, taking more of Twisted’s weight. “Come on.”

  “Take me to her.” They made their way up the crude stairs, one slow, fucking painful step at a time. “Fuckin’ get me to her.”

  “Man, no. I gotta get you out. He’s going to kill you.” A noise drifted to them from the darkness. Ragman’s voice fell to a whisper as he repeated his words, “He’s gonna kill you. Then he’ll kill me. Finally, God, he’ll do what he’s tried for so long. I can’t give him that victory, Twisted. You gotta get out so I can deal with my blood.”

  “He doesn’t get her.” She could survive anything; she’d proven that, but he knew if something happened again, she wouldn’t be the same. The confidence that was so much a part of her would be gone. She had come back from that before with grit and strength and love, but if Leswayne tore those gains loose inside her, she’d never be the same. “She’s mine.”

  Flickering firelight reflected from the trees on the other side of the long, low building that sat in the middle of the clearing. It was a bonfire and from near the flames he heard shouted laughter and cursing, the sound of a mob of men watching something by turns entertaining and sickening. Ragman stopped arguing, steering them towards the end of the building. They rounded it, and as they pulled to a halt, Twisted saw what was happening.

  ***

  Penny

  A form separated itself from the darkness, slowly resolving into the face she’d feared she might never see again. Standing on his own two feet, and breathing. Staring at her with a look that promised everything she’d ever wanted. She took in everything about him, the bruises, makeshift sling for his arm, him standing like he favored a leg. Not all of the battering he took was from the wreck. She saw clear evidence of fists and knew that could be laid at Leswayne’s feet.

  She assessed him, and on the fly made a decision. With how she knew Bell, and knowing the men who looked up to him, she didn’t fawn over him, didn’t coo over his wounds, but simply stared and spoke aloud, reminding herself he was, “Upright and suckin’ air. You good to move out?” One corner of his mouth curled, and then he nodded once. He’s okay. “Right. I’m on a bike, but some of the boys brought cages.”

  “Gonna be a hit to my manhood,” he muttered, reaching out for her hand, not giving any indication he realized she was covered with blood and gore. She lifted and laced her fingers with his, then he tugged, pulling her closer. Tipping his head, he tenderly brushed her lips with his, tracing a tiny circle on her swelling cheek with the tip of his nose.

  She took a breath that hitched hard and got it under control by running her own words through her head. Upright and suckin’ air. “You ridin’ bitch, big man?”

  “Fuck, yeah.” He pressed his forehead against hers, and she felt his next words resonate throughout her, reassuring and making all things right in her world again. “Love you, darlin’.”

  Her answer was just as certain, just as true. “Love you, too.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Penny

  On the couch in his den, Penny relaxed into Bell. Having draped herself partly across his chest, her fingers settled so her palm was positioned above his heart, feeling that reassuring thud and thump. Home. He’d spent two days in the hospital, complaining the entire time and she’d spent those days smiling. Not because he was in pain, which he was
, the surgery on his shoulder had been massively invasive, and rebreaking the already knitting severely fractured collarbone wasn’t all the surgeon had to do.

  She’d been smiling because he was, as she kept reminding him, upright and suckin’ air. She’d said it so much, Po’Boy took notice, and a few minutes ago, he’d shown up at Bell’s house with a patch for her vest: USA. She’d been sitting on the arm of the couch, and after looking at it for a long time, then up at his widely grinning face, she gave up and asked, “U.S.A.?” Po’Boy had laughed and shaken his head.

  “Yousa,” he replied, which was what she’d said, sort of. He snorted at her scrunched nose and took pity on her apparent confusion. “Yousa. Upright, suckin’ air. Yousa.”

  “You want to call me USA, but pronounce it yousa because…” She trailed off, catching sight of Bell’s face behind Po’Boy. He watched their interaction with an expression of such peace, it stole her breath clean away.

  “See, then we can work it into shit. Like conversations. It’ll be awesome. I can say shit like, Yousa gonna make sammaches.” He shrugged, laughing again, and she wondered if this big, hard man had ever laughed as much as he had since they saw Bell walk out of the shadows next to that damned building. “Shit like that.”

  “I’m gonna make sandwiches? And you’re going to use some lame-ass nickname to direct me like that? You think that’s gonna happen, Po’Boy? Huh?” She shook her head, adopting a patois and an accent that her father would surely hate. “You flat loco, man. You wanna ‘splain to me exactly when it was we became friends? I seem to remember lots and lots of hate and threats. Shoutin’ and threats. Cursin’ and threats. Why don’t we go back to that? Huh? Back to you cussin’ me out and yellin’ at me, all up in my face? That dude? I didn’t have to make that dude sandwiches.” Bell turned to look at her and he slowly shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting his beard slightly. She sighed heavily, dropping her gaze to her sock-covered toes. “Got a preference, friend?”