Road of No Return (gay outlaw biker MC romance)

by K. A. Merikan

  “Get the hook, Jynx.” Captain pointed to the small crane used to hoist and move bigger objects, such as cars. Or motorbikes.

  Stitch couldn’t help a scowl despite the furious drumming of his heart. “Really? This is so low. Can’t you just deal with me?” He acted confident, but his palms were sweaty like when he was going to jail for the first time.

  “Don’t you worry about that.” Gator scowled and gestured for Tank to open him a beer. He got up, and when Stitch noticed a crowbar in his hand, his blood ran cold. Was it meant for him? Did they want to break his arms and legs, and leave scars for him to remember?

  As soon as the crowbar hit the mirror on his bike, Stitch bit his cheek so hard he drew blood. There will always be the next bike, he told himself as he watched his precious vehicle, his partner of ten years, smashed to pieces by metal pipes and crowbars. He couldn’t believe this was happening in front of his eyes. Such savagery only made him realize how much he didn’t want to be a Hound anymore. The paint chipped when the metal dented, mirrors got dislocated and lay in pieces on the ground as the whole bike died in a puddle of its own gas.

  Stitch couldn’t believe they’d rather kill it than take it from him for their own use. Was this how much of a leper he’d become to them? There was nothing to salvage. Stitch didn’t want to see his mount this way, but knowing his former friends were looking out for any weakness, he stared straight at it. Looked at each dent, each kick, and when his bike was pulled up with the crane only to be dropped to a pile of scrap metal, he never looked away, even though it was the ultimate crush to his dream of the free life with the Hounds.

  “No one wants to ride a fag bike,” growled Captain, his voice thick with satisfaction. He slowly approached Stitch, boots grinding over the gravel as he pulled out his hunting knife. It reflected the sunlight, stabbing Stitch right in the eyes. It was the same weapon that was used to kill the Nail.

  The blade got Stitch to pay attention, and as much as he didn’t want it, his breath hitched. What would this motherfucker do? His thoughts turned into a bright white whirlwind when Jynx and Tank suddenly grabbed Stitch’s arms and pushed him down. The pain of having his genitals rub against stones made Stitch bite his lips.

  He turned his head to the side just in time not to have his nose flattened on the gravel, but the dust got into his windpipe nevertheless. Stitch coughed, not even trying to get away when he was so badly outnumbered. Each one of Captain’s steps was like the thumping of an executioner’s boots on the scaffold, and Stitch found it hard to breathe as soon as he understood that.

  “No one wants a fag to carry our club tattoo either,” growled Captain over him, the thick-soled boot digging into the dirt in front of Stitch’s nose.

  Stitch tried to deny the cold sweat on his back. Pretending he wasn’t afraid was all he had left. There would be pain, and arguing or fighting back wouldn’t help anymore. He bit into the inside of his lip and tried to take deep, slow breaths. He needed to find something to hold on to, but his scattered thoughts were hard to catch. One thing he was certain of—he wouldn’t beg.

  Captain kneeled by him, and the next moment, cold steel moved along Stitch’s shoulder, startling him as if it was already digging into his skin. “You’re gonna have some more stitches to match your name.”

  “Just get on with it,” Stitch groaned, but could barely move his jaw, waiting for the incision. He’d been in many fights and knew what pain was, but it didn’t mean he wanted to feel it. Not to mention lying there with gravel digging into his skin and looking like some bitch.

  “So who’d you like to suck off in the club?” muttered Captain as he slowly moved the blade over the surface of Stitch’s skin in a parody of a caress.

  Stitch’s face tensed so hard at the humiliation that he didn’t even know anymore if he was scowling, or if his face was just a mask made out of wrinkles. He had never looked at his brothers this way, and it pissed Stitch off that Captain would suggest it. Sure, he could assess whether someone was his type or not, but mostly they weren’t, and it would feel like incest to think of them that way.

  “I’d have you suck mine, motherfucker. That what you want?” he spat, even though the goose bumps on his skin were giving away his fear. But when the blade dug into his skin, Stitch froze with his mouth wide open, desperately trying not to utter a sound at the barbaric, unforgiving cut that just wouldn’t end. Captain was savoring it, taking his time as if the view of the splitting flesh, the cool blood Stitch could feel welling up, gave him pleasure. It was unbearably awful. Not at all like the pain of combat when adrenaline and anger were muffling the blow. This was long, painful, and calculated.

  Stitch focused on not making a sound so bad that he lost contact with what anyone was saying. He heard Gator’s voice, Jynx’s laughter, other men making comments, but it blurred with the pain into an indistinguishable mass. Keeping silent cost him biting his lips bloody. He rubbed his sweaty forehead against the gravel as blood trickled down his sides. Captain was making long, parallel incisions, and methodically trailing the knife from one side of his back to the other.

  The torture started all over again, when Captain decided he wasn't done yet and dug his knife in the other way, beginning to create a checkerboard made of gore on Stitch’s back. Stitch tried to distract himself, go deeper into his own mind, all not to think that the man who had been his best friend since childhood would do this to him with so much pleasure. It was like when Captain once tortured a puppy, just to see how long it would take for it to die. But that wasn’t what Stitch wanted to remember. He focused his mind on his daughter and that biker pony she wanted. She’d love it if Stitch could pull it off. And there was Zak, whose warm smile never failed to make Stitch all gooey inside, who was so sure of who he was and what he wanted to achieve in life that Stitch simply couldn’t fail him.

  Stitch needed to forget the blood burning his skin and seeping into the gravel, forget the knife and Captain’s smile. His teeth clattered when he forgot to grit them. There was too much happening in his body for him to control it all. The muscles trembling with strain, the sweat dripping from his clenched fists, the heat throbbing in his face. It took him a moment to realize the blade wasn’t ripping into his skin anymore, because the agony was so overwhelming it didn’t just stop the moment the torture did. He realized he wasn’t being pressed to the ground anymore, it was his own muscles that had given up, heavy and exhausted from the strain of withstanding pain. He didn’t resist when someone roughly yanked up his head so he would stare into the fire, at the empty beer bottles standing around as if it were some kind of rave. He barely registered Gator, who stared at him from across the fire with something large in his hands. It took a moment for Stitch to register what it was. His cut, patches and all. With him for so many years. His identity.

  “You’re a bitch, not a hound,” spat Gator and just like that, tossed the cut into the fire. “You’re gonna wish you never met that fag if you wake up after this.”

  Stitch was half-conscious, but the sting of those words, the smell of burning leather, cut into his senses like Captain’s hunting knife had cut into his back. His lips were dry and tasted of blood, but it didn’t matter.

  “I’ll have no regrets,” Stitch whispered. His body was one throbbing bundle of misery. He couldn’t even hold up his head on his own, so when whoever held his hair let go of it, it fell back down like a lifeless weight of bone and flesh.

  His face hitting the gravel was the last thing he remembered of the torment.

  Chapter 27

  Zak stared at the black and blue face in front of him. Stitch was lying facedown on a special bed, his battered back patched up, covered with some yellow goo and bandages, an IV bag constantly dripping fluid straight into his vein, as if to make up for all the blood he’d lost. As horrible as it was to see Stitch like this, the whites and greens of the hospital gave Zak some peace of mind. It was nothing like seeing Stitch pale under a layer of grime, tossed out of a car like a rag doll, strai
ght into the dirt in front of Zak’s house.

  He’d spent the worst day of his life sitting by the window, clutching to Versay as soon as the dog returned from an unauthorized walk outside the fence. He couldn’t eat, and as much as he wanted to drink himself numb, he couldn’t allow himself to lose any awareness. He knew Stitch would come back hurt, and he needed to be there for him, but he still didn’t expect his lover to watch him with glossy eyes and babble, coughing up blood from lips that looked like tenderized meat.

  Zak didn’t call for an ambulance. He managed to drag Stitch into his car and drove him to the hospital with unshed tears clouding his vision. He couldn’t bear to look at Stitch brutalized like this. It was the flesh he had tasted and held so many times, it wasn’t meant to be torn to shreds or bruised. And as much as he wanted to just hold Stitch, he needed to turn off his protective instincts and give him away into the care of medical personnel.

  It was only then that hunger got to him, and the amount of chocolate he ate within half an hour gave him enough of a sugar rush to send a message to Stitch’s ex-wife. With everything he’d heard of her from Stitch, she was a prominent figure in his life, the mother of his kid, and despite all the bad blood, Stitch still seemed to love her in his own way.

  All he got in answer was: ‘I’ll be there’.

  Zak sat down, chomping on the chocolate. He felt relieved and lucky that no one actually gave him grief over staying with Stitch, since he wasn’t family. He rested his head on the side of the bed and kept playing with Stitch’s hair. Each single breath of his lover made him warm and shuddery with relief. He could have lost him to a gang of homophobic pigs.

  Zak leaned in and kissed the scraped knuckles. He’d lick them, taste the metallic tang, but knowing it would have been creepy as hell, he just squeezed Stitch’s fingers harder.

  And there it was, Stitch squeezed back. It was a slight movement, but it still had tears spill down Zak’s cheeks. A sob tore out of his throat, and he showered the hand with kisses, looking up into the puffy eyes, barely visible underneath all the bandages. His chest exploded with relief, and he almost threw himself all over Stitch, hugging him.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry...”

  But there was no answer, just that gentle touch still on his fingers. The door opened, and Crystal walked in, barely breathing, her face as red as her hair.

  “Oh, God, I came as soon as I could. What happened?”

  Zak looked up at her, his blood thickening with sudden panic. Their first meeting could hardly be considered civil, was he supposed to get up and greet her? Now that Stitch actually returned his touch?

  “I... he got attacked,” he muttered, never letting go of Stitch. His gaze scanned the room, and he was relieved to see there was another chair. She pulled it to Stitch’s side, so close to Zak that it was almost touching his. The gesture had him so anxious he got goose bumps. What if she made a scene and tried to throw him out? Technically, she wasn’t family anymore, but the staff could make them both leave in case of a loud argument.

  “I can’t believe they would do this to him,” she said and ran her fingertips over Stitch’s thigh.

  “Yeah,” muttered Zak, holding on to the large, meaty palm, somehow convinced that he’d lose Stitch if he let go.

  “Listen, let’s get this elephant out of the room.” She looked to him with those big, attentive eyes, accentuated with a thick cat-eye line. “Is this shit for real?” She gestured in the general direction of Zak’s and Stitch’s hands.

  She was one frisky, excitable woman, nothing like Zak. He wondered how Stitch and her had got along before she noticed she wasn’t getting any orgasms out of her husband. Zak nodded with a slow sigh. “We’re together,” he said, looking straight into her eyes, not exactly a challenge but close.

  She pouted at him, and crossed her arms on her chest. “Okay, but are you gonna stay? Are you serious about this? Are you gonna be around five years down the road?”

  Zak shook his head with a dark chuckle and leaned in to kiss Stitch’s palm again. All this time, he hadn’t wanted to commit yet there he had been yesterday, telling Stitch just how deeply he felt for him. His life has been turned upside down, but he had few regrets. He’d helped get rid of a body last night, and he did if for Stitch and himself, so that they could be together. If that made him a horrible person, then so be it. “He’s mine. I don’t want him to go anywhere.”

  There was a mumble from Stitch, and he half-opened one eye. “No one asked me…” he muttered.

  Zak drew in a sharp breath and leaned in to look into his lover’s face. “How badly does it hurt? Do you need some painkillers?” he whispered, gently petting the top of Stitch’s head.

  “I’m not Versay. And I think I’m on painkillers now.” Stitch didn’t open his eye wider, but his iris followed Zak’s movements.

  Zak’s mouth stretched into a wide grin to match the warmth in his chest. “You are pretty much like Versay, Trouble. Don’t kid yourself.”

  Crystal took a deep breath and cleared her throat, reminding them of her presence. “More importantly, what did you get yourself into, Stitch?”

  “Just a misunderstanding…”

  “‘Misunderstanding’? Really?” She got up from the chair and Zak worried she was about to yell.

  “Yeah, they did this over me being gay, but misunderstood that I don’t give a fuck about their opinion.” Stitch chuckled, but then winced in pain.

  Zak bit his lip as anger bubbled up deep in his throat. If only they could safely get the police involved... With Captain having knowledge of what happened to Cox that was the last thing they could do. The fuckers would remain free, even though none of them deserved any happiness from life. No, they deserved painful deaths, being burned and having their nails ripped off. Zak sometimes wished he were more bloodthirsty than he was. “Fuckers...”

  “It’s not funny, Stitch.” Crystal kneeled on the floor to have a better look into Stitch’s face. “How much longer is this gonna drag? At this rate you’re gonna end up six feet under next year.”

  Zak exhaled, looking away. They couldn’t stay here if they wanted to be together, there was just no way this could happen. He looked at Stitch, swallowing hard as he waited for an answer.

  “I won’t retaliate,” Stitch whispered and closed his eyes.

  Crystal went silent.

  “Thank fuck,” whispered Zak, even though deep down he craved blood. He knew they didn't stand a chance. All they could do was to leave, that was the only option, and Stitch needed to see that.

  “You’re not gonna be a Hound anymore, babe?” Crystal stroked Stitch’s arm so gently it seemed as though she barely touched him.

  Zak blinked, staring at her without a word. He brushed his thumb over Stitch’s hand, kneading it slowly.

  Stitch’s eyelid opened again. “I’m done. I don’t want revenge. I just want to have a life. It would drag and never end. This is exactly what got so many people killed. I don’t want to have anything to do with it anymore.”

  Crystal smiled at him. “You really did change.”

  Zak dropped to the chair, watching the silent exchange. He hoped at least the ordeal would soften Crystal's heart, and she would let Stitch see his daughter more frequently. Then again, how could this arrangement work with them being away from Lake Valley? Stitch spoke, as if consciously addressing some of Zak’s concerns.

  “I think Zak and I should leave Lake Valley, just in case. I’m sick of this place anyway. It’s too full of memories.” Stitch looked up at Zak and gave a groan of pain when he moved on the bed too much.

  The gaze, still so cloudy from all the drugs and fatigue, made Zak’s heart skip a beat, and he pulled closer, poking Crystal with his knee in the process. “Oh, God, I’m so happy to hear that. I will sell the house, and we can settle somewhere close enough for you to see Holly...” He opened and closed his mouth, suddenly realizing Stitch had told him their breakup was the price he was supposed to pay for the privilege. His eyes s
ettled on Crystal.

  She licked her lips. “If you are really so serious about this, Stitch, then maybe I could move as well. I’ve been having problems with Milton anyway,” Crystal muttered as if it embarrassed her to admit that. “I still think it’s weird, but… You don’t deserve this, and Holly loves her daddy so much. And you owe me big time, so no dying, yeah?”

  Those words squeezed a faint smile onto Stitch’s battered lips. “I’ve never been happier, Crys.” It sounded so surreal in his position, Zak wondered how high on morphine Stitch actually was.

  He stared at them, surprised by how smooth it went. Like in a bad movie. Only after several seconds it occurred to him the move meant that they might be living with Crystal and Holly, at least for some time. He could accept that, even though he had never considered the possibility of living with a kid this young, but it wasn’t what he was worried about. The presence of both Holly and Crystal meant they wouldn't be able to express their feelings as freely as they were used to. And as much as he loved Stitch, he didn’t want to lose that part of their relationship.

  “Zak? Come closer.” Stitch asked, and Zak already felt something was off when he saw that stupid grin, even if it was weak.

  “What is it, baby?” he asked, feeling the need to show Crystal just how close they were. Slowly, he leaned in and maneuvered his lips between the bandages to kiss Stitch’s forehead.

  Stitch reached up to the bedside table and fished out a signet from the pile lying neatly in a little bowl. “It’s yours, remember?” His warm hand met Zak's and slowly pushed the signet with Mjölnir into his palm.

  Zak sighed with a broad grin and kissed him again, and again, even if gently. He wanted to tell Stitch how this little piece of metal made him feel, but not with someone else watching. This was private, other things shouldn’t be. “Is that Thor giving me his hammer?” he whispered instead, putting the signet on his thumb, which suddenly felt whole again, protected by the man who put it there.