by Wilde, Leah
That was true. I couldn’t. The memory was seared onto my brain.
# # #
Slim’s blood was still on my hands when I walked up to the Broken Bones clubhouse. The first light of dawn was peeking down into the city. The air was cold. I didn’t have a jacket. I shivered without noticing.
It was ten miles from the apartment to the clubhouse, and I walked the whole damn thing. I didn’t notice the time passing, either. It was either the longest walk of my life or the shortest. I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t care.
The door to the garage was pulled up when I approached. I saw men inside, working on the exposed guts of a car. Big men. Scary men. I was here to join them.
No one noticed me as I walked up. I stood there for a moment, not saying a word, just calm and silent like a statue. My feet were numb. The blood on my bare chest where Slim’s head had rested had now dried into a maroon crust.
One of the men turned around from where he had been bent over the hood of the car. He was frowning and wiping his hands with a dirty, oil-stained rag as he turned around. When he noticed me, he jumped and cursed.
“Goddamn, kid, what the fuck are you doing just standing there like that? Shit, is that blood? Who the fuck are you?”
I looked back at him. “I want to join.”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
I simply repeated myself. “I want to join.”
“Kid, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he answered.
I stood still, patiently waiting.
Another man walked from the back of the garage, drawn by the noise. I recognized this one. He was the one who bought the car from Slim and me. He would be the one to help me now.
“Prez, this kid must be cracked out or something. I don’t know what the hell is happening,” said the first man. He raised his hands and turned away to tinker with some loose parts on the work bench.
I shifted my attention to the man who’d walked up. His name was Jawbone, I remembered. He looked back at me. His eyes were dark and laser-focused. “What are you doing here, kid?” he asked softly.
“I want to join,” I told him.
He looked up and down, noticing the blood smeared across my skin. He didn’t ask me to elaborate. “What was your name again?”
“Dom.”
“Dom, that’s right. What happened, Dom?”
“The Capparellis killed Slim,” I said, as if that explained everything. For some reason, this man understood. That was enough for him to get it. He nodded knowingly.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered.
I blinked. The idea of being sorry about what had happened was outside of my ability to comprehend. I barely remembered what the word meant. I was an empty shell. There was only one thought on my mind: revenge.
“I want to join.”
“I can’t let you do that,” he said. “You’re too young.”
I didn’t move. Neither did he. “I just want to join.”
“The Broken Bones aren’t for everyone, Dom. You’re too young for this.”
“No, I’m not.” There was no mistaking the certainty in my voice. “I know what I want.” By now, a few other men had circled around, curious about what this bloodstained child was doing in their chop shop. To them, I may have looked young, but they didn’t know that, on the inside, I was already a man. Jawbone saw it, though. He knew.
“You would have to be initiated,” he cautioned. “It’s not easy. It hurts.”
I shrugged. Just like the concept of being sorry, the thought of pain didn’t even register. It might as well have been a piece of a dream, too alien to make any difference at all. I knew pain. I’d seen it. It wasn’t real to me anymore. “I don’t care,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
Jawbone stared at me for a long time. The birds on the telephone wires had started to chirp. Car murmurs were picking up. But for me, the only in the world was Jawbone’s eyes, looking at me and considering. Weighing. Wondering.
He reached a decision. I knew it right away.
“Come with me,” he said. He turned and moved towards the back of the garage. I followed without looking at any of the other men. I heard them muttering to each other as I left, wondering what was going on.
I kept my eyes trained on Jawbone’s back as he wound through the garage and into the clubhouse. We walked through the bar, drawing confused stares as I passed, and down a long hallway. At the far end was a staircase. We descended.
The basement below was dark, except for one buzzing light suspended from the rafters overhead by a wire. It illuminated a tattooist’s chair, set into a cracked concrete floor. An array of ugly metal tools gleamed along the wall.
Jawbone spun to face me. “You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked.
In my entire body, there was not an ounce of hesitation. I nodded.
“Okay. Let’s go.” He pointed towards the leather chair. I sat down. He walked to the bank of tools and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. The electric whine of the lights hummed. Otherwise, the room was silent.
I couldn’t see what he was doing until he turned around and held up a syringe to the light. He eyed it to check the levels and flicked the needle twice. A single drop of clear liquid beaded up at its tip.
“Give me your left arm.”
I extended it and laid it across the armrest. He wrapped his plastic-encased fingers around my wrist and twisted so that my palm faced the ceiling, exposing the veins in the crook of my elbow. He slapped at them sharply to encourage the blood flow. I watched the green-hued tunnel rise up a bit.
Jawbone lowered the needle down and slid it under the surface of my skin. I felt a tiny pinch as he depressed the plunger, emptying the syringe into my body. His eyes were trained on my face the entire time. I didn’t look away.
Satisfied, he withdrew the needle and set it aside. I looked at my elbow. One tiny bead of blood shimmered, fresh and hot.
“There are two phases to the initiation,” Jawbone said, leaning back in his seat to look at me. The inside of my skin had started to heat up all over my body. A crackling tingle, like internal static electricity, began to flow around me as he spoke. “The needle was the first. The drug I’ve injected you with will make you feel pain more intensely than anything you’ve experienced in your life. It can make you think a summer breeze is like daggers in your flesh. Mark my words, Dom,” he said, eyeing me fiercely, “this will hurt very, very badly.”
I kept my gaze locked on his. I could feel sweat starting to collect on my forehead and under my armpits. The heat within me had begun to ratchet up. The leather of the chair suddenly felt rough, like sandpaper on my skin.
He paused to see if I would say anything. When I didn’t, he stood up and started to walk around me. I hadn’t noticed the straps dangling from the chair, but now Jawbone reached and fixed each one down, locking me in place. He bound my legs, my thighs, my waist, my arms.
When the last of the straps was secured, he came around to stand in front of me. I hadn’t moved my arm. It still laid palm up on the armrest of the chair. The injection site had started to turn into an ugly green, something foul and unnatural.
“These next part will take place very quickly,” he said. “I’m only telling you so you’ll know what’s coming.”
I was having trouble focusing on his words. My breath was beginning to shorten and a dull pain crept on like an unexpected headache. The muscles of my legs and back had taken to writhing uncomfortably, twisting and spasming like angry snakes. The drug was taking hold.
“Look at me, Dom,” he said. He lowered his eyes to look straight at me. His expression was unreadable. “I’ll ask you one more time. Are you sure you want this?”
The pace of the escalating pain had quickened even further. Now, everything was hot and searing, like a bad sunburn over every inch of my skin. I shifted in my chair, trying to find somewhere comfortable, but nothing felt good.
Then I looked up into Jawbone’s face. For a brie
f flash, it turned into Slim’s. I could swear for a moment that they had traded places and instead of this mysterious biker, it was Slim, standing over me with his fingers resting lightly on my forearm. “C’mon, shorty,” I imagined him saying. “Pain is just another thing. You’ll be alright, won’tcha?” He vanished before I could answer, and reality came screeching back into place.
“I’m sure.”
Jawbone nodded. “Okay. Now, I’m going to break your wrist. It will be the worst pain you’ve ever felt or will ever feel.” He breathed in for a moment and let that sink in. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bottle. Inside the bottle was a thick, viscous brown substance that sloshed from side to side. He put it in the palm of my left hand. “This bottle will stop the pain the second you drink it. If you choose to use it, you’re out. But if you make it through on your own, you’ll be one of us. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
After that, I didn’t have time to blurt out or react. Jawbone picked up my wrist and my forearm and with a quick jerk of his hands, snapped it.
The surge of pain was indescribable. A white-hot lava ran tidal through my veins, ripping and cauterizing every nerve ending, only to ebb for the tiniest of seconds before returning. Endless waves coursed. It was rampant, uncontrollable. I vomited until there was nothing left in my stomach and then I vomited some more.
Breaking my ankle on the fall from the fourth story of the group home was like a kiss compared to this. The beatdown I’d suffered at the hands of the drug dealer was a gentle shower. It didn’t even feel fair to call those experiences painful. They weren’t in the same class as this, not anywhere near the same realm.
This was pain. This was agony.
Jawbone had walked to the edge of the circle of light. He turned to look back at me, bucking in the chair and gibbering with my eyes rolled back in my head. “See you on the other side, kid.”
Then he disappeared. I heard him climbing up the stairs, then the door creaking open and shut.
I stayed in the basement, and I suffered.
But I didn’t drink the bottle.
# # #
In his office, Jawbone released a cloud of smoke over his shoulder. I realized I’d been touching my wrist as I remembered the ordeal in the basement. All that remained on my skin was a tiny, dimpled scar, just a half-inch stretch of white tissue to commemorate the day and night I’d spent writhing and moaning in that chair, thinking the pain would never end, that I would feel this way forever.
Eventually, it did end. Jawbone had come back down and found me still conscious in the chair. The straps had ground down on my arms and legs enough to scrape the skin completely raw. I’d broken three teeth and bit off the tip of my tongue from clenching my jaw so hard.
But I made it. I survived, and I became a Broken Bone.
“Why did you decide to come to us that day?” Jawbone asked.
“You know why,” I answered.
“I want to hear you say it.”
I took a deep breath. “Because I wanted to kill them.”
“You wanted to kill who?”
“C’mon, Jawbone, stop fucking with me.”
“Say it.”
“I wanted to kill the Capparellis,” I said finally. “I wanted to murder every last fucking one of them.”
Jawbone nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”
“What’s your point, Jaw?”
“My point is that driving isn’t going to do that for you. It ain’t gonna get you there.”
“Then what’s the plan?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I’m done playing games. Tell me what your plan is.”
Jawbone shrugged, finished his cigarette, and stubbed it out alongside the others. He tented his fingers in front of him and looked at me coolly. “Peace.”
My mouth opened, then shut again. “Peace? Peace? You want to make peace with them?”
He nodded. “I’m calling off every contract and operation that might infringe on Capparelli territory. We’re going to offer to squash everything, forgive all blood debts, and give peace a chance. We’ve been fighting them for a long time, Dom. It’s time to try something new.”
“There’s no fucking way that Frank Capparelli is going to just forgive everything that’s happened over the last decade,” I growled.
“It doesn’t matter what Frank thinks,” Jawbone answered.
“Why the hell not?” I demanded, gripping the edge of the desk between my hands.
“Because Frank’s dead.”
Chapter 10
Isabel
I’m on a motorcycle, riding behind some man I don’t recognize. He’s got dark hair, messy and windswept. The engine is humming between my legs. It sends pleasant vibrations surging up my inner thighs and towards my hot center. They come in distracting waves, ebbing and flowing beyond my control.
The road ahead of us is empty of others. Blacktop stretches straight ahead as far as the eye can see. I look to my left and right and I’m astonished by how open everything seems. Grass plains roll in every direction. I’ve never left the city in my whole life. I’m not used to this much bare space. I take in the breadth of sky, the unbroken horizon. It all seems so amazing.
I calmly wonder who this man in front of me is. His back is broad and strong. I notice with satisfaction that, beneath my fingertips where they are hugged around him to hold myself to the machine, his abs ripple with muscle. He smells like leather, like engine oil, like everything masculine and raw and dangerous all at once. It’s intoxicating.
There’s a grassy hill rising up to our right. The man steers the bike off the road and towards it. We slow down as we cross from asphalt to the packed earth. The groan of the engine simmers to a low rumble.
He stops at the foot of the hill and switches off the ignition, lowering the kickstand of the bike down to nestle amongst the grass roots. He doesn’t move from the bike, though, nor does he turn around to face me. I pause, unsure of who he is or where we are. I don’t even know what’s happening. How did I get here?
Just as abruptly, the scene shifts. It’s like a section of film reel was cut out, or a couple minutes were wiped clean from my memory. Now, without any recollection of how I ended up in this position, I’m on my back at the top of the hill, looking up at the sky. Clouds drift by lazily. The breeze stirs the grass and plays with my bangs. I hardly notice any of this, however. I’m too distracted by the tongue delving between my legs.
I look down and realize with a start that my dress is pushed up above my waist. I’m not wearing any underwear. There’s nothing at all to separate me from the shirtless bulk of the biker where he is crouched between my spread thighs, licking and nipping delicately at the tender flesh there. I gasp as he makes contact with my clit. He uses the tip of his tongue to jab and retreat, then slowly slink back and wind gentle circles around it.
I reach down and push my fingers through his hair, grabbing thick fistfuls in either hand. I need something to hold onto for support, because just as I settle onto the back of his head, he sucks my clit softly between his lips and begins bathing it in big, broad sweeps of his tongue.
I grip even harder on the sides of his skull. His back is a tapestry of muscle, knotting and coiling with the intensity of his motion. He holds tight onto my hips with both of his scarred hands. I’m pinned to the ground. I wouldn’t be able to move even if I wanted to, which, given the layers of sensation bubbling up from somewhere deep between my legs, I have not even the slightest interest in doing.
The whole scene is strange, surreal. The air is summer warm, free of insects and pollen, and the grass is like a pillow below my head. I can’t see a living soul no matter where I look. I close my eyes and sink into the feeling.
The biker slides a finger into my moist opening. I groan; I’m so tight that it’s almost painful for a moment before I relax into it. He twists his palm to face upwards and beckons towards the sk
y, grinding delicately on my g-spot while his tongue keeps swirling around my engorged clit.
I can’t help but let my hips squirm against him. My body wants more and faster. He complies, reading me before I even know what it is I’m asking for. He releases my clit from his mouth and starts to lick up and down, then side to side, in ever faster motions. Short, fast whips of his tongue across everywhere that’s sensitive and desperate.
He pistons his finger in and out, then adds another. Again, there is a quick flash of pain followed by a soft, pressing wave of powerful satisfaction flowing from beneath his touch. I start to let loose tiny moans from my parted lips.