by K. L. Savage
“Please, don’t do this,” the girl begs him. “Please, my father. He has a lot of money—”
“We’re counting on it,” the biker cackles, and the basement door opens, allowing light in. I wince, my eyes not ready for the harsh brightness. I hold my hand above my eyes to try to block it out. “Wolf, take her down there.”
“Yes, Prez.”
“And then feed them and shit.”
Boots coming down the steps are slow.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
I see a faint shadow of the man. He’s big, broad, and that’s all I can tell. The basement is still too dark.
“I’m sorry,” he says to the girl. “I really am.” His voice catches, like he cares or is getting emotional, but I don’t believe it for a second. He might have given the sad story to Abigale, but I don’t buy it. He’s probably playing her.
“I’m begging you,” the girl pleads, the innocence clear as day. “Please.” Her sobs break my heart, and it’s then I’m thankful that I was drugged. I didn’t have to feel the fear on the way over. Maybe Abigale is right; maybe the drugs are the answer to get through this entire ordeal until the course of my life changes … if it changes.
And right now, I’m not too sure if I want life at all because the memories will be all I have.
3
Boomer
First night spent in the rundown motel went smoothly; well, as smooth as someone can expect in a place like this. The yellow shag carpet is from the seventies and kind of smells like weed. The TV is one of those boxed ones, and I can’t help but wonder if that shit is still in black and white. I haven’t turned it on. It’s like stepping into a time machine. If Homer wants to redo this place, he needs to redo everything and not just the outside.
My back hurts too. The mattress is lumpy as fuck, which probably hasn’t been changed since he built this place. And I don’t want to think about that because it grosses me out that I’ve been laying on a bed that has been there since before I was born.
The bathroom, fucking hell, the bathroom is this ugly olive-green color, and the floor is yellow. I’m hoping it’s the color of the tile and not the buildup of piss over the years. It doesn’t smell like piss, so that says something.
I open the window to allow the sea breeze in to circulate the stuffy room. I do have a small patio, just fifty yards away from the ocean. It’s overgrown with weeds, and the chairs look like they used to be white. One of the legs are broken, and it’s leaning against the rotten wood that makes up the railing.
I place my elbows on the porch railing, and the slight give of my weight causes it to creak, but I catch myself when I feel my body going with it. Half of the railing falls into the sand, and I shake my head, running my fingers through my brown hair that’s a bit too long. I need to cut it.
The ocean breeze hits me, that salt sticking to my shirtless skin, and goose bumps arise all over me. It’s cold right now. It’s early morning, and the sun has barely peeked over the edge of the water. I love watching the sun rise. It makes me feel like I’m living instead of missing out on everything beautiful.
“Hey, kid,” Homer says, hobbling over from a few rooms down.
My heart skips from the nickname. Reaper used to call me that, still does every now and then. He forgets I’m grown, but I guess when I’m younger than everyone around me, they’ll look at me like a kid.
“Homer, what are you doing up? It’s only five,” I say, glancing at my watch.
“Sleep is for the dead, and I may look it, but I’m not. Don’t give me any shit about it. We need to talk about work around here.”
“Alright. Let me go put a shirt on, and you and I can go for some breakfast. How about that?”
“Fine, but you’re buying. I got a business to run,” he huffs. “I’ll be up front. Half-naked, tatted troublemaker,” he mumbles as he walks away. “What have I gotten myself into? He seems like a good kid.” He’s talking to himself, debating what to do about me.
I chuckle and step inside my room and rummage through my backpack for a clean white t-shirt. I like Homer. He’s a cranky son of a bitch, but I like that about him. He doesn’t seem to take shit from people, and I respect that. He’s alone too, and an old man being on his own bothers the shit out of me.
Snagging my wallet and room key off the small table by the window, I shut and lock the door behind me. My boots sink in the sand as I make my way through the tunnel to the office. It’s open to the sand and breeze and sound of the ocean. Homer leans against the wall, cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“Took you fucking long enough,” he gripes, flicking the ashes off the glowing tobacco. “I ain’t getting any younger, kid.”
“Obviously, you’re old as dirt,” I say with a smile, and he shakes his fist at me, that damn underbite giving him a fearsome, but adorable old man look.
“I might look old, but I have a heart of a lion, and I’m not afraid to bite!”
“That I don’t doubt, Homer.” I slap his back and take the keys from him. “What do you drive?”
“That old Bronco, but I can drive. I’m not inept yet.”
“If I let you drive, we’ll never get there. I see how old people are on the road, peeking over the wheel, hunkered over like they can’t see three-feet in front of them and, Homer, no offense, but I’m hungry and need coffee.”
He huffs, scurrying his feet along the pavement. The blue cardigan is the same one he wore yesterday along with the pants. He opens the passenger-side door and hops in without help. He peeks his balding head out the window, mean-mugging me before slamming the door.
I whistle, not bothering to look at him as I step up into the old, rusted Bronco. Damn, this thing would be a beauty with some TLC.
“I didn’t want to drive anyway,” he mutters next to me as I put the vehicle in drive.
“Right, I know you didn’t, Homer.” My lips tilt in a smirk, and I pull out of the parking lot to get onto the road. “So where are we headed? I’m new to town, remember?”
“Right, right. What brings you here anyway? No… I don’t want to know. Not right now. You can tell me over coffee actually. I’m sure it’s something scandalous. Let’s go to Cherry’s. They have good pie. You’re going to want to take a left at the next light, then the next right, and then it will be right there. You can’t miss it. If you miss it, you’re a fucking idiot. I knew I should’ve drove.”
“Damn, way to give a guy a chance, Homer. You wound me.” I place my hand over my heart, faking that I give a shit.
“Hootenanny! I damn well doubt anything could hurt you,” he says. “I’ve seen your type before. All big and bad.”
“You’re wrong,” I tsk. Plenty bothers me, like the fear that I’m slowly going crazy, and one day I’ll be in a straitjacket in a padded room.
“I’m never wrong,” Homer says. “I was only ever wrong with my Betsy.”
“How the hell she dealt with you, I’ll never know. She’s a saint for putting up with your cranky ass.”
“Boy,” he laughs, slapping his knee. “Don’t I know it? She was an angel.” Homer practically sighs. I take that right he bitched about, and I steal a glance to see him dabbing his eyes with a napkin. “Damn, allergies.”
“Yeah, they suck, don’t they?” I know damn good and well he’s crying cause he misses his late wife. Hell, I hope one day I find love. I want someone to bring me out of the darkness I find myself living in, someone who will deal with me on my bad days because I fucking have a shit-ton of bad days. It’s hard to find something to live for when the shadow inside grips me, trying to bring me under.
Sometimes I want to give in, but something stops me. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s enough for me to not walk into the ocean right now and let the waves take me. Hell, maybe I’m meant to be here, with Homer, fixing up his motel. I believe everything happens for a reason, and right now, I’m just trying to figure out what that reason is.
We pull into the paved
parking lot of Cherry’s, the sign a big cherry pie. In old black letters against a white backing it says, “A free piece of pie if you say hi.”
“Well damn, looks like I’m saying hi,” I say.
“They’re true to their word too,” Homer replies, swinging the door open. He didn’t have trouble getting up in the Bronco, but he can’t seem to get down. He grunts and curses, holding on to the ‘oh shit’ handle to help himself down.
I don’t want him to hurt himself. I’m not a heartless bastard like a lot of people think; people being the Ruthless Kings—my brotherhood. What used to be my brotherhood. I hurry around the Bronco to help the old geezer down, but he slaps my hands away.
“Hey, I don’t need help. I can do this on my own.” He turns red-faced as he continues to try, and the more he tries, the more I want to help him. I don’t like seeing people suffer. Well, wait … that isn’t true. I like to see people who deserve to suffer, suffer. Just like Sarah’s abuser. I enjoyed what I did to him. Fucking hell, I get excited just thinking about putting that grenade in his mouth and watching the house go boom.
“Alright, enough of this.” I put my hands under his armpits and pick him up, then place him right on his feet. “Listen here, Homer, I’m not about to watch you struggle when I can help. You might think I’m some thug, popping caps or some bullshit, but whatever you think I do, I don’t.” Not really. He doesn’t need to know facts. “And the way I see it, you’re going to be seeing a lot of me. Probably until the day you die, so tough fucking titty. I’m going to help. And you can just be grouchy about it for all I care.”
“Fine,” he spits, shuffling by me again.
I expected more of a fight. “Well, come on; coffee ain’t gonna pour itself. Let’s go,” he shouts, but he’s only two of my strides ahead of me since he’s hunched over and sliding dirt with his shoes with every step.
I follow behind him and hear a roar of motorcycles in the distance. I stop and look over my shoulder. My palms sweat. It’s them. I know it. Only men who are in a club have bikes that sound like that.
“You coming? Good lord, and I thought I was as slow as dirt.” Homer opens the front door, and the little bell jingles as he enters.
The bikes come to view, and I turn away quickly, hurrying after Homer. I need to put the MC behind me, but wherever I go, they’re right behind me, even if they aren’t my chapter. The door closes behind me, and a few people look in my direction and then look away. A man at the counter sips his coffee, and the waitress behind the bar has two high ponytails, chewing bubblegum as she takes someone’s order.
I look around for Homer and see him in the back, settling in a corner booth. I make my way over the black and white checkered tiles. The booths are a bright red, and the tables are silver. It’s a classic-looking diner, and it smells fucking great in here; like pie right out of the oven.
A few women look my way. I feel their eyes on me. I’m a big guy, and the tattoos give me a bad boy appeal. Women seem to always have a kink for it, but I’m not looking to be anyone’s kink. I’ve done that, been doing that since I was fifteen and knew what sex was. It’s old.
I plop down in the booth, and Homer takes a menu from the holder against the wall. I do the same, reaching behind the ketchup, mustard, syrup, and other condiments.
The roar of the motorcycles come into the parking lot, and the engines rumble to silence. I do my best not to show distress. I swear to god, if they notice me somehow, I’m going to be pissed. I’ll have to up and leave again, and I don’t want to do that. I like it here. I like Homer’s cranky ass.
“Hi, welcome to Cherry’s. I’m Sylvia, and I’ll be your waitress this early morning. Can I start you off with some coffee?”
“Hi there, Sylvia,” Homer croons kindly, a side of him I haven’t seen before. I hide my face behind the menu and grin. “Do I still get my pie?” He makes his voice sound older and more decrepit.
The old man is milking it.
“Of course, you do! Oh my goodness, aren’t you just adorable,” the waitress exclaims, writing down on her notepad.
“Hi,” I greet. “I’d like some coffee too, black.”
“Sure thing. And what kind of pie do you want, handsome?” she bites her pink-painted bottom lip and eyes me up.
Yep, she has the kink too.
“You have apple?” I ask, glancing away from her green eyes and light brown hair to look at the menu. The ribeye and eggs look good. I could go for some steak.
“Sure do. Be back in a jiffy,” she winks at me.
Homer watches her go, and when he looks at me again, he clicks his tongue. “I think she likes you.”
“All the girls do. They see a bad boy, but then they get the bad, and they don’t like it so much.”
“Well, you don’t seem so bad to me,” Homer barely says, as if it hurts for him to say.
“Homer, you don’t know anything about me. You hired a stranger to do your work.”
“I know, but I get good feelings about you,” he says just as the waitress comes over and fills our mugs with coffee.
“Oh, that smells good,” I groan. I’m more awake now just by the scent of the coffee.
“I brewed a fresh pot just for you handsome fellas.” She eyes me again, and I shift in my seat, feeling a bit uncomfortable. I never used to be like this. I hate the person I am.
Do something about it. There’s a way to make it better.
The thoughts in my head speak up, and I clench my hands around the mug tighter, letting the heat soak in my palms. The doorbell jingles, and the waitress, who’s all happy and smiles, looks over her shoulder to see the bikers come in, and a frown quickly replaces the joy. The air shifts with something dark, dangerous, and a hint of fear is in the air. They sit in the booth behind us, and I look at Homer to see him eyeing the men behind me.
“What are we going to do with the girls?” one of them says to the other, low and deep. They don’t think anyone can hear them. Are they fucking nuts? And what girls? What’s this chapter doing that’s making the Ruthless King name bad? I’m not getting a good feeling.
No, I need to stay out of this. New start. New me.
“What we always do. Now shut up and look at the menu.”
That must be the Prez.
“And when we’re done, we’re going to fuck those fine ass girls in the basement, sell them, and maybe by a new bike or two,” the Prez whispers to his men.
Just what the fuck is going on in this city? Homer knows something by how he’s looking at his coffee and not at me.
And I plan to figure it out.
4
Scarlett
“Hey, wake up.”
I groan, not wanting to wake up. Every day is night, and I can’t tell when I should stay awake or sleep.
“I have water and food. Come on, girl. Wake up.” A hand jostles me, and I snap my eyes open, ready to fight for my damn life, but I see two hands instead of a face with a faint glow of a lamp behind him.
My eyes adjust to the weak light. It’s been days of darkness, but somehow, I’m still here, untouched, along with a few others. There’s Abigale, Joanna, and Melissa. Melissa came earlier, and now that there are more of us, I worry for Abigale since she has been here the longest.
A face finally focuses in my vision, and the man is young with wild hair and a nose ring. He is handsome. It’s too bad he’s a piece of shit. Most good-looking guys aren’t worth nothing, so my late grandma said.
“It’s okay, Scarlett. It’s him. It’s the guy I told you about,” Abigale says.
“You’re Wolf,” I croak. I half expect dust to fall from my lips.
“How do you know my name?” he asks. He doesn’t sound mad, just surprised. He’s younger than I expected, his voice is smoother, and his eyes aren’t full of hatred, just pure sadness and regret.
“I heard one of the guys call you it when they opened the door,” I explain. “Water?”
“Yeah, here.” He unscrews the cap and places the plas
tic bottle in my hands. I bring it to my cracked, bleeding lips and drink the gold down, letting it coat my throat. “Don’t drink it all. You need to eat. I brought everyone a sandwich and some chips. I know it isn’t much, but it’s all I can do today.”
I haven’t eaten in days because I’ve chosen not to, but when the smell of roast beef hits my nose, my stomach grumbles. I launch forward like I’m some sort of animal, ripping the sandwich apart with my hands. I whimper, crying as I stuff my face. I hate I have become this. This inhuman thing chained to a wall, eating like a barbarian, but it’s all I can do.
It’s all I am now.
I chug the rest of the water down and then throw the empty bottle at Wolf’s face. “You should be used to taking out the trash. Next, it will be us, right?” I wipe my mouth against my arm and wince when I taste dirt and salt from my sweat.
“It isn’t like that. I don’t view you as trash.” He sounds hurt. He leans back on his legs and rubs his hands over his face, exhaling heavily. “I’m doing what I have to.”
“So I’ve heard. Maybe you aren’t doing enough,” I hiss. “You obviously care. Look at us,” I shout at him, the word breaking on a sob. “Look at me. They are going to kill me, or worse. I have a life. I’ve worked hard. I have a family. I have goals. Please don’t do this.”
His eyes water. Or, at least, I think they do. I can’t tell if it’s the trick of the light or not. He falls to his ass and lays his elbows on his knees. “You don’t think I know that? That I don’t think about you women down here every second of every day? You don’t think it eats me up inside? It does. I’m fucked. I don’t want to be here. I’m only here because my father was a member, and I was forced to be one. The one time I stepped out of line, they killed my mother in front of me, so yeah, I do as I’m told to now. You better fucking believe it.” He takes out a cigarette, lights it with a Zippo lighter, and the glow of the ember creates a small sun as he sucks in. Wolf blows out the thick cloud of smoke, and I inhale the secondhand, hoping it seeps into my lungs. I’m not a smoker, but I wouldn’t mind something to ease the tension I feel.