by K. L. Savage
“Cover your ass while you do it,” Reaper mumbles and takes a swig of his beer then rubs the cold condensation from his fingers over his sweaty face.
“You like me arse; don’t play like ye don’t.” Skirt walks over to Poodle who is currently yelling at my dog because Yeti is trying to get it on with Lady. I told Poodle I wasn’t going to stop my boy from getting it in, and I meant it. I want to piss off Poodle naturally.
“That damn guy, he’s going to kill me with a heart attack one day when he flashes his ass. I don’t understand why he won’t wear underwear.” Reaper stands and holds out his hand to help me get up. “Let’s go introduce our guests to everyone.”
I slap my hand in his and stand, watching one by one as the bikes come to a stop in front of the clubhouse. There’s about ten of them, and I’m sure some guys stayed behind to watch their clubhouses like usual.
As I stand and watch one by one as my MC brothers pull up, I think about Juliette. She’s never far from my mind, and I wanted her to be here tonight, to get a sense of how things really are, but I had to go and let my fear get the best of me.
People don’t know this, but I’m fucking scared all the time, and it’s what drives me to do what I do for Reaper, for the club. Taking a life isn’t easy, but every time I drive that screwdriver between someone’s eyes, I’m reminded of the peace I felt when my father took his last breath, and fear leaves me.
Until the next time.
The rest of the Vegas members crowd behind us, taking a break from setting up seats and tables for food. I whistle when I see the lead bike, who must be the Prez, pull in. It has black-on-black everything with wide-set handles and a long front end. I squint my eyes when I see carvings along the metal of his bike.
Voodoo heads.
That isn’t fucking weird or unsettling.
Still, it’s a sweet ride.
“Voodoo,” Reaper greets with the biggest damn smile I’ve seen from him in a few days. “It’s good to see you. Been too damn long.”
“Mon Ami.” The man pulls Reaper into a quick hug, patting him on the back in a few hard slaps. He has a thick Cajun accent and a scar around his neck, like he was strangled with a wire or something similar. “It’s been too damn long; you’re right. ’Bout time you got your head out of your ass and threw a party.”
“Shit has been busy in Vegas. I actually might need you and some of your guys to stick around for a few extra days. I’ll explain why later.”
“Fuck, it’s hot,” a guy as big as me stands next to Voodoo, and when I glance at the patch, it says VP, like me. “My balls are sticking to my leg.”
Voodoo snorts and tilts his head in his VP’s direction. “This is my right-hand man, Caster.”
“Tool,” I hold out my hand, and Caster meets it, then narrows his eyes as he tugs me close. “I’m uh … Reaper’s VP.”
“Don’t mind Caster. He has a way of reading people,” Voodoo tries to settle my nerves, but it doesn’t work.
The man has long dreads, mixed skin, and bright blue eyes that almost look white, which creep me the fuck out. “You have demons inside you, Tool.” He cocks his head, gripping my hand tighter.
“What the fuck?” I growl, not liking another testing me. I try to pull my hand away, but Caster keeps a tight hold, analyzing me.
“You are a good killer.” His eyes come to the screwdriver tucked in between my ear like it always is. “You are haunted by that weapon. Too much darkness lingers.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” I ask, getting a bit freaked out with this psycho-babble bullshit. “Reaper, what did you tell him?”
“Not shit, Tool. I swear,” Reaper says.
“I’m gonna piss myself if this shit continues.” Skirt’s Scottish accent invades the tense moment, and I want to laugh.
“Me too,” Poodle joins in.
They want to piss themselves. What about me? I have a crazy person staring at me.
“Ya know New Orleans has a lot of superstition, yes?” Voodoo asks me and I nod, knowing it’s just myths and tourist grabbing bullshit when people go to visit. “Caster has a long history with an interesting background. If he’s talking to you, mon ami, you better listen. He hasn’t been wrong yet.”
“Let go of me,” I threaten as he squeezes my hand harder. I can’t kick this guy’s ass because a fight will not be good at maintaining peace, but this guy is crossing a line.
“Someone you love is in danger. A lot of danger.”
I snort. “If that isn’t the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard.” I look around at my brothers’ faces to see how they’re reacting, and a few of them are eating this shit up like it’s a movie. A few are skeptical, like my man Tongue, being all weird and brooding in the back. His arms are crossed, and he narrows his eyes at Caster in disbelief.
“Two women.” And on that fucking note, he lets go of my hand.
“What the hell do you mean two women?” My heart thuds against my chest with panic. I grab his arm, and his eyes laser into me again.
“Now you want to know more?”
“Go easy on him, Caster. This is supposed to be a good time,” Voodoo says from beside him. Another roar of motorcycles come, and this time when they enter the parking lot there are a few more chapters with them. It looks like Memphis and Nashville.
“Please, when you say two women, who are you talking about?” There are only two women in my life who mean anything to me. “Caster, please. Whatever weird shit you’re capable of, I need you to tell me.”
“Your demons have followed you from a long way, mon ami,” he says, patting my hand. Another roar interrupts us, but this time, the bikes sound different; they sound manic and quick as they zip down the drive.
The bikes come into view and I see the first cut, and I notice it’s the Boston chapter. Something’s wrong.
“Two women you love. I cannot see faces. One has long brown hair and the other—”
Brass’ bike crashes to the ground because he doesn’t bother putting it on its stand. He runs over to us, his VP and Sargent at Arms on his heels.
“The other is older. A tattoo on her inner wrist of your name?”
I let go of Caster’s hand and stumble back, staring at him with disbelief. “That’s my mom,” I whisper. “The other sounds like Juliette.” How can I take his word for it? I’m just supposed to accept with wide open arms that this guy from New Orleans has some witch fucking voodoo. I don’t believe in that kind of shit.
“Reaper! Tool! Tool? Where’s Tool?” Brass shouts, and everyone turns to him, and he’s red faced and panicked.
“Brass? What the hell is going on?” Reaper cuts through the crowd.
Brass falls to his knees and spreads his arms, clenching his hands in tight fists, roaring into the sky his sorrow. “Someone took her. Someone took Whitney.”
I push Reaper out of the way and grab Brass, the President of the Boston chapter, and sling him to the ground. “What the hell? What are you talking about? Who took her? Who took my fucking mom? Why didn’t you protect her?” I lift my fist, and Reaper catches it mid-air.
“That isn’t going to help anyone,” he says, then turns his eyes to Caster. “Did you see anything else? Or felt … or whatever you do.”
“No,” he says simply, not describing more or less of what he can do.
“Where is she?” I scream at him and try to tackle Brass again, but Tongue is there along Reaper’s side.
“I’ll cut your tongue out if you have anything to do with this,” Tongue points his knife at Brass in warning.
“If anything happens to her, you can kill me. I love Whitney—”
“Something has happened to her! It has to be the sheriff. He has to be behind this!” I yell at him, and my head pounds from the amount of force it takes to push my voice to its limit. This can’t be happening again. She’s supposed to be safe. I made sure of it. She was safe. With Brass. Dad is dead. He can’t hurt her anymore.
Juliette. Where is she? I n
eed to go. I need to make sure she’s at home. She has to be. Caster Crazy Eyes is a fucking liar. He’s a fake. None of that shit is real. New Orleans bullshit can go back to where it came from.
“I need you to take a deep breath and calm the hell down if you want to figure this out,” Reaper says in a calm, steady tone. “Brass, what happened?”
Brass, the sad man who dares call himself the President and my mother’s protector, shakes his head as if he’s in denial. “We were at the hotel. Nothing out of the ordinary. If I would have known that your club was in trouble, I never would have let her go to the damn vending machine alone. I didn’t know. I swear to god, I wouldn’t have let her go alone.”
He should have been with her anyway. That makes me a hypocrite. I’m not with Juliette, and I hate myself for it. Women of the club, women of the members are always strong, and we can’t always have someone with them because our girls would’ve found a way to do something alone anyway, unknowingly putting themselves in danger.
We should have called this damn cookout off, or at the very least we should’ve told everyone about the threat in Vegas right now.
I take my screwdriver and fling it right by Brass’ head. It lands in the sand with a hard thud, making sand fly in his eyes. I don’t give a fuck if the bastard goes blind, not after he didn’t protect my mom. “The next time I throw it, you won’t be so lucky,” I say, pulling out of Reaper and Tongue’s arms. “I’m fine.” They try grabbing me again, and I take a step back. “I said I’m fucking fine!” I tug my weapon from the ground and debate if I want to kill Brass now. “I trusted you to keep her safe. If I would have known that you couldn’t, I would have made her stay with me.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, Tool. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fucking do anything, does it?” I lift my arm to put the asshole out of his misery, out of my misery, and Tongue stops me, catching my arm as I bring it down. The screwdriver stops just as the tip hits between Brass’ eyes, digging into his skin. Blood flows over his nose and down his cheek, but it isn’t enough. I want more.
I need more.
Another grumble of motorcycles comes, and I don’t care who it is.
I’m surrounded by an army of bikers, but I’ve never felt more on my own in my entire life.
I push Tongue away and run toward my bike. I need to check on Juliette. I need to make sure she’s okay. Caster is wrong. He’s full of crap and it’s only coincidence. That’s all.
“Tool!” Reaper shouts after me, but I don’t stop. I can’t afford to stop. All I see is my mom needing help, and this time I can do more than I could when I was fifteen. I hop on my hog, and Tongue is right beside me.
He gives me a quick nod, and then Caster is getting on his bike too. “No, you can stay.”
“Ya need me. I can see more than ya can.”
“I don’t give a fuck if you can see into goddamn space—you aren’t fucking coming!” I crank my bike, and the engine grumbles between my legs, adding to the group of motorcycles coming down the driveway. Looks like the rest of the chapters showed up.
When I reverse, I’m careful to miss a few custom-made bikes and see Badge getting on his bike too. I don’t bother to see where he’s going. The only thing on my mind is my mom and Juliette. How can this be happening to me? What does someone want with me?
I hit the throttle, and my back tire spins against the dirt, flinging gravel. I hear it hit metal, and I know I’m denting bikes, but again, I don’t care. I need out of here. Speeding down the driveway, I pass the Chicago, Detroit, and Miami chapter.
I don’t wave. I don’t acknowledge them. I just get the hell out of dodge as if the devil is nipping at my back tire. When the road comes to view, I turn my handlebars sharp to the right and almost run into a car. They blare their horn at me, and I swerve to miss the front of the Chevy Cruise and my foot hits the fender, but I don’t stop. I’ll break every bone in my body in attempt to save the only women who matter to me.
I’ll give my life if it means getting theirs back.
I twist the throttle, opening my bike on the open road with Juliette’s house in mind. Everything disappears as my vision tunnels. The wind dries my eyes and stings my cheeks. My hair is blowing all over the place, and I think about the worst-case scenario when I get to Juliette’s. It has me almost losing control and going off the side of the road when I imagine finding her body, dead, and I’ll never get to hear her beautiful voice again.
Or experience the goodness of her.
I take a right down her street, noticing the sign in the ground saying to ‘Vote’ with a checkmark next to the word is laying on the ground and fresh tire tracks imprinted in the red clay of the ground. I know that whatever it is, those tracks have everything to do with Juliette. Once I see her house, I take a note out of Brass’ book and don’t even bother putting my bike on its stand. The tires have barely stopped rolling when I jump off my seat and then hop over the small fence.
A grumble of motorcycles has me looking back, and damn, my entire MC came out it looks like.
Even the rest of the chapters. It’s an overwhelming amount of support, and they have taken over the entire road. Tongue, Caster, and Reaper run down the walkway until they’re at my side. Reaper slaps me on the shoulder, and Tongue tugs his knife out of his cut.
“Ya won’t need that here,” Caster says as his white eyes dart around the house, reading it. “There are no threats here, mon ami.”
I take that as a good sign. If there are no threats, then that must mean Juliette is safe. She’s singing, dancing in the kitchen and happy. She has to be.
Please, let her be.
I run up the steps and notice the door cracked open. “No,” I whisper simply as I push it open and stand in the middle of the doorway. No one needs to tell me what happened. I can feel it. She isn’t here. That fucking psycho-babble bullshit from Caster was right. I turn on my heel, grab the fucker by his cut, and drag him up the stairs, throwing him in the house. “What happened! Tell me.”
“You believe me now?” He lifts a thick brow with a large hoop piercing it.
“No, I don’t know. I'm just willing to believe anything, to do anything.” I look down at my boots to see blood, and I fall to my knees. “No, no, no,” I roar and stab the floor with the screwdriver.
“That is not her blood.” Caster takes two steps to the right and squats, sliding his fingers through the pool of sanguine liquid.
“Enough of this,” I stomp my way through the house, my boots matching the heavy pound of my heart, and when I get to her bedroom door, I hear I high-pitched whine. I step through, waiting to see a nightmare. “Tyrant!” I run to the side of the bed when I notice her dog lying next to it, breathing quickly, when I see his lungs rise and fall so fast. He’s shot. I scoop him up in my arms, and he whines again. “I got you, buddy. It’s okay. Just hold on a little longer, okay? Hold on for me.” I hold him to my chest and run down the hall. Caster doesn’t look surprised, but he couldn’t have known about this. He’s too much. I can’t deal with Caster anymore and to be honest, he’s too supernatural for my blood. Whatever shit he has going on, I don’t want it around me. I can’t have it around me.
“Mon ami,” Caster speaks to Tyrant in his Cajun accent and touches the dog’s head. Tyrant instantly calms. “Oh, you’ve seen a lot, haven’t you?”
“Enough,” I snap. “I don’t know what kind of whisperer you are, dog, human, fucking alien; just stay away from me.” Reaper takes Tyrant from my arms, and when I look down, I have blood on my cut. For the first time, it isn’t human.
“I’ll take him to the vet. You do what you have to do.” A lot of the guys leave when Reaper does, but Tongue stays and so does Caster. I guess he can’t take a fucking hint.
“Where are they?” I ask, looking around the room for any clues, for anything they left behind. Whoever is behind this, I’m going to kill them. I’m going to drive my tool so far into their skull many times until their brain is leaking o
ut of every wound. I focus on the hate inside me, letting it possess me, and the urge to kill is so strong I can nearly taste it on my tongue.
No one fucks with what is mine.
I’ll save my mom. I’ll save my girl.
And then I’ll kill anyone who looks my way.
Hate is a powerful emotion, especially when it’s derived out of love.
18
JULIETTE
I groan when I finally wake up. My head is throbbing, and I feel like I have a bad case of motion sickness with how my stomach is turning like everything is swaying, or maybe I’m swaying. Either way, I’m about to vomit. I close my eyes again and take deep breaths. In through my nose and out through my mouth.
“Hey, girl. Wake up. Hey!” Someone’s foot kicks mine and when I open my eyes again, I see an older woman with black hair and dark eyes. Her skin is a bit wrinkled, but she looks like someone I know. “Hey, how are you feeling? Are you okay?” the woman asks, hands tied behind her back, and her ankles are strapped together too.
Like mine.
“I’m … confused,” I finally find the right words. “Where are we? Who are you?”
“I’m Whitney. I’m Logan’s mom.”
I gasp in terror when I see she has a black eye and a busted lip. That’s why she looks so familiar. Her and Logan share a lot of the same features. “I wish I could say it was good to meet you, but I didn’t want to meet you like this. I’m Juliette, Logan’s… I don’t know.”
“Logan’s girlfriend. I know my son. He doesn’t get involved, so if he’s involved with you, that means something.”
I shake my head when I remember that last thing he said to me. I know I don’t mean a damn thing to him. “Do you know where we are?” it looks like jail cells, but older, and it’s dark from the lack of windows.
“I don’t know,” she says, tugging on the restraints until her skin breaks. “We aren’t the only women here, though, but we were taken intentionally because of Logan.”
“How do you know that?” My lip starts to tremble, and that’s when I know I’m about to freak out. I can’t do that. I’m trained for this. My dad trained me to get out of situations like this. I’ll be fine.