by K. L. Savage
“I won’t be positive until we get her down there. Pick her up and follow me?”
Reaper’s hope flees. He gives a solemn nod as he carefully holds Sarah to his chest, one arm wrapped around her shoulders while the other is tucked under her legs. When he stands, Sarah moans in pain and he kisses her forehead. “I’m sorry, Doll. I’m so sorry.”
Reaper and Doc leave the room, their boots echoing loudly.
And then everyone around us is silent.
“Tongue don’t blame yourself,” Poodle starts, noticing how Tongue is frozen in one spot. “Tongue.” Poodle reaches out to comfort him, but Tongue shrugs it away.
“You can’t blame yourself anymore,” Slingshot adds. “It was a horrible accident. You didn’t do it on purpose. Give yourself a break. She’s going to be okay.”
“You don’t know that,” Tongue replies, swallowing so hard I can hear the gulp from across the room.
“It’s scary, and I know you feel guilty, but you gotta learn to let go.” Tool glides over to Juliette and wraps an arm around her shoulder. We all quietly gather in the main room, not knowing what we can do. We want to help, but how can we make a difference?
“Learn to let go?” Tongue growls. “Learn to let go?” he repeats, slamming his fist against the wall.
Poodle leans against the couch and opens his arms for Melissa, who eagerly runs into them.
All the men pair up with their ladies, but Sunnie walks to Patrick so he doesn’t have to go near the bar and sits on the couch next to him.
“It’s easy for you to say. You won’t have to live with the guilt of knowing she lost her second child, and the reason is because of you. Don’t sit there and tell me everything is going to be okay. Nothing is going to be okay. This isn’t fucking okay. I need… I need…” Tongue starts rambling. His nerves are getting the best of him. “I need to go.” Tongue fishes out his keys from his pocket. They jingle, a sound I don’t want to hear, especially when it’s punctuated by a heavy crack of thunder rolling in the sky, shaking the foundation of the clubhouse. “I’m going to go.”
I get up from the floor and brush my butt in habit. I walk toward him and for the first time in our relationship, he holds up a hand to stop me from coming closer.
“I need some time, Comet. I need to be alone. I love you, but I can’t be here right now,” he says, his voice breaking. The haunted expression in his chocolate brown eyes will be an image I’ll never be able to forget. He brushes by me. The electricity crackles across our skin like it always down when we are near one another.
Everyone watches him leave. He opens the door and even from where I’m standing, I can see the grey skies looming in the distance. The kiss of rain pecks against the room, dripping off the edge onto the porch steps. Tongue doesn’t care. He takes his leather jacket off the knob against the wall that’s dedicated for him. All members have one. He doesn’t put it on. He hangs it over his shoulder as he slams the door behind him.
He must jump down the steps because I can’t hear him pound down the wood like usual. A grumble cuts through the white noise of rain and pulls away, idling when he gets to the gate where Braveheart is along with Tank.
My eyelids ease shut when I try to understand what just happened, but my heart is crushed. Tongue never denies me, and today his denial hit me right smack in the chest.
“Don’t take it too hard, Daphne. Tongue gets that way sometimes,” Poodle says, and I know he meant to calm me, but it doesn’t work. If anything, I feel a giant need to stand up for Tongue.
“Don’t tell me how he gets. Don’t tell me how all of you know him and know what he is like. You don’t know. You don’t know anything about him. And that’s your fault. All of you!” I whip around and point a finger at each of them. Tool’s brows rise in shock, Juliette can’t bear to look at me, and Melissa is rubbing Poodle’s chest. “You paint him as the bad guy every day because he is so different. He’s Tongue, right? He can’t feel anything? He’s just the guy you call to do the dirty work that you can’t do. He’s different. But he isn’t a damn leper. He deserves more than what all of you give him. None of you have faith in him. Can’t you see him?” I yell, pointing toward the door, then hit the side of my head as if they are too dumb to realize the damage they are doing. “Can’t you see he needs more? He’s different in the sense that he’s learning life all over again. And no matter what I do, I can only put him together so many times before all of you break him again. He’s more. He’s fucking more!”
When the door opens again, I hold my breath, hoping Tongue has changed his mind, but it’s the silver-haired man again.
My hope deflates, shoulders sagging, and of course, Mercy’s eyes are on me.
And of course, Tongue isn’t here when I need him most.
“Reaper around?” Whistler asks, coming around Mercy. “We need to talk to him.”
“Sorry, he’s busy right now with Sarah and Doc.”
“Everything okay?” Mercy’s brows bend in concern as he shakes off his jacket. Water droplets fling and scatter along the floor. “Does it have to do with Tongue barreling out of here like a bat out of hell?” Mercy’s eyes are making me uncomfortable, and I am too heated to deal with stares that are full of questions.
The more he looks at me, the more familiar he becomes, and I don’t like it.
I need to get out of here too.
I just wish Tongue would have taken me with him. We could have ridden to the center of the storm together.
The rain stinging me in the face is welcome after what I just witnessed. My cheeks are getting the brunt of the pain, and my hands aren’t gloved, so my knuckles are white, and my fingers are cold. I deserve the pain. I need the rain to soak me to my bones to the point that I can’t be wrung dry. To the point that my insides drown. I deserve that and so much more after seeing Sarah lying on the floor, cupping her stomach as she cried.
Fear.
Pain.
Devastation.
And it’s all my fault.
My bike fishtails along the road and water flings up from the back tire, spraying against my jacket and the back of my neck. The roads are foggy and the clouds are low. The blacktop is shining from blankets of rain and oil from the traffic. One wrong move and I could end up as buzzard food.
I bet that would be a welcome relief to some. No one would have to worry about me anymore. Daphne would be okay. She’d move on. She’d find someone better, someone who can love her without the harmful tendencies my love brings.
A car horn honks and headlights shine in my face. I’ve swerved to the other lane and the massive semi-truck barrels forward since he can’t exactly slam on the brakes. The grill is silver and the logo in the middle starts with a P. If I can see that, then shit is about to get messy. I jerk my handlebars to the right, the blowhorn of the truck ringing in my ear. I get in my own lane, and out of the corner of my eye I see the driver lift his hand out the window in a ‘what the fuck’ gesture.
My heart sledgehammers against my chest and my breath leaves my lips in an icy cloud. Holy shit, I nearly died. I could have not moved. I could have let the truck hit me and leave me in unrecognizable pieces along the highway.
But Daphne’s face, Daphne’s love… she’s what had me jerk the handlebars at the last minute. I’d regret dying because I’d miss her. She’s the only thing keeping me alive. If it weren’t for her, I think I might have become a nomad eventually.
And that life is a rough one. Eventually something would kill me, but at least it would be on my own terms and away from judgement. Hell, my own club members don’t even like me. There’s Slingshot, but I don’t know if he likes me or just deals with me.
Cue the smallest violin and let the devil play it on my shoulder, then let me dance in the flames of my ‘woe is me’ self-pity party.
I pass a yellow road sign and exhale my stress as I get further away from the club. The darkness hides the mountains in the distance, but they surround me. A perfect place for a man to escape
and live off the land for a few days. But I can’t leave Daphne alone. I’ll bring her with me. Maybe we will get a cabin away from everyone and everything. We only need each other. As long as we have us, we will be okay.
Eventually, I turn around on the road and start to head back to the clubhouse. I’ve been gone for a few hours and I don’t want Daphne to worry.
The road back to the clubhouse is straight, long, and goes on for miles. It looks the same going back as it did when I left. The asphalt is so dark it’s nearly black, soaked through with rain. A white line on the right and a yellow in the middle to signal people can pass one another.
My headlight shines against the road. Every now then I see roadkill picked apart, probably by coyotes or buzzards.
Another sign comes to view, only this time, it’s one made of wood, and just as old as the building Zain lives in.
Las Vegas Asylum, est. 1907.
Well damn, look at that. I read it.
I grin to myself and wish Daphne was next to me for us to celebrate. She always celebrates me. Every new word I can pronounce and sound out, every time she thinks I’m ready to upgrade to a more difficult book, she never fails to say how proud she is of me.
Taking the next right following the sign, my bike bounces from the uneven terrain. I slow down to give my suspension a rest and coast over a few potholes. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. Something is pulling me into this direction, it’s only fair if I give it a chance to see why.
The bike comes to a rolling stop near a few cars. There’s an old Lincoln Continental that has seen better days. The front end is still dented from when Porter smashed into Patrick and Sarah.
I hate that motherfucker.
I park my bike and take off my helmet, cross my arms, and just stare at the Asylum front door. What am I doing here?
Zain has done a good job of renovating the building while keeping its creep-tastic nature. Some bricks are crumbled in certain places. He told me he found a cemetery not too far in the backyard, from the Prohibition era. If that doesn’t scream haunted, I don’t know what does.
Even over the hiss of rain peppering the ground, the squeak of the front door sounds over the droplets, and Zain is poking his head outside. His shiny bald head reflects the porch light and his narrow eyes narrow even further to try to figure out who I am.
I can tell the moment he figures it out. He steps outside and the screen door slams. He takes three steps to the new rail on the porch, folding his arms as he stares off into the desert. I push off the ground and make my way toward him, my boots sludging through the mud with a squelching sound.
“I can’t say I’m surprised to see you here,” he starts, turning his head to pin me with black eyes.
“That goes for one of us. I’m surprised. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” I take another look around the porch, impressed with how nice it looks compared to the slumping shit-fest it was before. There’s a swing on the far right side of the porch. I can image sitting there and watching the sunset. Not with a beer in hand, but a cold sweet tea that really quenches the thirst. There are a few potted plants, and there is a small sign next to the door with ‘Las Vegas Asylum’ engraved on it. As if this place is a bed and breakfast.
Whatever tickles their crazy, I guess.
“I think you’re here to talk to your brother.”
I grab him by the back of the shirt collar and throw him against the side of the house. “Don’t ever fucking call him that again or I’ll kill you.”
“You won’t fucking touch him,” Zain’s ol’ lady comes up to the other side of the screen door, a knife in hand. “Or I’ll kill you.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats,” I warn her, my voice bordering on a threat.
“I’m not asking you to,” she sneers.
Zain lifts his hand up telling us to stop. “Jessica, it’s okay.”
“How do you know it’s Jessica?” I ask, sizing her up as she does the same to me.
“Jessica is a bit more… protective.”
“Chloe is a coward.”
“Be nice,” Zain orders.
“I will when he doesn’t threaten you.”
“I’ll stop threatening his life when he doesn’t refer to Porter as my brother.”
“He is your brother.” Jessica tears her eyes away from me and stares at her nails. Her tone is as if she’s bored out of her mind, just repeating the obvious.
“He isn’t!” I growl, slamming my fist against the side of the house. A piece of brick crumbles to the ground and lands on my boot. “He is nothing to me.”
“Get over yourself.” She drags her eyes from inspecting her fingernails and lands those empty and emotionless abysses on mine.
I don’t like her.
“He’s your blood. And if he wasn’t your brother, what are you doing here? Dropping by to say hi?” She snorts in disbelief. “Please. I bet there is a small part of you that wonders what he is like.”
“I know what he is like.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, unimpressed with my argument. “Then you know he’s a lot like you, right?” She taps the door and with a confident smirk she turns around and walks away, heading toward the couch. She sits down next to a woman with blonde hair and a guy in a toga. That must be Apollo.
“She’s a pain,” I state honestly.
Zain toss his head back and laughs. “Isn’t she great? I fucking love that woman.” He slaps his hand on my shoulder as he comes down from his joy. “Tongue, can I talk to you about Porter? Maybe in some way you’ll be able to see he isn’t all bad. He didn’t used to be. He’s sick. Here.” He taps the side of his head with his index finger. “I mean, we all are, but Porter is different. His identity crisis is similar to Apollo’s, but Apollo literally doesn’t have another personality. Apollo is… Apollo. I don’t even know his real name. Porter? He thinks he does the world a favor getting rid of people like you, or people involved with you, because of his dad and mom.”
“His mom was mine, remember? And what I remember of her, she wasn’t bad. My parents were good to me.” I think they were. I remember a few things, but I can’t remember what they looked like. It’s been too long, and I don’t have any pictures of them. Life’s unfair like that. I remember Mom making mac and cheese for me because I didn’t like anything else as a kid. I remember her putting a band-aid on my knee and then kissing it better.
I don’t believe kisses make wounds better anymore, but I did as a kid.
“I just think you should talk to him. Maybe you could find some common ground.”
“The only thing I could tell him is that if I ever saw him again outside of this Asylum, if he ever roamed free, I’d kill him. I’d take my time. Not just for what he did to Sarah and Daphne, but Knives too. I’ll kill him. He’s lucky Reaper hasn’t asked for his death. I don’t understand why.”
“You don’t know why?” he asks in disbelief. “Reaper hasn’t killed Porter because Porter is your family. Whether you want to admit it or not. You’re more alike than you think. How many people have you killed?”
“That’s different. I did it for the club.”
“Any kills that weren’t club business?” he asks.
I freeze like a deer in headlights. I want to say there haven’t been any, but that isn’t true. I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve killed just because they have pissed me off.
“You’re more alike than you think. Maybe talk to him and see what he is like. He’s been on his medication and he’s improved.”
“I’m nothing like him,” I say, trying to convince Zain, but it’s a sad attempt to try to convince myself.
“Then leave,” he says. “If you aren’t here for him, leave.”
“I’m not here for him. I left the clubhouse to get some air and I wanted to come say hi.”
“I don’t see you leaving.” He sits down on the swing and pushes off the ground with his feet to start to sway back and forth.
Leave.
Leaving is easy. I can leave.
But my boots are stuck to the porch. I stare through the screen door. The black sheer material fuzzes the inside of the Asylum. From here it looks like a real home on the inside. Wooden floors, coffee tables, a sectional couch facing the tv, décor up on the walls. It even smells like cinnamon candles are burning, giving a comforting aroma.
All the scent does is coverup the crazy inside.
“I’m waiting,” he says, stretching out his arm to show me the way out.
It’s pouring rain now, reminding me of static blaring from a TV that’s turned up too loud. “I’m going,” I say, but I still don’t move.
I want to fucking move, but my brain and legs are not communicating. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home to Daphne. I want to curl around her and lay the sharp edge of my knife against her skin, carve my name into the flawless flesh like I’ve always wanted.
But all I can think about is Porter. Why does he do what he does? Why does he insist on hurting the ones I care about? Why does he hate me? He has no right to, especially when I have every reason to hate him after everything he has done.
I’m not trying to form a brotherly bond, but I do want answers. I grab the silver lip of the handle and open the screen door.
All I need to do is turn around and leave. All I need to do is stop giving a damn, but lately, it seems I do give a damn, and I’m not liking it. I don’t know how to process it. Just go inside and kill him. That’s all it takes, and then I can never worry about him again.
But he’s my brother…
Blood or not, my only family is Daphne. I don’t need him.
But I still find myself walking inside, stepping into the air conditioning. My skin goosebumps from the cold since I’m wet, and I shake my hair out, flinging water on the mirror to my right.
“Take off your boots. They have mud all over them and I just mopped the floor. If you ruin it, I’ll make you clean it again.”
I roll my eyes and tug on my wet laces, then kick my boots off.
“Chloe likes the house a certain way.”
I turn around to see Zain closing the door behind us, and I want to ask how he really knows that’s Chloe, but when you love someone, I guess you just know.