by Emma Creed
Maddy’s room is spotless, everything has its place, unlike my room which looks like it’s been raided by Vikings. We listen to her music, and I take a look through her makeup bag, it’s sparse to say the least, but I work with what’s there. Maddy is one of those lucky girls that doesn’t need makeup but damn, when she wears it, she pulls it off. When I tell her that, it makes her blush.
I find comfort in her modesty. Like if I wanted to, I could be myself around her. We chat about school and some of the other girls. She asks me again who Jessie is to me and I brush it off, not ready to tackle that one just yet.
She invites me back to hers after school on Monday, and by the time Nyx picks me up I’m battling to convince myself that I haven’t actually just enjoyed myself.
Nyx’s music blasts out from the speakers. Which I suppose is an improvement to the complete silence we had on the way here. When we drive past the clubhouse, I notice that Jessie’s bike is parked outside.
“You can just drop me here,” I tell him, and he grunts pulling the truck to a halt for me to climb out. I thank him for the ride and don’t get a response, but then I wasn’t really expecting one either.
He at least waits for me to shut the door just before he takes off with a skid of dust that catches at the back of my throat and clouds my eyes. I head straight for the club doors. It’s the middle of the day so Daddy’s rules don’t apply, and I want to give Jessie an update on how things with Maddy are going.
I’m distracted, brushing the dust off my jeans and not really paying attention to what’s in front of me until my path is obstructed by something solid. I follow the tall structure all the way up, stretching my neck to see Troj towering over me.
He’s tall and toned so tightly that you can’t help but stare and appreciate. His long, brown hair hanging wet over his thick-set shoulders, and he’s wearing nothing beneath his cut that’s open at the front enough for me to appreciate all those perfectly defined chest and stomach muscles.
“Where ya headin’, princess?” he asks me, his eyebrows raising. God, he’s beautiful. That golden tanned skin and well-kept beard team up perfectly with his warm chocolate brown eyes.
Still not a scratch on Jessie though.
“I’m just looking for Jessie,” I tell him, attempting a side step around him he immediately blocks me again.
“Now’s not a good time,” he tells me, any trace of a smile gone, his brows hooding his eyes.
“I’m heading on home, I can get someone to give you a lift. I look down at his hands, noticing the blood-stained T-shirt he has wrapped up in one fist and how the knuckles of the other are battered raw.
“Or you could give me a lift up?” I suggest, flicking my eyes over to his bike then back to him. I already know the answer, but it might distract him long enough for me to get inside.
“Nice try darlin’, but I haven’t got a death wish. I’ll get Tommy to give you a ride.”
“What happened to your hand?” I ask looking closer at his knuckles.
“Oh this,” he looked down at them casually. “Just a scuffle, nothin’ for you to worry about.”
“Is Jessie okay?” I check because I get the feeling that shit has gone down and if I’m right, I can guarantee he’d have been right in the middle of it.
“Oh yeah, Jessie’s just fine,” Troj nods his head, the grin on his lips suggesting there’s a lot more in his answer.
I may come across as cool on the outside, but inside my blood is lava. Adrenaline is thumping too fast through my veins, like they might erupt under pressure.
Sat in the chair in front of me, arms tied behind his back, is the latest cunt stupid enough to fuck with our club. The guy may have a couple inches height on me, but that wasn’t about to make shit all difference, not down here.
The basements that run beneath the club are soundproofed for good reason, reasons this fuckwit was about to find out for himself. We never ask Grimm to clean up down here. A prospect and a hosepipe do a decent enough job. I think it’s a nice touch for our guests to see what’s on the itinerary for their visit. Gives them something to think about while they wait for me to decide how I’m gonna fuck ‘em up.
This guy is a stranger to us. None of us recall seeing him around before, but he wears a patch that we know well. Whether he’s a new member or from one of their other Charters he’s still one of them, and he’d been one of the three who tried breaking into our warehouse last night. That makes him our enemy. And down here enemies don’t do so well.
The Bastards must have thought they got away with it, right up until a group of us stormed into one of their hangouts along route 24.
We could have taken any one of them, there were four of them sitting at the bar, but this asshole in front of me is the fucker who had shot at Thorne.
Thorne turned up to check on the warehouse last night when our watchman hadn’t checked in. He caught the Bastards clearing us out and got shot by this piece of shit in the process. So this was the Bastard that we all decided was gonna turn rat, and I’m the one who gets to make him squeak.
“You wanna tell me your name?” I ask him, staying calm. He shakes his head, and that’s fine by me, I don’t need to know. He’ll have a new name by the time I’m done with him. One that he definitely won’t want anyone to know.
“Last night, you and your brothers decided you’d clean out our warehouse,” I remind him, and the cocky shit smiles back at me like we’re about to sit down to a fuckin’ pot roast together.
If he thinks that kinda shit is gonna get to me, he’s wrong.
Sitting down in the chair opposite him, I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.
“What I need to know, is how you knew where to find it?” I ask him, watching his lips pick up and spread into a laugh. His mouth is still full of blood, a few teeth short due to his introduction to Troj back at the bar.
We could have let him finish the job there and then, but we need information, and the way Troj takes care of shit leaves no time for talking.
Me? I have all the time and patience in the world. So, this fucker can laugh back at me all he wants.
I grin back at him, his optimism is as endearing as it is amusing. It even gives me an idea to use later. We’ll see who’s laughing after our first session.
Turns out one session was all I needed to make the rat squeak. Twenty minutes of waterboarding is all the fucking pussy could handle before he talked, and although what he had to say wasn’t exactly useful in solving the bigger problem, I now know where our stash is being kept.
He splutters and chokes as I pour water over the soaked cloth, and I watch the fabric suck between his mouth and nostrils, finding amusement in his desperate gasps for air. It isn’t quite as satisfying as slicing open his stomach and letting his intestines hang loose would be, but I always like to start off slow. It makes the build-up to the more extensive treatments more intense. And I admit to being a little gutted that he’s given up so quickly.
Turns out the Bastards sent him and two others to get the last of our gun supplies, they somehow knew we were low and that we hadn’t made any deals lately. He swore he had no clue how they knew, and I believed him. I’ve always been able to tell a lie from the truth. Another quality that makes me good at this shit. I do, however, find out where they are keeping the guns they got away with, and I have a hunch that if we move fast enough, we’ll get them back. Maybe even score some of the Bastards’ supplies in the process.
“You know I’ve tortured weedy little addicts who lasted longer than you.” I laugh at him before slamming my elbow into his face.
“I’ve told you all I know. Now fuckin’ let me go,” he chokes, drawing the last of his strength.
“I’ll be back.” I crouch over him. “We still gotta talk about what you did to my friend.”
Walking out the door I slam it behind me, pull my cut back on to my shoulders, and make my way upstairs to the club. It doesn’t take me long to find Prez, he’s drinking in the lounge bar
with Chop and Skid.
“Fast work, blowtorch?” Prez asks clearly impressed at my timing.
“Nah he was much more of a water sports guy.” I pull out a stool and look up for Tommy to pour me a shot of something strong.
“So, what’s he saying?” Chop asks, tossing me a cigarette. I catch it, grab a lighter from my back pocket and light it up, taking a long drag before I answer.
“They know a lot of shit. Knew those guns were the last of our supply, and obviously knew where to find them. They're stashing them in a storage container at the scrap yard not far from their compound.”
“He say where they’re getting their info?” Prez stands up and leans on the bar beside me, tapping his glass on the bar for bitch boy to fill.
“He didn’t know, and I believe him. How’s Thorne?”
“Upstairs. Doc fixed him up, nothing major,” Skid informs me as he slaps me on the back. “Good work kid.”
“I’ma go check in with him.” I down my shot of Jack in one swallow, slamming the glass back on the bar because I know how much it pisses Tommy off when we do that.
“Church in one hour, spread the word,” Prez grunts, sending me off with a smack on my shoulder.
I climb the stairs to one of the rutting rooms on the second floor. The rooms are sparsely decorated, kitted out more for fucking in than to be used as an infirmary, but they do the job.
Thorne calls me in when he hears me knock.
“How ya doin?” I ask, taking a seat on the chair beside the bed.
“Been better. Doc stitched me up, said it ain’t nothin’ too serious. How about you, you get the Bastard talking?” I throw him an arrogant look back.
“Course ya did.” Thorne winces when he starts to laugh.
“You still got the slug?” I ask.
“Yeah, Doc took it out. I think it’s over in that bowl.” His head gestures to the silver bowl on the bedside table, and sure enough laying amongst the gauze and bloodstained bandages is a small silver bullet. I pick it out and roll it between my fingers, before flipping it in the air and catching it again.
“What you want with that?” Thorne asks looking confused.
“Just making sure I return it to its rightful owner for ya brother.” I wink, leaving him to get some rest.
When I open the cell door. The Bastard looks up hopefully.
“I’ve spoken to Prez, and he’s satisfied with what you’ve told us, we’re gonna let you go home,” I inform him, watching hope glint in the eye he’s capable of opening. The fucker’s covered in his own vomit, his face cracked and bruised, and he still manages a smile. I love an optimist
“Almost forgot. Thorne asked me to return this.” I pull the bullet from my back pocket and hold it up between my finger and my thumb so he can see it, and I watch all that hope drain right off his face. I take a step closer, and he shakes his head in a silent, pitiful plea.
“Wwwwatcha gonna do with that?” he asks, a tremble in his voice. I don’t reply, just smile back at him as I take a tuft of his hair and wrench back his head. I force my fingers into the back of his throat, and naturally the fucker tries to bite me. This isn’t my first rodeo, so I pull his head back further, and push the hand I already have inside his mouth lower to stretch his jaw wider. After shoving the bullet as far down his throat as I can get it, I force his mouth closed, cupping my hand over his lips and pinching his nose shut at the same time, leaving him no choice but to swallow.
He wretches and struggles against his roped restraints, but eventually he gives in and swallows down the bullet he used to shoot Thorne.
“Prez wants you to get a message back to your brothers. You fuck with Dirty Souls, we hit back twice as hard.”
“I will, I’ll tell them I promise, just let me go,” he pleads, and I smile taking the knife out of my boot and pressing the tip of the blade against his skin. I make a neat little dimple in the side of his cheek, and watch beads of sweat roll from his forehead and drop onto my blade. Edging the tip a little deeper into his flesh I let it pierce the skin, sticky blood trickling onto the knife and merging with his sweat.
I take my time, slowly moving the smooth edge of the knife down and resting it between the corners of his lips, giving the fucker a taste of his own blood.
“You like to smile, right?” I check, and when fear prevents him from giving me an answer. I answer for him, slicing the blade from the crease of his mouth and tearing it up through the flesh of his cheek all the way up to his ear.
He cries out in agony, and I give him the same treatment on the opposite side of his face, gifting him with a smile he can take all the way to hell with him.
His eyes bulge, and tears stream out, dripping into his open wounds and stinging him with more torture. He chokes, blood spraying all over my shirt. But I’m not done. Not yet.
I continue to use my master craftsmanship to engrave his forehead with his new name, RAT.
He tries to speak. Maybe to beg? Who the fuck knows? The wide gashes on his face prevent him from forming any words, leaving him with just pitiful sounds.
Lucky for this one, I don’t have a lot of time, church is in less than an hour. So he’ll be blessed with a quick death. I contemplate how to do it, I could slit the fucker’s throat, end his life in the same way I took my first, the night I’d saved Hayley’s life. But that shit makes a lot of mess.
So taking his chin in one hand and the back of his neck with the other, I twist my shoulders, forcing it all the way around until I hear a snap and feel his head fall limp in my hands. Then I let him go, his lifeless head slumping forward. Using the Bastard’s shoulder to wipe my blade clean I step over to the far side of the basement and scratch another tally line into the wall. With the knife tucked back into my boot I sit on to the floor, forgetting about the blood soaking my fingers as I run them through my hair. My breathing begins to regulate again, my heart starting to calm and beat to a normal rhythm. I stare right through the body of the man whose life I’ve just taken, and for a few seconds I see him again…
His face is covered with what looks like a ski mask, and he stands tall and big over my pa’s body. It’s hard to make much out through the thin wooden slats of the wardrobe door, but I see how he kicks my pa to check that he’s dead. I wonder why he bothers, even back then at that young age I knew that a bullet to the brain was foolproof. My pa isn’t gonna be jumping up and fighting back anytime soon.
The man left as quickly as he came but I still can’t move from my spot in the wardrobe. Probably through fear, maybe shock, or the fact that my PJ bottoms were stuck to my legs from where I’ve pissed myself. I stay put, staring on at my pa’s body and watching it grow colder. His lips turning the same shade as the cheap motel carpet. The only person I had left was gone, forever. Night turned to day. Sunlight eventually creeping through the curtains and lighting up the dingy room again.
Yet I still sat and waited, I wasn’t quite sure what for, or even if I really wanted whatever it was to come. I was lost. And in those lonely hours, I didn’t think I wanted to be found again.
A loud bang on the cell door shakes me from my dark memory. I stand up and manage to gather my shit together just before Skid walks in. He takes one look at the slumped body that’s still tied to the chair in the center of the room. “Hell’s fucked, take it you’re finished?” He laughs getting a closer look at what I’ve done to the Bastard. I nod, walking over to the rusty basin to wash my hands.
“Didn’t wanna keep ya waiting, so I made it quick,” I tell him, lifting the cigarette packet from my inside pocket, sliding one between my lips then offering one out to Skid.
“Nah. I’m good.” He shakes his head
“You quit?” I ask, surprised, Skid is never without a smoke.
“Me and Carly are… trying.” He smiles awkwardly. “Apparently smoking slows down your swimmers.”
I don’t mean to laugh, but that shit sounds too funny coming from him. Still, I’m not surprised. Skid looks like a mean assed fucker, ta
ll and broad, with a black beard as solid as his loyalty, but he’s softer than any of us. He’s never hidden the fact that his old lady means everything to him. And since Prez lost Mary-Ann, and half the club moved to safer Charters, he’s been the only one of us around here who fucking had one.
“That’s awesome.” I slap him on the back. Skid would make a great Pa, when I first started hanging out at the club, he taught me everything I needed to know about bikes at the garage. Now he has Rogue under his wing, she’s been hanging out at the garage since she was eight years old and has grown into a proper firecracker. No one really knows what her deal is, but it’s obvious that Skid takes care of her, loves her like a little sister, perhaps even a daughter.
“Jess, do me a favor, don’t mention it to the others.”
“Sure thing, bro,” I nod, taking another drag at my smoke. “Let’s head for the table, I got plans for this piece of shit.” I tip my head at the ever-smiling Bastard before we head out of the basement and up to where the air doesn’t smell of blood and fear.
I don’t have time to change before church, so I go as I am, ain’t like any of the fuckers who sit around that table are squeamish and If we want to get our guns back, we’re gonna have to act fast.
Neither Daddy nor Jessie come back to the lodge that night, but Jessie is waiting for me in the kitchen when I get up the next morning. Drinking a coffee and despite looking tired, he’s still smokin’ hot.
“For what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask sarcastically, grabbing the box of cereals and pouring them into a clean bowl. Jessie passes me the milk, and I soak the flakes before grabbing a spoon and digging in.
“C’mon I’ve been busy, with—”
“Club shit,” I interrupt harshly before he has the chance finish.
“Yeah, Hay, with club shit. It’s always gonna be my priority you know that,” he says unapologetically.
“Story of my fucking life,” I shrug. This club has been priority to everyone in my life, I’m used to coming second to it. Doesn’t make me feel any better about it though.
