Revenge - Reckless Renegades 1

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "The purpose of a panic room is to withstand guns. But it's useful if you think you two are about to get killed. It's not a forever thing. Just a couple hours thing until we realize that you aren't coming out, that something is wrong."

  "Then what?"

  To that, his smile went a little devilish. "Then you get to see me coming in there being the badass knight-in-shining-armor and shit. Kill the bad guys, get the girls to safety."

  "You're not exactly who someone pegs as a hero."

  "Nah. But I can't just let your pretty ass rot in a panic room, can I?" he asked, suddenly straightening, turning, slapping my ass hard, then moving toward the door. "Go get your good vibrations on. My brothers and I will be up in the hills as backup tonight. Then I'll pop over here to go over shit with you later."

  I'll.

  He hadn't said 'we will pop over.'

  He said he would.

  Just him.

  Somehow, I was starting to wonder if that was more dangerous than working as a spy in an outlaw biker organization.

  I tried shaking the thoughts away.

  But I had, as he'd recommended, gone into the drawer in my nightstand, gotten rid of the nagging need for release that his mere presence had crippled my body with. Then I had gotten changed, grabbed a sketch I had drawn for Joey of the park she'd used to love as a kid, a place I had taken her countless times because there was something about the eyes of one of Mitch's friends in her direction that had put me on edge, made me feel like I needed to keep her away from him. I'd tried to go into as much depth as I could, making every blade of grass come to life enough to make her swear she could see it swaying with the strong winds, made each flower unique, making you imagine you could all but take a deep breath and smell their unique scents. There was the slide where she'd once cut her leg on a jagged piece of plastic, the swing where she used to pump her legs as hard as she could to go as high as possible, then lean back, auburn hair flowing, so she could feel her belly drop with each swoosh. There was the blanket that had once been on my bed that I had brought with us once, spread out over the grass under the shade of a Weeping Willow, a makeshift picnic of potato chips and American cheese half-sandwiches spread out on the surface.

  I wanted her to look at it and feel something. I was starting to worry she was just a hollowed-out shell, that there was nothing to fill her up anymore. I wanted to put the memories back, remind her of the life she had led, what she had left behind to live in the ugly, bleak little world she was currently so immersed in.

  I had no idea if it would work.

  All I knew was that nothing else was working, none of the little gifts I had brought her each week had done anything, even made a twinkling of recognition flash in her eyes.

  There was no telling how long Thayer and his brothers were going to use me to gather information, how long it would take for them to take that information and formulate a plan, then how long it might take for them to execute it, get Doug and his men out of the way, so that I could save my sister, start getting her on track again. So until all that happened, I needed to keep trying to get the old Joey to come gasping to the surface. Even if it was just for a short while before she fell under the water again, started drowning again. One full breath of fresh air in her lungs was better than none.

  Taking a deep breath of my own, I tied up my hair, sick of sweat making it stick to the back of my neck, grabbed my keys, and made my way to my car.

  It wasn't until I had gotten in and was halfway down the street that I realized something was different. That I could see. And it wasn't for another minute or two, until I caught my car's reflection in a glass storefront that it clicked.

  I had two headlights again.

  The light had been burned out for weeks, and I had just let it slide because the idea of putting any more money - even just the few bucks for a new bulb - into this piece of shit car was something my brain decided it couldn't even wrap it's head around.

  But there it was.

  Bright as could be.

  Brighter even than the other light.

  Which meant that it had been replaced.

  It hadn't been when I had driven it the night before to run to the grocery store.

  So it had to have happened at some point earlier that day.

  My brain flashed back to the image of Thayer in my doorway, looking hot and cocky as the last time I had seen him. I had been so focused on his stupidly good-looking face, and his gorgeous eyes, and those freaking arms, and the words coming out of his mouth that I had somehow missed the dirt streaks across the bottommost part of his white tee.

  Marks that could have gotten there from leaning over my filthy front quarter panel to get inside the hood of my car to replace the bulb.

  But why?

  Why would he replace a stupid broken headlight? On a car that didn't belong to him?

  Because I was helping him get his club back?

  Even as I thought that, it just didn't seem to make any sense. I didn't need a working headlight to be able to get the information he needed.

  So, what?

  Just out of the goodness of his heart?

  The snort that came out of me was loud in the emptiness of my car.

  But, really, was there any other way to respond to such an asinine idea?

  A man who did something just because it was a sweet gesture. Yeah, right. The only times men had ever done anything for me before was when they wanted something from me. Usually of the sexual nature. And while I wasn't above giving a guy I was seeing a blowjob to talk him into changing the oil in my car, so I could avoid the service fee at a shop, I certainly wasn't getting on my knees in gratitude to some stranger.

  Even if I maybe wanted to get on my knees for this one in particular.

  For the rest of the drive, I came up with a handful of reasons why it would be a terrible idea to get hot and sweaty with Thayer.

  Not one of them - not a single one - was convincing.

  Except for the last one.

  Joey.

  Joey was why I couldn't get involved with him, not even in a casual capacity.

  Not now anyway.

  I consoled my achingly needy body that once all this was said and done, I could march my ass right into the compound, drag him into his room, and go a few rounds until we were both satisfied.

  That was enough to somehow quiet my need as I parked my car in its usual spot and started the long walk back to the compound.

  I wasn't entirely sure why I had started the practice of parking so far away when there was more than enough room in the lot. I think it was some form of self-preservation. To have more room to run away if I needed to, to be able to know if I was being followed. And should something happen to me, maybe my car sitting there would tip off the police. Not that they seemed overly concerned with these bikers in particular.

  I remembered when I had gone to them for help, only getting brushed off like I was a nuisance for worrying about my sister, that I had all but shrieked at them that they were selling drugs.

  To which the cop had replied, "Yeah, well, so are a lot of people. At least what they are selling isn't what is spiking our overdose rates in this town."

  Things were in a sad, sad state in our town when an organized crime syndicate wasn't even a blip on the police force's radar because the other stuff, the harder stuff, was what was killing Billie and Bobby and Jenny-next-door. Along with their mom, dad, and little brothers.

  Though, apparently, they were operating on old information.

  Since The Reckless Renegades MC was no longer just dealing in casual party drugs like they had once been.

  "Hey, sugar tits."

  Yep.

  That was my greeting from the douche at the door, taking a long drag off his joint, giving me a lazy-eyed smile.

  Sugar tits was actually an upgrade.

  This was a guy who'd once used the oh-so-swoon-worthy greeting of What's up, Sexy Pants?

  My panties all but fell off at that one, le
mme tell ya.

  "Hey..." I started, then trailed off deliberately, scrunching my brows together. "You know what, I actually don't think I know your name."

  "Andy," he told me, smiling slowly.

  "Hey Andy," I said with a smile that hurt it was so fake. Not that he noticed. "Is Doug in?"

  "You're early," a familiar voice broke in, making the smile fall immediately. I couldn't have kept it in place with duct tape and super glue. Not for him.

  "By two minutes," I objected, only guessing since I wasn't allowed to bring my cell in. I should have remembered to wear a watch to keep an eye on the time, to know how long I had to gather as much information as possible.

  "Early is early," he grumbled with the same annoyance as if I had been an hour late. "Let's go," he added, turning his square back at me. It took actual work not to stare daggers into him as we moved inside. But eyes were all around. I didn't want anyone telling him they caught me looking at him like I was entertaining the idea of lowering him into a tank of hungry piranha. Even if I had totally comforted myself with that image more than a time or two.

  The inside of the club was how I had remembered it, but things seemed in much sharper focus this time as I let myself intentionally lag a few feet behind Doug to get a better look around, taking in the faces, the guns, the doorways, where everyone who wasn't just hanging around - but genuinely seemed to be stationed - were situated.

  We made it through the common room too quickly, coming up to Thayer's door - since I refused to think of it as Doug's anymore - then I was shuffled inside, the door closing with a slam behind me.

  The clock was already ticking.

  Doug always came for me right on the dot.

  My gaze went to the closet, thinking about the hole in the floor, wondering if Doug had discovered it yet, or if it had been well hidden.

  But then my head shifted over toward the bed, finding Joey on her side, knees pulled up to reveal her long, spindly legs since she wore nothing but a pair of black boy shorts along with her green tank top.

  Her hair was limp, greasy at the roots, her overly-exposed body pale. She was always pale, but this was ghostly, the veins in her throat and wrists stark blue against the paper color of her skin.

  "Joey, it's freezing in here. Why don't you have any clothes on?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light instead of mothering, knowing that the last time she had thought I was lecturing her, she'd snapped at me. It wasn't like her. But I reminded myself I couldn't be offended. It wasn't like her because she wasn't herself. And none of it was her fault.

  "I'm hot," she told me, voice low, as I approached her, kicking out of my flats, climbing up on the other side of the bed, reaching out to brush her hair out of her face, finding the skin warm and clammy under my fingers.

  "Are you coming down with something?" I asked, wondering if the douchebag she called a boyfriend would even bother taking her to a doctor if she was. But before she could even respond, I could see the way her hands were shaking, the way she was rocking herself. Like she was trying to comfort her body. She did that whenever something was bothering her, if she was sick, if she had cramps. Or if, it seemed, she was actively detoxing.

  It seemed irrational that the rage would be as strong now as it had been the first time I realized he had gotten her hooked. But there was no denying the way the heat rushed up my back, became a choke hold around my neck. My jaw tightened, and it took actual work to get it to loosen enough for words to come through my lips.

  "What have you been up to this week? Anything interesting?"

  "Not really."

  This was always how it was these days.

  Me trying to eke conversation out of her, she giving me the shortest answers possible without actually telling me anything.

  The silence usually ate at me, made me anxious and irritable.

  This time, though, at least I had a use for the lapses.

  Namely, trying to overhear snippets of conversations going on outside the bedroom.

  Luckily, the building was pretty poorly insulated. Which must have been hell for heating and air conditioning costs, but worked in my favor for eavesdropping.

  I heard a few names, but only the ones I had heard before mixed with female ones Thayer told me not to worry about.

  "I made you something. A little sketch," I added, watching as the first signs of light in a long time met her eyes. She'd always been more into my drawings than even I was at times. She pulled half-done pieces out of the trash that I had deemed hopeless, flattened them out between piles of books, then put them into scrapbooks because 'Someday, when you are famous, they will be worth a lot of money.' It always irked her that I had never followed through on my dream to have my own show, to get pieces in a gallery.

  She couldn't quite grasp that sometimes dreams have to get buried under the rubble of reality. Bills that needed paying, food that needed buying, clothes that needed to be replaced after a few seasons.

  She didn't fully understand how hard life could be.

  Which was how I wanted it to be for her.

  I could shoulder the responsibility, the burdens, so she could live out her dreams.

  Besides, I did manage to find a way for my art to pay me money.

  Sure, half the time, clients came in with shit they had printed off the Internet that they wanted me to copy, but there would be ones here or there who would give me free rein, let me come up with my own unique designs for their bodies.

  It was a balance I could live with.

  Besides, maybe if I could get her back on track, I would have the time at night to work on pieces here and there to possibly put into a gallery somewhere.

  Though I wasn't exactly vain enough to think people would actually buy them.

  "You made me something?" she asked, voice hesitant, but sweet, not hollow like it so often was these days. She was even pushing herself up in the bed, righting her barely-there clothing.

  "Remember that little park we used to go to as kids? Where we found that little box turtle on its back once, and righted him up?"

  "Yeah," she said, smile a little wistful.

  And wistful I could work with.

  "I was thinking about it this week. So I decided to sketch it up. Here," I told her, holding out the paper.

  I watched her take it from my hands, watched as she pored over it with eyes that didn't look quite so sad. It was the first time I wondered if Doug would even let her keep it.

  Come to think of it, I didn't see any of the things I had been bringing her hanging around anywhere. Not even the sweaters or the little piglet figurine she'd had since she was a little girl. We'd seen it in a window of a dollar store and she had stopped to stare at it for long enough that I had decided to spend my last dollar on it, despite having planned to buy us a bag of chips to share for lunch with it.

  We went hungry that day.

  But she'd had the biggest smile on her face for weeks whenever she looked at it.

  There were many sacrifices worth making.

  There were many different ways to feel full.

  "I can practically smell the honeysuckle," she told me, gliding her fingers over the picture, though never quite touching it, not wanting to smudge the pencil.

  "And taste the wild blackberries?" I asked, remembering us braving the scratches on our arms and legs from the brush just to get to the bush deep in the woods, gorging ourselves on those berries for as long as they lasted before the birds picked them all off.

  "We always got belly aches from all that sugar, and our faces were stained for days, but it was so worth it."

  "Totally. One day, it would be nice to be someplace where we can plant a blackberry bush of our own."

  "A big garden in general," she agreed, and it was the first time I'd heard her talk about any sort of future since she had come to live with Doug. "I think it would be nice to spend hours under the sun, picking off fruits and veg... augh," she cut off, placing a hand to her stomach, face somehow going even paler, though tha
t almost seemed like an impossibility.

  "You alright?"

  "My stomach hurts," she admitted, closing her eyes.

  "Do you want me to go see if I can grab you some food?"

  "No, don't go out there!" she shrieked, then seemed to realize the desperation in her tone, taking a deep breath. "I'm not hungry. It just hurts. Hand me the blankets," she grumbled, sliding back down in bed.

  I almost made a comment about how she had just been hot a moment ago before remembering what was going on. The hot flashes, the shakes, the stomach cramps, now the chills. She was just going through detox. She was miserable. The fact that I got a single moment of joy out of her was pretty much a miracle.

  There was nothing I could do, either.

  Except give her the blankets.

  So that was what I did, pulling them up around her too-small body, tucking them in tight to keep her warmth close.

  "Tell me more about the park," she demanded as if she hadn't been there as well. But she had always been younger, less likely to remember the details. I wasn't much of a storyteller, but I weaved the best one I could out of my much more detailed memories, trying to amplify everything, especially the joy, wanting to help her get her mind on something else for as long as I could before I would be forced to leave.

  That time came far too quickly.

  The door flew open.

  Doug stepped inside.

  It wasn't my imagination that my sister visibly shrank smaller in the bed.

  Or that she very quickly and very discreetly stashed away the sketch I had given her between the headboard and the mattress. Where he likely wouldn't see it. And take it. Like he did for everything else I brought her.

  No wonder none of it ever made any difference.

  He never let her have it longer than I was there.

  The rat fucking bastard.

  I made the decision right then and there to only ever bring her sketches in the future, things she could look at, things that would help her remember her old life in better detail, things that she could maybe stash away to look at in quiet moments. Things that I could easily hide in a pocket or in my bra so he would never even know they existed.