by K. L. Savage
“Everything is going to be okay,” I tell her, locking our eyes so she can see the truth in mine. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“You can’t promise that. Anything can happen. We don’t know how long this storm will last, and this barn is being held up by hopes and freaking dreams.”
I smirk at her silly words and wipe a drop of water hanging off her bottom lip. I’ve tasted those lips, and they are just as delicious as they look. “I can promise I won’t let anything happen to you, Hellraiser.”
“I am not.”
I snort and slide my thumb off her lip as I walk away. “You’re a fucking train wreck, but that’s okay. I wouldn’t have you any other way.” When I get to the corner where the tarp is, I grip the corner of the crinkled material and yank it off. Dust flies and my dumb ass inhales, causing me to cough. I wave my hand in front of my face and see what goodies we have here. I want to know if there is anything to get us warm.
Standing before me is a vintage bike, but the beauty is gone. It’s rusted from the inside out, and the tires are flat. There is an iron bedframe that needs some TLC. There is a black chest with gold hinges, but it’s locked, and if there is a key, it’s somewhere in here. I don’t care to look.
“I’ll be damned,” I mutter, wondering if I’m seeing what I’m really seeing. There is a wood-burning stove in the corner. It’s small, but it’s enough to warm up us. I know I won’t be able to pick it up. These things are made out of pure iron.
“What is it?” Mary asks.
“Salvation,” I say, cleaning the cobwebs off. I wipe my hands against my jeans and start pushing against the stove, but it isn’t moving.
Looks like if we are going to get warm, we are going to come to the oven instead of the other way around. I grab the handle and open the mouth of it to see if anything is inside. It’s too dark to tell.
I grab some hay and stuff it in there, then take the closest nightstand and break it into pieces.
“What are you doing! Those are antiques.”
“Are you cold?” I ask, but don’t bother looking at her. I keep two pieces of wood out and stuff the rest in the oven.
“I’m freezing,” she shivers.
“Then hush your mouth and let me get a fire going.”
“You’re so—”
“Amazing? Handsome? Brilliant? Strong? Smart? I’m all ears.” Do I think I’m all of those things? No, but I know when I sound cocky, it pisses her off.
“You wish,” she says, then yelps when lightning flashes between the wooden slats of the barn. The loud crack makes her jump, and the howling of the wind gets stronger. I’m sure we are safe here, but I’m not sure for how long. All I can do is hope.
I place hay between the sticks of wood and start to rub. I learned how to make a fire when I was thirteen. I spent plenty of time in the streets, cold, and the only thing I had was survival skills.
“Holy shit,” Mary says as the kindling starts to smoke.
“It’s okay to be impressed by me.” I roll my lips together to keep my smile hidden.
“I actually am impressed. I’ve never seen someone make a fire like that before.”
I’m glad it’s dark, because I can feel her watching me, and for some damn reason, the blood rushes to my face, and I blush. “Well, when you’re on your own like I’ve been, you learn some things.” I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t usually talk about my past, but luckily, she doesn’t ask about it.
I carefully lift the kindling and place it in the oven, then blow, giving the fire the oxygen it needs to thrive. After a few seconds, I open the chute, and the smoke billows out the top.
Mary sits down next to me just as I whip off my shirt. “What are you doing?” she squeaks.
“I’m getting warm.” I twist my shirt and wring the water out of it. I lay the shirt on the oven and hear it sizzle. Next, I stand, unzip my pants, and slide them down my legs. “And I’m getting my clothes dry.” I throw them on the oven too, then sit down on the scratchy hay. I’m still in my briefs. They are soaked, but I’m not about to let my cock hang out right now.
She might cut it off.
I lean back on my elbows and enjoy the warmth. The rain against the roof would be soothing if it wasn’t for the thunder shaking the barn.
“Come on, Hellraiser. You scared? Don’t worry, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“You have never seen me,” she says with a bite of anger.
She’s right. I haven’t.
And if I do, I know hers will be the best body I’ve ever seen.
She loves to call my bluff.
The man really likes to test me, doesn’t he?
Well, joke’s on him.
I sling off my leather jacket and hang it on the iron headboard. The barn shakes as another crack of lightning flashes outside, and the rain is hitting the tin roof so hard that I can’t tell if it’s raining or hailing. The sirens outside have stopped, but that doesn’t mean the storm is over. Knives and I don’t have a choice. We have to stay here unless we want to get caught in the rain.
I flip my hair over next, gathering the thick, unmanageable strands that I don’t have the heart to cut, and squeeze out the water. Next, I twist, then wrap my hair in a bun, tying the strand in a way that keeps it up high and tight on my head, since I don’t have a hairband with me. That’s the benefit of having long hair. I can pretty much do whatever I want with it.
My heart hammers in my chest. I’m so nervous that I’m wondering if I’m about to have a heart attack. I’ve never been naked in front of a guy I’ve wanted to be naked in front of. I’ve never even really kissed a guy until Knives. Maybe that’s why I’m so defensive about myself when it comes to him. He isn’t the guy I imagined myself with. Knives is a biker. A killer. Tattooed and hot.
Crazy fucking hot.
And actually crazy.
When he gets in his violent streak, everything else around him fades. Something flips in his brain and a red haze takes over. He isn’t the same guy. Does it scare me? No.
I’ve been in the clutches of bad men before, and I know Knives isn’t one, no matter how much he likes to say he is.
He’s a beautiful, unique man. The kind of guy I can’t seem to wrap my head around, but he isn’t hard to understand. I’ve never been allowed to like people like him, not with how I grew up. My household was religious. My father is a preacher.
And I don’t mean a preacher of a little tiny church in the middle of nowhere.
He’s The Preacher. He’s on TV, in newspapers, and he even baptizes celebrities’ kids.
But a religious man, my father is not.
He likes to put on a show every Sunday and puts on a smile for the camera, but behind closed doors? He’s a monster.
My own personal brand of hell.
I’ve had bad shit happen to me my entire life. Underneath the cardigans and pearls that Knives likes to bring up is a girl afraid of the dark and what lurks in it.
“Hey, you don’t have to do anything. I’m not trying to get you naked; I swear. Honestly, wet clothes—”
“—I know that, Knives.” I take off my shirt next and lay it on the back of the oven, then wiggle out of my pants, but I forget about my boots. I unzip the backs and fling them off along with my socks. I have to dance a bit since my jeans are stuck to my skin, but I manage and lay them next to my shirt.
I got so lucky. Knives tackled me in time before the fire could eat through my boots and cause real damage. My skin is a bit sensitive, but it’s not burned.
Knives doesn’t hide how he checks out my body. His eyes linger on my chest, almost as if he is memorizing the lace detailing of my bra. When he is done, his eyes drop to my stomach, then legs, and then his eyes wander up again, pausing on my face.
Do you know what I like about Knives?
He doesn’t try to hide anything.
I hate people that hide themselves, their true selves. I think when someone tries to hide their bad intent
ions, that’s what makes a monster.
I should know; I lived with one for twenty-four years.
And he touched me for twelve of them.
I should be afraid of men after what my dad did to me, but having to stay quiet about what happened brought other things into perspective. I know not all men are cruel, but I know a lot of bad people are in the world.
Bad things don’t happen to good people.
Bad people do.
And it’s made me love and appreciate good people more. Maybe I’m different. Maybe I’m not crying every night or having nightmares. Maybe I’m not losing myself in drinks or drugs, but I have lost something about myself.
I’m just trying to find it.
“You give me a headaches twenty-three out of twenty-four hours a day, but I can’t sit here and lie to you and say you aren’t beautiful,” Knives says, honestly, meeting my eyes and keeping his hands to himself.
The flames dance in his cornflower blue eyes, and they are so damn bright. I’ve never seen irises like his before. They are unique, just like him.
“And the other hour?” I tease when I sit down on the hay, which scratches my ass and is very uncomfortable.
“I’m sleeping. It’s the only damn peace I get.”
“Shut up,” I giggle, nudging his side with my arm. I lean forward and lay my elbows against my knees, watching the fire as it pops. The rain is slamming against the barn, and the door shakes when the wind carries around us.
“It’s not letting up, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. I can’t believe it turned so ugly so fast.”
“The way of the world is bittersweet, ain’t it?” he asks, he stands and when I go to ask him where he is going, my eyes land on his package.
His very big, very long, very in my face, package. He has a tattoo above the waistband of his underwear, right above where I assume his pubic hair is, and it says 666.
What’s that mean?
If a woman hops on top, does that mean she gets possessed by the devil?
Why does a part of me want to find out?
“You might give me a headache twenty-three out of twenty-four hours in the day, but I can’t sit here right now and not tell you that you’re beautiful too,” I sling his words back at him as I take my turn to check him out. He is a hairy man with thick hair on his chest and legs. His tattoos decorate parts of him that enhance his body, something I tell he works hard at keeping in the best condition. Strong shoulders, a thick neck, and while he is lean, he has just the right amount of bulk to his body.
“What about the other hour?” he grins, being cheeky.
“I’m cursing you.”
He tosses his head back and laughs at the same time a loud burst of thunder rolls, trembling the barn and everything inside it. “Look at that,” he sighs. “We just complimented one another. Looks like we can be civilized after all. I’m going to go get those blankets for our asses. I’ll be back.” His hand falls to my shoulder and grazes my back as he walks away, awakening my skin in goosebumps and leaving me shivering.
Only I’m not cold.
What the hell is happening between us? Figuring that out causes me a damn headache.
“Alright, stand up. Let’s get comfortable.” He lays the blankets on the chest and unfolds the first, then shakes it out on the other side of him. Knives lays the blanket down, then does the same to the other. “There,” he says.
Gosh, if I didn’t know any better, I would think this moment was romantic, but that would be ridiculous because the series of events that led us here were not.
I sit down and do my best not to think about the last time these were washed. We are lucky to be alive. “Thank you,” I tell him, feeling warm and flushed.
I don’t think it’s from the fire, either.
Knives being so close, and how the shadows curve the muscle of his arms, abs, and legs make him seem like he is from another world.
“I wonder if there is anything to drink in this place,” he muses, looking around in the dark.
“You’re kidding, right? Whatever is here would be deadly.”
He plops down on the blanket and covers his legs. “You’re probably right,” he says, just as the alarm bells sound again.
I hold my breath and wrap my arms around my legs, hoping the tornado is nowhere near us. I hope the clubhouse is okay. I hope everyone is safe. Knives throws his body over mine when the walls start to shake violently, and I hold onto him, ready for us to get sucked up in the tunnel of the tornado.
And then it stops, and Knives pulls away from me, taking the cloak of bravery and strength with him.
“I think we are fine,” he tries to reassure me, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “But I’m going to try to look for some alcohol in this place. Farmers always hide booze, and I’ll be damned, if we are going to be stuck here, we are going to do it right.” He pops up again, and he seems jittery and restless, like he has to be doing something. I mean, now that I think about it, he always is. He’s always working out, always making ninja stars, always practicing his aim, or he is in the garage or at Kings’ Club helping Tool.
He’s always doing something, and I’m sure resting isn’t something he is used to.
“I’ll be back,” he says again, grazing those calloused fingers along my back again. My skin prickles again, moving down the knots of my spine.
“Sure,” I whisper, watching him dart into the darkness. I can see the outline of his figure every time lightning bursts outside. It’s like a show. When I do see him, he is standing somewhere else in a new position. And with a flash, the outline of his body appears again, and even from here, I can see the square, cut jawline slicing through the sudden night.
“Ah-ha!” he cheers, holding up a bottle. “Told you.” He runs back over to me and sits on the blanket, wiping the dust off the label to see what it is. He whistles. “Damn, this is fifty-year-old whiskey.”
My nose scrunches at how horrible that sounds.
“Not a whiskey drinker, huh? Could have fooled me before we got rid of the booze at the clubhouse. I saw you turn up a few bottles.”
“—Of vodka, or tequila, but not whiskey. Bleh.” I shake my entire body as if just the word grosses me out.
“Do me a favor and try it,” he says, twisting off the cap and taking a swallow. He doesn’t flinch, but my eyes are burning from here from the strength of the whiskey.
I bet this whiskey could start a lawnmower. Makes me wonder what the hell it will do to my body. The bottle is heavy in my hand, and I can still feel the grime on the glass from years of being in this barn. “I have a feeling I’m going to hate you for this,” I say to him.
“You already hate me, remember?” There is a teasing note in his tone, but in the depths, there is this breach of pain that makes his words crack.
I turn the bottle up like I have a dozen others and wince, cough, then somehow manage to swallow. The liquid burns, just like I thought it would. My stomach warms, and my eyes water, but the after taste isn’t that bad.
“Hair on your chest?” he asks, taking another swing.
“Well, I’m sure I’m spouting hairs, but nothing like yours.” I wipe my mouth and chuckle when he falls to the side, grabs his stomach, and laughs. It’s deep, like it’s stuck in his gut and can’t seem to find a way out. It’s raspy, a larger than life kind of laugh, which is curious to me, because when he is around the guys, he’s more serious.
He hands me the bottle, wiping his eyes as he gains control of himself. “Well, don’t let me stop you from being a man.”
I snort, and the air rushes inside the glass, causing a whistle. “I’m better than a man,” I inform him, taking another large gulp. After the first one, the second isn’t so bad.
“Oh yeah? How might that be?”
“I’m a woman.” I take another drink for dramatic effect.
“A pain in my damn ass is what you are,” he jokes, taking the bottle away from me.
Out of habit, I tuck my h
air behind my ear, forgetting that I have it up in a bun. Knives and I fall into a comfortable silence, the white noise of rain comforting instead of threatening. The worst part of the storm must be over.
“I’m sorry about your bike,” I say, playing with one straw of hay. I repeatedly tie a knot in it until it’s nothing but a ball, toss it into the fire, and grab another.
“Yeah, me too. Shit happens, right?”
“Today it does,” I grumble, stealing the whiskey from him
“Yeah, today was a shit show. I can’t help but wonder if that’s why Seer called me the other day.”
“You didn’t answer?”
“No. I’m not the kind of person that wants to know their future. I want it to happen when it happens.”
“I don’t know. If someone would have told me I would be chained in a basement before it happened, I would have wanted to know.” I keep my voice light and playful, but Knives doesn’t find it funny at all.
“Don’t do that. Don’t joke about what happened to you like it doesn’t matter. It matters.”
“I’m not saying it didn’t. I’m saying if someone had the ability to tell me something horrible was going to happen to me, I would want to know, but that doesn’t stop other terrible things from happening, does it?” The fire in front of me mirrors how angry I am.
Maybe that’s why I’m so reckless. Because I have this rage inside me burning away at my humanity every moment I’m awake.
“Want to know something?” I ask right after, not really giving him an option to say no. “When I found myself chained up in that basement in Atlantic City, a damn collar wrapped around my throat and my hands bound, you know what I finally thought?” My eyes begin to water, but the last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of Knives.
Must be the whiskey.
I take another drink and sigh, swirling the bottle until the amber liquor creates its own funnel. “I thought, finally, a break. I went from the hands of one monster to another, but what’s even more disgusting is when I looked at the bikers that wanted to use me, I didn’t care. I was happy to be away from home, away from the man that numbed the part of me that’s supposed to care. The Atlantic City chapter were assholes and horrible people, but at least they weren’t family. Isn’t that sad? I almost looked forward to their touch, Knives. A part of me welcomed it. I’m not like the other women Boomer saved. I’m more haunted over what happened to me before I ended up in that basement.”
