Devil's Love

by Kim Jones

  “Oh, well nice to meet you. Come in.” Opening the door wider, she steps back inviting us inside. The house is warm and surprisingly very clean. Everything is spotless, except for the three kids who pile in the kitchen wearing nothing but underwear, dirty faces and sticky fingers. “I work nights, so we were watching a movie in bed. I was catching up on some sleep and didn’t hear you.”

  “Mama lets us eat in her room,” one of the kids blurt, and she blushes red.

  “I lock the door so they can’t get out. To keep them quiet, I give them food and movies. It’s the perfect babysitter.” I frown, feeling sorry for her. Where was her piece of shit husband? Oh, that’s right. He’s fucking another woman.

  “Where’s Sly?” My anger isn’t directed toward her, but I can’t conceal it in my voice.

  “Daddy’s got a girlllll-friend,” a kid sings and soon they’re all giggling. I don’t find it funny. Not in the least. But they’re kids, and don’t know any better.

  With a short embarrassed laugh, she runs her hand through her long, brown hair. “Would y’all like some coffee?” I admire this woman who’s been through hell, but still manages to keep her manners and show respect to us.

  “No ma’am.” With a flash of a smile, Luke seems to calm her nerves. How the fuck does he do that? “We were just hoping to catch Sly before we left. Do you know where we can find him?”

  “Probably at the bar.” This time, I hear a hint of anger in her voice. It’s good to see she has a backbone. “Did you say you were the National President?”

  “I did.”

  Bouncing the baby on her hip, she drops her head. After a moment, she meets Luke’s gaze and tears shine in her eyes. “Can I talk to you? Please?” She sounds desperate. Right now, she’s still a part of this family. And when she hurts, we hurt.

  Fighting his rising anger at the pain one of our own has put her through, Luke nods. “Of course.”

  Some movie is playing on the T.V. and the kids sing along to every-fucking-song, while Luke, me and Sly’s ol’ lady, Martha, sit at the kitchen counter and drink coffee. Tears stream down Martha’s face as she tells us the shit that Sly has been up to.

  “He doesn’t come home anymore,” she says, and I notice her hands tighten around her cup to keep them from shaking. “When he is home he’s always angry. I’ve had to pull extra shifts just to pay the bills. I can’t afford a babysitter, so my Mom’s been staying over here at night with the kids.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Luke asks calmly.

  She shrugs. “A couple of months. Time seems to have no meaning anymore. I work so much, and sleep whenever I can. I just don’t know how much longer I can do it.” Her voice breaks, as she looks over at the kids. “What do I tell them when they ask for their daddy?”

  Reaching across the counter, Luke takes her hand. “I can’t answer that question. But I can promise you that things are fixing to get better.” The conviction in Luke’s voice puts her at ease and she smiles warmly.

  “You’re a good man, Luke. I’ve always heard it, but I’m glad I got to witness it for myself.”

  Uncomfortable with her praise, Luke changes the subject. “You’re part of this club, Martha. It’s our job to take care of you. I know you have a lot of pride, but I don’t want any argument about what I’m fixing to do. You understand?” His tone leaves no room for protests and she nods as her eyes widen slightly with fear.

  Luke reaches inside his cut and when I see what he pulls out, I almost laugh. Leave it to him to be the only motherfucker I know who still carries a checkbook. Our chapter’s club account has all of our names on it. Each check requires two signatures. To my knowledge, this is the first time we’ve used it for something other than payroll or club bills.

  After he’s filled it out, he passes it to me. I sign my name, not blinking at the fifty thousand dollar amount it’s made out for. I’d have given her a hundred. Holding the folded check and his contact card between his fingers, he levels her with a look.

  “This is for you and your kids. Don’t give him a penny of it. I’ll have someone here tomorrow to clean up the yard, and anything else you need him to do. You call me if you have any problems.”

  She takes the check and cards from Luke’s hand as we stand. “Thank you.” She’s crying again, but I’m sure in a matter of minutes, she’ll be screaming when she looks at that check. It’s not every day someone hands you fifty grand. It’s probably more than she makes in a year.

  As we say our goodbyes, I’m nearly brought to my knees by the sudden impact of all the kids clinging to my legs. Unsure of what to do, I pat them on the head. When I’m old news, they charge Luke and I’m surprised he doesn’t pull a fucking balloon animal out of his back pocket. This is his strong suit. He’s the man with all the right words. The one with the ability to bring a woman to her knees with a simple smirk. Have kids calling him “uncle” after only knowing him for a few minutes. He’s a charismatic fucker.

  But once we’re outside, the smile and charm fades from Luke’s face as he grits his teeth and glares at me. “Let’s pay that motherfucker a visit.” I’m more than happy to oblige. And now, it’s my time to shine.

  There’s no mistaking Sly when we walk into the bar that provides revenue for the Mobile chapter. He’s the one sitting with his legs propped up, drinking the club’s whiskey and flirting with the club’s whores.

  “Ladies,” I say with a nod of my head. I ignore Sly, knowing that once I look in his eyes, there’ll be no stopping the monster that lives inside me. “I need you to give us a minute.”

  “We can handle you too,” one of them slurs, ignoring my polite request. Unlucky for them, I’m not really in the mood to ask a second time.

  Leaning in closer, I narrow my eyes on the drunken sluts that are three seconds away from a wrath like they’ve never seen. “Get. The. Fuck. Out … Now.” My growl seems to get through to them and they stumble over each other and away from me.

  “You Sly?” I ask just to make sure. I’d hate to fuck up the wrong guy.

  “Yeah. Who--“

  My hand around his throat silences him as I pull him to his feet. I walk him backwards through the bar, as the crowd separates to give us room. Outside, I push him against the wall, pressing my arm against his throat. “This is Luke, your National President.” I jerk my head in Luke’s direction. “He’ll be asking you some questions. For every lie you tell, I’ll break a finger.”

  “Did you fuck your brother’s ol’ lady?” Luke immediately asks, his voice calm as he stands at ease next to me.

  “What? No.”

  With my free hand, I reach down and snap his middle finger. When he screams, I press my arm further into his throat cutting off his airway until he shuts up. He’s nodding now, tapping against my arm with his hand. I ease off his throat, and he pulls in a breath.

  “Yes,” he manages through a cough. “I fucked her. But it was just one time.” I’m gonna assume he’s telling the truth, just like I’m gonna assume that he’ll lie again. I remind myself to be patient—he has ten fingers after all.

  “Why aren’t you home with your wife and kids?”

  “She’s at work and the kids are at the sitter’s.”

  This time, I break two of his fingers. He screams and my arm at his throat silences him again. “I can do this all day, Sly. It’s your choice.”

  “Your wife’s not at work,” Luke snaps. “And your kids aren’t at the babysitter’s because she can’t afford one.”

  “I’ll give her money. I’ll do whatever I need to.” Fucking pussy. I’m ashamed to even think he is my brother.

  Stepping closer, Luke narrows his eyes on him. “You’re out. Done. If I ever see you wearing a patch again, I’ll burn that motherfucker off your back.” Lowering his voice, Luke’s threat alone is lethal enough to kill him. “If you put one hand on your wife or those kids … If you so much as raise your voice to any of them, I’ll find out about it. And long before I’m finished with you, yo
u’ll beg for death.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Luke turns his cold gaze to me. “Take it.”

  On cue, I rip the patch from Sly’s back before offering him a parting gift that will likely leave him crippled. When I’m finished, his unconscious body is laying slumped over in the gravel and I haven’t even broken a sweat.

  A small crowd has gathered in the parking lot. Their eyes fill with fear as they look at me like I’m a monster. Because a part of me is a monster. Even when I was on the inside, I never stopped being who I truly am.

  This is my club. I’ll damage any man who disrespects what belongs to me. And if I need to, I’ll kill that motherfucker too.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Marty

  It’s Thursday before we make it back to Hattiesburg, and I was so damn anxious to see Maddie that I didn’t even smoke when we stopped. Three days was just too fucking long. How in the hell did I make it five years?

  The GPS on her phone tells me she’s here, at the clubhouse, but I’ve been here almost two hours and I haven’t seen her yet. Just when I can’t take it anymore and am about to ask someone—anyone—where the hell she is, she walks in.

  Something is wrong. I can tell by the look on her face. To everyone else, she seems normal. But I know Maddie. I know the smile she wears is forced, the weight on her shoulders is heavy and her body is wound tight in anticipation and maybe even fear. And it doesn’t help that I now know that our sweet Maddie, ain’t so sweet anymore.

  “Maddie,” I say, my deep voice just loud enough for her to hear over the short distance between us. She turns, and for a moment, she relaxes. For an instant her eyes make contact with mine and by just looking at me she’s reminded that everything is okay. I’m here. I’ve got her. But a split second is all it lasts.

  “Hey.” She offers me that same forced smile she’s been wearing and a nod that lasts longer than it should—almost like she’s agreeing with something inside her head. I wish I knew what she was thinking.

  A low whistle comes from across the room and I see Luke saunter in with his eyes on Maddie. Hell, I hadn’t even noticed how good she looked. I was too preoccupied with trying to figure out what the hell was wrong. She’s wearing a black dress with heels high enough to be considered lethal. Maddie looks like a vixen, a warrior and a queen all wrapped up in one.

  “Y’all going out?” Luke asks, looking between me and Maddie.

  “No.” Her short answer is final and I raise my eyebrows in question. Why the hell else is she dressed like that? If not for me, then for who? “I’m meeting an old friend. We have reservations.”

  My jaw tightens and my stomach knots. I’m pissed she’s going out. And I’m nervous about what she’ll do when she gets there.

  “Can I get some cash? I left my purse at home.” Reaching in his pocket, Luke tosses her his money clip.

  “Take what you need.” His eyes narrow on me. I guess making sure she has money is my job. Hell, maybe it is.

  “Thanks,” she tells Luke, but she’s looking at me. “See you around?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Not right now.” She looks almost desperate, so to appease her, I agree and even sweeten it with a wink. Satisfied with my answer, she lets out a sigh of relief before leaving. I just shake my head.

  If she thinks I’ll cave this easy, then Maddie doesn’t know me at all. I guess it’s about time she remembers who the fuck I am.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Maddie

  Every time a Devil’s Renegade puts his cut on, he transforms. He’s no longer just a man, but a force to be reckoned with. There’s an unspoken promise to everyone who sees him—one that says, “You fuck with me, you fuck with us all.” His personality changes. His perception. The way he walks. Talks. The things he does. Says. Why? Because it’s not the cut who makes the man, but the man who makes the cut.

  I never fully understood what that meant, until I experienced my own transformation. Who knew altering your appearance could be so powerful? I never imagined a wig, a change of clothes and a new name could be so liberating. But it is.

  Whitney doesn’t stand in the shadows of the MC. She shines in her own light. Being her is greater than being Maddie. It’s not her long, dark hair, provocative clothing and flirty attitude she uses to get the men’s attention. It’s what she does to them when they mistake her for an easy target. I’ve been living two separate lives for three years now. It’s been the most rewarding, satisfying three years of my life. And I owe it all to one person.

  Claire.

  Six years ago, she killed a man—for me. At first, her intentions were to just knock him out. But something snapped inside her when her eyes took in my torn clothing, inebriated state and complete helplessness. When the bartender groaned in pain, she hit him again. And again. And again. She smashed his skull with a brick, and never once showed any sign of remorse.

  I didn’t know her name. She never asked mine. She just cleaned me up. Drove me home. Assured me everything would be okay. I believed her because I thought she was the bravest, most heroic woman in the world.

  She wasn’t.

  Two years later I was in Jackson for a conference my psychiatrist insisted I go to. I skipped out, and instead found a restaurant with good wine. A couple bottles, a river of tears and feeling sorry for myself was just the therapy I needed. My life was shit. I asked the world, the wine and the waiter, “Why me?” Then, for the first time since that night, I saw her. And suddenly, my problems weren’t that bad anymore.

  She wasn’t the woman I remembered. This woman was weak, abused—one arm in a sling, the other gripped tightly by the man next to her. Despite her injuries, Claire looked beautiful. The man with her strikingly handsome. But I saw right through his charming smile. I knew he was evil just by the way he looked down at her—eyes sparkling with terrifying promises. It was then I decided to return the favor she’d once done me.

  I followed her home, waited until she was alone, then knocked on her door with the intention of telling her I was there to help her. But upon seeing me, there wasn’t even a spark of recognition in her eyes. Claire didn’t remember me. There were no familiarities between the woman she looked at and the girl she once saved. Like Claire, I too had changed. And in that moment, Whitney was born.

  To her, I wasn’t Maddie—the victim. I was, and still am Whitney--the one who is strong when she can’t be. The one who tells her she’s important when her husband makes her feel insignificant. Reminds her she’s beautiful beneath the bruises. Promises her she’s done nothing wrong, despite her being brain-washed into believing she’s at fault. For three years, Claire has believed I’m the bravest, most heroic woman she’s ever known.

  And she’s right.

  I’m going to give her freedom. I’m going to open her eyes to a life that is more than she knows. I’m going to kill that wife beating, soul sucking, sorry motherfucker of a husband she has. And there’s not a soul on this earth who can stop me.

  “Whitney!” Claire greets, pulling open the heavy, wooden door of her home. Her prison. She wears a warm smile despite the cut on her lip that obviously hurts when the skin pulls tight. “I’ve already put the new design plans in the car, but would you like to come in and have a drink first? William is in the study, so I’ve set us up on the patio.”

  I bite back the urge to growl at the mention of his name and return her smile. “That sounds lovely.”

  Claire thinks I’m an interior designer. When I approached her three years ago, it was the first thing I come up with. I didn’t know shit about interior design, but I’d learned a lot about it over the years. Dallas had helped me out some after I’d told her I was thinking of picking it up as a hobby. Lucky for me, Dallas is a pretty damn good at it.

  I follow Claire inside her beautiful house that some would consider a mansion. We’ve transformed the house that originally looked like a museum, replacing the crystal chandeliers with a more muted lighting system and the marble floors with Calam
ander wood. Now the house is something that looks and feels like a home. Even though William likes to use Claire as his personal punching bag, he also likes to keep her happy. In his sick mind, allowing her to remodel the house is a sufficient apology.

  “I’m really excited about the remodel of the sunroom,” she tells me, handing me a glass of wine as I take a seat next to her on the overstuffed, outdoor couch. I smile to myself remembering how much of William’s money we spent on it.

  “William isn’t very pleased with the design, but I assured him once you were finished, he would approve. I was set on a light yellow wall color, but after we talked about it, I agree that a more neutral color really will look better. He has a good eye for things like that.”

  Like every other time she excuses his behavior, I want to scream at her. But that will get me nowhere. I learned a long time ago that William has completely brainwashed Claire into believing that she’s stupid, unworthy and should be thankful that he chose her to be his wife. Six years of the mental abuse and she believes it because it’s all she knows.

  So, like always, I smile and agree with her—keeping in mind that she won’t have to endure this shit for much longer. At first, I tried to turn her against him and convince her to leave. When I realized that wouldn’t work, I apologized for overstepping my boundaries, promised to never bring it up again and made sure to tell her every time I saw her that she was beautiful, smart and important. And it’s working.

  I’m earning more of her trust. She’s opening up to me a little at a time. Slowly, she’s starting to understand that she is worthy of something better—even when he insists she isn’t. It’s been a grueling three years, but now she’s ready. When this is over, she’ll be okay. She doesn’t need him like she used to. Because now, she has me.