Riding On Fumes: Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance (The Crow's MC Book 2)

by Cassandra Bloom

  “Witty,” the man said gravely.

  But a grave tone was better than being in a grave, Mack decided. This man, this Papa Raven, might have been a high-ranker with the Carrion Crew, but Mack was still alive—still chatting it up and even getting numb-drunk and taking stupid, possibly suicidal risks with his tone—and that meant…

  Well, it meant something.

  But what?

  “Glad you approve,” Mack offered with a bit of fresh swagger in his voice, feeling a bit of confidence coming back to him.

  “I don’t,” Papa Raven said flatly.

  And, just like that, Mack’s confidence receded once more.

  “Oh…”

  “The fact of the matter, Mack,” Papa Raven said the name as though he meant something else, “is that your sister has run off from her duties. She was made aware of the circumstances surrounding her arrangements, and she—”

  “WHOA! HEY!” Mack was interrupting the man before he knew what had come over him, “What? She knew that I’m the one that sold her to T-Built?”

  “No, Mack,” Papa Raven nearly snarled, and Mack never knew that his name could sound so ugly; that one syllable could carry such animosity, could be so condescending, and could convey such impatience, rage, and even carry with it a very real threat. “We were certain that she would refuse to work if she was made aware of that. She was only made aware that her working for us was for your benefit; to keep you from harm.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good, I guess,” Mack said, feeling a sense of relief that made his stomach ache.

  “It was. Yes,” Papa Raven agreed.

  Mack asked, “So what happened?”

  “A rival gang took her,” Papa Raven answered in the same way he’d informed Mack of T-Built’s death.

  “A rival…?” Mack almost felt like he was on the verge of hysterical laughter. “What the fuck? How many you fuckers out there?”

  “Just the two,” Papa Raven said with more calmness than Mack felt he was owed given his outburst. “Mia went willingly, saw fit to convince another of our ‘workers’ to go along, as well. And then she blew up a building with T-Built inside.”

  “Sounds like you guys lost control of the situation big time,” said Mack, who had decided that there was a reason he was still alive, and, dumb or not, he was going to take advantage of it. Maybe—just maybe!—he could get out of this after all.

  “That’s certainly one way to put it,” Papa Raven said with a grin and a dismissive shrug. Then, just as quickly, his face went cold and furious and the cell seemed to go ten degrees colder. “Another way to put it would be that the one thing keeping you alive is no longer an asset.”

  “What do you…?” Mack’s arrogant confidence carried him halfway through the question before realization dawned on him—Then again, maybe—just maybe!—this is the moment I die—and that cold wave, this time carrying a chilling panic, crashed back over him once again. “Oh! Whoa! No, wait! Hold on! There’s got to be some other way! Something that we can work out!”

  “Why on earth do you think I’d be here with you right now if I wasn’t hoping to do just that, Mister Chobavich?”

  My thoughts, exactly, Mack thought, but, after the roller coaster this conversation had represented so far, he cautiously said, “So… you ain’t here to off me?”

  “You think I’d go through all the trouble of coming here if I simply wanted you dead?” Papa Raven demanded, sounding genuinely disgusted.

  “I… uh, can’t say,” Mack admitted. “Not like I know you too good, you know?”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know me, Mack,” Papa Raven said, and his name, still said as though it tasted bad to say, no longer carried the threat of death.

  Or maybe that was just how Mack thought he heard it.

  “That a fact?” he asked skeptically.

  “It is.”

  “So what do you want?” Mack asked.

  “Doesn’t it seem obvious? We want your sister back. We want the man that took her dead. And we want the other gang out of the picture.”

  “Not sure I can do all of that,” Mack explained, not certain he was ready to step into the world of murder, “but I guess it wouldn’t be too tough to find Mia. If she was willing to hit the street to pay my debt then I imagine she’d at least still be willing to answer a phone call from me, right?”

  After all, Mack had never been one to feel bad about leaving someone else to pay his tabs.

  And why should Mia be any different?

  “Our thoughts exactly, Mister Chobavich. Our thoughts exactly.”

  PART 1

  On Cloud Nine

  ONE

  ~MIA~

  I’d been here before.

  I wasn’t sure how or where—I thought I would remember being trapped in a hell like this!—but it was too familiar to not be the first time. Not that it being familiar made it any better. In fact, it made it much, much worse.

  I was trapped. It was dark, uncomfortably warm, and there was a smell. The smell, like me, was trapped. It hung somewhere between sweet and sour; reminding me all at once of thawing meat, fresh mulch under a hot sun, and something earthy, ancient. A deep part of my brain chanted that it was the oldest smell in existence, and another part, deeper still, assured me that I’d one day come to contribute to it.

  I knew that smell. I knew it the same way I knew I was on the first step of a twelve-step staircase that led down into deeper darkness; the same way I knew that the surface my hands pounded against was a door that should lead to freedom. And I knew that that door—that freedom—was closed and that it would never be opened; that freedom had been stolen from me. And my brother, Mack—though he was only Malcolm in that moment—was the thief.

  I knew all of these things with such a startling certainty that I also knew I must have been here before. But, for the life of me, I didn’t know how that was possible.

  Trapped. I was trapped in a dark, horrible, smelly place.

  Whimpering, knowing what awaited me down in those warm, smelly depths but also knowing it was all my life amounted to, I turned away from the door and started down the steps.

  One…

  Two…

  Three…

  I counted to myself, talking me down the steps like an instructor working me through the motions of some horrible cycle.

  Four…

  Five…

  Six…

  Only halfway down the stairs to my new world and the voice had gone and summed it all up perfectly. A horrible, nearly precognitive fear took hold of me and I had to take hold of the rough, splintery railing to keep from toppling down the rest of the steps.

  Seven…

  Eight…

  My hand traveled along the railing. As the eighth step became the ninth, it went from rough and splintery to smooth and tacky. It was unnerving, and while my eyes had come to adjust enough for me to investigate the spot where my hand lay I knew not to. Keeping my gaze trained on the darkness ahead, I removed my hand from the surface. I knew it would be better to fall the rest of the way into that black abyss than to let my hand spend one more second on that railing a moment longer.

  I thought of my father’s paint cans. I thought of old Band-Aids. And then I thought I might turn around and try for the door again; thought that maybe Malcolm had let go and I might escape from this place he’d trapped me inside.

  Then something at the bottom of the stairs, something waiting in the darkness, said, “You a whore or not?”

  And suddenly, just like I knew everything else, I knew there was no turning back. There was no escape from this place.

  I cursed Malcolm’s name—curiously calling him “Mack”—and continued down the stairs.

  Nine…

  Ten…

  Eleven…

  The hot, reeking stench seemed to reach out like a living thing and grab me as my foot fell on the second-to-last step.

  Getting it, I took another step—Twelve—and finally dared to take an
other step into the darkness, away from the stairs.

  Here it was dark. Here I had to look with my hands looking for something or somebody that might help me get out of this place.

  “You got me?” the voice called out, seeming to offer itself to me.

  And then my hands fell upon the soft, stinking mass of a long-forgotten corpse. Gasping at the fresh wave of rot that assaulted my nostrils, I blinked at a sudden wave of clarity—light!—that illuminated my freshly discovered treasure.

  And there, before me, I saw myself. I stared back, naked and dead and rotting—my legs splayed and my body showing signs of recent use—and I held my arms open as a lover might when awaiting an embrace.

  “You found me, Mia!” Dead-Mia moaned up at me, triumphant and elated. “You fou-ou-ou-ound me!”

  Then, seeming ecstatic to answer the question, Dead-Mia leapt at me, grinning wide and exposing a length of latex still occupying the corner of her mouth. “AND I FOUND YOU!” she bellowed, taking hold of me and pulling me into her.

  “JACE!” I cried out, not sure why—not sure if I was in the now or the then; not sure when “now” or “then” were or where the line between them existed—and fought to pull away from myself. “JACE! PLEASE! GET ME OFF OF—”

  ****

  “—OFF OF ME!”

  The cry that escaped my lips was muffled as I fell face first out of one of the hospital’s waiting room chairs. I landed on the floor in a heap, still seeing bits and pieces of that long-abandoned cellar in my periphery. Panting, one part panicked and one part embarrassed, I glanced around, thankful that the hospital was, for the most part, empty. Forcing my legs to work and lift the rest of me up, I began the tolling job of collecting myself. I caught my breath just as the receptionist managed to get somebody to come out to see to me, and I just as quickly waved them away. I figured I’d done enough to embarrass myself already. As I did all of this, I caught sight of my reflection in the polarized glass window behind me. My hair was a mess—I honestly couldn’t remember when I had last brushed it—and my unmade face was pale, sporting dark, worried circles that rode under my eyes. The part of me that was all-too used to staring at myself in the mirror—The whore! I reminded myself before just as quickly dismissing it; issuing yet another reminder that, no, that wasn’t me anymore—thought that what it saw was hideous. The other part, the part that was ecstatic to be free of the lifestyle of the first, thought I’d never looked more beautiful. A little silent war waged within myself regarding which one was right. Then I caught myself off guard, asking how I’d feel if Jace were to wake up this instant and see me like this.

  I clenched my eye shut, looking away from my reflection and once again planted myself back in the seat.

  Touché, I thought inwardly as I reached for my purse.

  I figured a little foundation wouldn’t kill me.

  It had been two days.

  Two, too damned long days.

  And Jace still wasn’t awake.

  He’s never going to wake up. Face it, girl, he’s gone. You were too late.

  I cringed at the thought as the voice of my depression forced itself upon me. I’d decided some time ago that Depression wasn’t unlike a personal mind-rape; you could fight and cry all you want, but it only seemed to make it that much worse when it wriggled its way inside of you. To the core. Making you its own and hurting you every second along the way. Or, of course, you could just sit there and take it—this seemed somehow worse to me, but I was no less guilty than others in allowing it to happen—and just stare, dead-eyed and broken, as it worked.

  Then the after…

  Oh shit, the after!

  The sympathy that you were just so sure was forced or phony. The eye-rollers who were so certain they had it all figured out despite never experiencing the reality of it; they always urged you to shrug it off or forget about it—they (knew) thought a little fresh air or exercise was all it took to drag yourself out of it. Fucking know-nothing assholes! And then there were the fellow sufferers, who almost seemed worse than all the others at times. Oh, they were sincere. There was never any shortage of that, but they’re sincere in the same way a mirror is sincere. You see in them what you hate in yourself, and you’re brought back to it—forced to relive it—and you feel that pain and panic slip back around your neck like a noose and suddenly you’re crying…

  And they call it healing.

  Scab-Pickers Anonymous: join the group therapy and let others get their fingernails under that truly stubborn puppy; we’ll make you bleed yet!

  A ghost from my past asked me why I should care about being raped by my own mind—demanded to know whether or not I was a whore—and my throat tightened and my eyes burned.

  I’d almost forgotten that Depression liked to bring friends.

  When I was around Jace, Depression was too scared to force itself on me; too worried to bring its friends.

  And now he’s probably dead!

  I was about to start crying, but the soft hiss of the automatic doors called to me and I glanced up as Danny walked through. The big, outwardly terrifying-looking man paused to look around, spotted me, and then resumed his massive, purposeful stride around a row of seats to approach me. A mixture of emotions flooded me at the sight: relief at seeing a friendly face as the frontrunner, but I couldn’t deny the narrow-but-deep well of spite and bitterness. Danny had been there in my old apartment as it burned around us. Worse yet, he’d been shot—what?—three, four, maybe even five times! By all accounts he should’ve been the worst off of the three of us—By all accounts he should be dead!—but, nope, he’d almost been out and about before me. And all I’d suffered was some smoke inhalation and a few minor burns!

  Shot, burned, and sucking in God-only-knew how much poisonous smoke, and here he was, the picture of health.

  “That’s me, girlie:” he’d drawled when I’d first seen him after the event, “a big, gay war machine. Like a tank with a giant fuckin’ rainbow painted ‘cross the side.”

  I hated myself for that narrow-but-deep well. It wasn’t an emotional response I was proud to have, but…

  For Jace, I thought to myself, refusing to believe what my depression kept trying to convince me of. I can do this for Jace.

  “How ya doin’, girlie?” Danny asked as he plopped down next to me.

  “Fine,” I replied, lying more with that one word than I thought possible from a single syllable. I hardly recognized my own voice as I said it; it was more of a croak—a dry, sad burping sound—than an actual word. It sounded as dead as I had begun to feel…

  And I hated it.

  I hated my reflection, hated my voice, hated Danny for living so easily through so much while Jace couldn’t even woke up. I hated…

  I sighed, realizing Depression was busy in mid-mind-rape and convincing me I hated everything. Squeezing my eyes shut, I decided to just hate how I felt and leave it at that.

  “Jace’ll come through, just ya wait. He might look like a frilly little faggy-boy, but he’s tough as week old steak, ya’ll see,” Danny assured me, setting one of his large heavy hands over my shoulder. “But he wouldn’t like seein’ ya this way.”

  I glanced down at his hand, marveling out how it seemed to swallow the entirety of the area. It was like seeing a bear rest a paw over a child; it seemed so outwardly threatening and yet, in the moment it happened, too awe-inspiring and captivating to draw away from.

  The laugh that escaped me was humorless and I looked down, ashamed that I had allowed it to slip out of me. Danny just stared at me, his face filled with patience and understanding. But, as briefly as I’d known him, I couldn’t help but understand this to be just the sort of person he was: bizarrely simple in his staggering complexity. Seeming to read my mind, he gently squeezed my shoulder and gave me a reassuring smile. It was caring and sympathetic, but there was something coy there, too; as though he knew something that I would just have to wait to find out for myself.

  Judging from his words, this wasn’
t far from the truth he was trying to convey.

  I took a deep breath and nodded slowly, offering a silent “thank you” as I let myself lean against him. There was something incredibly comforting about cozying up beside a big, gay war machine. Far as I was concerned, every girl should have at least one.

  “Candy’s worried about ya too,” he smiled. “She should be here soon.”

  I perked at the mention of my ex-whore-mentor and now just best friend. “Has she been busy?” I asked, curiosity driving my eyes in an upward glance.

  “I should say so. Ever since she took Jace’s offer she’s been scouring the city, practically takin’ to the damn streets like some kinda big-tittied superheroine—saving all the whores she can find. A good number of ‘em bailed on the Crew when ya two slipped through the cracks, but some were too scared to even try.”

  I stared in astonishment at that, imagining Candy putting herself on the line like that for our old… what? Colleagues? Sisters?

  Was it better to think of fellow prostitutes as co-workers or as members of some sort of sorority of sex-merchants?

  Except they weren’t my co-workers anymore; weren’t my sorority. I wasn’t a prostitute anymore. I wasn’t!

  Still awestruck, I said, “Guess she’s taking this new job seriously, huh?”

  Danny nodded, shrugged, and stared off at a bland bit of hospital wall art. “Whorin’s what she knows,” he said, punctuating it with a not-quite-shrug that only served to cock his head slightly to one side. “Least that’s what she says. Says that she wants t’see them girls in a good place—makin’ good money and bein’ takin’ care of.” He smiled and cleared his throat, saying in a not-very-good Candy-esque falsetto, “‘Those fine-ass bitches work their asses off—literally!—to show the dick-swingers of this here city a good time! I owe it to them to make it worth their while!’” Finished with the mock-quote, he looked back at me, seeming to wait for my assessment on his impression.