“This was your room?” I asked. I mean, it wasn’t exactly rocket science, but I didn’t know what else to say to fill the void.
“Yeah,” he replied. I say replied—it was more of a grunt than actual words.
I nodded, a shiver trailing down my spine from his burning stare. “Who took the photos?” I asked, nodding toward the black-and-white prints that covered the walls.
A small smile quirked the side of his mouth. “My brother.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said, wishing I could kick myself as soon as I said it.
He released me from his arms and instead took my hand, guiding me over to the wall of pictures. He pointed up at a large image of a bike that was smashed up at the side of the road. A man stood just to the left of it, looking down at the wreckage, his hands crossed over his chest and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, smoke trailing up into his face.
“That’s one of my favorites,” he chuckled. “Butch fucked up his bike that day tryin’ to do a stunt like an asshole. He was so pissed that he chain-smoked forty cigarettes, one after another and then threw up everywhere.” He shook his head and chuckled again, and I found myself smiling right along with him. “I shouldn’t laugh. He loved that bike, and it wasn’t worth anything but parts after that crash.”
I smiled again, looking at the photo and wondering how old Shooter would have been then. I looked across at the other photos, seeing a young Shooter walking with his arm thrown over the shoulders of a woman. His back was to the camera, though she was looking over her shoulder and straight into the camera. I knew it was him despite not seeing his face, recognizing the set of his shoulders and the hair all the same. The woman was beautiful, with long dark hair and a stare so deep and intense I felt like she was talking to me.
“Who’s that?” I asked, my voice filled with curiosity.
“That’s Laney,” he replied. “She was my old lady, before everythin’ died.”
I nodded okay, feeling uncertain then. He’d never mentioned he’d had an old lady before, though it shouldn’t really have come as a surprise to me. I guess what surprised me was that he’d been so open and candid with me.
“You jealous?” he asked with a smirk.
“No,” I laughed. “We all had lives before this one, right?”
He grunted in agreement. “No point being jealous of a dead woman anyway.”
He said it blasé, like he didn’t give a shit, but that was bullshit and I saw right through it. Shooter cared. If anything he cared too much. That was probably what made him such a good leader, and how he’d managed to keep the men on the right path and not descend into madness and chaos like the Rejects.
“She was beautiful,” I said.
“She was my everything,” he replied, his tone somber.
His mood had changed, darkening and cooling into ice, and whatever he’d had in mind when he brought me in here was forgotten. The pictures, the memories—both loved and despised—had darkened his mind. I wondered if that was the reason he’d locked this place up and walked away from it all: better to forget the past than drown in the pain and loss of it all.
Chapter Eight
Throughout the day we sorted out the clubhouse, moving bodies, cleaning guns, and counting ammo. Shooter had left a small arsenal safely hidden when he’d originally left, which led me to believe that he hadn’t thought the outbreak would last long.
None of us had back then.
We all thought the government would come in and solve the problem; send in the army, burn the dead, cure the virus, and we’d all be saved. How very wrong we had all been.
The men seemed happier being back there though; smiles and laughter filtered through the clubhouse like there was nothing to worry about and no dead knocking at the door wanting to get in and eat our brains. No army of bloodthirsty women keeping people locked up ready for their Sunday roasts and no biker gang on their way, more than likely to double-cross and kill us.
Shooter and a smaller group of the Highwaymen had convened to the chapel to “talk business” or something, which I had replied to Shooter with using a middle finger and an eyeroll. He’d laughed, slapped my ass, and stalked away. Asshole.
There was shouting coming from there now though. And no amount of happy memories was going to stop them tearing each other apart. Voices were raised, things were slammed, and I was sort of relieved that I wasn’t in there after all. One of the bikers counting ammo had grinned and told me that they were just dealing with the shitstorm on the way, and not to worry, but worrying was in my nature.
The door to the clubhouse opened and Brett came inside. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face and blood smeared his hands. He was breathless and looked around the room, his eyes falling on the closed chapel door. He stalked toward it, giving it a sharp knock before opening it and stepping side, and then moments later the men filtered out, serious looks painted across their faces and guns in their hands.
Shooter led the group, a cigarette in one hand and his gun in the other. “Let’s do this, brothers,” he said, and they started toward the door. He cast me a brief glance as he passed and nodded to his side, gesturing for me to be by his side and follow them outside.
Brett jogged back over to the gate, where Max was still standing guard, and behind the gate stood twenty or so Devil’s Rejects, all clad in leather and looking ready for battle.
“Prez?” Gauge said, rolling his shoulders.
“It’s all right, we’ve got this,” Shooter replied. “We gotta find a way to work together, so let’s give them a chance,” he said quietly. “Put your weapons away, brothers,” he said louder, so that every man around him could hear the order.
The men grumbled, clearly not happy with the idea of being unarmed around the Rejects, but did as they were told, and we kept on toward the gate, the sound of our footsteps like a death march in the still air.
I stayed back, not wanting to get too close until I knew how things were going to go down. Had the Rejects played the Highwaymen? Were they only luring us all there to slaughter us? Well, to at least try and slaughter us. God, I hoped not. I’d put my faith in Shooter—faith that he would be able to get Mikey out. Faith that he could handle it. I’d let Michael leave on his own, probably killed him with my own stubbornness and faith in Shooter.
The meeting had to go right. It had to.
The men were speaking loudly, like they didn’t care who the hell heard them. I mean, I guess they didn’t since there was no one around to hear them but the dead. I’d still have liked to keep the dead away from our doorway if possible, though. I saw a familiar face behind the fence and started to walk forward. Her gaze caught mine and I nodded, a mutual understanding going between us.
“Guns get left at the gate. You can keep a man or two on them, but no one is armed inside. That’s the deal,” Shooter said.
Butcher was glaring at Shooter, his stump of an arm bandaged up, though from the red stains on it, the bleeding still hadn’t stopped completely.
“So you can slaughter us? Fuck no,” Butcher replied. “We’re not coming in unarmed.”
“Scared I’ll cut you up like a noughts and crosses board?” Highlander mocked, his echoing laughter a jab to Butcher’s ribs.
Another Reject flung himself at the bars, his gun trained on Highlander. “Come out here and say that!” He had a long scar going from one side of his face to the other. The red line went over his right eyelid and up into his hairline, reminding me of Scar from The Lion King.
Highlander moved forward, still smiling. “Not a problem, brother. I’m on my way out, just need to give my blade a wee sharpen. Don’t want it snagging on your bones when I stick em in ya, now do we?” He chuckled. “Need to make that face o’ yers symmetrical like.”
“I’m gonna gut you and feed you to the dead sacks!” the Reject snarled, showing a mouth full of gold teeth.
“Heid doon, arse up!” Highlander said, throwing back his head and laughing.
/> The Reject headbutted the bars purposefully and snarled at him, provoking more laughter from Highlander. “I’m goin’ to eat your guts, Highlander.”
“Keep the heid, wee laddie, or you’ll hurt ya’self.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” the other man replied turning to glare at Butcher. I believed him too, yet Highlander was still laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Calm down!” Butcher bellowed, dragging the Reject away from the bars. “We need them to get Drag out, so no one is doing any killin’ today, you hear me? Least not unless it’s one of those psycho bitches.”
When the Reject didn’t reply, Butcher grabbed him again with his one arm and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
Shit but that man was strong.
“I said, did you hear me, Scar?” he yelled.
Ohhhh, that was Scar…Well, the nickname made sense, and he definitely seemed as unhinged as I’d been warned.
Scar nodded, his gaze flitting to Highlander and then back to Butcher. Butcher put him down and looked over at his other men.
“You want your prez back, brothers, then we need to work together.” He let out a heavy breath and turned back to face Shooter. “Hand over your weapons,” he said to the Rejects, and though they all protested, they did as they were told.
Max and Brett placed all the weapons in a long trunk to the left of the gate and secured it with a padlock. Butcher lifted up his cut and turned in a circle to show he wasn’t carrying anything else, and Shooter nodded an okay. He turned to the Highwaymen, pulling out his own gun placing it in another trunk on the right.
“Weapons in the trunk, brothers,” he grunted, and though no one wanted to, they did as they were told. Because unlike the Rejects, they trusted Shooter and knew to follow his orders.
Once everyone was unarmed, Max secured the trunk with another padlock and both keys were given to Shooter.
He handed one over to Butcher. “If we’re gonna do this, we’ve gotta have trust.”
“Agreed.”
“You keep your men in line, though, or my men won’t hesitate in taking them out. You feel me?”
Butcher nodded. “Loud and clear. Same goes for the Highwaymen.” His gaze strayed over to the clubhouse as the Rejects began filtering in. “Any liquor in there?”
“The Highwaymen always deliver. Remember?” Shooter grunted out with an edge of humor.
Butcher chuckled. “I remember. I also remember kicking your ass the last time I was here.”
It was Shooter’s turn to chuckle then. “That how you remember it?”
“That’s how it was,” Butcher replied with a grin. “Brought a little present. Thought she might be able to give us some intel before we hang her out to die.” He whistled and two of the Rejects opened up the back of one of their trucks.
I heard a woman cursing and yelling way before I saw her.
“You’re all going to die! And when you do, you’re going in a pie!” she sang like a crazed lunatic.
Shooter looked between the woman in the wheelchair and Butcher. “Who the fuck is that?”
“That there’s psycho number one. This crazy bitch and her husband are the ones that did this to me,” he said, pointing at himself. “She’s also ALL ALONE NOW AND GOING TO SPILL EVERY SINGLE THING ABOUT THE SAVAGES OR I’LL CUT OUT HER EYES AND SHOVE ’EM UP HER ASS!” he yelled over his shoulder theatrically, so she could hear it, giving a dark laugh.
She looked terrified, but defiant, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders as one of the Rejects pushed her chair closer to Butcher and Shooter, but I saw how her hands gripped the arms of her chair.
“And what’s in it for me?” she bit out.
Now that she was closer, I could see the bruises and cuts on her hands and arms, the dried blood in her hair, and the dark shadowing beneath her eyes. They’d already gotten the information they wanted from her, I realized, and this was just a game to them now. Torture for the torturers.
“You get to die quickly,” Butcher said. “Maybe,” he chuckled. “I’m still decidin’.”
“Is she the one that took Mikey?” I asked, glaring at her. Hating her. I felt Shooter’s hard gaze on the side of my face, but I ignored him. “Is that her?” I gritted out.
“Yeah, her and her husband are the ones that had him locked up before he escaped. Made him watch them kill his friends and then fed them to him. Her sick son-of-a-bitch husband drugged me and then she did this to me.” He pointed to his missing arm. “We’re gonna have some fun, Clare.” He sneered at her. “Ain’t that right?”
She pursed her lips, her eyes filling with tears even as she glared at him with hatred.
“Put her in the basement,” Shooter growled out, nodding at two of his men. “Let’s get inside and talk,” he said to Butcher, and the two men started to walk toward the clubhouse.
Two of the Highwaymen started to drag Clare toward the basement of the clubhouse, her sobbing echoing out across the clubhouse grounds. Rejects and Highwaymen began to mingle like old friends and enemies reunited, patting each other on the back awkwardly while equally glaring at each other with enough hostility to kill a church full of nuns, and grunting hellos. It was a fucked-up situation, and a strange vibe filtered over the clubhouse grounds. I guessed that when they’d had to leave there they’d had to take sides.
The one thing I was starting to understand about club life was that those men were family, through and through, blood or not. They were brothers, and that family had been torn apart by Shooter and Drag. There was a lot of anger and resentment between those men, but looking around I could see that there was a lot of love too. Just like in any family. I only hoped there was enough love to help them see past their differences and work together.
I stared at O’Donnell as she came forward. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot and she’d pulled herself together enough to look like she wasn’t about to have a breakdown at any second.
“Hey,” she said, her chin high and her shoulders back. I thought I preferred the vulnerable woman I’d met on the side of the road to that one.
“Hey,” I replied. We stared at each other in mutual silence for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say. Finally I spoke, mainly because I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. Most of the men had moved inside and it was just me and O’Donnell staring awkwardly at each other.
“We’re both grown women, so let’s leave the bullshit at the gate, okay?” I said.
She nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
“I could use a drink, how about you?” I asked, and she nodded again.
We headed inside the clubhouse, leaving Max and Brett to kill two deaders that had stumbled across our little get-together. Two Rejects stayed behind as well, each sticking to their side of the gate, guarding their club’s weapons. But there wasn’t any animosity between the four men as they smoked and talked.
“You think this is going to work?” O’Donnell asked.
I shrugged and glanced at her. “I guess it has to. Mikey’s life depends on it, right?”
She stopped walking and turned to look at me. “Then yes, I guess it has to work. No matter what we have to rescue him, right?”
“Right,” I agreed.
She watched me for a second before starting to walk again, and I wondered who she thought I was rescuing Mikey for—her or me. I didn’t have an answer to that question because I honestly wasn’t sure myself. I guess it shouldn’t have mattered, though. The important thing was that we rescued him.
Inside the clubhouse O’Donnell and I headed to the bar area. The Rejects had brought some women with them and they’d made themselves right at home behind the long strip of wood that served as a bar and started to mix drinks like it was just any other day in hell.
I had to admit, after what Shooter and Gauge and everyone had told me about the women that the Rejects kept at their clubhouse and how they treated them, I had expected beaten and broken women scared of their own shadows, but what I saw w
as altogether different.
The women were scantily clad, their gazes hard yet playful, and their faces were painted in makeup—red lipstick and dark lashes. But most of all, they looked happy. Comfortable, even. Had Shooter lied about everything or was it all a front?
O’Donnell saw me staring at them. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s right?” I replied with a shake of my head.
She snorted out a laugh and I turned my gaze on her.
“What?”
“Judgy bitch much?” she said, and walked toward the bar.
I stared after her, my jaw slack at her comment. She scooted up onto a stool and I stormed over to her.
“What the hell?” I snapped, and she turned to me.
“I guess even at the end of the world, women like you can’t help but look down your noses at other women, right?” She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
Well fuck her, that was my signature move.
“I am not judging them, you idiot,” I bit out angrily. One of the women looked up from what she was doing, her smile falling as she scowled at me. “I’m not!” I replied, looking right at her.
“Sure, keep telling yourself that. You know, these are good women, so climb off your damn high horse.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “Come with me,” I snapped, and started to walk away, hoping she’d follow me, because it wasn’t a conversation to have in front of those women or any of the Rejects.
I headed back outside, moving around the side of the building to the back. A tall wooden fence enclosed the entire place, and I looked around, happy to see that O’Donnell had followed and no one else was around. I folded my arms as she got close, and when she opened her mouth to speak I held up a hand.
“I’m not judging these women—get that out of your head, O’Donnell.”
She rolled her eyes at me again. “Yeah? Then what’s your problem with them then? You know, they’re making things work for themselves, surviving, doing everything you do, so what makes you better than them?”
The Dead Saga (Book 6): Odium VI Page 7
