by Marata Eros
Personal protection was mine. And thankfully, society was cooperatively violent enough that I never did a handoff where a child gave the gun more than a one-second blink.
They simply believed it was necessary.
Reaching inside the fridge, I grab deli meat, cheddar cheese, and the condiments. Searching for something green, I catch sight of a hard red tomato, too chilled to ripen beautifully.
Oh well. Hauling all the stuff out, I say, “I'll fix you a sandwich, and you can have chocolate milk on the side. If you eat it all, then you can have a Twinkie.”
“Ahhh,” he moans.
I ruffle his hair. “Listen, I'm trying to be responsible here.”
“What does ʻrespodibleʼ mean?” Calem asks as he races to the other side of the kitchen and hops up on one of my stools, perching his small chin in two hands.
“Responsible means...” Feeding a kid. Caring. Not hurting. Sudden tears swamp my eyes, and sheer grit holds them back from falling.
“What's wrong, Miss Candi?” He's used to everyone imploding around him.
I'm not going to follow that trend. I dip my head, reining in my emotions and taking a deep inhale. I let it out in a smooth slide of breath. “Nothing.” I hike my chin, meeting his large brown eyes. “Responsible means being there for something or someone... no matter what.”
After about a half minute of contemplative silence, Calem says, “I like that word.”
“I do too,” I reply instantly.
Our eyes lock for a moment as a sort of primal and perfect understanding flows between us.
I might be older and a woman, plus an ocean of differences separate us, but in the end, I had an uncertain and terrifying childhood, and so does he.
Commonality glues us together.
I go about fixing the sandwich. I butter both slices of potato bread before adding mustard, mayo, and two slices of cheddar. Scooping the honey-baked ham out of the square plastic container, I fold three pieces on top of his bread, then I hack the tomato into the slimmest slices I can finagle.
“There,” I announce, proud at my attempts as pseudo mom. That's what moms do, right? They fix lunches, make sandwiches. My eyes move over the chocolate milk and promised Twinkie.
Probably not all that other shit, though. My lips twist in a rueful smile. I’ve got to start somewhere.
Come to think of it... I go through the entire process again, making one for myself.
Calem inhales his and is already halfway finished by the time I get to eating mine. We sit side by side on two stools that are positioned underneath the countertop overhang, our backs to the small living room.
Calem swings his legs restlessly, and I perch my feet on the bar at the base of the stool. The stools will get left behind with all the other secondhand furniture I had fun shopping for.
Weird retail therapy, but one I enjoy. Maybe someday the stuff I buy will be mine for longer than a year.
Drinking the last bit of my chocolate milk, I lean back in the chair then let a honking belch go. “Excuse me,” I say delicately, holding back a spray of laughter by a thread.
Calem doesn't have the same restraint and erupts into a gale of giggles. When he can finally control himself, he dusts bread crumbs from his lips and says, “Miss Candi, that was so disgusting.”
He's thrilled, a wide grin showcasing his missing two front teeth.
“Yes, wasn't it?” I grin back, and he lifts his little palm in the air.
I lightly high-five him. “Whoever said girls couldn't belch as well as boys has not been hanging around the right girls,” I announce haughtily.
Calem's smile is worth my uncouth behavior. Puck would not be impressed or surprised. That makes me smile.
Puck. Shit!
Racing to my room, I hear Calem calling after me.
“It's okay!” I yell back as I drop to my knees beside my bed and dig under my mattress.
It's not the best place to stash my disposable cells, but it's handy.
Getting one out, I turn it on. It takes a second to power up, so I walk back to Calem. He's already started plowing into the Twinkie. Sure looks good.
The cell beeps its readiness.
“What's wrong?” Calem asks, mouth full of whipped cream.
“I forgot to phone my brother.”
“Oh, yeah.” He takes a gulp of chocolate milk, sets it down, and mashes the last of the Twinkie into his already-full mouth. Kids are vultures.
I tap in Puck's number.
It rings and rings. And rings...
A frown settles onto my face. His not answering is really weird, and I don't believe in coincidences. Out-of-the-ordinary dots connecting usually mean something bad.
As I end the call, the screen goes dark. Tearing the cell open, I walk to the garage door.
“Hang on,” I tell Calem then walk to my second fridge just a few feet away from the Scion. I open the door and grab a coffee can. Opening the lid, I'm assailed by the wonderful smell of aromatic grounds.
I stuff the SIM card from the burner inside the can. The dark goodness is a graveyard for hidden SIMs. After returning the can, I walk back into my house and go to a potted houseplant perched on top of an antique oak secretary, a unique piece of furniture from the turn of the last century. The plant is six feet above the floor, setting on top of the tallest part of the secretary. The ceramic pot is also vintage. Muted colors of orange, olive, and brown swirl around its exterior in a pleasing, bumpy texture. To anyone standing on the floor, the plant would seem to be growing from dirt in the pot.
But I don't have time to water houseplants. What I do instead is put a cutting inside a small fishbowl of water and place that inside the pot.
That leaves a two-inch space between the fishbowl and the pot holding it.
In this gap, I place the other half of the cellphone. Can't have anyone discover my brother because of my laziness. My fingers drift over the surface of the pot, and a moment passes where I have an intense longing to own something. Anything.
I turn away from the pretty pot and look at Calem.
He hasn't noticed my machinations. Instead, he's found my small TV and remote, expertly navigating the unfamiliar equipment. Plopped down on the futon that also serves as a couch, he's leaning back, swinging his legs as he does.
“Calem.”
“Huh?” he says without looking, having found an old Bugs Bunny rerun.
The Road Runner is still running, I note. “I'm going to take a quick shower, okay? Can you hang tight for about ten minutes?”
“Yeah.”
I walk in front of the TV. His eyes latch on to mine.
“Don't leave the house or answer the door.”
His solemn eyes don't stray from mine. Calem nods.
We have an understanding. I swing a last glance around my locked house and move down the hall again. Worry over Puck haunts me as I remove my clothing, setting the bundle on top of the back of the toilet tank, and hop in the shower.
I feel gritty after my engagement with the biker. I can't wait to finally connect with Puck and ask him about Road Kill MC. I know a few in that club are privy to his status as an undercover cop.
Makes me wonder if that's connected with the biker at the park today.
Are they after him? Why else would they be involved? My suspicious nature offers a lot of speculation, which just makes me more anxious instead of less.
Shampooing my hair, I rinse, soap, repeat, and rinse again. I frown for a second then remember I shaved last night and don't bother with that.
Getting out, I wrap a towel around my long hair.
After the ritual of face cream, deodorant, body spray, and brushing my teeth, I pat my hair dry and fling it behind my back. Shivering a little, I pad naked through my room, the wet hair clinging to my chilling skin. I grab fitted yoga pants I use regularly at the dojo and a short-sleeved tie-dyed T-shirt. It's the rattiest shirt I own. Got it at a Jimmy Buffet concert when Puck and I were barely more than kids.
&nb
sp; When we dreamed of living in a real-life Margaritaville.
I pull on wool-blend socks and sigh. Feel like a human being.
Slapping on a medic watch, which is a favorite for answering questions in the middle of the night, I walk out into the hall toward the living room. Trying to figure out what my next move's going to be, I wonder how I can explain the situation to my contact at Chaos—and the predator who works with them—without drawing suspicion to myself.
The idea seems simple in theory—I can point the finger at Road Kill MC. They had no right to be there for the handoff. In fact, I should be able to neatly pin the blame on their organization, stating that I didn’t divulge the location of the handoff to anyone else.
That means someone has a mole in Chaos.
The second part of the handoff hasn’t been missed, so it's still salvageable, thank God.
Smiling at the beginnings of a story that would stick, I continue down the long hallway toward where the sound of the TV is blaring. He needs to turn that down.
I slow, heartbeats beginning to stack like pancakes inside my chest. The volume wasn't that loud when I was in the bathroom...
Then my senses come alive like a decked-out Christmas tree just as a huge shadowed man comes around the corner. Male. Mixed race. Six feet, four inches. Two hundred forty pounds. Twenties. Red hair.
Hate-filled eyes.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall, my mind whispers. But my stomach coils in fear. “Calem!” I shout even as I'm ducking.
The guy lumbers into me, arms wide to swoop and grab. His muscles have had babies. There's no way to get his attention and halt his momentum with this kind of introduction.
Crouching lower, I stab his groin with my knuckles in a blistering strike, picturing my hand moving through his pelvis. It's not neat and pretty, but it’s effective.
He makes a gurgling sound in his throat and begins to lean like a great tree toppling.
His hand shoots out in a last-ditch effort at a strike.
I lean away, tossing my hands wide to steady myself, fingertips brushing the walls at either side of me.
Calem, I have time to think before strong arms loop under my armpits from behind.
I kick both legs out in front of me, hitting the listing assailant in the chest with a perfect mid-torso impact.
He flies backward as I slam my head back, hoping to nail a forehead.
Too tall. I hit somewhere in the upper pectoral region. Fuck! I slam my foot into a shin instead. Not wearing shoes. Raising my fingers, I try to braille for eyeballs.
My hands meet air.
The unknown man is leaning his face away.
“A little help!” a deep male voice rumbles practically in my ear.
I plant my feet and lean forward, lifting whoever's behind me. Reversing our position, he uses his superior size to throw me against the wall with what feels like everything he's got.
Slapping my palms against the wall takes some of the impact, but not all.
I begin to slide down the surface, my bell rung.
A ghost of a man strides down the narrow hallway, backlit by light from the blaring TV set.
Military, my addled brain says. Moves with stealth.
He comes within range, and I go for the crotch with my foot. But I'm hopelessly slow, my vision doubling as I try to make a movement too swift after getting brained.
Yanking me by the ankle, he takes me the rest of the way down.
I lie on my back, staring at his silhouette. His hand gets close to me, and I bite it, trying for meeting my teeth.
He hisses, and his fist meets my temple.
Nauseating pain sweeps my head, and I begin to crawl away.
He easily lifts me from the ground and hurls me into the wall.
I can't protect myself. My reflexes are fucked six ways to Sunday. Puck. Need you, brother.
Gray fuzziness eats the hallway at the edges, and still, he comes. I frown. Now there are two men.
“Don't make me hurt you more. Stay down,” the man with a military-issue platinum flat top and square beard says in a low voice.
A shrill beep beep! shrieks from the TV.
Calem.
My eyes find the man’s glacial blue ones in the gloom. “Fuck you,” I say without missing one iota of being in character, though my head spins and my heart constricts.
Calem.
Puck.
Slapping my palms against the wall, I push myself up. His hand is bleeding all over the carpet from my bite.
My smile must match my intent.
“Viper,” the man says while his buddy covers his balls with both hands and moans a few feet away from his position on the floor.
“Do it.”
He does.
My eyes flick to what has just appeared. A rope flashes from his hand, hitting me dead in the throat before I can stop it. The thing barely taps me. It's not hard, but it’s precise.
Can't breathe.
I sink to the floor, my fingers biting the carpet as well-worn boots appear beneath my wilting vision.
Then there's nothing but a black so bleak, it's beyond dark, colorless.
Chapter 7
Viper
My left hand is on the wheel, and my right drags over my face. “That was fucking awful.”
Storm's in the passenger seat, practicing deep breathing. “Whatever,” he huffs, still clutching his balls. “I about died back there. I'm not gonna be able to have kids or something after what that bitch did.” He shifts his weight and lets out a low groan.
Maybe. Candice Arlington is dangerous.
“Shouldn't have tried to hug it out after what you saw her do to Noose,” Wring comments dryly.
“No shit, Einstein.”
“I won't give you a brain duster for that, but the thought appeals.”
Storm grunts.
“How's Arlington?” I ask, unable to shake my guilt over hurting a female. Done it before—in war. Feels wrong now, though. Or more wrong. Even knowing Arlington had a kid and was ready to turn him over to a Chaos Rider, who would then give him to perv central, doesn’t make it much easier.
I think of the way she fit against my body when I grabbed her from behind. Like she was meant to be against me. Not to hurt.
To protect.
She was so light when I tossed her at the wall. The fragile, hurt gasp she made as she landed tears through me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Out cold,” Wring says with a thread of satisfaction. “Got her trussed like a turkey. She isn't getting out of those bindings.” His snort is soft in the blackness of the SUV.
“How hard was that love tap with the rope?”
Storm gives me a sideways glance. “The fuck, Prez?”
Wring leans forward between the two seats as I fly toward the house, using every back road there is.
Know ʼem by heart. Born and raised in Kent, had the place out in Ravensdale damn near since before I was born. Been in the family for over a hundred years.
Wring's look is hard, a question in his eyes. “She's alive. I can calibrate a strike for anyone. She's a one-hundred-ten-pound female that's maybe five foot three. She got the impact necessary to stop breathing and elicit unconsciousness.”
I barely catch his curt shrug in the rearview.
Wring gives a short laugh. “And it'll leave a helluva mark.”
I remember her skin. Smooth like porcelain. My spine stiffens. “Can't question the dead.”
“She's not dead. Nowhere near. But Arlington is gonna feel our engagement tomorrow,” Wring says, flexing the hand she bit.
“Yeah,” Storm chirps through a pant of pain.
Wring looks in his direction. “So are you.”
“I won't fuck for a week with this dented-in dick I got.”
Wring and I chuckle. “You'll be up to man-whoring in no time.”
“Kid okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Rider's following, remember?”
“Glad we got him
out of the house before we started in.”
Wring nods. “Smart to turn up the TV. Distracted her.”
I shake my head. “She was going to amputate something on me. That's for sure.”
“Be thankful it wasn't your prick,” Storm mutters.
I take the turn off from Highway 512 to the long driveway that leads to the homesteader's cabin my folks bequeathed me, which was built by my grandfather's father.
Love this place.
Looks like it grew out of the ground. And though the water table in western Washington is high, the lay of this parcel of land keeps things high and dry. The cottage sets at the very top of a natural knoll. Dual copses of trees flank it like watchful soldiers.
That's probably why my great-grandpa did something really unusual with this place. It has a basement. Doesn't ever flood. They're not common in western Washington.
That's going to be Candice Arlington's temporary home. Though she doesn't know it. And she definitely won't appreciate my efforts of restoration.
Just finished the last bit only last week.
Working with my hands calms my nerves. Especially in the MC lifestyle. It's more than riding, getting laid, and partying.
There's a shit ton of nuts and bolts of the club that I handle behind the scenes. Lariat takes care of it with creative finances, and I oversee.
Snare guards our club.
Noose seeks out intel, always jonesing for the latest, the who and the why. That's how we got a bead on this kiddie ring of sick fucks.
Road Kill MC is a brotherhood. We're a team. Nothing short of that mindset will work. One percenter stands for that. Uncommon, but unified in the same end goals.
“Hope that puke festers by her front door.” Storm laughs then grimaces, gently adjusting his junk.
“Nice DNA calling card, dumbass,” Wring comments.
Storm’s expression sours, his top lip pulling taut. “You ever get your balls tapped like that?”
Wring's silence is so long that we've pulled up in front of the tiny cabin and turned off the SUV before his soft answer is uttered. “Yeah.”
His eyes have that faraway look they get when he's thinking about something in the past. Something bad.
“All right, so did ya puke?” Storm asks with the logic of the young and the lack of discernment to not ask that comes with age.
