by Avelyn Paige
“No!” I wail, rushing out of bed to fight for her. I make it halfway to the door before I realize I’m in my room at the clubhouse, not Iraq. The smell of their burning flesh still lingers in my nostrils, and my body trembles from fear while my chest heaves with adrenaline. Fuck, the nightmares have never been this vivid before. Calm down, Tyler. Just fucking breathe before someone comes up here to check on you. Just like I predicted, they flooded back to me after Jagger’s funeral. I’ve dreamt for weeks after we laid Jagger to rest about that IED explosion that claimed my brothers’ lives and left me scarred. I’ve relived that day over and over again, but tonight is the first time she has been in my dreams.
I don’t know what to think about that. How can one woman that I literally don’t know at all affect me so much that she’s even invading my nightmares? My raven-haired beauty never spoke a word, but I wanted to fuck her like the world was ending as soon as her ass connected with my dick. Her pull was addicting, and I still want a taste of what I can only assume is an even prettier pussy that was hiding beneath that short skirt. There’s no hiding the fact I want a taste of her, but she’s off-limits. She’s a civilian and potentially in bed with our enemy. The club would have my ass if I tried to bring her back here, even if it was for a fuck ’em and dump ’em session. I can’t have her and it’s only made me want her more.
Does that mean I’ve sworn off pussy because I desperately want to feel her wet folds tightly wrapped around my dick? Fuck no. There’s no reason to deprive my cock of a little dirty fun. The club girls take care of all of those needs, but my heart hasn’t been in it since that dance with her. It pisses me off that as soon as one of the pretty little club mamas puts my dick in their wanting mouth, I can’t get off unless I think of her and those delicious fucking curves she teased me with. Even if she wasn’t associated with Twisted Tribe, I don’t even know her name or where she lives to track her down. Fuck, that makes my ass sound like a stalker.
Shaking off the dream and my silent raven angel, I jump into the shower to wash off the sweat that drenched me during my nightmare. It doesn’t take me long to get clean and dressed in my favorite black Harley shirt and jeans. Leaving my room, I head downstairs for breakfast where Ruby walks over, handing a plate of food to me as I make my way to the couches.
“Thanks, Ruby,” I say. Kissing her cheek, I take the plate of bacon and eggs from her and plop down in the leather sofa next to Raze and the rest of our motley crew. I take a bite of the crispy bacon and realize every man in our circle is staring at me. Laying my fork onto the plate, I toss my full plate onto the side table.
“Like what you see, ladies?” I ask. “Did I grow a big pair of tits last night, because there’s no other fucking reason I should be attracting this much attention.”
Staring them all down, no one seems to want to speak. “Out with it! What the fuck is going on?” I yell, looking at each and every face that is locked on to me. Raze shifts uncomfortably next to me.
“Hero, we heard you screaming before you came down. I know you went through some pretty bad shit over in that desert hellhole, and I’ve never asked about the details, but fuck, man, are you okay?”
“You’re kidding me, right? Do I look like a nut job to you? Can’t a man have a bad night?” I retort in anger. How dare these bastards sit around in a goddamn prayer circle judging me? I’ve seen more bad shit in a single day than they have experienced in their entire civilian lives. Yes, I have fucking demons in my past, but they’re no one’s business but my own.
“I’m being serious, Hero,” says Ratchet. “I was halfway up the stairs thinking someone had snuck in and cut your dick off with the kind of noise that was coming out of your room.”
“I’m fine. Jagger’s death just dug shit up from my past and I’ve got to deal with it. “
“Do you need to talk to someone about it, man?” asks Tyson. “I’m sure the VA could set you up with a counselor or some shit.”
“Been there, done that. Got the shrapnel scars to prove it,” I retort. “Honestly, I’m fine. Just need to work shit out on my own. I promise to keep my bitchy screams to a minimum if they are bothering your delicate ears so goddamn much.”
These motherfuckers think that talking shit out will settle me. God himself couldn’t talk me into a state of calm when my past rolls in and takes hold. I just need time to work through it and let them leave on their own. Raze slaps his hand on my back in his own man-version of comfort. Thank God these fuckers aren’t the compassionate hugging type or I’d be revoking their man cards.
“All we need to know, Hero. The guys just needed to clear the air. We’ve lost one brother already and we don’t need to lose you either.” Grabbing my discarded plate, we settle in and catch up on sports news for the next hour while we eat. I’ll admit that it’s weird being in this room without Jagger. He was the guy who made sure our meetings never got out of hand. With him gone, the room feels like it’s toeing the edge of exploding, and we haven’t even started our meeting yet. Something’s up.
As if this day could get any worse, Raze throws down a stack of papers and sends them sliding down the table. “It seems like some of our upstate brothers are pissed that we didn’t burn Jagger’s cut,” he grumbles. The room erupts in mumbled discussions. I knew from the moment he gave Darcy that damn cut we’d have problems. The original chapter sets and enforces the entire club’s rules and our president just broke a cardinal rule because he felt like it. Shit doesn’t work like that in an MC.
“I knew it would, Raze,” pipes up Voodoo. “Why the hell would you do something like that, Prez? We’ve never broken that rule for anyone before Jagger. Hell, you ripped the cut out of Demon’s mother’s hands at his funeral when she refused to give it up. What the fuck is so special about Jagger’s cut that it’s worth stirring the pot with the other chapters?”
Raze crumbles the paper in his hand and slams his fists onto the wooden table. “Jagger was our brother and a founding member of this club. He poured more blood and sweat into forming Heaven’s Rejects than anyone else. He designed the cut logos himself and presented me with the one I have on my back now. Forgive me for wanting to honor a piece of our history, but I’m not backing down. Darcy and the boys deserve that cut more than the Earth needs its ashes. I’m not going to rip the one last piece of a widow’s husband out of her hands because a few chapters have a burr up their asses,” he bellows with intensity.
“You know this could hurt our reputation with the other chapters. Fuck, Raze, they could call for your President’s patch over this,” I remark. Some of the other clubs were already questioning our club’s decisions before Jagger, and this might just cut the thin tether we still had over them. If we’re going to hit Twisted Tribe, we need their numbers and support.
“Yes, I fucking well know that, Hero, but my decision is final. I’ll take the hit for it because it was my damn decision, but the only way they are ripping off my patch or my cut is prying it from my cold, dead body. I built this club, and I’ll take anyone down with me who tries to take it from me.”
When Raze is this fired up, Jagger was the guy to settle him down and see reason. Just another reason why I miss the fucker. It’s my job now, and to hell if I know how to handle him. He’s a hair-trigger away from setting the world on fire to get what he wants. How in the hell am I going to diffuse the situation? I’m not good at this shit. Bashing someone’s brain in with a baseball bat or taking care of business are my specialties, not being a goddamn therapist to a pissed off biker. I hate this job right now.
“Raze, what if we amended the club charter to say that cuts of founding members may be given to their surviving family members if their chapter votes in favor?” I suggest. Raze’s eyes narrow at my suggestion while the veins in his arms constrict. He’s either going to clean my clock with a right hook or he’ll see my reason. Either way, we’re still fucked because even if he takes this back door deal to amend the rules, some of the chapter presidents aren’t going to like the f
act we didn’t include them in the vote. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.
“Well, Raze?” I cautiously ask. “The clubs are going to be pissed at any way we play this, but at least this will cover our ass for the time being. I’ll forge the papers to pre-date his death and just lie out my ass that we didn’t get it sent out because of dealing with Jagger’s murder. It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s that or deal with the backlash. We need their support for taking out Twisted Tribe, and I’m not about to lose the manpower to grown men whining like bitches about a cut. Take it or leave it.”
He pounds his fists into the table before walking away from us. His turned back tells me he’s at least thinking about it because Raze is an answer-without-thinking-it-through kind of guy ninety-nine percent of the time. His hands go to his brow and begin to rub his temples.
“Do it, Hero. I assume we don’t need a formal vote to use this half-cocked plan to cover my ass, nor would you like to vote to make it kosher.”
“Nah, we’re behind you, Raze. Maybe next time you decide to break a founding charter rule, you’ll let us know before shit hits the fan,” says Ratchet. “We all miss the fucker, but we can’t collapse as a club because you want to honor his memory for his wife and kids. He knew what he signed up for when he took his pledge. “
“I know, Ratch, but his death wasn’t exactly accidental. Darcy was finally getting his health under control before those murderous sons-of-bitches killed him. I wanted to reassure her we were handling it. We all know she didn’t buy my cock and bull story about a riding accident. She’s too fucking smart for her own good.”
“I get that, Raze,” says Voodoo. “Just sayin’ maybe we should just send flowers next time instead of pissing off our back-up.”
“Noted, V,” he says with a smile. “Any other business we need to discuss?” The room stays silent as we look to each other. “Dismissed,” he bellows as we all stand and file out of the room. He took my suggestion; I’m not sure whether to be flattered or dumbfounded. He’s a hard-headed bastard, but he has a good heart when he wants to unleash his nice side, even if the thoughts that come out are a little convoluted. I head toward the bar to talk to Ruby about going out on a ride with me when Maj’s shrill voice cuts through the noise in the room.
“Raze,” she screams. “Someone tried to burn down my fucking salon!” Oh fuck me, could this day get any worse?
Living on the streets isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but I am surviving. The first few days I spent rummaging around in the abandoned house looking for supplies but I found nothing. My ribs ache continuously, but there’s nothing that I can do to subdue the pain until I figure my shit life out. One saving grace is that the house still has running water so I can at least stay clean and wash the clothes on my back every couple of days. Not to mention the fact that I don’t have to resort to using a bucket as a toilet. Just thinking about the smell of that primitive bathroom fixture during a hot Californian day makes my stomach roll. I’ve never been so thankful for water in my entire life.
Each night, I sneak out of my hidden abode and roam the nearby streets looking for clothing and food. Luckily for me, there is a local mom and pop diner down the street that has decent garbage to dig through for food. It might be half-eaten, but it still fills my grumbling belly. Having water at the house at least ensures that I won’t go thirsty. One of the first things I did was pick up a couple of used Styrofoam cups from the diner’s trash. It sure beats having to contort my head under the sink for a drink of water, and it spares the additional pain in my ribs. A few more of my adventures elicited a very worn but clean blanket and couch cushion that now adorn my makeshift bed, a few extra shirts, a partly broken comb, and three bent metal forks. Their previous owners may have considered these things trash, but they are treasures to me.
Tonight’s been a particularly good night for dumpster diving. The diner threw out a few bags of apples and oranges that are only soft in a few spots. I grab the bags as soon as I see them and immediately rush them back to the house, stowing them just inside the door for later. They will last me a couple of days at least so I don’t have to worry about food. Returning to my wandering, I start down a different street and find a few more household items to add to my stockpile, including a nice blanket for my bed which I stuff into a trash bag I collected to keep it clean. I continue to search the street, finding an old shirt that is clean enough that I can use it to bind my ribs until I figure out what to do with them. Medical help is out of the question for a magnitude of reasons, so I need to make do until I find out what I can do to fix them. God, I’d kill someone for an Advil or hell, even a mallet to the head to knock me out right now.
Giving up for the night, I slink back to the house before the sun comes up. Rounding the corner, I see a tall man lingering in the shadows by the salon’s back door. I can’t make out his features as he stays in the shadows, but I can make out orange and green writing with a white skull on the back of his jacket. Just like the one that my captors were wearing. Shit! I need to hide now before he catches sight of me. Sliding behind a set of trash cans to avoid detection, I watch as the man jiggles the lock on the door before raising his foot and kicking it in. Using a flashlight he retrieves from his pocket, he steps into the building, shutting the door behind him. I can hear glass breaking and hard objects hitting the walls before he exits the building, tossing a match behind him. Fire bursts from the ground behind him, moving quickly toward the interior of the structure. He jogs past my hiding spot and peels out into the street in a beat up, gray pickup truck, leaving the scene of the crime.
Knowing that his fire will attract attention to the area, I need to try to put it out or I risk being discovered. Rushing toward the burning building, I pull out the blanket from the trash bag and begin to smother the flames as fast as I can. The smoke begins to fill my lungs with each toss of the blanket while the fire singes it. Coughing my way through each strike at the growing flames, I know that the air in my lungs will soon be replaced by smoke if I continue much longer. Pulling my shirt up over my nose as a makeshift mask, I beat down the flames until I can reach a hair-washing sink. Turning on the water, I use the sprayer to douse the last of the flames. The charred wood sizzles from the heat and water now being sprayed over it. The sound of sirens trickles into the air, growing closer by the second. I need to get out of here before they arrive. Grabbing the burnt remains of my blanket, I dart out of the door and slide into my house just before the fire trucks pull up to the smoking building.
Sliding the wood slat over my secret entrance, I slide my body to the floor. My lungs heave for fresh air as I force myself to catch my breath and slow the adrenaline pumping through my body. With each calming breath, the exertion of trying to put out the fire is taking its toll on my damaged ribs. The adrenaline was enough to mask the pain temporarily but as it leaves my body, it is replaced with searing pain that nearly cripples me with each breath. I really need to take care of these soon.
I watch the firefighters buzz around the semi-burnt structure for hours before they finally leave the scene. With their departure, I can finally rest easy knowing that I will not be discovered. Rising from the floor, I pad into the old kitchen and wash my face and hands. I pull the smoke-filled shirt and shorts from my body and deposit them into the water-filled sink to soak. God, I wish I had some good soap. I’m pretty sure my only pair of shorts is now ruined so I will have to figure out how to replace them. Pulling on one of the old worn t-shirts I found in my nightly scavenger hunts over my head, I drink a couple of glasses of water before heading to bed. My breathing seems fine, so I doubt I need to worry about smoke inhalation. I slide onto the soft but worn couch cushion and pull the blanket around me. Falling asleep comes easily, but I drift into a restless sleep.
I rest for hours before a voice startles me awake. Scrambling to hide, I slide off the bed and run to the closet under the stairwell as quietly as I can. Shutting the door behind me, I hope and pray that I am not discovered as
I huddle as far into the darkness as I can. Heavy footsteps enter the room as the voice from earlier grows louder.
“Do you see anyone, Voodoo?” a feminine voice calls from what I assume is the kitchen.
“No, Maj. There’s a bed in here, though,” a male voice responds as the heavy footsteps move closer to me. “It’s still warm, so whoever this belongs to is not far away.” I hear the cot’s metal legs scruff against the hardwood of the floor. Heels click into the room as the noise from the cot stops.
“They’ve got to still be here, V. The soot footprints led into this house. Are you sure you’ve checked everywhere downstairs?” she asks.
“Yes, Maj. I’d check upstairs but I’m afraid those steps are rotted out, and I don’t want my ass to fall all the way down to the basement. Can we go now? Maybe they’ll come back.”
“No, Voodoo. I know they’re still around. You’re not leaving until you find them,” she barks.
“What-the-fuck-ever, Maj. Why in the hell isn’t Raze or Hero here doing your bitch work? Why did I get assigned this job?” he howls.
“Do it, V,” she snarls as the heels click closer to my hiding spot. “Have you checked in here?” she says as the door is flung open and I am exposed.
A middle-aged woman with dark hair stands before me. My eyes travel up her jean-clad legs and I discover a familiar face. It’s the drunken woman from the bar the night Ricca tricked me into working for Red. “Well, what do we have here? Voodoo, she’s over here. Help me get her out,” she yells behind her. The burly man walks over to her and shoves her aside. Thrusting his hands into the closet, he captures my arms as I try to press as far back into the closet as I can away from him.
