by Heather West
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked it again, but there were no missed calls. I couldn’t help my frown, but resisted the sigh I wanted to send along with it. Resolving to at least let her know what was going on, even if she wasn’t in the mood to return the courtesy, I sent her a quick text.
Business tonight. Be home late. Don’t wait up.
I put my phone back into my pocket and when Bills handed me the pistol, I took it easily, tucking it safely away in the back of my jeans. I hoped we wouldn’t need it, but I wasn’t going in there unprepared.
Slinging my leg over the side of the bike, I nodded towards Bills. He’d follow me down the hill and back into town, then we’d head over to the industrial district. No one would be around this time of night and that place especially didn’t have a lot of traffic.
I revved up my bike and we headed out of there. I tried not to think of the cold metal pressed against the skin of my back and I tried not to think about how Lucy had left that night. Instead, I did my best to focus on the dark road and the cool night and the rumbling sound of my bike filling my ears.
This would all be over soon.
Chapter 5
Lucy
I pulled up into the driveway and turned off the engine, but I didn’t go inside right away. I just sat in my car and stared at the dark house. I assumed my mother was already in bed. I should have just gone home, but I wasn’t ready to deal with Max and all the shifting emotions between us. The violence still clung to me and I needed to soothe it away before I faced him, because I wasn’t sure how I’d react to the excitement in his eyes when we were alone together.
Would I do the same as I always did, just fall into bed with him, spread my legs, and let him fuck me until I screamed his name?
Probably. That was the thing about me and Max: we’d been together so long and the love between us still wouldn’t go away. The passion wouldn’t either. Every time Max slid into me, it was like the first time, but so much better. I didn’t care where we did it or from what angle, didn’t care if he were rough or demanding or sweet and slow. I didn’t care, because so long as he was touching me, things couldn’t be bad.
Which was why I needed to put some distance between myself and him before I went home. I needed to think clearly and I wouldn’t be able to do that on a night like tonight.
My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my jacket pocket to check it. I’d gotten a text message from Max.
Business tonight. Be home late. Don’t wait up.
I frowned as I read it. I’d received god knew how many of these messages since I’d first gotten involved with Max. They were little reminders that he was thinking of me, yes, but also warnings. Between the lines they said, The cops might pick me up tonight, babe, but don’t come get me ’til you get the call, or, I’m taking care of a drug deal, official club business, and I’m not sure if the other guy’s packing, or my personal favorite, I’m going to fuck you hard when I get home, babe, because things were bad tonight and your warm body is the only thing that will bring me back.
That last one took me a little while to fetter out, but when I finally clicked to it, I knew to be ready. Sometimes it was by wearing something slinky or nothing at all; sometimes it was by undoing his pants and sliding my mouth over his cock until he came. It all depended on the message and how he was when he got home, but he was never disappointed. I took pride in knowing I could fix whatever was wrong for him in that moment, but there was a growing part of me that wished there simply wasn’t anything wrong for him in that moment. Or any moment. But I could only do so much, and so long as he was leader of the Sin Reapers there would be trouble. It came with the business.
This message, I wasn’t exactly sure of. I knew business was obviously something that either bordered on illegal or flat out was illegal and being home late meant he wasn’t sure how it would go. But don’t wait up? That seemed unusual. It sent a chill through me, making me wonder just how bad of a thing he was doing tonight.
Pushing aside my worry for Max and my general mood, I popped open the door to the car and stepped outside, closing it behind me. There was a single light still on in the kitchen, but it told me Mom definitely wasn’t up, because it was the light she left on when no one was home or she was asleep, but it was safe to come in. It used to be the light she left on for Dad.
I used the spare key I had on my keychain to unlock the door, then headed inside. I was quiet, just in case Mom was already asleep, and locked the door behind me. I headed to the hallway that led to the back, careful to avoid the door that I knew led to my father’s garage. It was always locked now, but I didn’t want to remember the door or what was behind it, so I stuck to the right side of the hall until I reached my mom’s bedroom.
I was about to decide she was just asleep when I saw the light come on from beneath the door. Her voice called out gently and muffled through the door, “Lucy, honey?”
Mom wasn’t being lazy or overemotional or anything like that by being already in bed by the time I’d gotten home. Generally speaking, she was as tough as her husband had been and there wasn’t a soul who doubted it. Some of the guys might have whispered that it was grief that kept her in bed or that it was depression or something else like that, but those who knew the family knew mom suffered from a leg injury years ago. She didn’t talk about it—I suspected it had something to do with the club and with Dad because she wouldn’t give me so much as a drop of information on what happened—but I knew it caused her a good deal of pain every now and again. The injury itself had been from before I was born, but on and off it would flare up again. Now, as she was getting older, it was getting worse. Suddenly she was limping a lot more and some days she wouldn’t even get out of bed.
“I’m here, Mom,” I called, reaching for the door handle. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to talk right now, wasn’t sure if I could, but I knew it was better than wallowing in my own thoughts. Besides, my mom was perceptive. She’d know something was up if I didn’t sit and talk with her.
I pushed the door open and found her sitting in bed, her legs up and a stack of pillows fluffed up behind her back so she could sit up. We’d moved a television into the room not long after Dad died; she said the noise helped to distract her enough to sleep at night. I had a feeling the pills did more to distract her than anything else, but I didn’t force the issue. What my mother did was her own choice and nothing I said was going to change that. Especially since the more you prodded, the deeper she dug her heels into the ground.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, motioning towards her legs, which were covered by several layers of blankets even though it seemed to me that the house was plenty warm.
She shrugged her shoulders a little, then reached for the remote control. She turned on the TV, but kept the volume all the way down so all you really heard was the buzzing of electronics fill the room. “I’m all right,” she told me, but didn’t meet my eyes. It told me that she was in a lot more pain than she was letting on. “Why don’t you have a seat? Talk with me a bit. I haven’t seen you all day.”
I winced a little at that and hoped she couldn’t see it. She was right. I hadn’t seen her all day and I’d barely seen her yesterday. It made me feel guilty because I knew a lot of the time she didn’t get around much, and without someone home to help, sometimes she wouldn’t get much done. Eating could even be a real pain. “I know, I’m sorry,” I told her earnestly, coming around the other side of the bed so I could sit on the other side of her, one leg dangling off the edge and the other curled up beneath me.
She waved me off. “No, no, it’s fine. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad,” she told me quickly. “I just meant you’re my daughter and I miss you, that’s all.”
I nodded, but still felt guilty despite her absolution. I really knew I should be over here more often, but it was hard. Taking care of her was hard, though I tried not to look at it that way. For a while, after Dad died, we hired a live-in nurse. She took care of mom, made sure she
bathed and ate and did her physical therapy—for all the damn good it seemed to do—but that was expensive. I definitely didn’t have the money, but Max took care of it. He paid for everything from the nurse to the heating bill to the funeral arrangements. Everything. He made sure Mom was well taken care of and I knew she appreciated it.
I appreciated it.
But money wasn’t grown on trees. It was earned and made through whatever means necessary, and after a certain point, there just wouldn’t be any more. That was the point Max had reached. I never asked where the money came from or how he got it; I was just grateful that someone was taking care of my mom.
Now, things were harder. It wasn’t that I hated having to be here more or taking care of my mother in general, but things were complicated. Everything here was a reminder of my father and that bloody mess I’d come home to find.
Besides, I wasn’t a nurse and couldn’t provide better care than a registered nurse. It would be better to have someone who was trained in this stuff, not someone like me who had to go to internet search engines whenever I thought something was wrong, only to spend hours scrolling through pages that might be total and complete bullshit.
“How was tonight?” Mom asked when I didn’t speak for a while.
I stared at the TV screen; some game show was on with bright flashing lights and people laughing hysterically. But I wasn’t watching. Instead I was thinking of Max and the way his eyes had lit up and the thrill that had run through my body at the sight of him, just like always. “It was fine,” I told her. Mom knew about initiations probably better than I did. She’d been in the club—as much as a biker’s old lady could be—since getting involved with my father. No one had expected him to marry her, she loved to tell me, but he did and they had a whole slew of badass bikers wearing leather jackets over tuxedos. She said it had been perfect, though I couldn’t say I agreed with her.
“Fine?” Mom repeated, probably sensing more than anything else that there was something wrong. “What happened?”
I shook my head with a sigh and starting to tell her in earnest about the night. Mom wouldn’t let it lie if I didn’t; besides, I didn’t want her thinking someone had died. It hadn’t happened in a long while but it did happen sometimes. “Nothing, really. It was pretty much the same as every one before it. The guy’s name was Thunder.”
My mother’s eyebrows rose in question. “Is he hot?” There was a tiny smirk tugging at her lips, but it was forced. I could see the tightness around her eyes and the sadness lurking in their depths. She was faking it to convince me she was all right, but I knew better. She wasn’t over Dad and maybe she never would be.
I scrunched up my nose to make a disgusted face. Thunder might be brave or determined, but he definitely wasn’t hot. “No, definitely not.” I made a big open circle with my arms around my waist. “Huge and kinda sweaty, but he also had a hard night, so it’s hard to hold that against him.”
“Disappointing,” Mom muttered, but her eyes were on the screen of the TV and she’d dropped the smirk. “He made it, though?”
I nodded. “Yeah, he’s got a damn hard head. Seems like a decent enough guy.” I wasn’t really sure if that last part were true or not. Maybe he was a total asshole; maybe he was a saint. You’d be surprised how many of each the biker lifestyle happened to get.
Mom lifted her shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. I fell silent again. We both watched the soundless TV show, but I doubted either of us could say what had gone on in the last fifteen minutes of it.
Finally, it was, again, my mother who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
No, was my first thought, but then I considered this was my mother and if there were anyone who might make things okay, who, maybe, could at the very least understand what I was going through, I thought it could be her. “Thunder took a real beating tonight.”
My mom frowned, looking over at me curiously. “They always do,” she told me seriously. “That’s part of it. If you’re not ready to take a beating, you aren’t ready for this kind of life, you know.”
I did know. I’d known that for a long damn time, but knowing it and understanding it were different and now I wondered if I hadn’t recently stumbled onto understanding without realizing it.
“I know,” I told her, struggling to find the words that would make her understand what I was getting at, what was bothering me so much. “It’s just…it’s just there was so much blood tonight and everyone was enjoying it so much. I don’t know why it bothered me so much tonight.”
Mom considered me in that way that told me she was trying to see right through to my brain, as though she could read my thoughts and decipher them for herself. She did this for a while until finally saying, “It’s a release. Some of those guys have to push everything down inside. Bad things, good things, just all of it. Some of them have trouble with their emotions or their personal thoughts. Some of them just struggle with life. The beatings…” She shook her head, then said, “They aren’t about the guy who’s getting the beating, no matter what anyone says. They’re about the guys who are giving the beatings. It’s about letting lose and getting rid of all that crap they’ve let build up and fester inside of them. It’s about walking away cleaner than when you walked in.”
I frowned. That didn’t make sense to me, not really. How could beating the absolute crap out of someone be about walking away cleaner? I didn’t think something like that was possible and it must have shown on my face, because she gave me a sympathetic look and patted my knee.
“Marcus used to come home with these bloodied, bruised hands,” Mom told me, looking wistful as she always did whenever Dad dropped into the conversation. “It used to make me really nervous. My mom was one of those women who ended up with an asshole for a father and then, like an idiot, went and married someone just like him.”
Mom didn’t talk about my grandmother much. Georgia was an alcoholic and a flake, but no one blamed her much for it because her life had been so terrible. Her father had taken to beating her with his belt over and over again when she was a child because he couldn’t hold his liquor or his life, and he had to take it out on someone.
At sixteen, Grandma Georgia made a break for it. I heard all kinds of stories about what she did to survive—prostitution, dealing drugs, stripping, raising dogs to fight—but Mom never said for sure one way or the other. I did know Georgia was pregnant at seventeen and no one knew who the father was. Mom didn’t care and didn’t ask, she said, but I felt that had to be a lie.
By the time she was nineteen, Georgia had married an attractive man who liked to beat her purple. But she put up with it because he was the kind who said he was sorry afterwards and bought her pretty things—or stole them, anyway.
Whenever Mom was telling an anecdotal story, something with a point behind it that I was supposed to take away and apply to my own life later, she used Georgia as her example. “She used to tell me, ‘He’s a brutal bastard, just like the rest of them,’ but I never believed her.” She shook her head and it took her a while to come back to the conversation. She sat there and stared ahead as though lost in her own little world; I figured she was and it was one with Dad sitting there with her. “I didn’t believe her, honey, but I thought coming home with blood wasn’t a good thing. So I confronted him about it—I was five months pregnant with you.” She poked at me a little, emphasizing her words.
I pushed away her hand, though I smiled a little at her. “What did he tell you?”
“Well, I asked him why he had to do all of this. Why couldn’t he just let the others do the beatings if they were so damn necessary and just come home to me as my lover and my husband? And he told me the truth. He said to me, ‘sometimes men have bad things in them. Sometimes they’ve got demons and they need to be exorcised. It’s not something any priest can do, only a man and his own hands. So we make sacrifices by using the new member to take out our demons on, but then he becomes one of us and he gets to exorcise his
demons, too. So we can go home to our lovers and our wives as nothing more than the men we are.’”
I thought long and hard about that. Did I really believe it? I thought of Max that night, the wild look in his eyes, and I thought maybe, but mostly I thought I could see exactly why that was something my mother wanted to believe. It was better than the alternative: that they were all monsters. Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “I guess that makes sense. I just worry about Max.” And me, but I didn’t say that part.
Smiling kindly at me, she said, “He’s all right. Max’s a good man. He’s always been tougher than the rest.”
I nodded my head. “Yeah, you’re right. I shouldn’t worry.” But I did.
“Speaking of Max…” My mother’s smile turned sly. “How are things between you two?”
I glanced back towards the TV screen because I didn’t want to tell her the truth. How was I supposed to explain that I felt like I didn’t even know him sometimes, but that I loved him still? How was I supposed to tell her I wanted him desperately, but didn’t think I could bring myself to have him like I had before, because I was worried about the violence and the gore? So instead I said, “Good. I hate these late nights, though. I can’t help but worry.”
