by Naomi West
“What do you think will happen if your boss kills my old lady, kills me, fellas? Do you reckon my sniper’ll be understanding about it? Here’s the deal: your coward of a boss drops the gun and fights me like a man. Whoever wins, wins. Either he ends me or I end him. Otherwise we can wait for my friend to get impatient and drop another one of you motherfuckers.”
“Boss,” the man standing next to him mutters. He’s got mutton chops, either brown or black, and he looks as defeated as the others. “I think you might have to fight him.”
“Yeah,” another man says, laughing awkwardly. “Go on, boss, just end this motherfucker and then we’ll take this bitch and have some fun. What’s the big deal? You can take him. Easy. No problem.”
“Hear that, Reaper?” I taunt, smiling right at him. “It’s easy. No problem. What’s the big deal? Unless you’re scared, eh?”
“Your man will just kill me,” Reaper says, “the moment I let her go.”
“He won’t. You have my word.”
Reaper snarls out a laugh, shaking his head. “Tommo, take this bitch and put a bullet in her if that sniper fuck fires one more shot.”
“Boss.”
The man takes Fiona and puts his gun to the back of her head. She pleads at me with her eyes: please end this. I take a step back and raise my hands. “All right, Reaper, let’s see how much of a man you really are.”
“You’ll regret this.” Reaper takes off his jacket, folds it carefully, and hands it to one of his men. He must have at least forty-some pounds on me, I realize when I see his arms in the tank top. Folks say that I’m built like a giant, but Reaper really is; his arms are something freakish. He’s on steroids, I’m guessing. Mother Nature is never enough for a man to get that big. “I use guns because they are easier,” he tells me, taking a wide step forward. The men clear out of the way, giving us room. Then it’s just me and him, the way it should’ve been back when this all started. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight, you stupid fuck. I’ve killed tougher men that you’ve ever met.”
“I guess we’ll see about that.” I take off my jacket and fold it up, place it on the ground. “Are we fighting, or talking?”
He ducks his head and charges at me like an amateur, throwing a right hook that comes so wildly I duck under it easy. But as I duck under it, he lifts his head and snaps his arm around my neck. He wanted me to duck under the right, I realize too late; he was pretending to be an amateur. It happens quickly. I bring my hands to his arm and try and pry it loose, but his strength is something inhuman, something like a bear. He squeezes until my throat strains like the tendons are going to burst. He keeps squeezing, and then I bring my elbow up as high as I can, take an eighth of a second to aim, and then crush it into the back of his knees. He lets out a yelp as I knock him off balance, giving me the few moments I need to dislodge myself from his arm and leap back, hands raised. Already, I know my neck is going to ache for weeks. I can’t let him get my hands on me again. I have to beat this motherfucker with my fists.
He grins, holding his hands open-palmed. Maybe he reckons he can get his hands on me again. I feign injury, stooping my head slightly, making it look like he did more damage to me than he really did. And the bastard leaps at the chance. I stay still for a moment, letting him get close, and then explode with an uppercut and a right hook. His head snaps back, and then sideways. He stumbles on shaky legs and I leap at him; he ducks. I barrel over him and then spin quickly as he tries to tackle my back, my elbow catching him in the eye. He stumbles again, and this time, I get my hands on him.
I fall on top of him and keep hitting, a flurry of blows, landing in the eye socket and the cheekbone and the jaw and the mouth, lacerating his face with my knuckles and ignoring the pulsing pain and the blood that pisses out of my hands. I hit him over and over again until his face starts to swell and turn bright red. He throws his arms up at me, trying to grab me behind the neck and pull me toward him so I can’t get any range of motion for the punches, but each time he does it, he leaves his face open. Smack, smack, smack, and the bastard’s face turns redder and redder. Soon it’s not even human. He’s just a swollen, bloody mess.
I jump to my feet and kick him across the mouth, because men might look down on fighting dirty, but this motherfucker doesn’t deserve honor and respect. He rolls onto his front, making a twisted gurgling noise. I bring my boot down between his shoulder blades, crushing him into the earth. He lies still for a moment and then tries to crawl away.
I turn to his men and Fiona; she’s covered her eyes with her hands, shivering at the violence the way women often will. “What do you reckon, fellas?” I growl, and then step back so that Reaper’s crawling toward me, not away from me. He’s so fucked up, he doesn’t even realize it. I point at him. “Do you think he’s had it, or is this still your tough-as-nails leader, eh?” I kick him across the mouth; droplets of blood glisten in the moonlight, spattering a nearby bush. “You.” I point to the man holding Fiona. “Give her your gun. Fiona, bring it here.”
The man is about to laugh. I lift my arm. “Or maybe I’ll let my sniper know you’re breaking the rules of the deal.”
The man reluctantly hands the gun to Fiona, who carries it over to me. She hands it to me with a shaky hand. I take it, bring it to Reaper’s head.
“P-please,” he whispers, difficult to hear through the blood. “P-p-please.”
I look at his men, all of them, and raise my eyebrow as if to say: Look at your leader now, look what he’s become. “You tried to rape and kill my girl. You killed my friend, my brother, Shotgun. You tried to take over my club. So no, Reaper, you don’t get mercy.”
I pull the trigger, a few pounds of pressure, and his head snaps to the earth and an explosion of blood marks his death. I toss the gun aside and stand up. “I want all of you out of this state within a fucking day,” I tell the Nine Circles. “Or I swear to God, I’ll have my man drop you all where you stand. Do we understand each other, eh?”
The man who was holding Fiona steps forward, looking with a pale, sick face at the mess that was Reaper. “We understand each other,” he whispers, and then heads for his bike.
All of them get onto their bikes and ride away, growling through the forest, soon nothing but distant sounds. I wipe my hands on my pants and am about to put my leather back on when Fiona leaps at me, hugging close to me, breathing heavy but getting slower the longer we embrace. It’s like she doesn’t care about the blood.
24
Fiona
I pace around the apartment, waiting—praying—for Kaeden to walk through the door. I feel out of place in this apartment, exactly as I left it before I went for my date with Kaeden. My makeup is right where I set it down, as is the dress I changed out of, crumpled up on the bed. It’s like none of this madness ever happened, except for this burning in my chest that was never there before, the aching desire for Kaeden to return to me. I’ve already taken a long shower; now I feel drained in that way hot showers sometimes make a person feel, worn out from shedding too much dirt.
I drop onto the couch and try to resist the urge to bite my fingernails. He wanted to go after his club right away, but first he had to make sure I’d be safe here, that the men really had left. He asked some old man to wait outside—the same man who had the sniper rifle—and apparently that satisfied him that I’ll be safe enough. The urge to bite my fingernails overcomes me, or rather I give into it, and I bite my thumb down to a stub. What if the bikers don’t leave the state, but ride out to where the other Red Death are being held and regroup? What if Kaeden is riding into a bloodbath?
The door flies open. I jump to my feet, spin, heart lifting … and then dropping slightly when I see that it’s Jocelyn, not Kaeden. I wonder what that says about me, that already, Kaeden is a stronger force of emotion within my chest. But then I smile, because whatever else, Jocelyn is my best friend and will always be my best friend. I run around the couch and embrace her, fingernail forgotten.
“I’m so sorr
y!” Jocelyn cries, the tears streaming down her face like burst dams. “I’m … they said they would … he said he would do horrible things to me and—I didn’t want to do it, Fee, you have to believe me! Oh! I didn’t want to do it! They made me—”
“Hush, come on.” I take her to the couch and sit her down, stroking her hair the way I did when she fell on her ass at the Christmas dance and the whole place erupted with laughter at her. She continues to tremble and I cry and all I can do is whisper, “Hush, hush, come on. Come on, JJ.”
Eventually the tears slow down and she turns to me, red-eyed. “Are you okay?” she whispers. “Did they … did they get to you?”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, though I’m not sure how true that is. Not because of what happened, but because of what might happen. I’m half here but I’m also half someplace else, watching Kaeden and hoping, just hoping. “Listen, you don’t need to feel guilty about what happened, all right? It all worked out in the end. Reaper, he just liked to act big and tough but he wasn’t all that scary in the end.”
“In the end,” she repeats in a murmur. “Does that mean …” She widens her eyes. “Really?”
“He’s gone. So stop your crying and stop apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry about. You never would’ve gotten caught up in all of this if it wasn’t for me. I don’t know why you’re sad. You should be saying I told you so! We both know how much you love to tell me that.”
She nods, slowly warming to the idea, and then wipes away the last of her tears. “Well, I did tell you,” she says, giggling. “Didn’t I? But no, you wouldn’t listen, you just had to go and put yourself right in the middle of a biker war. But the war’s over now, right? Where is he, your man? Is he … your man?” She speaks in a flurry, each sentence obliterating the last.
“I think so,” I whisper. “No, yes. He is my man and I’m his lady. I’m sure of it. I don’t know what’s going to happen but … We belong to each other. I know that much.”
“If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Jocelyn says. “How about I make us some cocoa? It’ll be like when we were little and we’d drink hot cocoa and watch those terrible reality shows and talk about the sort of rich men we’d marry when we got older.”
“When we were little?” I find myself giggling now, despite the fear that still plagues my every passing thought. “We did that just a few weeks ago.”
“Well, still …”
She goes into the kitchen to make the cocoa, and I return to my fingernail, tearing off the top and then moving onto my forefinger. I glance up and catch myself in the reflection of the television, looking worn out, looking not entirely myself. Which is bizarre, because I don’t feel worn out and I don’t feel like somebody else. Or if I do feel like somebody else, it’s not a bad thing; it’s a person I want to be, a person who came through it all and got out the other side with a man on her arm … but only if he survives! Ah!
“What is it?” Jocelyn asks, returning with the cocoa.
I explain the situation to her as quickly as I can.
“Oh,” she mutters. “So it might not be over.”
I shrug, sip the scalding chocolate, and then place the mug down on the coffee table. Steam rises from it like smoke from a fire. “He’ll be okay,” I say, uncertain if I’m trying to reassure her or myself. “He can’t not be okay, can he, not after everything that’s happened? Life isn’t so cruel that we’ll get through it all only to have it all blow up in the end, right?”
“I’m sure that’s right.” She places her hand atop mine, which I didn’t realize was shaking until she stills it.
I don’t have the energy for conversation, so we turn on the TV and pretend to watch a show about men who drive trucks through dangerous terrain. But really I’m waiting for the parts where the trucks go through tunnels, turning the TV black and allowing the reflection of the front door to appear. I pass the time by willing the front door to open each time it comes into view; for forty-five minutes, it doesn’t.
But then, just as the show is ending, the door opens and Kaeden steps through. He’s wearing his leather with a clean, fresh-looking face, his hair slightly damp. He takes a couple of steps into the room and then pauses when he sees Jocelyn. He looks at me questioningly, as though I’m going to send him away because I want to watch bad TV with my friend!
“Get in here!” I snap, striding over to him. I throw my arms around his neck and stand on my tiptoes, just barely able to reach his lips. He helps me by leaning down, and we kiss, but it’s like we more than kiss. I throw my entire being into the moment and I sense that he does as well. We fuse with each other, however briefly, and then Jocelyn clears her throat, jolting us out of it.
“I’ll just get going,” she says, smiling at me. “Thank you, Kaeden. And see you soon, Fee?”
“Yeah, JJ, see you soon.”
“The old fella’s waiting downstairs,” Kaeden says. “He’ll drive you home if you ask nicely.”
After Jocelyn leaves, I ask Kaeden what happened. We go to the couch together, the sun just beginning to rise, lighting up the living room a stunning orange. “A few men reckoned they were going to hang on behind and carry on this war,” he says. “That’s always the way it is when a leader dies. But they weren’t quick enough. I managed to sneak around and set a few of the fellas free, and we made quick work of them. The MC is free and the Nine Circles is over; that’s the most important thing. Goddamn, Fiona, but I wish we’d met a week earlier or a week later. It was just bad luck that made us meet when all this shit went down. Oh, and I’m the vice president of the club now, for my good work.” He laughs quietly.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“Just that when the boss was telling me that I’m the VP, I just stood there thinking about coming back here and being with you. I’ll do my duty. I’ll always do my duty, but I reckon I finally know what it means to care about something else other than the club.”
I place my hand on his face, turn him toward me. “Kiss me,” I whisper. “Kiss me, Silence.”
He grabs me under the armpits and lifts me up, placing me down on his lap. I sit down heavily on his crotch, pressing into his cock, which is already rock-hard for me, which is always rock-hard for me, and then he brings his lips to mine and fireworks explode between us, in the air around us; the after-shocks of the fireworks sizzle into our mouths and down our throats, down my chest and to my nipples.
“I want you,” I say in a breath that’s quickly stolen by my mounting lust, overriding everything, his cock somehow getting harder as he thrusts digs it through his jeans and my pants against my pussy.
He grabs me and lifts me, holding me in the air. For a second I just hang there, but then I realize that he wants me to take off my pants and my underwear. I wriggle out of them and then he places me down and quickly yanks down his jeans. I’ll never get used to just how huge that cock is, springing out of his underwear like a loaded weapon, so huge it intimidates me. He grabs me again and lowers me down onto it. I reach down, grabbing the base, and guide him inside of me. For a second—nothing, oblivion, floating through empty space that yawns into nothingness. Kaeden is the only person in the world who has ever been able to make me forget about forgetting.
I gasp as I fall forward, bringing my hands to his shoulders and grinding up and down on him, driving my hips down onto his cock. He stares into my eyes and I stare right back at him, both of us caught up in the whirling moment, both of us devouring each other as much with our eyes as with our bodies. He doesn’t spank me, or roughly fuck me. Instead we move slowly, together, as though we are both dancing to the same tune. I drive down harder and harder with my hips, and then kiss him, bite his lip, slide my tongue into his mouth as he slides his into mine. Our tongues dance as our bodies do; our lips brush as the heat between my legs grows and grows, quickly becoming a searing, aching pleasure that is impossible to ignore. It captivates every part of me.
“I love you,” I whisper into the euphoria. “Fuck, fuck, Kaeden. I love you
.”
“I love you,” he growls, bringing his hand to my neck. But he doesn’t squeeze. He just cradles it, using it to direct my gaze to him. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open with the pleasure running through me like a mass of rioters, but somehow I do it. “Fucking hell, I love you, Fiona …”
We kiss again, this time deeper, even slowing down the sex—no, the lovemaking—to fully immerse ourselves in the kiss. The kiss is its own universe; the kiss is its own destination. I grind up and down, his massive cock gnashing inside of me, the walls of my pussy aching as they expand each time we meet. Deep inside of me, the tip of his cock kisses my sweet spot again and again, each time the pressure within getting so intense it’s all I can do not to—
My entire body collapses forward atop him as the orgasm takes me by completely surprise, my pussy going so tight that Kaeden has to thrust even harder just to slide back inside of me, my sweet spot no longer so sweet; it explodes like something unstable, sending metal-like shrapnel all through my body, red-hot metal that churns up my belly, my nipples, my throat, my soul. I manage to clasp onto his shoulders again, grinding up and down to draw out the final remnants of the pleasure. Then I open my eyes and see Kaeden, mouth twisted, eyes locked not on my breasts or my sweat-damp thighs, but my face.
He comes inside of me as we stare into each other, and then I slide aside and lie there, panting. He just lies there too, his hand resting on my belly.
Then he turns to me. For a moment he looks unsure of himself, but then he tightens his grip on my belly and lets out a long, courage-gathering breath. “You might think I’m crazy for what I’m about to say,” he whispers. “But … dammit, Fiona, I reckon if this crazy mess has taught me anything it’s that you’ve got to take action when it’s there to be taken. So …” He smiles slightly, looking handsomer than I ever thought I’d deserve. “Will you marry me?”
My mouth falls open in disbelief, and then twists upward into a smile, and finally makes the shape for the words. “Yes, yes, yes!”
