by Callie Hart
“I thought this might be coming soon,” Fatty says, breaking into a grin. “You sure he’s ready?”
I knock my fist against the counter, grinning back at him. “Fuck yeah. If the guy can make it through an encounter with Maria Rosa unscathed, he’s earned his ink.”
Fatty laughs, reaching for a pack of smokes and lighting one. “He’s gonna be unbearable after this.”
“Oh, I know. If his head gets too big, you can just kick his ass. Cool?”
“Cool.”
I turn around, finding that the oldest Widow Makers—Keeler, Brassic, Danny, Foxer and Josephine—have already stood up and are waiting with knowing smiles on their faces. Foxer, the guy responsible for managing the grow we have underway beneath the worn floorboards of the barn, is also in charge of new recruits. I’ve already spoken to him about what’s about to take place and he’s green lit the guy. He gives me a sharp nod when our eyes make contact, reaffirming his approval. I may be the head honcho around here, but I don’t have time to personally assess every new recruit we get. I value Foxer’s opinion as much as I do Cade’s, though. He knows what it takes to be a Widower. If he’d said not now, not ready, this wouldn’t be happening.
“Carnie, you ugly motherfucker!” I shout over the top of the chatter in the bar. Carnie, sitting across the other side of the room, immediately looks up, surprise on his face. He pushes his glasses up onto his head and stands. Everyone else is silent. “What’s up, Boss?” he asks.
I collect the bottle of Trader’s off the counter and I crack it open in front of him. I wince as I take the tiniest of sips. Everyone in the clubhouse roars, the sounds of their hollering and cheering set to raise the rafters on the place. Carnie, god bless him, looks around, completely confused. I hand off the bottle to Cade, who also takes a really fucking small sip.
“It’s time,” I tell him. “You’re in.”
More shouting and hollering breaks out, coupled with the thunder of people drumming their hands and feet against the tables, the floor, the bar. Carnie lifts both eyebrows, smiling cautiously. “For real? You’re serious?”
Cade holds up the bottle of bourbon, toasting it at Carnie. “We don’t break out this stuff unless we’re for real, man.”
Nearly everyone in the clubhouse aside from Carnie knows the pain that bottle is going to bring him. There are countless groans as Cade holds it out for Keeler to take. I don’t even need to watch to know he won’t be taking a big mouthful; every single member of the Widowers will drink out of that bottle before it gets passed to Carnie, and no one will want more than a taste of the vile liquid on their tongues.
“What is that?” Carnie asks.
“That, my friend, is a rite of passage. Once everyone’s taken a sip, the rest is for you. And you gotta finish every last drop before I’ll ink you.” I unzip the black bag in my hand and bring out the ink gun that Cade brought home with him from the Dead Man’s ink Bar. It’s been about two years since I’ve tattooed anyone, but that doesn’t matter. This particular tattoo is something I can draw without a stencil. I could probably do it with my eyes closed if I wanted to. Carnie whoops, ripping his Widow Makers MC Prospect T-shirt over his head.
“Bring it on!”
The bar fills with more laughter and shouting as the other club members all gather around Carnie to slap him on the back and welcome him into the fold. Cade leans against the bar beside me, laughing an evil laugh. “Poor bastard’s not gonna be so happy in about an hour,” he says.
And he’s right. Barely an eighth of the Trader’s is gone when it’s handed to Carnie. The guy finally understands what he’s let himself in for when he takes his first big slug from the bottle. His eyes water, his face reddening to a dark crimson. “Holy fuck! This stuff’s worse than lighter fluid.”
By halfway down the bottle, he’s looking more than a little worse for wear. By the time he’s draining the last few drops of bourbon into his mouth, he’s already thrown up twice in the spillage bucket Fatty keeps behind the bar.
When I’m presented with a semi unconscious Carnie, carried between Keeler and Brassic and dumped unceremoniously onto the long wooden table that runs down the center of the room, I’m a little buzzed myself. They lay Carnie out on his front, his back bare and just begging for some fresh ink.
The Widowers surrounding me, each and every one of them wearing their cuts with pride, all stand around and watch as I fire up the tattoo gun and begin my work. Carnie sleeps like a baby through the entire fucking thing. Probably for the best. Three and a half hours later, I’m well and truly fucked on good whiskey and Carnie has a perfectly straight, perfectly perfect Widow Makers New Mexico patch inked into his skin.
“It’s a fucking masterpiece,” Keeler laughs, slapping me on the back. “You’re the only motherfucker I know who can tattoo someone when they’re falling off their fucking chair, Boss.”
“Fuck you, Keeler,” I laugh. “All right. Someone get this sorry bastard out of here. Shay, maybe you can make sure he’s taken care of when he wakes up, huh?”
Shay, the girl Carnie’s been trying to impress since the day we brought him back here as a prospect, shoots daggers at me. “I’m not his goddamn old lady, Rebel. I thought the Widowers didn’t do old ladies?”
Her tone is shitty to say the least. I lift an eyebrow at her, too drunk to be fucked with warning her to watch her mouth, but sober enough to tell her what I think of her attitude with one look. “I didn’t ask you to wipe his ass for him. I asked you to look out for him. We clear?”
She looks away, pouting, staring at the floor. “Sure. Of course.”
“Good.”
Cade’s at my side, then, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Time we shut this mother down,” he sighs.
“Yeah.”
“You gonna be hung over in the morning?”
I punch him lightly in his ribs. “When have I ever been hung over?” It’s true. I can drink until I pass out—not that I do that very often—and still be fighting fit when I wake up. It’s a god given talent.
“Whatever, man. You need to get your ass to bed. Don’t forget. You have a girl to charm tomorrow.”
I grunt, trying to tell myself that I almost forgot about the beautiful woman I have locked in my cabin over the ridge. That’s pretty fucking laughable, though. Throughout getting Carnie so fucked his eyes began to work independently, and through every minute I was pouring liquor down my throat, marking someone’s skin for life, marking him as one of my own, I hadn’t forgotten about her.
She was all I was thinking about.
It’s three am, when I’m headed in the direction of the cabin, the girl still on my mind, that I get the text from Leah McPherson. I can just about make out the words:
Your father’s term is ending. He needs you to come home and keep up appearances. It’s just for one night, big brother. Will you come?
******
Sophia
I lay on the bed, wondering if he’s actually going to return or not. Sleep doesn’t come easily. On my back, staring up at the ceiling, I jump at every sound or creak in the cabin. I want to be alone, but then again I almost find myself wishing Cade or Rebel would come back, simply so I would have someone to be angry at. Being angry at them from afar is just as easy as it is in person, but face to face has its benefits. I’m hoping, despite how futile that hope might be, that one of them will finally realize how evil this is and let me go. Of the two men, my money is not on Rebel. He was so frustrated when I refused to do what he wanted me to. I get the feeling he doesn’t get told no a lot.
I fall asleep eventually. I dream that I’m at Dad’s work, at St. Peter’s, and both Dad and Sloane are working over me, trying to save my life. I have a gaping hole in my chest, and blood is pouring everywhere. Sloane keeps leaving instruments inside my chest cavity. She’s crying and so is Dad, but my sister is inconsolable. She’s sobbing so hard she can barely speak as Dad tells her what to do. I want to remind her to take out the scalpels and retractors
and swabs she’s leaving inside me, but my body won’t respond. I have no voice.
Dad straightens up and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing blood everywhere. His mouth pulls into a tight line—a look of disappointment I’ve seen many times before. “That’s it. She’s a lost cause,” he says. “Nothing more we can do.” He turns to Sloane and throws his arm around her shoulder, pressing a kiss against her temple. “Never mind, pumpkin. I suppose I still have you.” He turns around and begins removing his gloves and gown, but Sloane bends down and whispers in my ear.
“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men…”
“Stop that, Romera. I told you. She’s gone.” I can’t figure out why Dad’s calling Sloane by her last name. He pulls her away, but she fights him. She grows more and more hysterical and he wrestles with her, dragging her off down a long, white corridor.
“All the king’s horses! All the king’s men! All the king’s horses!”
I’m not listening to her, though. I’m sitting up on the gurney, reaching into my chest, searching for the instruments that were left behind. My fingers don’t touch upon anything for a moment, and then I find what I’m looking for. I remove both hands, covered in blood and gore, but I’m not holding scalpels and swabs. In one hand, I’m holding my fake ID, smeared with blood—Sophia Letitia Marne, smiling out of the photo. In the other hand, I’m holding a gun.
I jerk myself awake, my heart slamming in my chest. For a brief, terrifying moment I think my chest is still open. I clutch both hands to my body, feeling solid ribs and breast and sternum, all rising up and down, up and down way too fast.
“Bad dream?”
I barely bite back the scream that’s building in my throat. Rebel’s standing at the foot of the bed, watching me with his arms folded. With no shirt on. His tattoos aren’t limited to his arms and shoulders. They fan out across his pecs, too, down each side of his body in swirling lines of black and red and green and blue. He looks like he’s posing for Men’s Fitness. Admittedly, with a physique like that, he could legitimately earn good money modeling for those guys. I push myself back in the bed, horrified when I realize I’ve worn that god-awful oversized T-shirt to bed again. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“Getting ready to go to my father’s place. I’m taking you with me. Sound good?”
“Only if your father’s place is actually a police station.”
He pouts at me, barely hiding a smile. He looks good when he smiles; I hate myself for acknowledging that, but my brain is still reeling from my nightmare. I’m not equipped to be fending off visions of his near-nakedness right now. “My father’s the governor for the state of Alabama. He’s the chief of police’s boss. Does that count?” he says.
“You’re not from Alabama.”
He smirks now, taking a step closer to the bed. “Why am I not from Alabama?”
“Because you don’t have an accent.”
“Oh, that’s definitive evidence right there. You must be on the money if I don’t drawl, huh?”
I shake my head, trying to pull myself together. “If your father’s the governor for Alabama, why would you take me to see him?”
“Because he’s a righteous asshole and I hate going back there on my own.” Rebel turns away, opening up a closet and pulling out T-shirts and full, button-down shirts. He starts making a pile on the end of the bed.
“No, why would you take me, the girl you’re holding against her will? You have to know I’ll tell him what you’ve done as soon as we walk through the door.”
Rebel reaches up high into the closet and pulls down a North Face duffel bag; he proceeds to place the piles of clothes inside. “You could do that. Or,” he says, looking up at me, “you can come with me and keep your mouth shut. You could let me tell you a little more about the guy you saw stabbed to death in that alleyway. You could listen to everything I have to say, and then, when our trip’s over, you could make your decision—whether you’ll help me or you won’t—based on everything you’ve learned. And then, either way, I’ll let you go.”
“I told you. I’ve already made my decision.”
“Based on no information whatsoever,” he says.
“I’m sorry. Like I said, I have family to protect.”
He carries on placing clothes into the bag at the foot of the bed. I watch for a moment, distracted by the shift of his muscles and the powerful lines of his shoulder blades. He’s quiet, not looking at me as he works, but then he says, “Okay. Fine. I’m gonna be gone five days. You can stay here and stare at the television. And when I get back, we’ll fit you out in a room in the clubhouse. You should be relatively safe in there. Though, there’s a lot less to do, of course. And no TV. Just four walls and a bed.”
“You just said you’d let me go either way!”
“Only if you come with me to my father’s place and suffer though his annual charity gala with me.”
I just stare at him. I can’t figure out what the hell is going on with this guy. He’s rude, abrasive and pushy, and now he wants me to go on a road trip with him? “All right, fine. I’ll come with you. But this is a complete waste of time. I’m not going to change my mind. You may not like your family very much, but I love mine. I won’t do anything to jeopardize their safety.”
I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. I must be crazy. Scrambling out of the bed, I tug the T-shirt down in an attempt to cover my thighs. Rebel stops what he’s doing and watches me, a smile clearly itching at the corners of his mouth.
“If I come with you to Alabama, you have to swear you’re not going to rape me.”
He almost chokes on his laughter. “I swear, I’m not planning on raping you.”
“And you have to promise you’re not going to sell me or loan me out to any of your friends so they can rape me.”
Rebel holds up three fingers—scout’s honor. I doubt this man was ever a scout, and even if he was, the bastard never had any honor. “There will be no raping of any kind, performed by anyone while you are under my protection. Louis’ old Princeton pals get a bit frisky when they’re on the sauce, but I swear I will defend you to the hilt.”
I fold my arms across my chest, shooting daggers at him. “Well, all right then.”
“And Sophia?”
“You’d better swear the same. From your choice of T-shirt slogan, I’m a little worried.”
“What? What do you mean?” I look down at the shirt. It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself.
“One of my boys went to Thailand last year. Said half the chicks there had dicks. Are you—”
“No! God! This is your shirt.”
He runs his hand through his thick dark hair, sending it sticking up in eight different directions. It still somehow looks like it was styled that way by a hairdresser. “Nope. That is not mine,” he tells me. “I would hate to hazard a guess as to who it does belong to.”
“Urgh!” I’m about to reach for the hem and tear the thing off over my head when I realize I’m not wearing anything underneath. Rebel has the look of a positively evil school kid when I glance up at him. He probably thought he was going to get a free show. I shove past him, into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. This room has fast become my safe place. How am I going to cope without a separate space to shut myself away when I need to? How am I—
“Hey, Soph?” Rebel’s muffled voice comes through the door. He sounds close, as though he’s leaning into the wood, speaking softly. There must only be a couple of inches between our bodies. I take a step back.
“What?”
“Y’all should know, ah’m definitely from ’Bama, baby. Any tahm y’all wan’ proof, alls y’all gotta do is holler.” He laughs as he moves away from the door, and I rip the T-shirt off over my head, growling under my breath.
The man is a nightmare.
REBEL
I started out murdering people from a very early age, killing my mother as I made my way out of her body. I took a twenty-two-year sabbatic
al after that. Since then, I’ve put a good many people in the ground. I like to console myself sometimes, when I’m feeling shitty about things, by reminding myself who those people were. They were violent, evil men. Men who made a living from the abuse of others much smaller or weaker than they were. Afghanistan left me with a zero tolerance for that kind of thing. It’s just not in me to let it slide.
As Sophia’s showering, I’m wondering whether I should start by telling her how many people I’ve shot or stabbed, y’know, just to get it out of the way. Shay comes by the cabin with the clothes I asked her to go buy first thing this morning; she’s weighted down by all the bags she’s holding in her arms, and she’s mighty pissed off. But then, that’s her usual expression: resting bitch face.
She doesn’t step foot inside the cabin. She just dumps everything at her feet, blowing her bright pink hair back out of her face. I can barely keep track of what color her hair is from week to week normally, but the fluoro pink seems to be sticking. Propping a hand on one hip, she casts a disgusted look at all of the bags at her feet and sighs. “You realize, this is probably very, very unhealthy, boss.”
“What is?’
“You, hoarding women’s clothing. I knew you were kinky, but I never knew you were balls-out weird.”
“They’re not for me, Shay.”
She lifts her eyebrows, nodding slowly. “Uh-huh. That’s what my Uncle Donald used to say. He likes to be called Princess now. He’s married to some guy down in the Florida Keys. Left his wife and kids. The works.”
“Shay?”
“Yeah?”
