by Cat Porter
He released me, pushing me forward and kicking me in the back. I skidded to the pavement, the side of my face scraping on the gravelly cement, the pain excruciating. Brand new, pointy, dark brown boots appeared in my sightline.
Reich kicked me in the side. “You feeling me now, kid?”
I choked on the dust and dirt, blood on the back of my hand where I’d wiped my face.
He spit on the ground and walked off.
My head throbbed, and pain radiated through my body. I pushed myself over onto my back and gulped in fresh air, but the air wasn’t fresh. The thick humidity of the night was ripe with pot and cigarettes, beer on cement, scorched rubber on asphalt.
Reich was going to pay. One day I would make him pay.
Two weeks later, our chapter got back from Texas. We had a meeting to go over old business and new.
“One more thing,” Coop announced, his hands spread open on the table. “Finger, you’re being sent to the northern Nebraska chapter of the Flames of Hell. Membership has been dwindling down there and they need good people.”
My back stiffened. Northern Nebraska? One of the shittiest chapters on the map.
Chaz’s face was set in a scowl as he busied himself collecting a bunch of maps and papers into a pile. The other members muttered and sighed, shifting in their seats, sharing glances.
“Nebraska?” I repeated.
“What the fuck?” Gyp mumbled next to me, a hand tugging through his spiky black hair.
Down the long meeting table, Reich studied me, his muscular arms folded tightly across his chest, a toothpick shifting between his lips.
He couldn’t just take me out, or keep making my life miserable. Nah, he wouldn’t dare. I was a symbol for the Flames now. With my pedigree, POW status, and scars, I was a huge asset, a living testimonial to standing up to the brutality of the enemy, and also of the new treaty between our historically hostile clubs.
Nebraska. Change.
I needed a change. I was chased by ghosts here, wasn’t I? Ghosts of my past and an uncertain present, not to mention a future that seemed distant, unclear. I was still living in that same small dorm room I grew up in at the club, for shit’s sake, surrounding myself with bits and scraps I’d scavenged.
Somewhere else, I could make something of myself without all this drama if I put in the effort. Yes, even in Nebraska.
Something for me.
What do I have? My colors.
In Nebraska I wouldn’t be Reich’s bitch waiting for him to drop kick me whenever he felt like it, however it entertained him. Things in Nebraska were crap, bottom rung on the ladder, but I could work with that. That was an opportunity.
It was time for me to invest in me.
I could finally plan on getting Serena out and bringing her with me, keeping her safe.
I had to plan.
When I was fourteen, I’d gone out one night with my dad to set a bomb at this rich guy’s house who owed money to someone the club owed a favor to. My dad had set up this intricate wiring in his basement workroom, then at three in the morning we’d laid it out at the target location, setting up the bells and whistles.
“Why don’t you just set up a thingamajig with a remote control and let that be the end of it?” I’d whined in the icy cold air, slipping on a patch of mud for the tenth time.
He’d grabbed onto my arm and pulled me close to him. “I don’t just blow shit up, Kid. I design an experience. It’s a thing of wonder for them and for me. You know those cartoons and old western movies with the long cord connected to the pack of dynamite? And it sparks along, traveling up the cord until kaboom, it blows?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.”
“There may not be cords and dynamite packs anymore, but I still set the distance, the time interval of the kaboom—it’s a dance. I don’t just blow shit up like some moron. You got to consider the timing, the spectacle, and the afterwards. Each one has its own requirements and rewards. It’s up to you to set the time for yourself to move to a safe distance, ‘cause you still want to be part of the experience. At least, I do. It demands patience, planning, precise calculating. And many times you need to improvise at the last minute. You gotta be ready for anything at any time.” His eyes actually gleamed. “Any jackass can mouth off, pick a fight, shoot his gun. What I’m talking about takes creativity. Know your opponent, be conscious of the blow back, where the particles will fall. And leave no clues behind. It’s always tempting to go the big immediate route, but trust me. It ain’t worth it. Most assholes don’t get that, but I’m telling you, it’s worth the work you put into it.”
My father, the Fuse, was a fucking smart man.
A smile broadened my lips, my gaze remaining on Reich.
Yeah, Nebraska.
I leaned forward on the great wood table, folding my hands together. “Nebraska, huh? Cool.”
Chaz glanced at me, sitting up in his chair. Reich’s eyes narrowed at me, his brow a tense ridge. His highly anticipated explosive device had malfunctioned.
“They need good people there. You’ll be an asset, Finger.” Coop knocked his gavel against wood, and my pulse thudded.
Fuck you, Reich.
I pushed back from the table and strode out the door. I packed my extra pair of boots, my two other jackets, the few clothes I had, the compass, and headed for my bike.
I never wanted to be reminded of that room again. That room being the only home I’d ever known since I was seven years old. All the shit in it—the small TV, the clock radio, the posters, the worn out blankets, the whatever the fuck, weren’t mine, but theirs, and I wanted no part of any of it no more. I was going to shake all of it and all of them off me like dust.
Dust.
I grabbed the urn filled with my dad’s remains.
“Finger, wait up!” Gyp came running after me as I loaded the back of my bike. “Oh man, this sucks.”
“Nah, it’s fine. It’s better this way. I’m good with it.” I pulled tight on the bungee straps over my duffle bag and clipped them over the back.
“You left a lot of shit behind. You want me to pack it up and send it to you?”
“No. You take whatever you want. Dump the rest.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Shit, I’m gonna miss you.” Gyp hugged me and let me go real quick. “Sorry.”
I shrugged. “Come for a visit.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”
I got on my Panhead and started her up. Her roar warmed my blood in the cold morning air. I swung out of the property and took off.
Three and a half hours later on Highway 136, I finally got to the border of Nebraska at Brownville. The iron suspension bridge spanning the Missouri River beckoned me in the distance.
I pulled over at the side of the road, grabbed the urn and headed into a grove of trees. I hurled my father’s ashes over the straggly green grasses and short bushes, dumping the urn.
“Goodbye, Fuse.”
He belonged here. I didn’t. I knew I didn’t.
I got back on my bike and started her up, my eyes landing on the old narrow truss bridge over the Missouri. My pulse picked up, I grinned. It was hardly a magnificent gateway to a new life, but it was my gateway, my new world.
I would create my own place in the Elk charter, and I would earn it, make it mine.
Up on the slight incline of the ramp I kicked up my speed and crossed over the great river into Nebraska.
9
Reich wanted me out, and he got it. But I wanted Reich to remember me and my fucking dignity. To remember that I knew. That I’d always be watching him. That he hadn’t put me down; he had to reckon with me.
A few weeks later I returned to Missouri.
A party raged at the clubhouse. One of those open house occasions to ring in the
summer. The type of party where the club’s infamous “moon juice” was brewed. A shiny trash can filled with all kinds of booze and gallon jugs of cheap and colorful juice. A whole bottle of liquid LSD would be added to unhinge the ride from the rollercoaster track, and tabs of peace and sunshine acid would be thrown in for extra sparkles. A real Hawaiian Punch bomb.
The club was jammed full of people hunting the ultimate good time, hangers on wanting to prove themselves, chicks wanting to get noticed.
I waited.
I didn’t want to be seen or be recognized by anybody, so the waiting was fine by me when the end result would be so fucking sweet and last so fucking long.
Four a.m.
I slid through the gap in the fence at the back that Gyp had once repaired and done a totally shit job on. A few men staggered through the courtyard, a woman’s laughter rose in the distance. No music, no bike engines.
He’d be in his room off the left hallway.
I pushed at the half open door, rumbling breathing rose from the bed across the room. Reich was on his back naked. A naked blonde lay at his side, her face by his feet, his hand on the ass of another naked girl sprawled on his other side. Perfect.
Reich loved moon juice. He loved making it. He was the master of ceremonies. The showman of the grand cocktail. The warlock of the juju. He always made a big show of mixing it up with this huge wooden paddle he’d found at a hardware store. Then he’d make girls line up, lick it, and he’d paddle their asses with it—the paddle parade contest or some shit, he’d called it—and the prize was licking his cock. So creative. Sure enough, the paddle lay on the floor by the foot of his big bed. The stale stench of berries and alcohol fumes lingered over it, mingling with the odor of sweat and sex.
I bit down on a smile and slid the door closed. I put on my thin latex gloves, slipped the box cutter from my back pocket and leaned over him. Taking his soft dick in my hand, I slashed at his foreskin. Blood spurted on my fingers, and my pulse pounded at the sight, feeding my lust to take more from him. A beast unfurled inside me demanding more. A beast whose hunger was raw and desperate. I cut him in sure, precise strokes. No hesitation, no fear, only satisfaction buzzed through me.
Keeping up with my hand and grip exercises had really come through for me.
Reich howled, his eyes jerking open, his body flinching, hands searching in the dark. His eyes rolled in the back of his head, body twisting, and he whimpered and fought for air, but he was oblivious, clueless, still tripping.
He settled, and I made two more quick slashes until I was happy with my quasi-circumcision. I wanted him to live with a mark, my mark on his precious tool. Let him feel pain and anxiety whenever he got a hard on, and humiliation at his scarred cock. His “intact” cock was his pride for sure; he’d always bragged about how he wasn’t cut and more of a man since there was more of him. Now I’d made his dick ugly. Just enough that he’d always be reminded that he’d been assaulted when he was down. Maybe he’d get some kind of infection, definitely a scar. He would never know how it happened, who did it to him, but it would be there and he would know and so would I. He’d never tell anyone about it, I was sure of it.
I slid my box cutter in my back pocket. “For my dad, you fuck. For me.”
Reich’s eyes jerked open at the sound of my voice and darted over me. Those rubbery lips warbled, sounds croaked from his mouth. His head knocked back on a groan, eyes closed.
My heart pounded full and hard, the surge of adrenaline through my veins intense. I was glad he opened his eyes and saw me. Once he sobered up, he’d never be sure if he’d really seen me or he’d been hallucinating. The question would always be there in his mind, forever teasing him with my venom.
I prowled out of that clubhouse, savoring the rush. Excitement, satisfaction on a whole other level. I rode hard all the way back to Elk, making the ten hours it normally would have taken, barely eight.
My thirst for revenge on that fucker was sated for now. But I knew it was a thirst for a sweet frothy cocktail that would never end.
Damn, I liked the flavor.
10
“You’re gonna love this blast, man. Especially since blowing shit up is your favorite hobby.” Drac burst into a rich rolling laugh, handing me a fresh beer.
His long, fang-like incisors showed in his wide grin, hence his nickname for the most famous vampire of them all. Plus, he seemed to stay pale as snow all year long.
When I first landed at the Flames clubhouse in Elk, Nebraska—a clubhouse that was a rented crumbling old farmhouse with boarded up windows, a newly installed bar and a pool table with a broken leg—Drac, who was Sergeant-at-Arms, and I had clicked from the moment we met.
He was friendly without being annoying, fair minded and practical, and had a wicked sense of humor without being a clown. Unlike me, he found the positive in most shit. I didn’t speak or laugh much, and Drac often tried translating my moods and expressions and usually got it right. He didn’t get put off by those moods, and he didn’t fill the silences between us with too much talk. I liked him. Other than Drac and the Prez, the handful of other members seemed pretty sluggish and indifferent about life in general.
We were in South Dakota at a night blast at the Crazy Horse Memorial. I was really looking forward to seeing this series of continuous mini-explosions blasting the granite of the mountain. Crazy Horse’s face was outlined in rock, a feat which had taken decades. His horse and his pointing arm still had to be fully cut. Holy hell, that was patience, dedication to a cause. Here was a thing of dynamic beauty and dignity wrought from a harsh mountain of unforgiving rock.
I really liked the Great Plains. The land in Nebraska and the Dakotas was different from Missouri. Maybe I’d never paid too much attention to Missouri, but now that I’d chosen to call Nebraska home, the area intrigued me. The riding was amazing from lush grasslands, dense forests and reservoirs, to the endless prairies and the ominous Badlands. Extremes for every mood were to be found in the Dakotas and Nebraska. Of course, you had to deal with brutal cold and snow, but it was worth it. I liked that extreme cycle of seasons. Clear markers of the passing of time. A lot of people consider the flat, open space of the area tedious, monotonous. Not me. I was impressed by the massive scope of the land. I felt bound to the earth as I rode it.
In the short while that I’d been here, I’d spearheaded cleaning up and renovating the old rundown farmhouse the chapter rented for a clubhouse. The Prez, Bill “Kwik” Kwikowski let me run with it, and I did. No more rusted holes, badly repaired fences, mildewed roof, crap plumbing. We got an up to date security system and new, higher fences. The one barn at the front of the property got upgraded into an industrial type warehouse to lessen any kind of curb appeal from passers by. I’d insisted on a real workout room, and we invested in new weights and barbells and a good bench. Continuing to push myself with the exercises and workouts Ryan had given me, I’d gotten stronger than I’d ever been before.
I volunteered for every shit job and for every difficult job. The men in the club were slightly in awe of me at first and kept their distance. Drac was the only one who treated me like a person, a brother, a potential friend, not some anomaly.
The first week I’d landed here, the VP had gotten himself killed running a red light, sliding in a patch of black ice, and crashing into a supermarket truck. The following week, Kwik had me ride shotgun with him and Drac to Montana for negotiations with clubs from out west he was dealing with, the Demon Seeds being one of them. They didn’t take our chapter too seriously, considering it an insignificant outpost of the Flames of Hell. I kept silent. My harshly scarred poker face did all the talking for me, inciting tension at that first meeting.
While everyone else did a lot of talking and bullshitting, I observed. I listened to what was being said underneath the words, behind the gestures. A different story emerged, as it usually did. I dug some on my own and found out about an alt
ernate deal the Demon Seeds were trying to keep on the QT, shutting us out. Armed with this information, Kwik was able to make negotiations go his way.
Kwik liked my unassuming initiative. Drac liked my instincts. I got elected VP once we got back to Nebraska.
I knew that every effort I made, every job I completed, put me one step closer to getting Serena in my life. A life where no one would have any control over us.
Here at the Crazy Horse Memorial, I had a quick meeting with Dig Quillen, the Sergeant at Arms of the One-Eyed Jacks in nearby Meager, South Dakota. Dig and I had known each other from a run down to Colorado when I’d first gotten to the club in Nebraska. Whenever we’d seen each other, on the road, at bars, at concert venues, we were carefully friendly. Ordinarily, I kept my distance from members of other clubs, but the Jacks were located nearby, just over two hours away, so it paid to be “friendly.” Anyway, him I didn’t mind. He wasn’t a show off, and he didn’t have a chip on his shoulder or a big dick complex that he shoved in your face with every gesture or word that came out of his mouth. He didn’t talk shit and had a good sense of humor too, even if I barely let it show that I thought he was funny. He seemed respectful, and I liked that.
I’d tested his waters a couple of weeks ago. I had an emergency, one brother out when his old lady was having a baby, and I’d needed someone to fill in on a moment’s notice on a delivery to a contact in southwestern Wyoming and everyone else was in Ohio at a Flames assembly. I took the risk and called Dig.
My Prez was interested in pushing at the Jacks to see where they lay in the bigger picture in the area. They were a small club, only with another chapter in North Dakota and one in Colorado. Were they more useful to us cooperative or crushed? We knew the Demon Seeds had been making life and business difficult for them for years now. We could help them out for a price if they needed a big brother to step in. Always good to have alliances with smaller clubs against the larger ones.
