Fury

by Cat Porter

  “Stop!” His eyes glimmered with water.

  “So I left Chicago.”

  “We can have another kid. Miscarriages happen to people all the time.”

  “Do they happen because the mother kills over and over again? Because the mother is on the run, hiding from killers?”

  “Mothers kill to protect their families!”

  “Yes, yes, families. But we—”

  “We already are a family. We always will be.”

  “A family that can’t ever be together!” I bit out. “Can’t you see that, after everything that’s happened? After all this time?”

  He winced as if I’d hit him, his eyes narrowing.

  “I was going to tell you about Motor, about…” I took in a deep breath, but the knots inside me kept on knotting and twisting. “You didn’t come that day, that night. Tania came over and told me about you being in jail, and she gave me your message. I knew then that I couldn’t keep clinging to this dream we both had, a dream that would never come true for us. We’d always just have pieces of each other, once in a while fragments. That’s all.”

  He shook his head at me. “You didn’t tell Tania?”

  “About killing a Smoking Gun in my apartment with his own knife? No, I left that out. I refused to put her in any more danger.”

  “Jesus.” His jaw hardened.

  “I can’t go back with you.” I slid up higher against the wall. “You need to get yourself an old lady who can be by your side in every way.”

  He stared at me as if I was suddenly speaking in an exotic foreign language.

  Incredulity…

  Impatience…

  Irritation.

  His eyes blazed. “I’ve been in jail for three years, and I just got out a couple of weeks ago. I jerk off, I’m thinking of you. I watch porn, I see a stripper, a pretty girl on the street, I’m thinking of you. There’s only you. Only you inside me and out.”

  My heartbeat kicked up in my chest, and I pulled tighter on the garrote I’d wrapped around it three years ago. “How was jail?”

  He let out a huff of air. “Jail turned out to be a set up. They needed me inside.”

  A hard, bitter laugh escaped me. “Yeah, they needed you.”

  He dug a hand in his hair. “You’re tired now. You’ve been on your own through all this heavy shit. You were lonely, I get it. Take some time. You...” He gulped for air, for reality to go away and come again another day. “Rethink this. Don’t just—”

  “I’ve had nothing but time to think about this, to live with it,” I said. “We kept waiting for things to get better, Finger, but they didn’t. There is no spectacular holy glimmer of light that’s going to appear over the cave we’ve been burrowed in and announce, “It’s all good now! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

  “You said you’d keep what we had safe. You said—”

  “I did, I did keep it safe.” I swallowed hard. “But we’re not some fairy tale.”

  “We’re my fairy tale!” his voice broke.

  A tear slid down my face, and I quickly wiped it away. “Well, this one doesn’t get a happily ever after.”

  “In jail, I felt you on me, inside me, under my skin, and I kept that fire burning, fed it, fed myself on it. Even though right this very second, right here, I’m hating you, I can’t cut you off. I don’t know how.”

  I pressed my back into the hard wall. Finger penetrated deep, over and over again. And it hurt. But you needed that kind of hurt to keep you aware. Keep you fired up. You needed the clawing, the teeth cutting skin. Traces of blood. The sting. That was where he and I knew where we stood. That was our truth. That was how we functioned.

  Finger crackled. Everything with him was raw and seething with blood and boiling oil.

  He took in a deep breath. “You’re all up in your head right now because of losing the baby, being on your own all this time. And I’m real sorry about that. But I know this, what you’re doing—getting married to somebody else—is about you being upset, you willing to sacrifice us for something safe, for your idea of normal.”

  He rose to his feet, adjusting his leathers, fastening his pants, sealing himself up. “I’m going to leave now, because if I don’t I’m going to say and do shit I’m going to regret later. You’re freaked out, I get that. But being apart doesn’t solve anything. Doesn’t cure anything. Being apart is nothing but hopeless for us. How can you not fucking see that?”

  “Stop it!” I crossed my arms and stepped back from him, from the great swell of emotion raging from him, sucking me into its heaving, hot waves.

  “You can’t look me in the eyes, can you? Even now that you’re gutting me.” His hand cuffed my throat as he leaned in closer, forcing my gaze to meet his.

  Raw.

  My hand clutched his wrist. “Let go of me.”

  “Don’t make me the villain in this story. You are. You took this away from us. You did this.” His voice seethed like a blade sliding in between my ribs, slow and steady, absolute. A noise rose from the back of his throat as his hand left my neck and trailed along my jaw, the edge of my face, his breath hot on my skin. My veins flooded with sour wine, searing acid.

  “I’ll let go.” Finger’s voice was low, lifeless. He released his hold on me.

  He threw open the door and stalked out of the dressing room. The door slammed behind him, and I flinched.

  My tattered heart, along with any self-respect I’d managed to patch together these three years, shuddered like a wooden house in the line of a rushing raging river.

  Overflow. Buckle. Collapse.

  A cold sweat raced over my skin. The tagged clothes hanging on the door swung back and forth. The silence was stifling. The air smelled differently without him here. Stale. The colors in the room, dull. I gulped for oxygen, but none came.

  My legs gave way. I caught myself, clinging to my worktable. Pens and bobbins of thread, safety pins, Post-its, notepads, phone chargers, empty coffee cups cascaded over the edge.

  I wanted to pull on the brakes of the locomotive hurtling down the tracks even though I was the one who’d fed it coal.

  Justin. Justin.

  I knocked my head against the table. Once. Twice. A low howl ripped from me.

  This was the end of the fairy tale, and I’d pushed the hero over the cliff. I’d torn the last page of the story from the binding of the book and shredded it, tossing the pieces in the air. Those pieces of paper scattered around me, and I knew that on that final page, there was no “...and they lived happily ever after.”

  Smeared in our blood and entrails, there was only, “The Brutal, Ugly, Fucked Up End.”

  34

  I got the fuck out of California on my bike and headed back to Nebraska. I was exhausted, worn out.

  How was I supposed to do this? Breathe? Move without the promise of her within my grasp. In the distance on the road, a blurry figure, pink and blue hair flying, arms lifting over her head, reaching toward the sky, showing me the way, welcoming me home.

  This way, baby. Right here. Here I am. Here we are.

  She was my exit, the next one coming up, the one I was straining to get to, leaning forward in my saddle, throttle high, engine screaming, wind beating on me.

  No more.

  No exits. Keep rolling, keep going, going, going.

  I blinked past the blur and focused on the road.

  Cars. Road. Bikes. Trucks. Trucks. Road.

  I’d reached Denver, and a wisp of metal scraped under my chin, the wind lifting the helmet up off my head.

  Dammit.

  The clasp on my skull helmet had snapped.

  I changed lanes, got out of the flow of traffic, pulled over, and tied the frayed ends together. This was one of my oldest and most favorite lids. I’d had it since I’d left Missouri, and I never rode without one. I’d s
een too many brains splattered on roads all over the country. I needed a new one, fast. I got back onto the highway and veered off onto W. County Line Road in Littleton, where I knew there was a Harley Davidson store.

  The summer heat was suffocating, and I hadn’t realized how much until I’d pulled up in the parking lot. I entered the shop, and my every pore sucked in the stunning air conditioning, my muscles relaxing as I stretched out my back, enjoying the blanket of cold. I avoided what seemed like a shiny Harley souvenir shop section and tracked over to the helmets.

  I passed a saleswoman with light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail wearing black jeans, black boots, and a black Harley T who was talking to a guy over a new Dyna Glide. He flirted with her more than he listened to her pitch or paid attention to the bike. She was explaining the bike’s new features to him and knew what she was talking about, but he kept sinking the conversation with bullshit. Idiot.

  I grabbed a helmet.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yeah.” I turned to the middle-aged balding man who stood in front of me. Lucky me. I raised the lid. “I need this.”

  “Very good. Anything else I can help you with today?”

  “I’ll take a look,” I said to get rid of him. He took the helmet and moved toward the cash registers.

  My eyes trailed back to the woman. Something about her was familiar, but I hadn’t seen her face yet. I didn’t forget a face.

  “Thanks for all the info, hon.” The dark haired man waved at her as he walked off, a huge smile on his face.

  “Sure. You’re welcome.” She turned, stacking a bunch of brochures into a neat pile, the smile on her face quickly fading.

  My pulse thudded in my chest.

  It’s her.

  Sister, Dig’s old lady. No. Now she was Dig’s widow. I’d heard about his murder just before I’d gotten arrested. What the fuck was she doing here? Why wasn’t she home in South Dakota surrounded by friends and family?

  A dull look was stamped on her face. Stamped and sealed there. She was going through the motions of the living. Getting by.

  What would Dig say if he could see her now? Like this? Dangling? Coasting?

  I rubbed a hand across my chest. I wasn’t dead, and neither was Serena.

  Lenore. Her name’s Lenore now.

  Lenore was out in the world breathing in the air, and I was grateful she was safe and alive. I didn’t have her with me, but if I really wanted to I could hold her or touch her or hear her voice. She wasn’t buried in the cold, hard ground.

  What did Dig’s widow have? Fading memories, thick shadows. Echoes of pounding heartbeats in the dark night.

  I got Serena out of her hell. I got her to a safe place, a place where she bloomed and took her first steps in new shoes. I did that. We’d done it together. In jail, I’d clung to a hope that there would be a one day with us, but she didn’t see it that way. Or maybe she just didn’t want that anymore. Want me enough. She’d convinced herself.

  I had to stay sane now, stay whole, whatever the fuck that was. Somehow I had to figure out how to live without her, without the promise of her inspiring me. That promise had kept me warm all these years like a slow burning fire in a field of snow and ice. I had to pick myself up from the debris we’d left behind. Somehow…

  I squelched down the urge to walk over to Sister. To look her in the eyes and tell her I was sorry about Dig. To tell her—

  Tell her what?

  My neck flared with heat, and I turned away. She wouldn’t want to see me. I’d bring it all back up for her. Memories of good times, memories of bad times. And every single one of those damned memories had her old man pulsing at its core. Why should I ruin her running away, her jamming the brake on all that pain?

  That’s what I have to do, isn’t it? Stop the pain.

  Being with Serena had made me be the man I’d always wanted to be. Daring, determined, brave. Devoted. We’d reveled outside in the sun together. Now, what was I without her?

  I went to the cash register and tossed two one hundred dollar bills on the counter. My gaze returned to Dig’s old lady who absently smoothed a hand over the leather saddle of a brand new Fat Bob. She strode to the other end of the brightly lit showroom where a young upscale couple were lusting over a new bike.

  “Okay, here’s your change. Sir?”

  “That saleswoman over there? The one in black?”

  His gaze darted over at Sister. “Grace?”

  “She been with you a while? She seems familiar. I know I’ve seen her somewhere.”

  “She just started here. Came up from Texas. Worked at a Harley store in Dallas.”

  “Must be it,” I replied. “I go through Dallas a lot.”

  “Well, don’t bother trying it on with her. She’ll only shoot you down.”

  “Oh yeah? Thanks.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Grace had run away. Grace was on the carousel of go round and round and make it all a blur.

  Dig was dead and gone; that was absolute. Like my and Serena’s baby.

  A baby…

  We’d had a baby...

  My brain couldn’t even begin to wrap around that one. Something stung in my chest, wrenching there like a flaming poker.

  In jail, my first bunkmate was obsessed with Hinduism and meditation. He’d yelp about reincarnation and karma as I’d be smashing cockroaches in our cell. Had my baby’s soul been waiting for its cue to come to us? After the miscarriage did his soul go somewhere else, to another family? Does he belong now to better, more deserving parents?

  Stop. Stop. Shut the fuck up.

  Serena had suffered all that on her own while Reich had sent me to prison—Motormouth finding her, her killing him, then losing our kid. All of it on her own. I should have been there. I should have found a way for us; a better way than hiding and biding our time. Had we wasted our time? At least she was still alive. Unlike Dig. Unlike the robot that was Grace right now.

  Grace let out a long breath, her head nodding as she pretended to listen to her customers’ chatter. What if I were dead, and Serena was stuck in grief, shuffling through her life like Grace?

  I didn’t want that for Serena.

  I rubbed an aching hand across my jaw. I needed to let Lenore have her “normal.” Let her have a life the way she chose. After everything she’d been through before me, with me, she deserved to have what she wanted, even if it didn’t make sense to me.

  Even if it killed me.

  She was marrying another man, and I was heading back to Nebraska, back to what I knew, back to the life I’d carved out for myself all these years. A life I was born into. One I liked, and one I’d intended to make richer, fuller, complete with her in it. Now that was over, and I had to accept it. I had to accept we might be better off apart, no matter how insane and how painful that felt right now. Maybe she had a point. Maybe there was too much pain, too much sorrow dividing us along with the scars.

  I charged out of the store and got on my bike, swinging through the back section of the parking lot where I figured the employees kept their vehicles. There it was. Texas plates. I memorized the number.

  I could keep a look out for Grace. No one knew the real reasons Dig had gotten assassinated. On the outside it seemed like a drug deal gone wrong, but you never knew. The rivalry between the Demon Seeds and the One-Eyed Jacks had revived with his murder, and things were shit all across our territories now. Yeah, I would do that for him, check in on his woman. I would. He was dead, and she was smoldering like a full blown bonfire put out too early.

  Smoldering, like I was.

  35

  The concert was packed.

  I was selling my dope to my usual customers at the May Day Rock Fest just over the border in Colorado. Drac stuck by my side, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone questionable, any potential agents of
the law. People had endured a long, cold winter, and they were starving for the sun on their skin, riding, and partying outdoors. The few spring music festivals there were around rocked for business heading into the summer tidal wave. It was low grade action, but steady. The civilians wanted their party supply, from high schoolers to college pricks to upper middle class white collar types. Plus, a number of my Flame brothers and members of other clubs from far and wide ordered up bulk amounts ahead of time.

  The sun was dropping in the red sky. The whole night lay ahead of us. The wild ones had been unleashed.

  A local band that had made good was the third group up. They were all right. Not my scene. I preferred heavy metal to this grungy whiney shit with too much guitar thrown in for a classic rock effect. Everyone was trying to sing like Eddie Vedder these days, but nope, only in their sorry ass dreams.

  “My heart’s on fire! My heart’s on fire!” the lead singer screeched.

  I knew this song. I’d been hearing it from every open car window I’d passed on the road this week.

  And that’s when I saw her.

  My stomach nosedived like an elevator run amok.

  Everything suddenly blurred out. Everything was fuzzy except for her. Only yards from me. Could’ve been five thousand or four, three, two, one. I’d know the curve of that face, those lips, the slim column of that throat. All my senses flared to life again. That ache twisted inside me hard, and it hurt.

  Now she had blonde hair, waves of warm honey. Her arms were swirling with tats, her chest dancing with bold designs and colors showing from under the long white sundress she wore. She clapped and cheered for the band.

  I was rooted to the spot. It had been over six months since I’d seen her. Half a year. An eternity.

  Serena. Serena.

  She turned.

  Those blue green eyes. Oh God, those eyes.

  Those eyes locked on mine, making the blood freeze in my veins and roar to life, rising like whirling storm winds, ripping and unrooting everything in their path. A sensation unlike any other—a burn, a sizzle, an electric misfire that exploded and combusted instead of simply charging.