Captive: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel

by Natasha Thomas

  However today I’m not giving my traitorous excuse for a body a choice, it’s getting up whether it likes it or not, putting respectable clothes, not sweats or pyjama pants on, and hauling ass into town. Definitely not my favorite place to go of late, but today I don’t give the first flying fuck about the stares, nasty gestures, or name calling. Today is the ninth of May, and nothing, I mean nothing will stand in my way when it comes to laying my poppies.

  I might be alone, but I won’t be brought down by anything today. It’s too important. Too special to allow anyone to interfere with it. So by sheer will alone I’m showered, dressed, and pig swilled up managing to haul my carcass out the door by seven thirty AM.

  On a brighter note, I think I scare the ever-loving-shit out of Trig, which is a plus. He was dozing in the front seat of his old, seen better days’ pickup truck when I knocked on the window waking him with a start. Poor guy almost fell right off the seat. Thankfully the steering wheel saved him, and all’s well that ends well. It would most definitely have been a shame if he damaged that pretty face of his.

  I’ve noticed after three months of borderline stalking that Trig is indeed a gorgeous specimen of male. Tall, broad, with a goatee and half beard covering his face Trig is covered in colourful, some humorous, some not tattoos, ripped with muscle, and very much the biker if you discard the truck and replace it with a bike of course. The funny thing is, he does nothing for me. As in, nothing. Sad, but true. Not that I’d even consider having a relationship with another member of the opposite sex ever again, but if I did unfortunately good old faithful local stalker number one wouldn’t be in the running.

  While I can appreciate his sexiness for what it is, and the man is definitely sexy, I don’t have any desire to see him naked, which is also a shame because I’m sure he’s even more stunning buck naked.

  But I digress. After waking Trig telling him I’m heading into town I start up my charger making my way along the quiet streets that lead to the place that gives me the most anxiety attacks of late. So I suppose it’s good that Trig’s always around because God knows what I’d do if I had one and couldn’t get home. And let’s be honest, Trig is a decent enough guy that he wouldn’t let me sit on the side of the road hyperventilating. Actually after last nights’ little chat I think deep down Trig’s more than a decent guy, he’s nice. Sweet even. He apologised, and I did what comes naturally, I forgave him. Too easy? Not really. We’ve all got a choice whether we hang on to bitterness and resentment, and I for one don’t have the room inside my head for either. So forgiveness it is, until he fucks up. Then I’ll have to kick his ass and make him apologise all over again, because again let’s be honest, he’s a guy, he’s bound to fuck up sooner or later. But for now I’m just going to wait and see if I can have a friendship with the silently brooding man, and take it from there.

  Letting my mind wander isn’t something I do often any more. Actually I try not to do it as often as possible, because more often than not I find it wandering to places I can’t steer it away from. Places that involve Reaper, the people I used to call friends, and how much I miss home, particularly the guys, Emily too. But driving seems to give my brain the perfect opportunity to take a walk on the dark side, and delve into thoughts it shouldn’t.

  However on days like today, especially today, my thoughts stay focused on wanting my family here with me. There’s nothing I want more than to have them taking this trip just outside town with me. They were my support crew when I didn’t think I could place one more flower. They encouraged me to keep going, see it through. And every year I did. We did. Because we did it together, all of us.

  Allowing my mind a quick trip down memory lane I reel the thoughts of Reaper’s hand, mouth, and cock in, placing them in a box to be continued at a later date. Or not, it depends on how I feel at the time. That’s the beauty of being able to compartmentalise, I can put everything neatly in its little box, packing them away until I see fit to pull it out, and go over the contents. It’s a self-preservation technique I learned very early on, and one that’s served me well.

  There’s one flower shop in Blackwater, and thankfully the owners belong to the group of residents that studiously try to ignore me above anything else. It makes getting in and out of the shop fast and relatively painless, if it weren’t for the multiple trips to and from to collect the hundred and something poppies I had specially ordered in for today. Albeit for the most part Mr. and Mrs, Farmer ignore me, they mutter their thanks for my patronage, seeing as I spent four hundred dollars with them that’s only fair, turning their backs on me the second the words have passed their lips. Not a surprise, but what does surprise me is that it still hurts. That people in this town no matter how horrible they’ve been still have the capacity to hurt me comes as a huge surprise.

  I thought I was past that, and maybe today I’m more sensitive than most other days, regardless I berate myself internally warning what’s left of my fractured mind to harden up and eat a spoon of cement. I can’t keep letting people I don’t know, people that don’t matter affect me like this. The stress is putting undue pressure on my body, and even a little nudge might land me in hospital, or so says my obstetrician. At first I thought he was being over cautious, but after last week, and the way I felt the over load of stress take it out of me I know he wasn’t kidding So, it’s time to toughen up, start moving forward instead of being held captive in the past. What they said yesterday doesn’t matter I tell myself. What they say today can’t hurt me, and tomorrow doesn’t bear thinking on until it gets here.

  The drive to the cemetery is short. There’s no time to dwell on the reason for my visit, there’ll be plenty of time for that later. Rounding the last curve on the hillside leading through the wrought iron gates I slam on my brakes, staring in shock at the sight in front of me.

  At least thirty bikes line the one lane road on the lead up to the main burial site. Harley’s in black, blue, gold, and white gleam in the early morning sunshine, and a symphony of tailpipes rip through the air as they notice I’ve arrived. Three men stand off to one side, and it takes me less than ten seconds to unbuckle myself and fling my body into theirs.

  “You came,” I breathe out.

  Chuckles fill the air, my heart lightening at the sound of them alone.

  “Of course we did Addie. Nowhere else we’d rather be.”

  None of us really want to be here, but I understand what Boss means. This day signifies more than just the day I lost my baby, it signifies the day I finally hit my lowest point. More importantly than that though, it signifies the day I decided to pick myself up, rise from the ashes and begin again. Like the mighty Phoenix, I chose to rise not fall and these men were there through it all.

  Hugging each and every one of them individually, tightly, the group parts and I catch sight of someone making their way up the hill. Before giving it a second thought I take off running. Launching myself at the figure I hold on tighter than I ever have before. Tighter than I need to, but I need the right now. I need the comfort, the safe this body offers. It’s probably wrong to rely on someone so much for my sense of well-being, but when everything else in my life is up in the air, out of my control, this is real. This is something I can hold on to without judgement or fear of retribution.

  “You didn’t think I’d miss out on the party did you baby girl? Moms’ know when their babies need them, didn’t need you to tell me you needed me here for this to know it would be what you wanted, honey.”

  Laughing at her, I feel the weight of the last few months lift a little. It’s not gone, and more than likely it’ll return as soon as they leave, but for now I’m going to bask in the weightlessness of my shoulders. I’m going to take a deep breath and enjoy them being here with me. For now at least.

  “Mom, I missed you.”

  I took to calling Emily mom when I was seventeen, and realised she was the only person I would ever consider bestowing the title on, for she was indeed my mother through and through. Every success, e
very failure she was there to encourage me, pick me up when I was down. Every time I faltered she was there to push me in the right direction, and every single time I made a choice that had the potential to put me in danger she knocked some sense into me. Not violently, but one look from Emily and man, woman, and child were instantaneously aware she’d be more than happy to kick your ass if you didn’t smarten up. I only hoped I could be half the mother she is if I’m given the chance because she is the most remarkable woman I know, and I’m proud to call her my mom.

  Clapping her hands mom starts doing what she does best, giving orders. Mind you she does this all whilst keeping me closely tucked to her side.

  “Enough gas bagging boys, jump to it. If I know my girl her trunk, and backseat are full, and we need it empty in T minus, oh, five minutes. Start heading up the monument on the left, the one with the two angels and put your haul there, we’ll be along in a minute.”

  Without delay the men of Vengeance MC dutifully follow orders, emptying my car in record time.

  “Good to see some things never change, mom,” I say as I gesture with my head to the guys carting flowers up the last of the hill without complaint.

  Looking at me with a serious expression, she puts her hands on my protruding belly and says,

  “It’s even better to see some things do.” Nodding at her, she cracks a small smile adding, “It’s a special day, Adelyn. The first of many more to come I hope. Today we’re not only honouring the past, but the present too. How are you coping with that, honey?”

  I’d like to lie. I’d like to say that it doesn’t bring me more than a little sadness to be visiting a grave site honouring the memory of my long dead baby while another grows inside me healthy and safe, but I can’t. It’s always been hard, more than hard it’s been horrible. And Emily knows it too. I don’t have to tell her, she already knows today will be harder than the years that have come before it. Worse still it’s made harder because I feel like there’s so much to mourn.

  I’ve been struggling lately to look for the positives, find the good in things. Focusing on them rather than the sadness building with every step closer to the cemetery’s entrance is nearly impossible. It used to be my trademark move, my go to default being upbeat, but more often than not I find myself focusing on the negatives. The fact that my life is not going the way I had planned it out neatly in my head is a heavy weight to bear.

  Look, it’s not like I expected perfection, I would have been content with my little slice of happiness. They say good things come to those who wait, but in my mind I have waited. I’ve waited years. It’s hard to reconcile that, and the fact that it isn’t to be just yet, but I do honestly believe it will come. Deep down I have to believe it will come. I just have to wait a bit longer than most, and I’m resigned to being okay with that as long as my chance does come.

  Headstones, monuments, tributes to loved ones lost, elderly grandparents remembered, and children mourned cover the hillside cemetery. In rows neatly aligned, it’s as if everyone has a place and there’s a place for everyone with how orderly it is laid out. In groups of three or four we slowly meander through the graves gently laying a poppy on the top of each one. Some of the guys say a few words if the mood takes them, most of us are silently reflective.

  I have always picked out one grave, one special grave to spend extra time at than the others. There’s no rhyme or reason to my choice, just a feeling I get when I’m standing in front of it that tells me to stay a little while longer. Today I’m instinctively drawn to a marker with the image of a sparrow carved into the top of the headstone. What’s written underneath is like taking a hit to the solar plexus. The air rushes out of my lungs harshly, and I’m pretty sure my heart missed more than a few beats.

  Ryan Macon Andrews

  May 9 1986 – May 9 1986

  Too short for this world,

  too pure to walk amongst mere men.

  May the ride be long, and the

  journey swift.

  Suddenly I’m battered with understanding as to why Reaper was so adamant I stay in Blackwater. Why I he refused to allow me to take what he considers his child away from him. The traitorous organ in my chest bleeds for him, sympathises with the pain he must have, and probably still does feel. After the things he’s said to me, the way he’s treated me, I shouldn’t feel so much compassion toward him, but I can’t help it. Anyone that has suffered the loss of a child deserves not only compassion, but tenderness, care, understanding. That kind of loss isn’t something that goes away with time. It’s not something you only remember on the anniversary of their passing. It’s so life altering that you feel it deep in the pit of your stomach daily. You grieve when smells, sights, sounds trigger a memory of that day. The pain assails you when you recall their face, the colour of their hair, their tiny hands and feet. Some days the loss can feel so recent that it seems like yesterday it happened, not years ago. And it can take everything you have, all your strength, to push the thoughts back into the corner of your heart reserved solely for them. Or at least that’s how it affects me.

  There have been more than a handful of days that I’ve burrowed my way back under the covers of my bed and waited for the pain to pass. Not often, but it’s not uncommon for it to still happen either. I don’t get caught in the grief for days anymore however. I pick myself up after a few hours, shower and dress, do something to lighten my mood, create a new memory in order to overpower the sadness. The guys were great for that. They would drag me out to practice shooting, take me for a ride, a drink, lunch, anything to take my mind off it. And for the most part it worked. The distraction was enough to break the cycle, and give me some relief from the pain of the past.

  Thankfully those days are becoming less and less frequent. Something that’s also caused me moments of extreme guilt. It’s not that I want to be stuck in that circle of hell, it’s more like I don’t want to erase the importance of my loss by having another child. I would hate to think that my baby is looking down on me believing that I’ve forgotten him, that don’t care, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. I do care, I always will. But like everything else there comes a time to move forward, and that’s what I’m doing.

  “What you thinking about so hard, Pixie?” Fury says startling me when he drops onto the grass beside me.

  Fury isn’t a big talker, he more like a wise shaman. He listens intently, offers advice when he feels it’s needed, but other than that he’s a silently stoic figure you’ll usually find happily ensconced in the corner of a dark room.

  “Lots of things. Look,” I say pointing my finger toward the headstone.

  He spends a few seconds reading the inscription before he turns to me, grabbing my much smaller hand in his huge one.

  “Knew he lost a kid, Boss said something about it years ago. Didn’t know it happened the same day though. That’s fucked up.”

  He’s not wrong.

  “Yes it is. Do you think he visits? It looks a little overgrown, like no one’s been here for a while.”

  Throwing an arm around my shoulders Fury asks,

  “You want me to get some of the boys, clean it up a bit?”

  “No, I think I’d like to do it myself. But thank you.” I reply laying my head on his shoulder. This is such a comfortable position for us, one we’ve been in a million times before. Fury is like my older, awesome brother. I can rely on him for anything, and he’s the one person I know that will do first, then ask questions or tell me off later.

  “Love you Pixie, you know that right?” He asks with a sly grin. Nodding without removing my head from its comfortable position on his shoulder he adds, “You’ve gotta know Reaper’s got a lot of shit in his past, babe. This is the least of it, probably the nicest too, and that’s not an exaggeration. If I had to pick for you I sure as shit wouldn’t pick him, Pixie. The man has fucking baggage enough for an army, he’s not gentle, fuck, I don’t even know if he’s got the capacity to be gentle.”

  I go to int
errupt, I don’t know if it’s to defend Reaper or agree with him, but I don’t get the chance. Putting his hand up to stop me Fury goes on to say,

  “Not telling you this to piss you off, Pixie. I’m telling you because you need to know. If he’s the one you pick, he’s the one you need, you’ve gotta know that he’s not an easy man, and it’s not going to be an easy road for the two of you. This shit is only the beginning, and for his sake you’ve gotta be a hundred percent invested, or don’t even bother starting anything. A man like him fights hard, fights for every-fucking-thing he’s got in life, he doesn’t play games, but a man like him has a weakness for women like you. Women that are all sweet and kind. Women that love with everything in them. So you’ve gotta know if you go there with him you’re the only person that’s going to have the ability to break him, babe.”

  I think over what Fury said, and wonder if he’s speaking from experience. Is he the same kind of man? The kind of man that needs a woman to give him sweet, kindness, love like no other? I know he’s fought for everything he has, that’s a given. You can see it by the scars that cover his knuckles, the healed wounds that are carefully disguised by his tattoos. You can see it in his eyes. Eyes that look pained when they’re not blank, dark, and empty.