Shooter and Mary both said something about people being saved—so maybe that’s what this place is. Maybe Shooter brings these people here, protecting the women from the big bad world outside those gates and giving new life and meaning to the men.
It seems insane, and yet also possible.
Could that ever really happen though? Could there ever be peace where a group can live out their days without the need for violence and murder? Just that perfect, blissful place between what was and what is, where everything is right with the world and there are butterflies and unicorns and the only thing left to worry about is if you’re going to make it in time to watch the next episode of The Walking Dead or if you’re going to catch it on repeat?
I’m not so sure. Those moments of sweet satisfaction are always too few and too far between, and they never last long enough. And me, where do I belong in a place like this? Wherever I go, death quickly follows. I may have washed some of the dirt away, but my filth still remains. I mean the type of filth that’s more than skin deep, and bone hard. The sort that ruins your soul.
Like leaving your friends behind to die in the hopes that the bloodthirsty murderers killing them will help hundreds of other people live.
It’s a yin-yang sort of feeling, really. On the one hand, I did something good. I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t, or that my decision was all bad. But on the other, I’m also an evil piece of shit that deserves to die a horrible death. I’d even go so far as to say that there’s a special place in hell just for someone like me.
That’s okay though. I mean it’s not, of course it’s not; I’d obviously prefer to head upstairs to the pearly gates with the big guy in the sky when my time comes to die, but I get why I won’t be going there. And hey, I’m not asking for sympathy or even a friendly wave to see me off to the underworld. I feel my guilt, and I own it. It may not have been fair, or right—the choice I had to make—but I still made it regardless.
I lay down the brush and then ready myself to leave the bathroom, because I obviously can’t stay in here forever. Besides, I need to find Michael and get us the hell out of here. He’ll have been stitched up by now for sure, so hopefully he’ll be good for getting back on the road.
When I open the door for the second time in five minutes, the most glorious smell hits me, and I decide that my imminent escape can wait a little while longer so I can eat something other than jerky and granola.
“Hungry?” Mary asks as I come further into the room and I look around trying to find the scent of heaven I can smell.
I nod. I mean, my heart says no but my stomach grumbles hell yeah, go eat your fill, woman!
“Follow me, Nina.”
She leads the way to the table where the other women had been sitting earlier and pulls out a chair for me. I swallow down the saliva that’s suddenly filled my mouth and sit, eager to dive into the feast before me. And when I say feast, I seriously mean feast.
There’s meat and fish, fruit and vegetables. There are juices and the distinct smell of coffee in the air, and—
“Good god, is that cake?” I reach across the table and snatch a piece of what distinctly looks like a vanilla sponge cake, and before anyone can answer I’m shoving it into my greedy, waiting mouth. “Ohmygod! Thisisamazing,” I mumble round the mouthful of cake, my eyes practically rolling back into my head in delight at the wonderful taste. “How is this even possible?”
Mary smiles, and it’s nice to see—a real, genuine smile that lights up her face. “Enjoy it. You deserve it after what you’ve probably been through.”
I swallow the piece of cake that’s suddenly lodged in my too-dry throat, guilt fanning at my cheeks. I grab a glass of water from the table and take a large gulp of it, buying me precious seconds to work out how to get across to these women that I am not some sort of beaten housewife, or sex slave for a man—which is what I’ve come to the conclusion they think I am. In fact, given the way a lot of these women act, I’m guessing that’s what they all were at some point. At least until the biker brigade rescued them all.
What I can’t work out, though, is why they think I was like that.
“Look, lady—” I begin.
“Mary,” she counters, taking a seat opposite me. Her lithe fingers reach out and she picks up a strawberry. “Call me Mary. All my friends do.”
I try to smile back but I feel nervous and uncomfortable, and I know that me and her are never going to be friends. “Look, Mary, I’m not like you.” I glance around the room at the other women. “Or them. I’m not a victim.”
Mary smiles. “That’s what we all said when we came here.” She reaches across and places her hand on top of mine. “It’s okay. You’ll see in time that it doesn’t have to be like that anymore. You’re a free woman now, and the Highwaymen will look after you.”
“No, I’m really not. Michael’s my friend.” I pull my hand out from under hers, getting frustrated by her sympathetic stare. “We were out looking for another friend of ours when we got caught up with your biker buddies and they forced us off the road. I don’t belong here, and Michael really isn’t a bad guy.”
Mary’s smile has fallen, and the other women in the room all look less than impressed by my speech. Some of them are whispering amongst themselves, and none of them will meet my gaze.
“I can see that we’re going to need to work with you quite a bit,” Mary finally says, sounding sad.
I drag a hand down my face and grumble. “I’m fucking serious, Mary. I don’t want to be here. Those men out there did not save me, because I did not need saving. I appreciate it though, and I honestly love what they’re doing here, but they’re going to hurt my friend and he’s done nothing wrong!” I look from face to face to garner their reactions, but I can see that these women are still brainwashed, only now they’re brainwashed into thinking Mary’s way instead of a man’s. It’s just as bad in my eyes, because they’re still not having their own thoughts. And they’re still not being responsible for their own safety.
“It’s like Shooter said, ladies: it was a misunderstanding.”
I mean every word of what I say, though there is an edge of hysteria in my voice now. Because the more I talk, the more anxious I become for Michael. I look around the room, seeing the distrust and sympathy flooding from all of these women, and I wonder how brainwashed they all truly are.
I push back my chair and stand up with a shake of my head. “I need to go.” I start to walk away from the table and then reach back over and grab an apple because I can’t even remember the last time I ate a damn apple! I turn away and then turn back and grab a slice of meat and bread from the table too, my gaze strays to the coffee pot and I groan in wanton need for it, but I need to get out of here and make sure Michael is okay.
Michael first, coffee second, I say to myself and walk toward the door shoving the apple and meat in my pockets.
I open it, half expecting it to be locked, but it’s not. Outside is the big biker named Gunner. He looks up as I step out into the daylight, his sad gray eyes looking at me in confusion for a moment before recognition hits him.
“Hey, big guy, take me to Shooter,” I say, walking toward him.
He looks over my shoulder toward Mary and the others, and she must let him know it’s okay because he nods and turns to walk away. I follow him, this time making sure to get a proper look at the camp we’re in, and color me impressed. This place is great. Solar panels cover most of the roofs, crops are growing in rows, and a large water tank is set up to collect rainwater. The place is neat, organized, and efficient—at least from what I can see.
Gunner eventually stops in front of a large building and looks back at me as we approach. Two bikers are sitting outside in wooden chairs, smoking and chatting. When they see me approach they both stand up, their stares never leaving Gunner.
“Everything okay here?” they ask, and I wait for Gunner to reply before realizing that their question was actually directed to me.
“Erm, yea
h,” I finally reply. “I need to see Shooter.”
They two men look at each other and then back to me before replying. “He’s in surgery.”
“Surgery?”
“Yeah.”
I wait for them to say more, but when they don’t I roll my eyes in frustration and take another step forward. The two bikers share a look, and take a step backwards.
“Where. Is. The. Man. I. Came. In. With?” I say. It’s not quite yelling, but it’s definitely verging on that.
“Ma’am, you don’t nee—”
“To worry about him. So you keep telling me, but I do worry about him, very much so. He’s my friend and you’ve all got the wrong idea. So I’ll say it again: I need to speak to Shooter.” I feel like I’m going in circles, and none of these guys look like they believe me. I’m more frustrated than a meat-eater at a salad bar. I groan and drag a hand down my face before turning to Gunner. He takes a step back and won’t keep my eye. “What is wrong with you?” I turn back to face the other bikers. “All of you? I thought you were these big, bad biker dudes, yet you’re acting like victims. This is insane!”
When I turn back around I see another woman coming forward, flanked by Mary. I’m almost relieved at this point, because it feels like I’m talking to three brick walls for all the sense I’m getting out of these men.
The first woman steps forward and holds out her hand. She’s got smooth, dark brown skin, and the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. Seriously, if I was to ever turn to the other side it would be because of this woman. There’s something exotically beautiful about her. It’s not just her looks, but the way she moves and the way she holds herself, and the fact that she seems completely genuine, unlike Mary.
“Welcome, Nina. I am Amara.” She takes my hand in hers, her long, slender fingers wrapping around my hand, and she gently coaxes me away from the men. “Come with me and tell me how I can help you.” She turns to Mary briefly. “I’ll take it from here.”
Mary purses her lips but backs away, giving me a look of pity and annoyance all rolled into one. Amara has a slight accent that I can’t put my finger on, and the tone of her voice is soothing. I start to walk with her, still feeling frustrated, but I at least have the feeling that I’ll be able to talk some sense with her.
“The friend I was brought in with,” I begin.
“The man?” she asks cautiously.
I nod. “Yes, the man. His name’s Michael and he’s a good guy, despite him being male and a grumpy asshole. He’s never hurt me—and would never hurt me—could never hurt me,” I smirk, “you’ve all got the wrong idea, even Shooter agrees on that fact. I need to check that he’s okay. He was hurt when Shooter and the others…” I hesitate as I think of how best to describe it. “Well, when they basically drove us off the road and almost killed us.”
Amara continues to smile and nod as we walk. The long material of her skirt dances around her ankles, and her arms hang loosely at her sides. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun at the base of her neck and I can smell the soap on her skin.
She takes a seat at a small wooden bench with a rusted memorial plaque on it. I can imagine that years ago, young girls hoping to learn to survive out in the wild would have been sitting here, giggling, talking, glad to be away from home and their nagging parents for a couple of weeks. It’s ironic really that years later this very bench has grown women trying to survive sitting on it.
I sit down to the left of Amara and wait for her to say something. Silence lapses between us as she watches Gunner take a seat on the opposite side of the path, his eyes watching us, but never catching our eye. I watch him with a frown, wondering what his deal is and why everyone is treating him like a leper. It makes me feel kinda sorry for him.
“Gunner is in recovery,” Amara says, practically reading my mind. “He had been holding a woman as his own for nine months when Shooter found him. Before that he’d held two other women until he was done with them. He’s learning to see women differently. As people rather than objects. As their own people, rather than his property to do with what he will.” She looks back at me, her smile still in place. “He’s there, almost. Now he has to learn to build people’s trust up in him. Shooter will make it happen—he always does.”
I look over at Gunner, seeing the scars across his knuckles and the way he holds himself as if he is trying to curl up in a ball. He’s a broken man for sure, but behind those sad, sad eyes, there is a spark of something. Danger, perhaps? A hunger for something, maybe.
“He’s a protector now, though I have no doubt that he still has urges. A leopard, as they say, does not change its spots. It merely adapts to its surroundings.” Amara’s smile falls briefly before she corrects herself. “Your friend took a bullet to the head, Nina. Or rather, it grazed past the side of his head. Nothing life-threatening. He broke several ribs in the crash, though, and was badly concussed. He’s lost a lot of blood. Shooter is stitching his wounds right now and giving him a transfusion. Once he’s out of surgery, then you can see him.”
“Finally, someone talks some damn sense around here,” I say, feeling some relief at being heard instead of ignored. “As soon as he’s ready, we need to get going.”
Amara frowns. “Going? Why would you go?”
I cock my head, trying to work out if she’s serious. “Because I don’t belong here.”
“Where do any of us belong anymore?”
“Touché,” I retort. “I’m looking for someone—my partner—I need to find him. I need to know that he’s safe.”
“Why have you been separated?”
I shake my head and look away, not sure how to answer that. Because the truth is, other than it being a long-ass story to explain to her why Mikey and I aren’t together right now, I’m also not entirely sure. Since I met him, this has been our thing. We find each other, overcome a problem, and then we separate. It’s like our fates aren’t aligned or something.
“It’s a long story,” I finally reply.
“Aren’t they always,” she retorts with a soft smile. “The world out there is dangerous, Nina. In here it’s safe. There’s no need to leave safety for such uncertainty.”
I look out across the camp, seeing that the doors to the small cabins are open and women are coming and going now. Cooking, cleaning, making things. Each woman is flanked by a Highwayman—their protector, it would seem. It seems such a simple, easy life. But I’m not sure I can live like that.
“This world wasn’t made for women like us.” Amara’s frown deepens. “It was made for men, and men only. But the Hell’s Highwaymen, they’re good men—at least for the most part. Shooter is a good man, and he’s protecting us…he’s keeping us safe. You just have to let us help you. You’re not the first woman to not see yourself as a victim.”
I purse my lips and shake my head. And when I look back at Amara all I feel is annoyed. “I’m not a victim, Amara. I’ll never be one, not ever again. I can fight, and I can survive out there on my own, if need be.” I stand up, seeing from the corner of my eye that Gunner does too.
Amara looks unhappy, but that’s just tough luck.
“I need to go, because unlike you, I know my worth and my place in this world. And it’s never going to be cowering behind walls and men.” I lift my chin up as she stands, my gaze boring into hers. “Not ever again. I’m not a victim anymore! Things have changed now.”
Amara stands up too. “We can’t and won’t force you to stay, Nina, but that’s irrelevant right now, because Michael is in no fit state to go anywhere.”
I grumble something incoherent and slam my fist onto the bench in annoyance, drawing the attention of some of the women—and the men—to me.
“You say you can handle yourself?” Amara asks.
“I can.”
“Then show me.”
I roll my eyes. “Show you?”
“Yes, show me how well you can defend yourself.”
“This is ridiculous. I don’t have anything to prove to you,�
�� I scoff.
Amara smiles. “No, you don’t, and I’m not asking you to. I want you to prove to yourself that you’re not the victim you once thought you were. Because in your heart, I think you’ll see that you still feel that way.”
I look away from her with a scowl. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
“Really!” I say, looking back.
“Then why are you so defensive?”
My jaw tightens in annoyance, and all I can think about doing is wiping the smug look off her face. But I know that she’s just trying to help me, even though I of course don’t need helping in any way.
I can protect myself.
I don’t need anyone.
“You’re not alone here. We’ve all been through unspeakable things, Nina. And every man and woman here deserves their second chance.”
I look down at my feet, feeling defeated. “You don’t even know me,” I say quietly. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”
Chapter Seven
Her hand touches my shoulder, but I don’t look up. “We’ve all done things to survive, one way or another.”
“I don’t even know why Shooter brought me here. I don’t belong here. I was happily minding my own business then bam, the biker brigade comes to save the day, only they didn’t save the day, did they?” I try to contain my anger the best I can, because I know that it’s not really directed at her, but at me. And at Shooter, of course. If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be reflecting on my inner self like a damn hippie.
“Well, Shooter saw Michael trying to hide you. His exact words were that he saw Michael pushing your head down into his lap, and that you were fighting him off.”
I close my eyes. “Fuck,” I mumble, groaning. I drag a hand down my face, finally realizing that this is all my fault—not Michael’s, not Shooter’s, or even fate’s. It’s just me, fucking up like I usually do.
“There’s only one reason a man would do that,” Amara continues seriously. “And it’s never a good one, is it?”
The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V Page 5
