by Jordan Marie
I’m about to light into the crazy fool when she goes slack in my arms. I’m tempted to let her fall in the rain and leave her laying there. With my luck, she’d pick up that fucking chainsaw again and actually succeed in killing herself this time. Instead, I pick her up in my arms and carry her to the door of her house.
She might be pregnant, but she weighs next to nothing. She’s obviously not taking care of herself, another mark against her. I shuffle her body around so I can open the door, then I take her inside. The house is cool, almost cold. I walk her through the small hallway. I have to walk at an angle to prevent raking her legs or head against the pale blue walls. I get her into the living room. There’s a piece of crap couch in there with actual duct tape covering tears in the worn fabric. All the money Pistol made through the years and this is the shithole his sister lives in.
My stomach turns, and if the man were alive, I’d be sure to kill him again. Laying her on the couch, I then proceed to the small fireplace. Grabbing a couple pieces of wood that she has placed close by, I put them on the fire while raking through the red embers. It doesn’t take long for the popping and crackling sound of wood burning to be heard.
Glancing back at the woman, I see she’s still out. I think about taking her coat off, something to help so that she doesn’t catch pneumonia from being so wet. In the end, I do none of that. I don’t have it in me to touch her, and I don’t really want to look at her.
Instead, I walk back through her house, looking for the window that was broken. I find it in a small bedroom in the rear of the house. It’s obviously the room she is turning into a nursery. There’s wallpaper on the walls that’s a pale yellow about half way up the wall that has little stripes on it. The rest of the wall has been painted a creamy white and there are zoo animals hand-painted above the wallpaper. The animals are cartoon like, but expertly drawn. They’re all wearing some kind of strange article of clothing in yellow that matches the wallpaper. There’s an elephant wearing a yellow beret, a penguin wearing a yellow tie, a hippo wearing a yellow tutu, and I stop looking when I see a lion wearing a yellow hat and matching scarf, because by then, I see the window.
Raking my hand along the side of my face, I scratch my beard, and automatically search for the deep groove of the scar I have there. I shouldn’t bother. This isn’t my job. This woman isn’t my concern. Still, I find myself figuring out what I need to board up the window in here. If I don’t do it, the crazy woman will be back outside trying to saw the damn tree again. I look at the baby furniture in the room. Clearly secondhand, and though there’s nothing wrong with buying used furniture, these pieces are crap. They’re completely worn-out, about all they are fit for is a bonfire. Then I notice the crushed bassinet.
Something sifts through my gut that I can’t name, and I’m not about to investigate. Whatever the feeling is, however, becomes the deciding factor. I find a flashlight on her kitchen counter. The batteries are weak so the light is pale at best, but it will have to work. I go outside to the small shed by her house I noticed earlier. It doesn’t take me long to find the supplies I need.
The first thing I grab is an axe that’s hanging on the side of the wall, then take it back to the tree. I cut off enough of the branches so that I can physically push the tree, dislodging it from the house. The rain has slowed, but it hasn’t stopped, so that’s all I fool with for the night. Then I return to the shed to grab the ratty old piece of plywood and some assorted nails. It’s not much, but it will work until she can get someone out here to work on it.
When I go back inside, the woman is standing by the door to the room. She looks pale and there’s a tremble in her body that visibly moves through her when she sees me. I ignore it—and her. At least she’s changed into dry clothing, she must not be a complete idiot. I allow a brief glance. Apparently clothes that are three sizes too big for her are all that she wears. I begin picking up the broken glass and clearing the small room of the debris.
“I can do that,” she whispers. I ignore her, grunting as I continue to work. “You really don’t need to do all that. You’ve done enough,” she says again.
I grunt, mostly ignoring her, as I take the large pieces of glass and set them inside a bucket I found in her mudroom when I first came through the door.
“Broom,” I order.
She jumps, wrapping her arms around herself. “What?” she asks, but I don’t repeat, I only sigh in frustration and wait. She swallows nervously, then runs in the direction of the kitchen. She’s back with a broom and dustpan. She starts to sweep but I take the broom from her. She freezes and looks up into my eyes. I look at her wrist and I can tell there’s a bruise forming. I did that. The sight of it annoys me as much as she does.
“No,” I tell her, taking over.
She stands there watching me, but thankfully doesn’t offer to talk further. When I get the room reasonably cleaned up and the debris cleared out—even the tree limbs, I decide I’ve had enough. I pick up the broken bassinet to toss out to burn later when she speaks again.
“Please. Mr. um…well…Michael. Don’t do that. I want to keep it.”
I freeze and look over at her. It’s been so long since a woman has said my name, it feels weird to hear it. I’m not sure I like it.
“It’s broken,” I mumble, telling her something she should already know, and doing it while hating the sound of my own voice.
“I know, but it can still be used. I’ll take the top off it and just use the bed part itself. It will be fine.”
“It’s broken.
“I know,” she insists, a little more forcefully, her face flushing into a pale red. “I can still use it to keep the baby in my room,” she says, her hand trembling as she moves it across her round stomach. “It will work until I can afford something better,” she states, her voice sounds defensive.
Her feelings aren’t my concern.
I shrug in response, putting down the bassinet. I walk out of the room and can hear her following me as I reach the small mudroom. I have the door open, intent on doing nothing more than getting back to my space, my quiet…to be alone.
“Michael?” her soft voice reaches me, stopping me from leaving the room. Almost against my will, my head raises to look at her. “Thank you,” she adds.
I stare at her a moment and leave without a reply.
10
Hayden
I look up at the clock for the hundredth time. This day seems like it’s never ending. The diner is about dead. We never get a lot of traffic on Mondays, but today is worse than normal. Usually, Charlie sends me home on days like today, but the other girls called in sick so I’m all she has. The end of my shift is only thirty minutes away. Surely, I can make it thirty minutes? We only have one customer right now. I guess I should be thankful. It’s been so slow, I haven’t had to deal with a lot of people. I’m still a mess from the night of the storm, and I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to push me into a panic attack.
After the mental pep talk, I start wiping down the bar. Charlie’s Diner is a small Main Street café in the center of Whitley City, and calling Whitley a city is silly. I’ve seen cities, and this definitely is not one. We have one street, (Main) and one flashing caution light, because the road dead ends without warning. That’s it. You literally have to pull into a parking lot and turn around to leave the small town. The only thing in town is this diner, the courthouse, a local bank, and an old Five and Dime Store, which is really like a Dollar General store, but they never changed the name with the times. If we want to go grocery shopping, to the movies, or even a chain restaurant, then we have to drive at least two hours away. The only other businesses in town are the clinic where unfortunately I am forced to go to the doctor, and Pastor Sturgill’s church.
Maybe that’s why I like the place though. I’m never going to be comfortable around people, and though most of the people here don’t like me, at least I know what to expect from them. The unknown monsters can be scarier than the monsters you know.
> Charlie’s looks like a diner on the set of American Graffiti. Chrome barstools, and red leather fabric with the booths and bar matching. This diner is far from fancy, and the only thing that probably doesn’t belong is the country music that Charlie blasts from an old radio and cassette player she keeps behind the bar. It’s obviously a throwback from the eighties when breakdancing and boom boxes were all the rage.
I jerk up out of my thoughts when I hear the bell ring, indicating someone opened the door. I’m hoping it’s the waitress who is taking over my shift this evening. The smile I have ready freezes on my face when I see Michael instead. My mouth goes dry, and I bite my lip. I know it’s horrible, especially considering all that work he did, even in the pouring rain, but I haven’t spoken to him since that night three days ago. I should have gone by and thanked him. I really should have thanked him when he cut the tree up and had it stacked by the house so I could use it as firewood. I didn’t. I just keep remembering how he didn’t exactly receive my thank you so well the first time around. Okay, mostly I just chicken out, afraid to face him again.
I kept repeating my mantra about being stronger. I kept picking up the leftover banana bread to take to him. I never did. I had to throw out the bread this morning. Where Michael is concerned, I’m definitely not growing stronger.
I watch as he scans the room. His eyes flit across me, and I think I see his face tighten in response. He doesn’t want to see me either. That causes a curl of sadness to unfold in my stomach. Which is crazy. I mean, it’s okay that he doesn’t like me. Still, he was nice to me. Other than Charlie and Pastor Sturgill, no one has really been nice to me before—at least not without wanting something.
He sits down at a corner booth, still intimidating me. I’m not sure if it’s the fact he’s so tall or the way he looks. Even through all the hair, you can tell he has a harsh face, angular in shape. He has scars and although they look painful, they do nothing to take away from the virile face that stares at me. It’s his eyes that may scare me the most. So dark and deep, I’m afraid they see through me. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt today with writing on it. I’m curious as to what it says, but I can’t make myself stare long enough to read it. Inhaling a deep breath, I let it out, grab a menu, and go to take his order.
“Hi, Michael,” I greet him, and I know my voice comes out timid and quiet, but at least I used words. In response, he only manages a grunt. I know he can talk; he did at the house, but apparently, I’m not worth the effort today. Getting his order should prove interesting. “Here’s the menu. The special today is meatloaf. Do you need time to look at the menu, or do you know what you want?” He looks up at me then, and it must be said, the look he’s giving me indicates even louder than before that he really doesn’t want me to be here. “Right. I’ll just give you a little time. Do you know what you want to drink?”
“Coffee.” It’s one word, and he didn’t even bother to look at me when he gave it. But I guess it’s better than a grunt.
Leaving him with his menu, I go to get his coffee, bringing it back to him just as the bell on the door rings again. I look up and my heart stops…freezes mid-beat…then stutters back to life as fear ignites through me. My hand trembles and hot coffee sloshes out on my hand. Even the hot, stinging burn doesn’t jar me as the two men come in the door, heading straight for me.
“What the fuck?” Michael’s hoarse voice growls, and it breaks through enough of my panic to see he’s reaching for the coffee, probably because I’ve just poured the scalding liquid all over my hand and down on his legs.
“I’m so sorry,” I cry, still not really feeling the pain on my hand. It’s red. Logically, I know it has to hurt, but there’s too much panic and adrenaline running through me. I place the coffee carafe on the table—or rather I try. I might have succeeded if Jack and Dog hadn’t sat down. Instead, it misses the table and crashes to the floor in a shattering crash that echoes through the room. I feel like I have a million eyes on me, which isn’t rational, but that’s how I feel.
Michael jerks his leg, as more of the coffee hits him before making it to the floor. Shit.
I’m saved—kind of, when Charlie comes from behind me. She puts her arms on each of my shoulders. I jump, making a bigger mess.
“I’ll take care of it honey. Go in the back,” Charlie says, her graveled old voice, softening to an almost tender quality. She’s holding two towels and wraps one gently around my hands.
“Fucking up as usual, hey Tricks?” The sound of that old nickname forces bile to rise in my throat. I hate them. God, how I hate them. What are they doing here? They never come here. I bite my lips, refusing to turn around and look at them.
“Go into the back, honey. Now.”
I nod weakly, and I might have been okay, but I look down at Michael. That was a mistake. A big mistake. Michael is returning my stare, but I’ve seen that look before. That look they all have. The look that every man gets when he hears the name the Shadow Dwellers Motorcycle Club gave me. A name I hate. A name I can’t stand. A name that has tears threatening to spill from the brims of my eyes now. One lonely tear escapes as I turn away from him, and run away into the kitchen. Today, I can’t even pretend I’ll be stronger someday.
11
Beast
“You two need to get out.”
“Now, Charlie is that anyway to greet paying customers?” One of the Shadow Dwellers answers. I can’t say as I blame her. Jesus, I hate everything about these pricks. I only wanted a simple fucking lunch.
“I wouldn’t take your money if I was starving,” she mutters.
“I want you scum out of my restaurant.”
“You’re getting too cocky, old woman. We’ll leave when our business is over with our friend here,” he answers, and that’s about all I can handle.
“If that’s what’s keeping you, then you can just go. I don’t have any fucking business with you, and we sure as hell aren’t friends,” I growl.
“In that case, I’ll take your order,” the old woman says, her withered face, spreading into what is almost a smile. I order a burger while watching from the corner of my eye as Hayden flees into the kitchen. She’s not coming back. I should be glad about that. I shouldn’t be worrying about her. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about going after her. Definitely not. What the hell would even bring that thought to mind?
I lay the towel over my leg—not really caring that much. Then I look up at the two men who sit down and make themselves at home. I really hate these fuckers. I hate their entire club. The Shadow Dwellers are a bunch of sniveling cowards. They’re fucking scum. I don’t normally give a fuck about clubs and how they get their money. It’s their business. But the Dwellers are notorious for human trafficking. How the fuck did Hayden get mixed up with them?
“A little birdie told us you were in our territory. Blade doesn’t like the disrespect you’re showing him, brother.”
“I’m not your brother,” I growl at the little weasel who’s speaking. I’ve dealt with him marginally before. Some club business sent us through the northern part of North Carolina, which is what they claim to run. They’re way out of their territory here. This asshole is the Vice President of the Dwellers, and he’s a fucking prick. I didn’t like him when we dealt with them, and I like him less now. He’s tall, skinny, and the ugliest motherfucker I’ve ever seen. That’s ironic coming from me, considering how I look these days, but this fucker…he’s ugly all the way through. His pockmarked face and blond, greasy hair is just the beginning.
What was his name? My eyes go to his cut, and I read the name Mad Dog. Oh yeah, that’s original.
“Customs are customs,” the other one says. This one I’ve never actually seen, but he’s not that different looking. His cut says his name is Big Jack and that makes me want to laugh. I shit bricks bigger than this asshole.
“If I was still in a club, maybe I’d care. But since I’m not…” I shrug, appearing unconcerned and that’s easy, because I’m not. I�
�m through with that life. I’m through with idiots like this, and I’m really through with club politics. “I don’t give a fuck,” I tell him.
“You’re not here on behalf of the Blaze?” Dog asks, and something about his look sends off an alarm bell, but I ignore it. I’m not in this mess anymore.
“There’s nothing in this fucking town the Blaze cares about anymore, that includes me,” I mutter, just wanting him gone.
“We heard talk you left the Devil’s.”
“Seems that little birdie is quite the talker.”
“You know how it is.” Dog shrugs.
“Maybe you could tell me how the hell you knew where I was today. You having me followed? Because club or not, I’m not about to take that shit.” I study them for a minute, making sure my face shows my boredom in having to deal with them. “Tell me boys, does Cade’s uncle know you’re in his area?” I ask them. These fuckers want to pull my chain, then they need reminded, I know what the score is. Cade is over the Blaze’s Florida chapter. His uncle, however, is thick in the Torasani family. The Torasani’s aren’t a family you want to mess with. Messing with them has a nasty way of making it so you stop breathing.
“You just said your people didn’t give a fuck about this place anymore,” Dog growls.
“Blaze may not, but I can’t say the same for Torasani. This is their territory.”
“Where we go is our business. You talk awful big for a man who doesn’t have muscle backing him,” Jack says.
I don’t say anything for a bit. I watch Dog shift in his seat, and I know my silence is unnerving him. I’m doing it mostly to make sure my voice doesn’t crack around him, but let him think what he wants. Finally, I get tired of dealing with them. My face goes ice cold, then I lean up, so he can see how fucking serious I am. “The day I need anyone to back me up when I’m squashing you piss-ants is the day they need to plant me in the ground.”
