Teller (Tarnished Souls MC Book 4)

by Dusty Lassetter

  (Tarnished Souls MC)

  Book 4

  By: Dusty Lassetter

  Teller

  Thirteen years old…

  Summers in New Mexico are generally unbearable, but today is a special type of heat. It’s the kind that cloaks your entire body in a boiling sensation, threatening to suffocate you where you stand. Sweat is pouring off me in buckets, but Roberto refuses to give me any water until I am done mowing the backyard. All the other thirteen-year-olds in our neighborhood are out causing trouble while I’m stuck here being my stepfather’s slave. I used to run off with my older brother before his dad had time to wake up from his naps, but after my return, the beatings were always worse. If I want to survive long enough to leave this shit hole, I just need to keep my head down until I turn eighteen. Then, I can leave without the cops bringing me back to get my ass kicked by a drunken man.

  Glancing at the rusted screen door that was left open so Roberto could watch me, my heart rate starts to beat widely in my chest. The mere thought of what I am about to do threatens to send me into an early grave from cardiac arrest. When I don’t see a tall, looming figure standing in the doorway, I decide to make a quick run to the water hose spigot that is only a few feet away. As long as I move fast, I shouldn’t get caught.

  Turning the brass knob slightly to the left, allowing the water to drizzle out, I dip my head into the cool liquid first. My long black hair doesn’t help keep me cool in the sun, but keeping it this length is important. With short hair, everyone would be able to see the scars on my scalp, from the random objects that have been thrown at it. Tilting my head toward the sky, I savor the refreshing taste of the water that lands on the back of my tongue. I can feel the spray working its magic as my body temperature starts to drop.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The sound of his voice hurls a sense of dread straight through my nervous system, and the feeling of his hand tangling into my hair casts a shadow of fear over me. I wasn’t fast enough, so now I will pay the price.

  “Greed is a sin, gringo,” he roars while turning off the water. Forcing me to stand at my full height, which is at least three feet shorter than his, Roberto continues to spit his religious beliefs into the air.

  “You are always wanting more from this life than you have the right to take. You’ve already stolen enough from me and your mother. Our home, our food, and still, that isn’t enough.”

  As he is yelling, I can smell the scent of alcohol on his breath, much stronger than usual. It becomes clear to me that this time is different. He’s beyond any reasonable thought he might possess. A cold sensation washes over my body, and it’s then I realize I need to get away. I need to fight back.

  Twisting my body, landing an elbow onto his soft gut, I ignore the pain his grip is bringing to my head. The shock from my attack causes him to loosen his hold just enough for me to yank free. I look across the yard trying to form an escape route in my head when my eyes land on a familiar form standing on the wooden step by the door. My mom is watching the show with a look of boredom on her face.

  “Did your balls finally drop, boy?” Roberto laughs out.

  I tear my gaze away from my traitorous mother to look into the eyes of the man threatening my safety. I don’t favor Roberto like brother does. His coal black hair might be the same color as mine, but my jawline and cheekbones are more pronounced than his chubby ones. Considering his golden-brown eyes that seem to be glowing with rage, the nasty scar above his eyebrow turns a brighter red.

  Reaching into his back pocket, he quickly pulls out the weapon he has threatened me with many times but never used. The shiny black handle of his switchblade reflects off the sun as he turns his wrist to press the silver button with his thumb. In an instant, the sharpened steel hidden between the two pieces of marble snaps into place.

  “You know what people do to disobedient dogs, gringo?” He asks the rhetorical question as he starts closing the distance between us. “They put them down.”

  Lunging at me with more speed than I’ve given him credit for, Roberto swipes the knife through the air. The tip of the cold metal slices into my retreating abdomen. We both look down to see my dirty white t-shirt with a three-inch hole in it, beads of red starting to stain the torn pieces.

  “Fuck you,” I finally say, allowing all the hatred I feel toward him to come out in my voice. The surprise of my words is registered on his face. It’s not often he hears me talk, and when he does I’ve always made sure to treat him with respect. I fear what might have happened if I didn’t.

  In a shocking move, he places the blade to his own arm, slicing two parallel cuts into his brown skin. Switching the deadly object to his other hand he continues to cut himself on the opposite arm.

  “You see this, Jocelyn?” He shouts. “Your boy came after me with a knife, and now I must defend myself.”

  The smile on his face says he knows, without looking, that my mother will agree to whatever he asks of her. I understand what Roberto is doing. I’ve grown up in this shitty neighborhood, and I already know too much about violence at my young age.

  “They’ll never believe you,” I naively state. The cops around here don’t care about me, or any kid living in a poverty-stricken city. They’ll see my death as one less criminal in the making, probably thankful for this asshole taking care of me before I become a problem to them.

  “Sure they will,” he laughs out before charging at me. The fear rushing through my bloodstream is unlike any I’ve felt before, and my mind immediately goes to fight or flight. Swinging my arms out as hard and fast as I can, I only manage to catch him on the chest a couple of times before he’s able to restrain my arms at my sides.

  With my hands pinned down at my sides from the bear hug he is using to confine me, there is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable. Positioning the sharpened metal to my throat, Roberto leans down to laugh in my ear.

  “I’ve waited years to do this.”

  Knowing these will be the last words I say in this lifetime, I make sure they come out strong and believable.

  “I’ll be waiting for you in hell,” I say before he applies pressure to the blade on my skin and slides the steel across my neck. Just as the first trickle of blood starts pouring from my wound, I hear the panicked voice of my brother getting closer.

  “What are you doing?” Junior screams.

  There is no pain, just a sense of pressure and panic. I know it’s hopeless to try and stop the blood flow, but the instant Roberto allows my body to fall to the earth, my hands wrap around the fresh wound. Blood is rushing through my fingers, and when I try to take a breath, my lungs fill with nothing but a warm liquid that leaves my upper body jolting from a cough.

  “What have you done?” The sound of my brother’s frantic voice makes me want to turn my attention toward him, but I lay immobile, staring at the empty doorway to the house. My mother has opted out of seeing her husband take the life of her youngest son. My mother is a coward. My mother is just as evil as him.

  Teller

  Past…

  The cramped room feels even smaller today. Saint’s bed takes up more than half the floor space. The other half is reserved for all the machines keeping him alive, but that’s not what is causing this feeling of claustrophobia that’s slowly driving me insane. Every night I come here, I share this space with those meaningless objects, but tonight is different. Scarlett, the woman I have claimed as my own, is sitting quietly in the corner of the room. Her leafy-green eyes watch everything I do, causing the unmistakable feeling of judgement to spread across my skin in a tingling sensation that makes me angry. My stepfather used to do the same thing. He would examine every one
of my movements, patiently waiting for an action that would require penance for my sins. Roberto Garcia was a devoted Catholic, that also happened to be an alcoholic child abuser. He never laid a hand on Saint because that was his son, his blood. I was the bastard gringo he was forced to endure, and the one person engraved to love me above all others, my mother, allowed him to treat me like the unwanted family dog. If not for my brother, I wouldn’t be here today. If not for Saint, I would have died years ago.

  Coming home from the hospital, and knowing I was going to have to live with the monster that tried to kill me was almost unbearable, but Saint had reassured me that he wouldn’t leave me alone with Roberto again. Weeks went by and he kept his promise. I would go everywhere he went. In that time, he taught me how to sell drugs, shoot a gun, and use a knife better than anyone. I was his shadow, and I finally felt like I belonged. I think he felt guilty for all the times he ignored the way his father treated me. Roberto hated me because my mother ran out on him when Saint was just a baby. She spent a year trading one man’s bed for the next until she became pregnant with me. When she came crawling back to Roberto because she had nowhere else to go, he took her back. The day I was born, he refused to give me his last name, so my mom had to use her maiden one. I would have been better off in foster care, but my mother claimed she loved me. That was a mistake she ended up paying for.

  Thirteen years old…

  Six months ago, I almost lost my life, but ended up losing my voice instead. I can still talk, but the action is painful. After only three words, it begins to feel like I am swallowing razor blades, so I gave up trying. I’ll just have to learn how to get my point across without words.

  “I’m going outside to take this call,” Junior states.

  He always tells me where he is going to be, just in case Roberto starts his shit with me. I know the asshole regrets that the attempt he took on my life failed, and I have no doubt he is waiting for the prefect opportunity to rectify his carless mistake. The doctor said if the blade had been just three centimeters deeper I would have died within seconds. Roberto and my mother collaborated a story to keep his sorry ass from going to prison. According to them, a bunch of thugs came into our yard and attacked me. Roberto showed the cops his arms, swearing he had tried to fight the attackers off. Saint and I didn’t even bother telling the truth because, in our neighborhood, you don’t allow the cops to solve your problems; you do it yourself.

  “He’s not coming back,” Roberto spews, standing in the doorway of mine and Saint’s shared room. His words slur together from all the alcohol he has consumed tonight.

  Having almost lost my life, I no longer fear death. Hell, I sometimes wish for it. That’s why it’s easy for me to express, with my hands, how I feel towards Roberto Garcia. Lifting my hand high in the air, I slowly lower all my fingers but one.

  No words are said as the fat bastard lunges forward. I try to rise from the bed before he can land on me, but my feet lose their footing and I end up falling back down with him landing on top of me. Fists, the size of grapefruits, start landing on my body. He’s not aiming at any specific spot. His wild arms are flailing and hitting any part of me they can. My arms are stuck between his body and mine so I have only one weapon. Digging my head into the mattress, I put enough space between his face and mine before jerking it forward. The top of my skull makes contact with the bridge of his nose just as Saint rushes into the room.

  Ripping his father off me with enough power to send the alcoholic lush falling to the floor, Saint stares down at him with murderous rage shining bright in his eyes.

  “You were warned,” he spits out. “I told you what would happen if you touched him again.”

  Roberto, finally registering the severity of his situation, tries to persuade my brother to choose him over me. “You’re going to let this mute come in between us. I’m your father, Junior, you can’t kill me,” he grunts while wiping the blood onto the back of his hand that is trailing from his nose.

  “Most sacred heart, he accepts from your hands, whatever kind of death it may please you to send to him tonight,” my brother starts to pray over my father as he pulls out the knife he always keeps in his pocket. “With all its pains, penalties, and sorrows in reparation for his sins.”

  “You ungrateful bastard!” Roberto yells as he starts to rise back to his feet. I’m off the bed and at my brother’s side before the old man can get off his knees.

  “For all those souls who will die tonight, and for your grateful glory.”

  As soon as Junior is finished praying over his father’s body, he takes the knife and stabs him straight in the chest. Before he pulls the blade out, knowing Roberto will bleed out, he leans in and whispers to him, “Mi hermano viene antes que todos.”

  My bother comes before all.

  The unmistakable feeling of someone touching my arm interrupts my daydream and leaves my skin crawling. Snatching the offensive hand that dare make contact, I turn my head to look in the eyes of my offender. The nurse’s frightened brown eyes are trying to look down, reminding me of a wolf that is willingly bowing to his alpha, so I squeeze her frail wrist tighter to get her attention back where I want it.

  The only way for me to relay messages to people is by using my eyes, or certain gestures with my hands. I hate to talk. The act itself doesn’t hurt as much anymore, but the sound of my voice is not pleasant, even to my own ears. The day Roberto cut my throat isn’t the day I became the monster everyone tries to run and hide from, but it is the day he made me sound like one. There is only one person I talk to, and this bitch isn’t him.

  “I…I’m…I’m sorry,” the short, round woman starts stuttering. Growing up, I always had people complimenting me on my baby blue eyes. They would say the color sparkled like glitter in the sun. Now, at the age of twenty-seven, I hear people whisper about the lingering look of evil portrayed through the blue spheres. Unlike most criminals, I’ve embraced my wickedness, and find it disgraceful for anyone to try hiding behind a fake smile. I am what this world made me, so why should I try concealing it from them?

  Thirty, that is the number I count to in my head before releasing her wrist, allowing her to step away from me. I’ve perfected the time it takes people to get the message I’m trying to relay, and anything after thirty seconds would’ve had that girl running out of the room. At least now she knows not to touch me.

  “V…V…Visiting hours are over,” she says, stumbling over her words like a scared rabbit. I tear my gaze from hers to look at my brother peacefully sleeping in his bed. I make sure to remove the white thermal blanket from his body. Saint has always been a warm sleeper, often waking up from sweating through his clothes. He wouldn’t want all these blankets on him. As soon as the heavy cloth is removed, I untuck the sheet from around his feet, giving him the extra airflow he needs to sleep better.

  Placing my hand on his shoulder, I lean into Saint’s personal space. “Mi hermano,” I whisper for only his ears. Speaking those words, without hearing them back, always sends a sharp pain straight through my chest, like getting stabbed in the heart with an ice pick. Every day I come in here and have to witness his tattoos fading because the life is slowly draining from his body. I find it harder to keep the binds that are holding me together from snapping. Hope and revenge are the only emotions I feel, but the first one seems to be fading. The day I walk into this room and feel no hopefulness in my brother’s recovery will be a day everyone will remember, but pray to forget.

  Scarlett

  I wait for Teller to release the nurse’s arm before walking out of the room to give him a short time of privacy with his brother. I can’t exactly say why I waited for the beastly looking biker to free the woman from his death grip, it’s not like I would have been able to stop him from hurting her, but I couldn’t force my feet to move until I knew she’d be okay.

  Teller is scary. He has a look in his eyes that reminds me of a caged animal. Only, if released it won’t be an angry dog coming at you. Those blue ey
es hold nothing but the promise of pain and anguish, the kind that can only be found in the deepest parts of Hell. Inside him is a demon unlike this world has ever seen, begging to be released. That is why I need him. The man that haunts my every thought can’t be stopped by anyone else. Slasher may be a deranged psycho, but Teller is something more. He won’t become another one of Slasher’s victims because a man like that can’t be killed. Heaven wouldn’t want him, and Hell would be too scared to take him. Teller will help me get what I desperately seek: protection. Teller will kill Slasher, especially since the Blacktop Sinners President was the gust of wind that helped bring down the house of cards that put Saint into a coma. He started this series of events when he started selling women to the highest bidder. I just need him to keep me safe while he searches for the monster. Once he finds him everything Teller will do to Slasher will be deserving. I just hope he makes his death slow and painful.

  Walking out of the front doors and into the night air, I move to take my usual spot in the nearest corner to wait for Teller when an unsuspected movement by his motorcycle captures my attention. I pause all actions, focusing on the direction I saw the shadows playing. Squinting my eyes to get a better view I start to think I’m seeing things when it happens again. There’s no telling how much longer Teller will be, sometimes he stays past visiting hours just to prove he can to the staff, and I would feel awful if something bad was happening to his bike while I only stood here watching.

  Just move your feet. Don’t be a coward.

  I hear a small voice repeating the words like a broken record in my head, slowly helping me to build up enough courage to move. The one advantage I have is my ability to be quiet. Bit by bit, step by step, I slowly eat up some of the empty space between me and the unknown. I continue to keep my focus on their movement, knowing if I were to look away they could potentially get to me. As long as I see them coming first there is still enough distance between us for me to get away. King Kong himself could climb up this building, beat on his large chest, and I still wouldn’t break my concentration.