by Vivian Lux
I wasn't in the mood to talk and stuffed my face full of lunch as quickly as I could before pleading homework to escape the dining room and race upstairs to my tiny bedroom.
Once on my bed, I flopped backwards and stared at the pitched ceiling. I felt guilty for lying. I was current on everything. All my assignments were caught up. I rolled over to my stomach and rifled through my bag. I could start the group assignment, but I had a feeling classes would be cancelled tomorrow. Philadelphia was terrible about plowing and my professor lived way down in South Philly where the plows couldn't fit down the narrow streets.
The thought of being stuck in the house with my family made the claustrophobia even worse.
That feeling made me feel guilty. Like everything else. Guilt hung over me like an ever-present weight on my shoulders.
The avenging angel overshot his landing. He toppled forward on his feet, sprawling forward. His forehead connected with the support pole of the swing set with a sickening clang.
All six of us gasped.
I was the first to move, leaving Sarah huddled in the dirt as I rushed forward. My fears had come true. I was going to have to call the police now. I wondered if he was dead.
He lifted himself up onto his hands and knees and I swear he shook himself. Like a dog shakes its coat after swimming.
Blood flew through the air like droplets of water.
He hopped back up to his feet as nimble as he was atop the swingset. Blood was pouring from a two-inch gash above his eye. My stomach turned.
"Leave them alone," he repeated. Blood licked down his face, pooling at the corner of his mouth. He poked his tongue at it, tasting his blood.
But otherwise he didn't pay it any attention at all.
"Jesus Christ, Casey, you're sick." The swagger in the taller boy's voice was gone. He sounded pale and shaky.
Casey came roaring forward, charging like a blood-soaked bull. All three of the bullies shrank back from him as he bellowed louder than anything I had heard before. 'LEAVE THEM THE FUCK ALONE!!"
They scattered, running away from the blood-soaked terror in front of them.
He planted his feet on the ground and crossed his arms, watching them go, oblivious to the blood that still poured from his wound. The front of his shirt was soaked in it.
"You're bleeding," I whispered, half to him, half to myself.
He waited a beat, and then turned to look at me. He didn't say anything about what he had just done. Just touched his finger to his forehead and regarded it coolly.
"Can I...help you?" I moved towards him tentatively, the image of his blood-spattered fury still fresh in my mind. But the boy before me showed no sign of rage anymore.
"Don't touch me," he said mildly.
"We need to get you to your parents," I bustled, turning to gather my sisters who were hanging back from the sight of him. "Where do you live?"
"You don't know?" The way he said it was odd.
"Should I?"
He looked sad for a minute, and then the scowl returned. "My parents aren't around," he snarled. "And they wouldn't care anyway." He touched the cut and grimaced. I think he was finally realizing how badly he was hurt.
"How could your parents not care?" I asked.
He bristled and turned his broad back to me. "You're annoying me and being bossy."
"Well, you need to be bossed!" I shot back, my mother's words on my lips. It was clear he needed a little mommy too. He had protected me, now I needed to protect him. I took a few more steps, reaching out my hand like I would to a wild animal. "Come back to my house," I urged. "I'll clean you up at least."
He hunched his shoulders away from my touch, but took a step forward. I realized he wouldn't allow me to lead him. But he might follow me if I started walking. "Come on girls!" I called over my shoulder, hearing my mother's voice from my lips again. "We're going home."
Mary muttered something dark and threatening, but I pretended I didn't hear as I walked back down the street to our little cape cod house. He hung back on the lawn as I opened the door with my key. "I promise, I know what to do," I told him. "I took a first aid course at the Red Cross." It was true, my mother had insisted on it before letting me stay home with my sisters.
He trudged heavily and silently up the front steps and stood awkwardly in our doorway. I realized he was nearly as tall as my father. My heart thumped strangely in my chest when he got close to me.
"Upstairs," I ordered him. "Second door on the right."
He didn't say a word the whole time I cleaned his cut. It was less serious than I thought, and once I got the blood cleaned away, I was able to close it with a few butterfly bandages. I worked in silence, concentrating on the task in front of me so I wouldn't be unnerved by the paleness of his ice-blue eyes. Up close I could see that his shaggy blond hair was shot through with the palest gold. His skin was bronzed in a way I found unnerving. The queer sensations in my belly were making me as jumpy as a cat. I fumbled with the bandages, eliciting a muffled grunt from him.
"Oops, sorry," I gasped.
"S'okay," he mumbled. The sneer that had been in his voice the whole time was gone. It was as low and warm as the heat rising from his skin. I saw his shoulders relax under my touch and had to step away suddenly.
"There," I announced, checking my handiwork. "How does it feel?"
He stood up from his perch on our toilet, unfurling himself to his full height. His strange mix of boyishness and manliness was odd to see. He bent to regard himself in the bathroom mirror. "Better," he nodded. Then his jaw worked oddly. "Thank you," he recited as if something had prompted him.
"I should be thanking you," I sighed. "You saved us."
"I don't like bullies," he grunted. "People who pick on people who can't fight back."
"I can fight back," I protested.
He only looked at me and smiled slightly. I felt awkward under his gaze. "Is your name Casey?" I barked nervously.
He nodded and wiped his hand on his stained shorts and held it out to me. "Casey Ericsson."
I wiped my hand in return. "Alexandra Delaney. Lexi."
"Thank you, Lexi."
"Where do you live?" I wondered. Only neighborhood kids hung out at our playground. Or so I thought.
He smiled a queer smile. "I'm at 451."
I closed my mouth quickly so he couldn't see my shock. My house was 463. "You're on this side of the street?"
"Five houses down."
It finally clicked. That house. The one with the overgrown bushes in the yard. The unmowed lawn. The jumble of cars in the driveway never in the same combination twice. The house my parents told me to stay away from.
Bad people lived there.
No wonder I had never seen him before.
He must have seen my realization, because a cloud passed across his face. "I'll go now," he muttered.
"You don't have to," I said mechanically. I didn't want him to. But I also did. Knowing that I had a resident of the bad house in my bathroom sent my pulse racing.
He only nodded and shuffled back down the stairs. As he left the house, the screen door slammed back shut again, making me jump.
"You are in so much trouble," Mary observed.
"Shut up!" I whirled on her so viciously Sarah screamed. "Both of you just be quiet and leave me alone." My thoughts were a confusing whirl and I needed to be alone. The bullies, the blood and those pale pale eyes all danced maniacally in my head. I ran back up the stairs and slammed the door to my tiny room and flopped onto my canopy bed.
The bad house. I was supposed to stay away from there. I shouldn't have talked to him in the first place. But he had helped us. And he had ice blue eyes. And his skin was warm under my fingers. I couldn't see him again.
I needed to see him again.
Chapter 9
Case
Case watched the guys in the corner over the rim of his pint glass. He had seen this kind of situation too many times to be able to sit comfortably at his normal barstool in the Bl
ack Dog Saloon. He discreetly moved his hand to his boot, running his fingers along the reassuring shape of his knife. If things got ugly, which they inevitably did, he liked knowing he had options.
The loud voices escalated. Something about one guy fucking the other one's sister. Case rolled his eyes. The middle of a fucking blizzard, and these jokers could still find time to get into a pissing match over chicks.
He scanned the group carefully, assessing the situation with practiced eyes. They weren't regulars, that much was certain. That made his decision easier. They didn't belong here. They were here to make trouble. In his bar. On his turf. And that wouldn't fucking stand.
Case drained the last of his beer and shot a look to Mac, the bartender. Mac raised his bushy eyebrows at him and Case knew Mac was wondering what he was waiting for.
Just wanted to finish my beer first, he thought, a vague annoyance itching the back of his mind. It was the middle of a fucking snowstorm, what the hell were these assholes up to anyway? Case unfurled himself to his full, imposing height and rolled his shoulders back. Then he took two steps towards the shouting douchebags.
He immediately had their attention. But it was best not to hurry these things. Let them sweat. He rolled a kink out of his neck, feeling the muscles stretch and relax. He could wait all day if he needed to, but he'd rather not.
"Hey!" His booming voice cut through the drunken shouting.
When they looked at him, he had to stifle a laugh. Fucking kids, that's all they were. College bros out slumming it at a peaceful neighborhood bar. That kind of shit pissed him off. He rolled his neck again, and his fingers itched. This was going to be more gratifying than he had first thought.
The kids all looked at each other, each one wondering who was going to be the unlucky person to have to answer the bearded monolith that now stood in front of them.
Finally the biggest kid, the one who apparently slept with the skinny one's sister, separated himself from his pack. He stepped forward with a heavy list to the left. Case's fighting instincts noted that immediately and shifted his own weight to compensate. This little punk would go down easy if it came to it.
"Whaddya want?" the kid slurred. Case pegged him for a frat type. It was finals week at the universities all over Philadelphia. These kids must be from Drexel, or possibly Penn, he could tell by how nice their shoes were. Maybe he'd make them take them off and see if they were his size.
Case rolled his neck again and sighed. "What I want is for you to get the fuck out of my bar." He gestured to the three slumped patrons that still held out against the storm. "You're bothering us."
"Your bar?" Douchey McNiceshoes was confused.
"Yep. This is my bar. And I want you assholes out of here. Go take your catfight somewhere else."
"This isn't your bar!" he protested in a snotty whine. The kind of entitled sneer that came from a lifetime of getting whatever he wanted. But his eyes were huge. Case wondered if he was the first person to ever tell him 'no.' "You're just some biker trash looking for cheap beer!"
Case sighed. Those straight, pearly white teeth were just begging to be broken. "We can take this outside. I don't give a fuck, I just want you out of here."
The kid's eyes rolled wildly. He knew he couldn't take Case. But maybe if he and his friends all bum-rushed him at the same time. Case could practically see the wheels turning in his rabbity little brain. He hoped he was never so damned transparent in a fight. Or in a poker game. Or in bed, for that matter.
"You wanna take it outside?" the kid repeated.
"No, but I will if that's what it takes to get you assholes out of here. Look," Case stepped forward. "I'll go first."
He made to the front door, deliberately not looking back to see if they would follow. His ease unnerved them, and that was to his advantage. There were four of them and one of him, and though he was confident in his ability to bust some heads, it still was best to be prudent. "Be right back Mac," he called. "Just taking out the trash."
Outside the snow was swirling fiercely. The cold bit into his bare arms. He was wearing a T-shirt and his cut, that was it. Better make this quick before he died of frostbite.
He quickly scanned the area and spied a patch of bare sidewalk next to an underground vent that was warming the pavement. Stepping over to it, he planted his feet and spun to face his opponent.
The kid's friends hung back while he ran his mouth. "I don't have to take this from you. I'm going to be a fucking lawyer, you hear me?" Spittle was flying from his mouth and he was pink-cheeked in rage. He would shout all day if Case let him. "I'm going to have a real job and enough money to buy and sell your sorry ass. You're just a smelly waste of space."
It was too cold out for this shit.
"And you're just some dumbass frat boy with a broken nose." Case heard the crunch as his fist made contact. Blood sprayed immediately, sending droplets over the snow and peppering his douchey little friends with a fine red mist. One of them actually screamed.
The kid roared in fury and rushed towards him, arms flailing. Case stepped neatly aside, letting the slippery sidewalk do his work for him. Just as he suspected, the kid slipped on his backswing, his legs shooting out comically from underneath him. He landed hard on his ass with a dull thud.
"Stay the fuck out of my bar." Case stepped over the humiliated wannabe badass and stepped back in where it was warm.
Mac had a beer waiting for him, glistening in the low lights. Case poured half of it down his throat in one swallow. When he looked back up, Mac was slinging the white envelope across the bar.
"Worth every fucking penny," Mac nodded, tapping it once.
Case nodded back and drained the rest of his beer, sliding into his leather jacket when he was done. "You oughta close up, man. No one's coming out in this."
Mac looked around the bar. "Not sure some of them have anyplace else to go," he grimaced.
Case stuck out his hand and the two men clasped forearms. "You're a good man," Case said.
"You are too, Ericsson."
As usual when he heard those words, he felt a twang inside of himself. "Ain't nothin' good about me," he muttered, slipping the envelope into his pocket. And without another word he turned to the back door.
The clubhouse was only a few desolate blocks away. He hadn't thought to drive. No matter how long he lived, he would never lose his childish fear of waste. Save the gas for something more important. He and his brothers might need it down the road.
He wondered which “brothers” he was thinking about.
He trudged through the snow, impervious to the cold now that he was wearing his leathers. Having a jacket made all the difference in the winter time. It was a luxury he was still getting used to.
He found his way to the clubhouse more by instinct than sight. The strange sentinel of a building, a remnant of an entire block of row homes now gone. It stood alone in a too big parking lot, the only building in the entire block left standing. The elevated length of 95 ran above it, as did the elevated train, so noise was a constant background in his life. Except tonight there was a muted hush over the city. As if someone had thrown a blanket over everything to muffle the sound. Creepy, he thought and hurried faster towards the door.
Case punched in the new security code and let himself in to the front office. Flicking on the light, he moved quickly to kneel down and spin the combination lock on the safe. He counted the money in the white envelope out and added it to the growing stack that sat inside. Then he allowed himself a few proud moments of contemplation as he realized just how much they had brought in since he had started this new venture.
It was Case that had realized they needed to start bringing in more money if they were ever to make it through the process of being a prospect club to the Storm Riders MC. The Sons of Steel MC of Philadelphia was a tiny little club, barely known outside of the few city blocks that were their territory. It was purely a logistical move on the Storm Riders' part to take them on; their proximity to the highway and th
e large size of their clubhouse made them valuable, nothing else. The Storm Riders were using them, and Case intended to use them right back. He let the word get out that they were going to be part of the biggest club on the East Coast, and suddenly money starting appearing out of thin air.
The older men in the club were content to let things be as they always had been. Teach, the President, had pulled all the strings to get them considered as a prospect club, but now he was sitting back, lost in an increasingly alarming fog, leaving the business of actually prospecting to the younger men.
Case had stood up in a club meeting about two months ago and laid out his plan. The bars in the area were falling victim more and more often to hold-ups. The crowd in the neighborhood was changing. There were more drugs, more fights and more shadiness than the old guard bartenders could handle.
That was where they came in, Case had explained. The bars needed protection and the Sons needed to up their profile. It was a win -win. And if the bar owners wanted to throw a little money their way for the privilege of their protection, well it all worked out.
Plus it meant they could drink on the house.
Case swung the door to the safe shut and spun the dial. Money was comfort. Money meant safety and security. Money meant food and warm clothes and no one coming to turn the lights off. He ran his fingers down the side of the safe. It still wasn't enough. They needed more.
He needed more.
His mind raced with ideas as he walked through the back door of the office and into the clubhouse.
The first sight that greeted him was J. and his girl Emmy. He had her up on the workbench, her legs wrapped around his back as they kissed madly.
Case rolled his eyes and sighed heavily enough as he walked past that they came up for air briefly before diving back into each other again.
Crash was sitting in one of the camp chairs that they never seemed to be able to upgrade from, an open can of Yuengling in his fist and a lazy grin on his face. "One way to keep warm," he nodded, raising his can in the direction of the entwined couple.
