by Paula Cox
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Torched copyright @ 2017 by Paula Cox. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
TORCHED
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
INKED
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
SNEAK PEEK OF FILTHY!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
TORCHED
Chapter One
Hope
As I shuffle by the table where the Satan’s Martyrs sit, a shortish, fattish man calls out to me: “Hey sweetheart, how about a kiss with that beer?”
How about a slap instead? I think.
But I just giggle, because being a waitress sometimes means you have to giggle when you get heckled like that. It sucks, but nobody ever said that life was fair. I weave through the tables with trays balanced in my hands, propped on my forearms, and cradled in between my inner-elbows. For somebody who doesn’t really want to be a waitress, I’ve definitely picked up a few tricks, that’s for sure.
“Enjoy your meal,” I tell the family of four.
The father is a business type. He wears a dark blue suit and an earpiece. You rarely see people wearing things as extravagant as earpieces in Rocky Cove, California. The woman wears a white shirt so tight her face has turned red, like a finger wrapped in a rubber band. The two children are miniatures of their parents: a boy and a girl dressed like little businesspeople.
“Excuse me,” the man says, as I lay the last plate on the table.
I smile my respectful, I-am-here-to-help smile. No matter how many times I smile like this, it never feels real. For the hundredth time tonight, I think: I should be in the kitchen. I’ll never become a decent chef dancing around the tables.
“Yes, sir?” I say, my voice syrupy sweet.
“Who are those men?” The way he accents the last syllable makes me think he doesn’t see them as men at all, but rather as affronts to his idea of manners. Can’t say I blame him, exactly. The restaurant is three-thirds full, mostly with couples on their Friday date night. The Harrises and the Clarks and the Moores and the Johnsons all sit on two-people tables. Plus half a dozen couples I do not recognize. Maybe out-of-towners.
I lean down. “Don’t let them hear you,” I whisper.
The man does a double take, looking from his wife and then to me. “Excuse me?” he breathes.
“They’re the Satan’s Martyrs. See that shortish, fattish one? That’s Patrick O’Connor. He’s the leader's brother, Killian O’Connor. Patrick just got out of prison. They’re celebrating. They’re going to be loud all night, as far as I can tell. But a bit of advice, sir, don’t let them hear you. They can be . . .” I’ve heard the rumors. Everybody in Rocky Cove has heard the rumors. But I leave my sentence hanging. I don’t want to break my own advice.
The man swallows. “A motorcycle gang, huh?” he says.
They all wear the leathers with the sigil of a man impaled with knives, his face crooked into a smile. Message: Devil on my shoulder. The words ‘Satan’s Martyrs’ are scrawled above the man in jagged blood-red letters.
“A club,” I correct. “Enjoy your meal, sir,” I finish, standing straight and turning away from the table.
The last thing I need tonight is an out-of-towner making trouble with the Satan’s Martyrs.
There are eleven men sitting around the table.
I don’t recognize all of them, but I see Killian and Patrick O’Connor, the one they call Gunny, and the Remington brothers. Patrick O’Connor is an uglier version of his younger brother. He’s short where Killian is tall, fat where Killian is muscular. Killian’s blonde hair is ragged, wild, but not so wild and ragged as to make him look unkempt. It’s more like he just rolled out of bed and hasn’t touched a comb. His face is strong, his jaw square, a light sprinkling of blonde hair covering his cheeks. His lips are pensive and his eyes are bright blue.
Patrick has dirty blonde hair which looks wet, it is so greasy. His face is pudgy, squashed. His features seem to collapse into each other. Despite all that, he still looks like Killian; you would never struggle to believe they’re brothers. Gunny wears a leather jacket with the sleeves cut away. And the Remington brothers are both tall, thin, with egg-bald heads and tattoos of guns under their left eyes.
They laugh loudly, pound their drinks on the table, shovel food into their mouths and pay no mind to the other patrons in the restaurant.
All except for Killian.
As I walk back toward the counter, ready to greet any customers who enter, I notice that while the others are like animals in a zoo during feeding time, Killian sits with his elbows on his knees, his jaw clenched, staring.
At first I think he is just staring into space. But then I notice that his eyes follow me. Two chips of blue trailing me across the restaurant. His eyes burn into me. I feel his gaze on my neck, on my chest. I have shoulder-length brunette hair, dark brown eyes, and an elfish face. My ears poke out of my hair and I am on the busty side. My breasts are squeezed into my waitress’s shirt and my skirt hugs my bum. My tights are taut around my shapely legs.
His eyes move over me, up and down, openly staring at me.
A shiver moves through my body. I feel like I’m being watched by a wolf.
My mind is unruly tonight.
I try and focus on my work, but it’s difficult when my mind is a staging area for so many other problems.
I know that Dawn, my sister, is at home climbing the walls. Dawn was a drug addict until recently. She’s in recovery, but not the rehab kind. No, she tried that, got the t-shirt, and then fled. Now I’m her rehab, and it isn’t an easy task. I’m constantly worried that she’s run from the apartment to score. Maybe she’s sho
oting up in my bedroom. Maybe she’s found some scumbag who’s willing to take advantage of her in exchange for some drugs.
And then there are the selfish concerns, like why the hell aren’t I in the kitchen when I’m far superior as a chef than I’ll ever be as a waitress? That one's on Lucca Berelli, my boss. A man so creepy he makes snakes look good in comparison.
And at the back of my mind—always—is my art. An artist’s burden, I guess, is to always be thinking about it. Painting is my craft. I keep thinking about the pieces I have hanging in the local gallery at the end of Main Street, which makes me proud. But then I think about the fact that not one of my pieces has ever sold, and the pride wanes.
Add to that the fact that I’m $2,000 in the hole with rent and bills, and keeping my attention on the mundane routine of the restaurant is impossible.
I let out a long sigh and want nothing more than to collapse into a bubble bath and let all of this soak away.
The restaurant is almost at capacity and I shuffle around, taking orders for drinks and carrying them to the table, on auto-pilot.
After about an hour—it is now nine o’clock, an early autumn night with the wind whistling outside of the restaurant—I look back to the Satan’s Martrys’ table.
Killian O’Connor is still watching me, his eyes narrowed, almost like he’s trying to puzzle me out.
“Sweetheart!” Patrick O’Connor calls, waving his hand at me, five thick fingers beckoning me over.
I walk from the bar, past two tables at which couples sit, and to the Satan’s Martrys’ table.
Standing with my notepad and pen at my side, my other hand fidgeting nervously, I say, “Yes, sir?”
The table is a graveyard for beer and whiskey. Glasses upon glasses stack on the table, until every inch of its surface is glittering with empty glass. The restaurant’s lights are set in sconces in the wall; yellow light bounces off the glasses, causing the long table to become its own source of light.
“Sir?” Patrick throws his head back and laughs raucously. He wipes a tear from his cheek. The rest of them laugh, too. All of them except Killian, who continues to watch me with his wolfish eyes, his unflinching gaze. I am more discomfited by Killian’s expression than the laughter. At least I understand the laughter. I have no idea what to think about Killian’s expression, about his focus on me.
“Don’t call me sir, honey,” Patrick says once his laughter has passed. “There’s no need to be so distant, is there? I’ve been locked in a cage for what seems like my entire life!” He pounds his fist on the table. The glasses lurch up and then clatter back down. He taps his knee. “Why don’t you come and sit on my lap, eh? Show me what freedom really means.”
I swallow, a tennis ball shifting down my throat. I don’t take trash like this from men. It’s the reason I’m not in the kitchen right now. All I’d have to do is take a little sexism with a healthy side of harassment from Lucca and I could be in the kitchen, turning this place into a Michelin-star-worthy establishment. But I’m not, because my mother taught me to not take this kind of trash. But my father taught me something equally important: Never let them see they’ve gotten to you.
“I am sorry, sir,” I say, my voice level, the voice of an unperturbed woman. Even though I feel quite a bit away from unperturbed. “This isn’t that kind of establishment. It is my understanding that there is a strip club thirty miles north of here. Just follow the signs. I am sure a lady there—for the right fee—would be more than willing—”
“Oh, baby, none so hot as you!” Patrick grins, showing yellow, crooked teeth. “Don’t be a tease, baby girl.”
“Yeah, sweet thing,” Gunny says. Gunny’ voice is deep like the rumble of a train. “He’s done his time like a man. Give him a reward.”
I sigh. There’s no getting through to men when they’re like this.
“Would you like to order any more drinks?” I ask.
“I’m not done asking you, sweet sexy thing, to sit on my lap!”
Patrick makes as though to stand, gripping the edge of the table and half-rising to his feet.
Killian reaches forward and touches his brother’s arm. When Patrick looks at him, Killian shakes his head, slowly. Patrick squints, confused, and then Killian shakes his head again. Patrick heaves a heavy sigh and collapses back into the seat. It happens so fast I don’t register the fact Killian just stepped in for me until Patrick cries: “More drinks, then! Whiskey and beer all round!”
The table cheers, all except for Killian, who watches, stares, eyes penetrating me.
“Yes, sir.”
I retreat from the table to the bar.
Nine o’clock turns to ten o’clock, and ten to half past ten.
Most of the couples have gone home, and now only three tables remain. The Satan’s Martyrs are still in full swing, laughing, cheering, drinking like fish. Across the other side, an elderly couple drinks coffee, talking quietly. Beside them, a lone man—a trucker, I guess, by his gnarled hands and low-pulled cap—nurses his second beer.
I stand at the bar, talking with Alex Dunbar, the kid who helps out on Friday nights and weekends. I’m not sure if a sixteen-year-old should be serving alcohol, but Lucca Berelli can pay him less than he can an adult, so of course he doesn’t care if it’s moral or legal.
“That one looks scary,” Alex whispers.
“Which one?” I whisper back.
We’re across the restaurant from the Satan’s Martyrs, they’re loud, and yet we still whisper. But the Satan’s Martyrs are a force to be reckoned with in Rocky Cove. If you talk about them, it’s in whispers.
“The one with blonde hair. He’s the leader, isn’t he?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Why is he looking at you like that?”
“What do you mean?”
Alex runs a hand through his shaggy mop of black hair. “Come on, Hope, he’s been staring at you all night. Do you know him?”
“I know of him. But I’ve never spoken to him in my life.”
“Either he wants to kill you, or he likes you.”
“I don’t know which would be worse,” I mutter. “I’ve got too much to think about, kid, without adding the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs onto it.”
“I suppose—”
“Hey!” Lucca’s voice is a nail on a chalkboard, screeching from the kitchen door.
Alex scurries away to the opposite end of the bar and immediately begins to clear some glasses.
I turn and face Lucca. He stands with his hands propped on the top of the doorframe, so that his beer belly hangs over his jeans. He’s a short man, with an awful comb over which always seems to be stuck down with sweat. His eyes rove over me, but not in the same way Killian’s have been all night. When Lucca’s eyes rove over me, it’s like hundreds of insects are scurrying across my skin.
I think of all the times he has groped the other waitresses. Rachel and Allie and Lily and Jess . . . all of them, I am sure. He gropes them and laughs when they squirm under his grasp. I’m not certain, but I think I’m the only waitress here that he hasn’t groped, that doesn’t take his nonsense.
He watches me for a few seconds—his tongue licking his lips as a man does before tucking into a big meal—and then barks, “Back to work,” before leaping back into the kitchen.
Back to work? I think. The place is almost empty, you old pervert.
But I move around the restaurant, doing what service people all over the States do once the real work is done: pretend to be busy. Wiping down tables. Pushing in chairs. Folding napkins.
At fifteen minutes past eleven o’clock, a man walks into the restaurant and approaches the Satan’s Martrys’ table. He’s a young Mexican man who wears baggy cream chinos and a red-and-green plaid shirt. His shoes are shiny to the point of being reflective. I’m sure if I got ahold of them I could touch up my makeup in their mirror glimmer.
The Satan’s Martyrs stop laughing and cheering and watch the Mexican man. Killian holds his hands up
and speaks for the first time tonight. “Business,” he says, and then rises to his feet. “Carry on. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, boss,” half a dozen bikers say at once.
Killian nods and steps away from his seat, meeting the Mexican just beside the table. The Mexican leans in and whispers something in Killian’s ear, and Killian nods again. Business, I think, and for some reason a tingling sensation moves from the base of my spine, up my back, to my neck. Goose pimples appear on my skin. Maybe it’s because I know whatever business he’s dealing with, it’s probably illegal. And he doesn’t look worried in the least. He looks in charge. I didn’t think anybody could control that table of screaming jackals, but with a few short words Killian did.
After a short exchange, Killian and the Mexican make toward the exit.
Then Killian stops at the exit, pats the Mexican on the back, says something I can’t hear, and then turns. The Mexican leaves the restaurant.
I think Killian is going to head back to the table, but instead he walks toward the bar, where I stand helping Alex wrap the cutlery for tomorrow.
