by Nicole Fox
I assemble the Eagle, trying to turn my mind away from images of Yazmin. But I love her; I must love her; I have to love her. I can’t feel this way about her and not believe that it’s love. I’ve gotten so used to knowing where she is, to her being down there, waiting for me every night. I’ve gotten so used being able to go downstairs and see her anytime I like.
When the Eagle is assembled I go to the wardrobe and take out some jeans, a shirt, and my leather. I’ve just put on my boots when I go into the bar to find it empty, devoid of men. I stomp through the clubhouse, shouting for everybody, but there’s no response. I find Justin outside, saddling his bike.
“The fuck’s going on?” I snap.
“Oh, boss.” He looks like a dreamy teenager for a second. “I thought you were out, getting the men.”
“Where are they?”
“Lots of different places. Warehouses, clubs—”
“Where are you going?” There must be some acid in my voice ’cause Justin has frozen and he’s looking at me like I’m about to go crazy. “I said, where are you going?” I take a step forward.
“I was gonna go into town and make sure they come back quickly.”
“Just call them. Fuck it. I’ll do it. Come on.” I wave him after me. We both go into the bar and I take out my cell and begin rounding the men up, telling them to call their soldiers, telling them there’s a meeting and that at the end of it there will be blood.
When all the men are on their way back, I turn to Justin, who the whole time has been sitting there scratching at the table like a kid waiting in the principal’s office. “What’s going on with you?” I say. “And don’t give me some horseshit answer. I’m not in the mood.”
He nods shortly. “Mom’s cancer is back, but it’s worse, much worse. The doctor says she might die within the year.” He is dead-eyed as he says this, like a man who can’t face the reality of what he’s saying. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been off. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to charge headlong into the battle, boss. I need to be around for her.”
“That fuckin’ sucks.” I lean forward, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Sometimes I think the world is a scarred wasteland with only one or two good things happening amidst a sea of pain. “Hang back during the raid. You don’t need to charge headlong. You’re the VP.”
“Oh, no, if there’s going to be a raid, I should be there. I was just giving you an explanation.”
I shrug. Knuckles is walking through the door, a crooked smile on his face. “All right, then,” I say.
Soon all the officers are sitting around my desk, our soldiers in the bar. The men talk in hushed whispers just as men did in the army before battle, making light of what they were about to do and what was about to be done to them.
“So,” Knuckles said. “Is it that time, boss? Is it time for war?”
“It’s time for war,” I tell him. “It’s time we ruined these Scorpion fucks once and for all. They’ve ruined our businesses, but more importantly they’ve killed men, good men. And they’ve taken my woman. I want to tell you something, lads, ’cause I think you ought to know what your boss is fighting for today. Yazmin is pregnant with my child. That’s what’s at stake for me. There are different things at stake for all of you. Men you knew, men you cared about, your wives and kids who you don’t want living in a town run by a sadistic weasel like Snake. I want you to remember your reasons today, ’cause it might get dark.”
Knuckles clicks his neck from side to side. Alfred makes a croaking, growling noise. Red-Eyes grins. Kieran McCarthy nods in a businesslike way. And Justin Herveux looks like he might finally have some fight in him.
I thump the table with my fist. “But first we need a plan.”
Chapter Eighteen
Yazmin
I sit in my old bedroom on the edge of the bed, staring down at my feet wriggling my toes and wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Nobody has said anything to me since Dad brought me back. Even when he picked me up from the superstore he didn’t say anything. He just pulled up in his car, shoved the passenger seat door open, and nodded gruffly for me to get in. I remember wanting to run away, thinking this had been a mistake when I saw his weasel’s face sneering at me. But my feet carried me to the car, climbing in almost without my volition. Something about him seemed unusual, like he was more confident than normal.
I go to the door again, even if I know it’s pointless. I’m right. It’s locked. I shove into it but it feels deadlocked. Maybe it’s bolted from the other side. I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face. Even though it was my choice to come back here, and even though I’m back here for a purpose, I can’t help but wonder what’s going to happen to me. My plan was to spin Dad a tale about LA and needing him, but I can’t spin a tale if he isn’t talking to me. Even now, he could be planning some gruesome murder for me. I return to the bedroom, looking at the bed I slept in for months and trying not to see it soaked through with blood.
After a while, a knock sounds at the door. I’m tired, eyes heavy. I only got a couple of hours sleep last night. I drag myself to the door, but before I open it I compose myself, plastering a smile to my face, making myself bubbly. Men are susceptible to this kind of thing, I know. There are certain types of men in this world who will never look past the smiling face of a woman, and so I can use my face as a tool. I can trick them. I can make them believe in me.
“Who is it?” I ask, voice chirpy.
“It’s Christopher,” he says. If my voice is chirpy, his is old and crooked and lecherous. It’s the type of voice I imagine being aimed at young women in bars by creepy older men. “I’m coming in.”
I have no choice but to step back as the door swings open. I step back all the way to the bed, but I don’t sit down. That might give him the idea to sit down with me. I don’t think Dad would let him just attack me. I was here for months and he didn’t let that happen. But perhaps things have changed. Perhaps Christopher has been given permission to do anything he likes with me. I resist the urge to clench my fist. I have to remain nice and bright and flirty. I have to make myself into a man’s idea of what a woman like me should be.
Christopher Michaels is every bit as decrepit as I remember him. He walks into the room with a weary gait holding a tray of breakfast. He places the tray down on the bedside table—toast, beans, bacon, orange juice—and then turns to me. He’s wearing a suit and a tie with a snot-colored hanky sticking out of the pocket. He smooths down his hair and flashes a smile with too much gum. “It’s wonderful to have you back,” he says. “Just wonderful.”
“Uh, thank you,” I say, already struggling to maintain my performance.
We’re standing a few feet apart, me closest to the door. I could make a dash to it, but for what purpose? He would only catch up to me. “Just wonderful,” he repeats. He steps forward so that the scent of him poisons the air around me. He smells like an old people’s home, like hard candy and bleach, like soiled underwear and impending death. “I wonder if you’d like to come to bed with me.”
“Oh . . .” I take a step back, but he just steps forward, closing the distance. Did he really just say that? “Not right now . . .”
“But there’s a possibility? Is that what you’re saying? All I’ll say is this. You might want to get used to the idea of being with me. Because one day, and one day soon, you might not have a choice. I don’t want it to be like that. I want you to want to be with me. But if I have to take you hard.” His face goes as hard as his words. “I will take you hard. Do you understand me?” He smiles again. “How about a smile? You look so much prettier when you smile.”
The last thing my face muscles want to do is smile, but somehow I manage to contort them into the right shape.
“Good girl. Now eat your breakfast.”
He leaves the room, locking the door behind him. As soon as I hear the click of the lock, I run around the room, scrubbing myself with my fingernails. He always makes me feel like a bucket of maggots has just been tip
ped over my head. Then I go to the bedside table and look down at my breakfast. I don’t know much about being pregnant. All I know for sure is that one second I’m looking at the beans and the next I’m on my knees in the bathroom, retching into the bowl. I wipe my mouth and gargle mouthwash and then wolf down the bacon and toast, doing my best to ignore the beans.
When I’m done, I go to the window and look out at the woods through the bars. A few cars drive down the winding road, but mostly there’s just the woods and the concrete. I don’t want Spike to come here since I still have work to do, but at the same time I can’t help but wonder where he is, what he’s doing, how he’s taking my absence. I hope he isn’t going too crazy about it.
For the next hour and a half I’m left to sit in my room with nothing to do but stare at the wall and let my anxiety eat me from the inside out. Then another knock comes at the door. I don’t say “come in,” since the door is swinging open before I’m even on my feet. I realize my hand is on my belly, protecting the tiny life in there, so I let it fall away just in case they guess something. I can’t let them know I’m pregnant. Dad will use it against me. I know he will. I know what type of monster he is.
One of the men steps in. I think his name’s Rust, but I can’t properly remember. He’s got sandy hair and is missing an eye, the place where it used to be now a jagged gash. “Boss wants to see you,” he says. Then, just to make sure I’ve gotten the message, he grabs me by the elbow and yanks me down the hallway.
“I can walk, you know!” I snap, trying to tug my arm away.
“Got orders, miss.” He pulls me along with him, leaving me no choice but to quicken my pace.
The bar is full of men, around fifty of them, squeezed around the tables drinking and playing cards. It’s alive with sound, too. At least it is until I walk into the room. Then everything turns as quiet as a cemetery, the only sounds wind-like whispers, one hundred eyes staring at me, judging me, hating me. Some of them are full of lustful hunger and others are full of plain old sadism. I know that if Dad gave the order, these men would tear me apart. I swallow, so nervous part of me wishes I could turn back time and return to the superstore, call Spike instead of Dad. But I’m here now, and I have to play the game. If Spike is ever going to kill Dad, he’s going to need my help.
Rust shoves me toward Dad’s office door and then steps away, watching me. For once I actually want to be in Dad’s office. Anything beats standing out here with those men sizing me up like they’re butchers and I’m a piece of meat. I walk into Dad’s office, telling myself I need to be composed, telling myself it’s time to play the lost lonely daughter who needs her daddy’s help. Does the idea make me sick? Sure it does. But sometimes feeling sick is the price that needs to be paid.
Dad is sitting behind his desk with his back to me like some kind of movie villain. When he swivels the chair around I half expect there to be a cat in his lap. But he’s holding nothing except his cellphone, which is pressed against his ear. He doesn’t acknowledge me so I stay standing, hoping to play on his desire for control.
“Really? That’s interesting, very interesting. Yes, yes, well of course you’ll tell me, won’t you? If you don’t tell me—I will threaten you if I feel that it’s necessary. I’ll also have one of my guys take a trip to the hospital if I think it’s necessary. Yes, I thought so. Fine. Keep me posted about any changes.”
Dad hangs up and gestures to the chair opposite him. I sit down, making sure to smile at him as if I adore him, as if he is just the man I have been waiting and praying to see.
“Cut the shit.” He squints at me, lips trembling. “You were always a dumb cunt, weren’t you?” He hacks out a coughing laugh. “A dumb cunt gave birth to a dumb cunt, and here she is. Listen to me, you stupid girl, I want you to stop this performance horseshit and tell the truth. You’ve been with the Vipers, sucking on their president’s cock and letting him spunk in your hole. In fact, you’ve let him spunk in your hole so many times that now you’ve got a whelp on the way—” He holds a finger up when I try to interject. “Interrupt me and I’ll cut out your dick-slurping tongue. Slut.”
I close my mouth and sit back, wondering how the plan is crashing down so soon.
“Good,” he says. “Now listen to me. My man Justin has just been on the phone with me telling me everything. About you staying in the basement, about you feeding them information … oh, yes, I know all about that. I had no idea how they were jumping us at every turn. I guess Justin wasn’t involved in your private meetings, was he? Just you and Spike, rutting like dogs. Here’s the thing . . .” He leans forward, watching me closely. “I have no love for you. I think you know that. You’re an idiot for coming here in the first place, a desperate whore. But once word gets around that the Vipers’ president fucked and impregnated my goddamn daughter, how do you think that’s gonna make me look? Don’t you dare answer! Don’t you know what a rhetorical question is, stupid bitch?
“So now I’m going to have to kill Spike. It’s the only thing for me to do.”
I remember Justin, Spike’s VP, the one whose mom has cancer. Justin, playing Spike the whole time. This changes everything. I can’t play the Scorpions now. I’m foiled before I’ve even begun. I open my mouth with the hopes of salvaging the situation, but then I remember his threat. I have no doubt that he’ll follow through with it.
“I need to kill him, yes, but don’t think that means I care one whit about you. It’s about respect. And, anyway, my man has given me some interesting information. The Vipers are going to raid us tonight. They’re going to come to my castle and try to knock it down. Ha!” He looks even uglier when he smiles. “I’m going to cut off Spike’s head and serve it to you on a plate. When the dust has settled, we’ll deal with that little spawn of yours. We can’t have half of Spike running around the place. Then it’ll be your time to marry Christopher, I think. That or die.”
He waves a hand at the door. “Go back to your room, whore. Wait for the shooting to start.”
I leave the office, feeling numb and foolish. Rust grabs me by the elbow and drags me back through the bar toward the bedrooms. I was going to play them. I was going to play them all. I was going to smile and look pretty and put on the best performance of my lifetime. But now it’s all gone down the toilet. Justin, Spike’s second-in-command, Spike’s friend, a traitor . . . And Spike’s coming after me. He doesn’t know they’ll be ready for him. He thinks he has the benefit of surprise. When Rust shoves me back in my room and slams the door, I pace for what feels like a day. I pace and pace and try to think of a way to get word to Spike. They’re going to kill him. I touch my belly, stroking my baby. They’re going to kill his father.
I sit on the bed and stare at the wall, chewing my lip until it begins to throb. I keep telling myself that Dad has known all along about Spike, that Dad has known all along about what the Vipers have been doing, but I find it difficult to believe. I can’t believe that the father of my baby is going to die today. I just can’t. I need to warn him.
I go to the window and study the bars. Maybe if I could break the glass, I could . . . But the bars are set too close together, even for me. I’d hurt myself if I tried to squeeze through. I walk around the bedroom, trying to think of a plan. Maybe I could break down the door and . . . And what? Charge into the hallway where Dad has obviously placed a guard, fight him to the death, and then sprint to the Vipers’ clubhouse, outrunning several dozen bikes?
There has to be some way. I look around the room. A bed, two bedside tables, a wardrobe, some dresser drawers.
I root through them madly, tossing clothes onto the floor, spilling out the contents of the bedside table. When I find the sheaf of A4 paper, I feel like I’m making progress. I go into the bathroom and open the mirror cupboards, but there’s nothing in there I can use. I dig to the bottom of the wardrobe, but there’s nothing. I search the bedside table at least ten times, but I can’t find a pen. I think about using my own blood, but that’s the type of thing that only
works in movies. I’d end up smearing useless red patterns onto the paper. I find a box of toothpicks in the bedside table, buried right at the bottom.
Holding the toothpicks in one hand and the paper in the other, I walk up and down the room, willing my brain to come up with an idea. I need ink, dark ink, ink that will be visible from outside. An idea hits me. It seems stupid but right now I’m all up for stupid ideas. Any ideas are better than nothing. I return to the bathroom and look at the shower. G was good about cleaning the shower, but Dad’s men are not. The grooves between the tiles and along the rim of the floor are covered in fine layers of grime. I empty the toothbrushes from their cup, collect some grime, collect some toothpaste, and mix it all together with the bottom of the toothbrush.
My fingernails are crusted black by the time I’m finished. It’s worth it, though. When I dab the toothpick into the cup and bring it to the paper, I’m able to write out a crude message, the words jagged, but words all the same. I write: They Know You’re Coming. Stay Away. Then I place it on the bed and wait for the “ink” to dry. I wait for a long time, not waiting to smear it against the glass. When it’s done, I kneel down next to the window and press the piece of paper to it, knowing that it’s going to hurt my arm but having no other option.
