FILTHY SINS_Sons of Wolves MC

by Nicole Fox

  “Uh, hello?”

  “Hello, ma’am,” I say. “I’m looking for Nancy O’Neill. I’m a friend of the family and she isn’t answering when I press the buzzer. It’s urgent that I find her.”

  “Oh, is everything okay?”

  “We hope so,” I say, leaving it at that. She’ll fill in the rest for herself.

  “Oh, my. Well I haven’t seen Nancy for a few days, actually. I’ve noticed because I often hear her in the mornings, singing to herself. She has a lovely voice.”

  “She’s gone?” I ask, heart pounding so hard I have to focus to hear past it. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  I step back, unable to stop my mind from spinning into the deadly and the macabre. That Michaels creep has found her and abducted her. He’s torturing her right now, playing out his sick fantasies.

  I kick open the door and run up the stairs without thinking. I’m in outlaw mode now. I’m in red fuckin’ alert mode. I need to know if she’s safe. She can hate me and want nothing to do with me, as long as she’s safe.

  I barge through her apartment door with my shoulder, ignoring the neighbors who poke their heads out of their doors, and then walk around, studying everything. There’s no sign of a struggle, but the wardrobes are empty and a few of the photographs are gone.

  She’s run, then. She’s run away from me.

  I sit on her couch, head in my hands. Maybe I ought to respect her decision. Maybe I ought to just let her run away, if that’s what she wants. But I can’t do that. I need to see her much more hungrily than I thought. I ache for her. It’s like there’s a creature inside of me, a creature who’s never lived there before and who I never imagined could live there. It’s inside of me, and it’s causing havoc.

  “I have to see her,” I whisper in wonder: wonder at the strength of the desire.

  I stand up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fink

  “You can’t be here,” Sal says. “You know that.”

  “I understand,” I reply, but even so it feels like a punch in the gut when he won’t look at me, staring at the ground instead, fidgeting because he wants this to end as quickly as possible. “I’m not here to try and get my job back or anything like that, all right? I’m here because I need your help with Nancy. She’s missing, Sal, and I need to find her.”

  “Missing? What can I do to help?” He sits up in his office chair, resting his meaty forearms on the desk. “I don’t know anything about her or nothing like that.” He gets that look in his face I saw so often when we were kids. It’s the same look he got when some little shit decided to make himself feel better by going at the giant. It’s a look that says: Don’t bother me. Please don’t get me involved.

  I want to back off, leave him be, but I need to see Nancy and I don’t want to go to the club. If I go to the club, they’ll just get angry and go overboard, start harassing the cops again. The last thing I need is another Wolf-cop war. So I can’t just back off like I want to. I can’t just leave Sal be, even though he deserves to be left alone.

  “I need her father’s address. I know he gave it to you when he came in here for insurance or whatever. You’re very particular about that stuff, Sal.”

  “I can’t give you that!” Sal hisses, glancing around like somebody might be listening. “You really think I can give you that? That’s data protection stuff! That’s serious business! If they find out . . .”

  “How’s anyone gonna find out? He’ll just assume I found out from the club. If he asks me, I’ll say it was the club. It’ll never come back to you.”

  “Why not just ask the club?” Sal grumbles. “I don’t get involved in your crime stuff. That’s always been the agreement. You know that. And now . . . I don’t like this at all, Fink.”

  “I know it’s not fair,” I say. “I know I’ve never been much of a friend to you.” He makes to interrupt me, but I just go on. “No, Sal, you know it’s the truth. I’ve been a shitty friend and I’ve caused you a lot of hassle. I’m aware of that and it makes me feel like a real dirt bag all the damn time. But I need this. Just this one thing. And then, if you want, you’ll never have to see me again. I’ll disappear.”

  Sal sighs, leaning back and rubbing his cheeks. “Ah, Fink. Ah, goddamn it. I don’t like breaking the rules. You know that about me. You and the crew used to give me a hard time about that all the time.”

  “The crew.” I smile. “I haven’t heard you say the crew in years.”

  “I haven’t had need, thank God!” He laughs loudly and violently, something he’ll do even when the joke isn’t all that funny. He settles down, and then says, “I don’t want to do this, Fink. So you need to promise me that nobody will ever trace this back to me. And . . .” He takes a deep breath and pushes himself on. “And if they ever do find out it’s me, I need you to take complete responsibility, even if it means you getting hurt.”

  I can tell it causes him a lot of pain to say this. I won’t increase the pain. I just nod. “Okay, Sal.”

  “Let me see . . .”

  He gives me the address and I leave, telling myself to be calm and collected when I go to his apartment. I don’t know that the drunk has anything to do with Nancy leaving. Maybe she just disappeared in a puff of smoke. I laugh grimly to myself as I bring my bike to a stop on his street. I approach the building without my leather on, since it’d be pretty goddamn stupid to wear my leather at a time like this. I press his buzzer and wait.

  A cough answers, followed by, “Who’s there?”

  He sounds weak and scared, a much smaller man than the bellowing bull I first encountered at Sal’s place. I wonder if he’s so blasted he can barely talk, or maybe not blasted enough.

  “It’s Fink Foster,” I say.

  “Fink . . .” His voice deepens. A little of the tyrant returns to it. “Fink Foster. Have you got a death wish? Is that it? Are you determined not to see your thirtieth birthday, you little rat? Why in the name of Christ would you press my buzzer? Are you a fool? That must be it. You must be a real goddamn fool. I can’t think of another reason for it. Do you want to get hurt? Are you looking to get hurt? Answer me, boy! Talk!”

  “I hope you’ve got that out of your system, because I didn’t come here to listen to your shit.”

  “My shit!” Bill O’Neill spits audibly, a crackle through the old metal speakers. “You came to my apartment, kiddo. I didn’t invite you. One phone call and I can have my friends here, ten cops who all saw you pull a gun on me. One goddamn phone call.”

  I’m about to snap at him, call him a piece of shit, a waste of skin, when another idea occurs to me. Instead of snapping at him, I say, “And your daughter’d never forgive you for it. Your daughter’d hate you because you locked up the father of her child, the father of your grandchild.” I pause, waiting for his response. When he doesn’t shout, I guess he already knows. “Do you really wanna have to explain to her how you got her baby’s father locked up?”

  “Then I’ll just have them kill you,” Bill says matter-of-factly. “Bury you so far in the dirt not even fuckin’ archeologists’ll find you. I don’t know who you think you are, kiddo. I really don’t. I don’t mind you outlaw types when you stick to your rat holes, but coming by a sheriff’s apartment? Are you insane?”

  “You’re sober,” I note. “Your voice is trembling a little there, big man.”

  “Maybe it is,” Bill admits. “But that don’t change nothing.”

  “Maybe being sober lets you think about how hard you were on Nancy growing up. Maybe being sober lets you see her as a person instead of someone to be shouted at, snapped at, sneered at, and used. Maybe being sober lets you realize that you fucked with her more than anybody deserves to be fucked with and all because of your pathetic habit.”

  “You need to be careful, boy.”

  “Call me boy again,” I say. “One more goddamn time.”

  There must be some fight in my t
one because he pauses for a long time, and from now on he doesn’t call me boy.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “You haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “Are you too scared to let me up? Is that it?”

  “Scared!”

  As I predict, the door buzzes and I can throw it open. I walk up the stairs, trying to figure out how to approach this to get what I want. If how he’s behaved toward me so far is any indication, he’d rather die than give me his daughter’s whereabouts. I could torture him, but that’d mean crossing a line with Nancy’s father I can’t uncross. Who’s to say she won’t hate me for it? No, I need to use words, something I’ve never been too good at; bullets and knives have always been an option in my line of work.

  I walk into the apartment to Bill aiming a shotgun at me. “Nancy took my pistol,” he says. “So I got an upgrade.”

  “Good for you.” I kick the door closed behind me, hands raised. “Really, I’m happy for you. That’s really impressive. Would you look at that? Twelve-gauge, pump action.”

  “Pump action,” Bill agrees, and then pumps it to prove the point. “Damn powerful, too. It’ll blow the steam out of a train.”

  “Nice way of putting it.” I step forward, raising my hands higher when he hefts the gun. “You look drawn out there, Bill. Hair’s a mess and your eyes are all black. You been hitting it hard or not at all? By the way your hands’re shaking, I’m gonna guess I was right downstairs. You’re stone-cold sober, aren’t you? Do you really have it in you, Bill, to shoot a man when you’re stone-cold sober, especially when he’s got his hands up?” I walk right up to the barrel, pressing my chest against it, praying to whoever’s listening that I’ve judged this right and he won’t just blow a hole the size of a soccer ball in my chest.

  “I reckon I could.”

  “Could. There’s a tricky word, eh, Bill? There are plenty of things I could do if the world was made different, but that I’d never do as things stand. Maybe killing me is that type of situation, eh? You could kill me if your back was to the wall, but your back ain’t to the wall. That’d be cold-blooded and you’d never be able to look your daughter in the eye again.”

  He lowers the gun slowly. “Why are you here?” he asks.

  “Your daughter’s missing. She ain’t at her apartment and I need to know where she’d go, or if you know if something’s happened to her, or anything. I need to know, ’cause not knowing is killing me.”

  “If you cared about her so much, why didn’t you stick around?” he asks. “My daughter, with a man like you . . . I feel sick just thinking about it.” He slinks off to the couch and drops down, staring at the TV with red eyes. The place is a mess, with shit stacked everywhere, but I can’t exactly judge. My place has looked like this more times than I care to admit.

  “I don’t see that this is about outlaws and innocents,” I say. “I care about your daughter, and she’s missing. I need to make sure she’s safe. It’s that simple.”

  Bill doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at the TV screen with the shotgun laid across his knees. The TV is turned off, reflecting us. I approach him slowly, waiting for him to talk. Sometimes folks just need a second, I’ve found, especially folks with guns.

  After a long pause, he says, “You knocked me out cold, didn’t you? Knocked me out like it was no big thing to you. I came running at you and I was sure—I was sure I was still the man I once was. I felt young and strong. And then you stepped back and jabbed me once and—bam.” He lowers his head. “You think I give a shit if you’re an outlaw? You think that’s why I’ve had my boys hounding you? And now I can’t even call Michaels off. He’s a crazy bastard, Michaels is. I never should’ve let him loose on you.”

  I realize what I did to him. I humiliated him. I forced his hand. If I’d weaved around a little, let him get a few hits on me, maybe he would never have started this vendetta. But flooring a man without even giving him a chance to defend himself is a humiliation than can’t be ignored. That’s when it hits me. I know what I have to do.

  “I apologize, sir,” I say.

  His gaze snaps to me. That’s how I know I’m onto something.

  “What did you say?” he whispers.

  “I’m sorry. I never should’ve come at you like that. It was cruel, and mean, and cheap. I should’ve made it a fair fight. I want you to know that I’m sorry for doing it that way. It was wrong.”

  “Do you mean that?” he asks, with something like hope in his trembling voice.

  “I mean it,” I say, and I do. If I’d handled it better, maybe all of this would have been easier.

  “If Nancy’s anywhere, it’s with her mother in California. I can give you the address.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He scrawls the address down on a piece of paper and hands it to me. I tuck it into my pocket and make for the door.

  “Fink,” he says, when my hand is on the handle.

  “Yeah?”

  “Be good to her. If you decide to go down to Cali, you be good to her. Don’t mess her around. Be the man I never could be. Don’t let the demon drink take you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nancy

  “I want to be the father that kid deserves,” he says, his hand sliding up my naked thigh. “I want to be the man that kid deserves. I’m tired of running, Nancy. I’m tired of being so goddamn indecisive. You don’t deserve that, and that kid definitely doesn’t deserve it. You’re a good woman. A good person. I’m tired of making good people feel bad. Let me make you feel good.”

  Mom and her boyfriend are in the next room but he doesn’t care. He pushes me back and slides his hand up my leg all the way to my hole, and then slides his finger inside of me. I’m wet for him, always wet for him, aching and ready. He pushes his finger inside of me, and then another finger, and then his whole fist, splitting me open.

  “How does that feel?” he asks.

  “Good,” I moan, surprised. I can feel his entire hand inside of me, each finger squirming. There’s no pain, which is strange; there should be pain.

  “You’re a sexy little whore, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a sexy little whore,” I agree.

  “You love to be fucked like my dirty whore, don’t you? You love playing the good girl at work and then getting drilled by an outlaw biker. It makes you hot to think about me in the garage, and now I have my hand inside of you. It drives you fucking crazy.”

  “Yes, yes, yes . . .”

  I claw at the sheets, sunlight darting into my eyes. I groan when I sit up in Mom’s spare room, no sight of Fink. It’s my fourth morning here and I still feel like absolute crap. At first, I thought it was a cold or something like that, but there are no physical symptoms. Mom says I’m love-struck, that I’ll get over it soon, but it doesn’t feel that way. I don’t even feel like I want to get over it. I just feel like I want Fink here with me, to hold him, to be with him, to talk to him about our baby’s future.

  I get up and get dressed, and even that’s a struggle. Part of me knows that I’m being melodramatic, but logic doesn’t have much say in my mood at the moment. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and try a smile, but the only thing I can muster is a pitiful half-grin which makes me look sadder than my resting face. I walk through the hallway, Andre’s dulcet voice getting louder and louder.

  “My sweet Cheryl, my sweet cherry, sweeter than any fruit and more beautiful than any flower. How will I survive without you today? What will I do? How will I live? I do not know. I cannot think about it! You are the cherry of my eye and without you, I am dead. Yes, I am nothing with you and—”

  “Don’t stop on my account,” I say, heading for the fridge. “I’m just grabbing a snack.”

  Mom is sitting at the table with Andre on his knees next to her. He’s five years younger than her, with LA-tanned skin and a tight ponytail. He wears shorts and a tank top, ready for his yoga class. “Buongiorno, Nancy.”

  “Hello
, Andre.”

  I open the fridge and look over the selection, my belly empty and yet no pangs of hunger hitting me. It’s almost as though I’m hungry for Fink and nothing else, and my body will only ache for him. But I didn’t eat dinner last night and I’m starting to feel lightheaded. I grab one of Mom’s ultra-healthy yogurts, take a spoon from the drawer, and walk back toward the hallway.

  “No, you don’t! Young lady!” Mom springs up and intercepts me. She’s tall and skinny, with the same hair and eyes as me, but with an openness to her I’ve never been able to achieve. “I’ve taken a whole day off work to try and cheer you up, dear. I hope you’re not going to disappoint me. I can’t just let you hide in that room of yours, becoming a hermit, looking more and more disgusting every time you slink out.”