Coming Undone (Club Voyeur Book 1)

by Kohl, Holland

My Dad’s brows furrowed, darkening his face into something many men feared. “Maybe we should go back to baby girl.”

  “No way. I love it. I’m Vi now, and don’t you forget it.”

  Now it was my Dad’s turn to roll his eyes. “Fine, Vi. You still want bubblegum on a sugar cone, or do you want something more sophisticated like earl grey in a cup with salted caramel sauce?”

  “Dad, I’ll still be eating bubblegum ice cream when I’m old and gray, like you.” I laughed and pushed him toward the ice cream stand. “Now hurry up before we both melt into the pavement.”

  All eyes were on my Dad as he loped across the parking lot, his long hair blowing in the wind. He commanded attention, especially in our small town where to some he was an outlaw, to others, a god.

  I leaned against the bike and watched him in action. He smiled and chatted with the woman behind the counter like he had known her his whole life. The way she hung on his every word and stuck out her chest made me want to vomit. I had seen it a million times before. Different women, same reaction, yet I still watched every time. I liked to view my Dad’s flirtations as a learning experience about how not to act around men. Because no matter what the women did for my Dad, free ice cream, another coffee refill, a trip to the back room at the MC headquarters, it didn’t matter. None of their efforts truly gained his respect. I didn’t want to be the type of girl who got pumped and dumped. I wanted to be somebody’s equal. Somebody’s old lady.

  The sweltering heat made me antsy. I fiddled with the ornate gold key pendent Dad gave me for my birthday and hummed Joplin’s “Mercedes Benz.”

  The low rumble of approaching motorcycles drowned out my tune and caught my attention along with everyone else's. I turned to see if more club members had come to join us for ice cream. I didn’t recognize the two guys pulling in, but they were wearing the Hell’s Demons insignia on their leather, so I assumed they were new members of the MC.

  I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead and looked back at the ice cream stand. “Finally!”

  With a furrowed brow and tense jaw, my Dad walked toward me with my ice cream in one hand and a banana split in the other. Quickly and without warning, he tossed the ice creams and reached for the vintage Colt Paterson he always wore holstered at his hip. Before his hand even skimmed the gun’s cool metal, fireworks erupted.

  My brain refused to register the reality of the situation.

  It wasn’t the fourth of July.

  It was October.

  There were no fireworks, only bullets finding their target in my Dad’s unprotected chest.

  I ran to protect him, my heals kicking up dirt as I sprung away from the bike. I didn’t care what happened to me. I didn’t have a plan. I just needed to get to my Dad. I had to make it stop.

  Before I could reach his body, I was tackled from behind. My head hit the ground with a thud that resonated in my ears. A rancid smell emanated from the enormous man on top of me. I lay on the ground, floundering, breathing in giant gulps of dirt like a fish out of water. I tried to focus on my Dad, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate. Little shocks of blue light danced in front of my eyeballs, preventing me from focusing on his body lying off in the distance.

  I shook my head, trying to clear my vision. I could scarcely move under the weight of the man, who probably thought his good deed had saved my life. I saw my Dad for a fleeting moment, before he disappeared behind more shocks of blue light. I willed my eyes to focus. To see. I needed all of my faculties so that I could fight. Fight for my Dad and fight for myself. Survive.

  One singular thought dominated my mind: Get to Dad.

  “Please let me up,” I squealed and tried to wiggle out from under the Lard Ass on top of me. “You’re crushing me.”

  Lard Ass heard me and grunted. His hot breath on the back of my neck sent shivers down my spine.

  “Get the fuck off!” My vision became more clear by the second. I had to get up. I had to rescue my Dad.

  Lard Ass gripped me even tighter around the waist holding me steadfast to the ground.

  I kicked at his leg and twisted, trying to break free from his pudgy hands. My struggling only succeeded in exciting him. I felt something hard poke into my back. Although I had never been with a boy, I knew that it wasn’t his wallet straining to get out of his pocket.

  “Let me up, you mother fucker.” I clawed at his arms. I tried to gouge, to tear. I didn’t care what I did to him. I needed to break free.

  I needed to be with my Dad.

  I needed to stop his bleeding.

  I thrashed about some more, trying to break his hold. If I could only get my legs free, I could wrench the rest of my body out from under his weight.

  A caged animal would rather bite its own leg off than be trapped and at the mercy of the unknown. I screamed in frustration and took a different tack. Throwing my head back, I aimed for his nose.

  I missed.

  He let out a throaty laugh and leaned his weight into me, pressing my face flat against the unforgiving ground. His erection pressed deeper into the small of my back. “You got a lot of fight in you. I like it.” Lard Ass wheezed into my hair.

  It was hopeless. I let my body still. My eyes committed my Dad’s last moments to memory. As the life seeped out of him in giant pools of red, I vowed to avenge his death.

  Tears filled my eyes, clouding my vision, before they spilled over and streamed down my cheeks plopping on the dry desert ground. I prayed for an ambulance to arrive in the nick of time. But I knew better. No one could survive that many bullet holes to the chest, not even my Dad.

  I blinked back my tears and forced myself to watch every movement of my Dad’s murderers. The way they handled him filled me with a fury that burned through my veins. They checked for a pulse and then searched his pockets. I winced as the tall skinny one with a patch of white hair above his right temple used his boot to kick my Dad over, so he could search his back pockets.

  A low sob resonated up from my chest and threatened to become a scream. I had to keep quiet and hold it together. Pieces of me were fraying at the edges like the denim on my favorite pair of jeans. I was on the verge of breaking apart into a million little pieces. If I fell apart, allowed myself to really feel, I wouldn’t be able to help my Dad. I would be a sobbing wreck, useful to no one.

  Every piece of me wanted to let the pain out in a torrent of screams. I bit my lip and suppressed my soul. My fury burned bright, turning my insides to ash. My Dad taught me to be tough and level headed. I vowed to stay calm, to stay alive.

  The key burned against my neck and I instinctively knew they were looking for it. I stilled myself and waited. With every second that passed and every ragged breath that left my mouth in a short sputter, my hatred only intensified for the two men who killed my Dad and the man holding me down, slowly grinding his erection into my back. Everyone was too distracted trying to save themselves to notice or care that I was being dry humped in the middle of Dotty’s parking lot. I looked safe, hidden beneath his burley weight, but I wasn’t. I was far from safe, and doubted I would ever be safe again.

  I gritted my teeth and tried to look up at my captor. “I’m going to make you pay for this, you sick fuck!”

  He grunted and ran his hand down my arm to my wrist, letting his fingers glide over my breasts on their way. “Pay for what? I’m a hero. I saved your life. You should be thanking me.”

  “I can think of a few ways to thank you and they all involve a switchblade,” I muttered.

  “Keep talking like that and you’re going to make me come.” He grunted and started thrusting harder into my back.

  Without warning, I bucked my waist upward and kicked my legs out. “You fucking rapist,” I yelled and thrashed my body every which way, just trying to break free from his grasp.

  “Just let me finish you little bitch.” He thrust again and grabbed a fistful of my hair. “Stop moving before I break your fucking neck.”

  I willed my body to quiet. My limbs stopped moving, b
ut every molecule of my being protested my captivity. My heart thundered in my chest, making each breath painful. If threats turned him on, maybe appealing to his humanity would do the opposite. I softened my voice and pleaded, “you don’t want to do this. Just let me go.”

  It didn’t work.

  “Not another word.” He yanked my hair back straining my neck at an odd angle.

  “You’re going to scalp me.” I clawed at his hands.

  He yanked my head from side to side. “Shut up and stay still,” he growled.

  I bit back my tears and submitted.

  Sobs wracked my body, but I kept them from escaping my mouth. I wouldn’t give him cause to hurt me anymore than he already had and more importantly, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

  “You’re so sweet,” he moaned, taking an audible whiff of my hair. “You smell like cotton candy.” His pace quickened. After a series of micro thrusts, his entire body convulsed before going completely limp.

  His grip slackened, allowing me to shift into a more comfortable position. I didn’t have the energy to try to escape anymore. I returned my attention to the two men, who continued to search my Dad’s limp body for a key they were not going to find. The way they moved, seemingly without a care in the world, worried me, but not as much as the leather vests on their backs.

  Where did they get MC leather? Who would be crazy enough to order a hit on my Dad? Who guns down a man in broad daylight in front of a score of witnesses? What does this key open? There were too many unanswered questions. None of this made any sense.

  “I’m going to kill you. Kill you all.” I said, infusing my voice with venom. I doubted than anyone heard me, or that I could possible strike fear in their hearts. My words were more of a pledge to myself, a warrior’s oath. I would avenge my Dad, even if it took me the rest of my life to figure out how.

  That is, if I survived today.

  I knew I had little time before the murderers would come for me and when they did, they would take the key and most likely kill me. Because the type of men who weren’t afraid to kill someone in public at an ice cream stand full of witnesses, were sure as hell not going to leave behind any loose ends.

  I stared at the puddle of tears forming beneath my face and allowed myself to dip into the hopeless sorrow that circled around my heart like buzzards above a field of death. I tried to be strong for my Dad, but I was weak.

  If I hadn’t asked to go for ice cream, my Dad wouldn’t be dead right now. This was my fault. If we had just stayed at the MC, he would be smiling at some lady, or joking with his brothers, or maybe he’d even be riding his Harley down the highway.

  Whistling brought me back from my self-loathing and shattered the image of my Dad, alive, happy. My eyes bore holes in the murderers, stalking over to my trapped body. I took stock of both of them, committing their faces to memory. The white haired man had a thin puritanical nose and soulless green eyes. The other man looked like the product of breeding a bulldog and a pig. His squat form bristled with unnaturally large muscles. He had a snub nose and Cro-Magnon forehead. The asymmetry of his face compelled me to stare, but I couldn’t let his sick mug be the last thing I saw on this earth. I squeezed my eyes shut and resigned myself to death.

  A loud crack made my entire body jump and then tense involuntarily. My eyes remained glued shut, refusing to take in any more horror. A hot wet liquid trickled down my face, dripping off my chin in rivulets feeding the parched ground below. Without another thought, I opened my mouth and untethered my emotions. Every ounce of fear, sadness, and hatred spilled out of my lungs, channeled into a banshee scream originating from the deepest recesses of my soul.

  Something happened. My body suddenly felt weightless.

  Was this death?

  A cool breeze.

  A large weight off my back.

  My scream got even louder. I didn’t want to die, not like this. I had imagined my death occurring later in life, an inevitable yet planned affair, like a C-section. I would have all of my children and grandchildren around me in my last moments. I would look at my family with tears of happiness brimming in my eyes and then take my last breaths in peace.

  Death wasn’t supposed to occur on the ground at Dotty’s Ice Cream Shack. There were so many milestones I had yet to achieve: prom, losing my virginity, marriage, college, a career. The realization that none of that would happen made me crumple.

  My scream slowly died down enough that I became aware of my surroundings. I heard chuckling. Enraged by their audacity to ruin my death with their stupid laughs, I opened my eyes and faced my executioners head on. Cro-Magnon man and Soulless Eyes stood in front of me, glaring down with serpentine smiles.

  I felt my head, my eyes widening with horror as my fingers came back blood stained, because knowing and seeing the truth were two entirely different things.

  A glimpse of a figure to my right registered in my foggy brain. Turning my head, I saw the reason my face was covered in blood, why I was weightless. Sprawled out on his back, Lard Ass could have been working on his tan if not for the quarter sized bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. I had no sympathy for him. Just like I had no misgivings about my own survival.

  My real death would come soon. It would be faster than the speed of sound. Quicker than a trigger finger. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut again and tried to say a prayer. I wasn’t brought up religious, but now seemed like as good a time as any to start believing. I fumbled through the Lord’s Prayer and waited.

  The roar of two motorcycles speeding down the highway gave way to the welcomed sound of approaching sirens.

  ***

  The treadmill beeped signaling the end of my run. Its slow deceleration forced my racing brain to slow down, returning to my present reality. My eyes snapped back into focus, relaxing on the glowing red numbers that floated across the treadmill’s digital display: 10 miles, 90 minutes, 930 calories. The image of Envy Harris lying on the ground, broken and scared, shimmered like a desert mirage.

  You’re not her anymore.

  The reminder did little to banish the fear that still gripped my soul. A lingering fear that had been ever present over the last five months.

  The new me, Anna Wharton, held her head high with determination as she wiped down the treadmill at the Brookstone University Fitness Center. Envy Harris died long ago, so that I could survive. When I became Anna, I became strong and cultured, a professor’s wife, a woman of means. Envy experienced too much tragedy, too much damage. I had to compartmentalize her experiences to make a life for myself.

  My rebirth began the day I decided to cut out all of my old memories in favor of new ones. Suppressing my former self worked for six years. Five months ago, that all changed when I bumped into a man who looked exactly like my Dad. His hair, sun worn skin, kind sapphire eyes, even the way he loped about - it all screamed Dad. I made a fool of myself before I confirmed the hard reality. The man was just a townie, a cult member in some religious group known for taking in wayward souls.

  Ever since that day, images and memories from my past started coming back with a vengeance, knocking into me with the littlest provocation. Envy just wouldn’t stay put in the red lockbox that I kept in the far reaches of my mind. All of her memories threatened to overtake me, even now.

  I balled my fists and harnessed my energy. Stalking toward Envy, cowering and whimpering on the ground, I decided to try something new. Instead of fighting her, I gently picked up her limp body, cradling her head against my chest. “It’s time for you to go back inside. Time to rest,” I whispered to my former self. I lulled her to sleep before placing her inside a small bubblegum pink coffin. “You need to stay put,” I cooed before shutting and locking the lid. With each clump of dirt that covered the coffin, I steeled myself against my past; hardening into the woman I wanted to be. I only hoped that this time Envy would stay put, for good.

  My fluffy white gym towel sopped up my tears like they never happened. Aside from seeing a l
ook-a-like Dad, I had a theory about why the memories were hitting me with increasing frequency, but I shook it away before it became a well-formed thought. I couldn’t allow myself to indulge in my past any longer.

  Three time zones separated me from my childhood home.

  I had a new name and a new life.

  Nobody here knew anything about my past.

  Envy Harris no longer existed.

  Anna Wharton was alive and well in Upstate New York.

  My mantra strengthened my resolve to forget and move on.

  The mirrored walls reflected the woman I had become as I walked through the fitness center toward the locker room. My strong body held no weaknesses. I was a machine.

  “A little help please.”

  A strained voice stopped me in my tracks. I scanned the gym for its source. There were a few regulars milling about. Old Mr. Donaldson, a buff elderly man who was way too tan for his own good, hoisted a heavily stacked barbell in a complete dead lift. Mrs. White, a middle-aged woman who always read steamy romance novels on the elliptical, licked her lips and giggled to herself.

  You’re just hearing things.

  I shrugged and continued toward the locker room. My studio waited. Painting was the best release, particularly after one of my episodes.

  “Down here.” The voice sounded more urgent. “By the weight benches.”

  My eyes darted to a row of benches in the middle of the room, finally spotting the source - a man caught between the bench press and a barbell stacked with so many weights it would give a Mr. Olympus competitor pause.

  “What an idiot.” The man’s red face left no doubt he starved for oxygen and required immediate help. Unfortunately my body didn’t catch up with my brain. I stood rooted to the spot.

  “Hurry!” he gasped.

  I couldn’t help my Dad, but I could help this man.

  The unwelcome thought lit up my brain like a Las Vegas billboard. My legs mobilized into action, carrying my body to his aid without another thought. Grabbing the bar, I dug in with my heals and lifted with every ounce of energy leftover from my run. The bar remained still, pressed firmly against the man’s chest.