by Gemma Weir
Like always, the eyes come to me. Brown, green, and blue. All wide; all full of fear and sorrow. Some filled with unshed tears, others hardened knowing what was happening, but refusing to fear it. They chase me through the endless dark room, never catching me, but never allowing me to escape them. Always there, always forcing me in my sleep to be accountable for my actions.
I bolt upright and sleep evaporates from me. Sucking in frantic lungful’s of cool air, I try in vain to slow the pounding of my guilt-ridden heart. Shuffling backward, I pull my knees up and rest my elbows on them, my head cradled in my hands. I want to cry, and shout, and rail that this recurring torment isn’t fair, that I don’t deserve it. But that would be a lie. I deserve to be punished for my sins and this is my castigation.
I live my daylight hours as a Sinner, only to be tortured in my sleep; each set of eyes a physical incarnation of a life I’ve taken. Lives I ended without remorse or reparation. I could justify my actions, each life was a rapist, an abuser, drug dealer, or murderer, but despite their offenses, they were still lives that weren’t mine to take.
The alcohol still fizzles in my system, but all of the joyous properties are gone, leaving only the bitter aftertaste: faint nausea and the stirrings of a pounding headache. The sun is rising, and a faint glow of red permeates through the partially drawn drapes. Reaching out blindly, I grasp for the remote control on my bedside table and push a button. Melodic music fills the silent darkness and blowing out a tense breath, I try to relax against my pillows.
My mind drifts to Nikki, and I wonder if her shadows haunted her dreams or if she slept peacefully. Is she alone or is Park warming her bed? Unexpected anger rises within me and I push back the image of Park’s tall frame wrapped around Nikki’s luscious curves. What she does and who she does it with is none of my business. I don’t know Nikki and what I do know, I don’t particularly like, so why is this bothering me?
Closing my eyes, I will my body back to sleep, but like normal my nightmares are still waiting for me even in my waking dreams. My eyes pop open and I stare up at the ceiling, wishing that last night when the whiskey had blurred the edges of my reality; I’d picked a whore to keep me entertained. I was drunk off my ass, but even at my worst I can still fuck well enough to make her scream and if I had, I wouldn’t be alone right now. The walls feel like they’re closing in around me, and a sheen of cold sweat pebbles across my brow. The early morning, when the sun isn’t fully awake to drive away my demons, is the worst part of the day.
Desperate for a distraction from my fucked-up mind, I reach to my bedside locker and pull out the black folder from the drawer. Lifting it onto my lap, I drag in a deep breath and open the cover. The face of every single person whose life I’ve ended stares back at me. Slowly, I turn the pages and look at the information I collected on each person before I decided to reap my own brand of justice on them. Pages and pages of unforgivable sins and disgusting descriptions of the acts of atrocity they reaped on their victims. My racing heart starts to slow. This folder doesn’t make me redeemable, but it reminds me that I polluted my soul to prevent these monsters from hurting anyone else’s. An eye for an eye, a soul for a soul.
When I reach the final page, I close the folder. The ritual is the same every day, but just like yesterday and the day before, I don’t find any solace in the reminder.
Two hours pass as I roll around my bed, trying to quiet my memories enough to be able to fall back to sleep. Finally admitting defeat, I roll out of bed, bleary-eyed, my tired muscles dragging. I pad my way into the bathroom to shower and the water refreshes my alcohol-abused body enough for me to dress and leave my room.
When I finally sink into one of the leather couches in the bar, the clock on the quietly playing TV says 8:06am. A coffee appears in front of me, steam rising from the black nectar, and two aspirin are dropped next to the cup. Forcing my eyes upward, I smile appreciatively at Harper. Two women live permanently at the club: Ali, who’s made it her mission to keep all of the brothers carnally happy, and Harper, who acts like den mother, keeping the place clean and the cupboards stocked. Harper’s a low-maintenance girl. She doesn’t cause any trouble, she’s pretty and easygoing—the perfect club girl.
Picking up the tablets, I throw them into my mouth and wash them down with a sip of hot coffee. The liquid burns my throat, but this is a familiar ritual and I’m almost numb to the pain.
Harper reappears, her own coffee clutched between her hands and she sinks down next to me on the couch. “Bad night?”
I grunt my agreement. Harper knows that my nightmares force me awake. She’s an early riser too and over the last couple of years we’ve spent many mornings just like this, sitting together in companionable silence.
“Wanna talk about it?”
She asks me this every morning and like every time before I shake my head and lift my coffee to my lips to avoid further conversation. Minutes pass and I stare sightlessly at the TV. Neither of us speaks until Harper pours the last of her coffee into her mouth, then she squeezes my leg as she stands from the couch. “You hungry?”
Turning to her, I smile gratefully. “Starving.”
Her responding smile is warm and expectant. “Ali’s frying bacon; I’ll steal you some rashers for a sandwich.”
“I don’t tell you often enough how much I love you,” I say jokingly.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s only ‘cause I bring you food,” she says with a laugh.
I watch her walk away, her ass swaying. She’s a pretty girl, with long sun-bleached hair, and tan skin. She’d fit in on a Californian beach just as easily as she does here. Harper’s hot, but there’s no spark. Her skin would be perfect covered in tattoos, her ass would be perfect if she strutted rather than just walked, and her easygoing attitude is missing the sass and confidence that would make her impossible to forget.
As the kitchen door swings shut behind her, I realize that I just mentally considered what Harper would need to do to become more like Nikki. Nikki, who’s bratty, angry and aggressive. Nikki, who hates me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Here you go, honey,” Harper says, holding out a plate with a large sandwich on it.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the plate from her, but avoiding making eye contact. A sense of guilt washes over me. Why am I comparing her to Nikki, when any guy would be lucky to call Harper his? I’ve often wondered what happened to drive her to the Sinners. I don’t even really remember when she arrived, just that she did, and she’s never left. I’m a fucking asshole, and this time I don’t watch as she walks away.
Forty-five minutes later, Daisy and Dove enter the room and after grabbing plates laden with breakfast food, they sit down on the couch opposite mine.
“Hi, Blade,” Dove says, smiling brightly. A little white fluffball dog I hadn’t noticed earlier, walks in front of Dove’s feet and I watch as she leans forward and scoops him up, placing him between her and Daisy on the couch.
“What the fuck is that?” I say, pointing at the dog.
“That’s Cedric,” Daisy says dryly, looking at Dove from the corner of his eyes.
“Cedric?” I ask, my eyebrows furrowed.
“Yep, Cedric. Isn’t he adorable? Daisy adopted him for me yesterday from the rescue center. He was abandoned in a garbage bag, who would do that?” Dove asks, her eyes wide in outrage.
Eyeing the tiny dog again, I look at Daisy. “They didn’t do it in full size?”
Daisy laughs, until Dove smacks him in the arm. “He’s a puppy,” Dove says, pointing her knife at me.
Holding my hands up in surrender, I smile at the petite little blonde. Dove appeared one night covered in bruises and wormed her way into every member of the club’s hearts; most particularly mine, and our club president Anders’. “Apologies, Little Dove, he’s a real cute little cotton ball.”
Dove’s lips twist into a half-smirk as she tries to fight the smile I know is coming. “You’re forgiven,” she says when the full smile finally
breaks through.
Sipping on my third cup of coffee of the day, I glance at Daisy. “You working today?”
“No, Prez gave me a few days to get the new place sorted, then I’ll probably be on security at Strikers. The new bar is opening next week.”
“Next week? I bet Brandi’s champing at the bit to get back in there and Sleaze will be glad to get her out of Beavers. Anyone would think she’d been stripping, not just working the bar with the way he’s been stomping about since Grits asked her to cover a few shifts.”
Daisy tips his head to the side and glances at Dove. “I get why he’s pissed. I wouldn’t want Angel working at a strip club, even if it was just behind the bar.”
My stomach sinks as I think about our Little Dove working at a strip club. The thought makes me grimace and with a newfound understanding, I nod. “Yeah, I suppose. What you got planned for the day?”
“I’m going with my sister to look at a house she likes. I can’t believe she’s buying a house in Archer’s Creek, and if this one looks as good in real life as it did in the realtor’s pictures, she could end up living just around the corner from me and Daisy,” Dove says excitedly.
“You going with them?” I ask Daisy, my eyebrow raised in question.
“Yep,” Daisy confirms.
“You should come too,” Dove says. “More sets of eyes looking for problems has got to be better than just me and Nikki. I’m so excited that it’s so close to our new place, I doubt I’ll be able to look at the house objectively.”
A sly smile slips across my lips. More time with the angry little hellcat. I shouldn’t be pleased at the idea of being insulted or ignored, but I am. I want to be there in case she slips out any information about what made her run, or why her father told people she was dead. I have a feeling that all her secrets revolve around her father. We already know he was an abusive bastard who enjoyed beating up his wife and daughters, but something more must have happened to make her up and leave her sister, and I plan to find out.
“Sure, I’ll come,” I say, and Dove smiles widely.
A moment of doubt passes through my mind as I watch Dove chattering to her fluffball dog and feeding him pieces of bacon. Dove is happy her sister is back and seemingly not intent on causing trouble, so maybe the past should just stay in the past? But Nikki’s the one making appointments to view her old family home; she’s the one not letting sleeping dogs lie. I don’t understand her motivation. I run from my shadows, pushing them down deep enough that they only catch me in my unconsciousness. But Nikki’s been hiding in plain sight from hers for the last two years. Never more than ten miles away from her family, but never stepping back into their lives. So why now?
Thoughtfully, I slump back into my seat. Regret is gnawing at the edges of my thoughts and perhaps the discomfort should be enough to stop me, but it’s not. Instead, the need to dig a little deeper into Nikki’s life consumes me, so I push down my building guilt and follow Daisy and Dove to their new apartment to go house hunting.
Blowing Park a kiss, I drop him at the curb outside his tattoo shop and pull away, heading towards Archer’s Creek.
Last night’s meltdown hadn’t been pretty.
“Come on, love, let’s get you home,” Park had said, then he’d lifted me into my car and climbed in after me. He navigated the roads back to my house with ease, whilst I clung to him on the leather bench seat.
My sobs had eventually subsided, and by the time we reached my house, the tears had dried on my cheeks and only the occasional sniffle evidenced my crying jag.
Park opened my car door and held out his hand for me to take. I lifted my hand to him and he pulled me from the seat and into a comforting one-armed hug. He walked me to the door and then releasing me, he garaged my car and made his way up my front path to where I waited on the doorstep. Using my keys, he silently unlocked my front door and held it open for me to step inside ahead of him.
Switching on the lights as I walked, my dark, lifeless house was gradually illuminated and a sleepy Jock padded from the kitchen to see us. When he spotted Park, he enthusiastically wagged his tail, spinning around his feet until Park bent over and scratched him behind the ear.
Fussing around the kitchen, I switch on the coffee pot . “Coffee?” I asked. Park nodded, and I grabbed two mugs from the cupboard.
“What’s going on, Nik?” Park asked, his accent, usually so calming, was now terse and unyielding.
Sighing deeply, I turned to face him, resting my butt against the cool granite counter. “Angelique—who you know as Dove—is my baby sister. Until today we hadn’t spoken in over two years. She thought I was dead. My asshole sperm donor told my little sister that I was dead.” The tears I’d thought had all dried up started again. Hot and angry, they spilled down my cheeks, dripping off my chin and onto the floor, without me making any attempt to wipe them away.
“Why would he say you were dead? Did he think that you were?”
“No. He knew I was alive. He didn’t know where I was, but he knew I was alive.”
The kettle clicked, and I spun around, planning to busy my hands with making the coffee, but Park’s stern voice stopped me. “Nikki,” he snapped. “You need to explain.”
“You know my parents were assholes,” I cried, not daring to turn and look at him.
He grabbed my arm and forced me to turn to face him. “I do know that, but having shitty parental versus your dad telling people you’re dead, is a little fucking different, Nik,”
Needing to anchor myself, I braced my hands against the counter, curling my fingers around the cool surface. “Yeah, well I hit the shitty parents jackpot with mine. My father liked to beat the crap out of me. I thought it was just me, that I was his favorite punchbag, but it turns out when I left, he moved on to pastures new and my baby sister became target number one.” My voice rose to a yell. “I protected her for years, always standing in front of her to make sure she never pissed him off. I shouldn’t have left, but I couldn’t stay, and because of me she was hurt. He hurt her again and again and it’s all my fault because I was a coward, and I left.”
My lips wobbled and lifting my hands I covered my face and hid from the disappointment I expected to find in his expression. I couldn’t stand to witness how he looked at me when he saw how weak I was; that I abandoned my sister to save myself.
Large, warm hands wrapped around me and I was pulled into a hard chest. “Don’t cry, love. This isn’t your fault. You did what you had to do to survive and no one would blame you for that. I doubt Dove blames you. When you left, you couldn’t have known that your dad would start to abuse your sister. This isn’t your fault.”
His words only made me cry harder because as much as I wanted them to be true, it didn’t feel like they were. I’d thought my dad just hated me. He’d never expressed anything more than annoyance for Angelique, but was that because I’d always put myself between them and diverted his anger toward me?
“How long did he hurt you for?” Park asked, his voice sounding muffled from where my head was pressed against his chest.
“Three years.”
“Jesus,” he hissed. “I’m so fucking sorry, love.”
His sympathy wouldn’t make those years go away. It wouldn’t make the memories disappear and it wouldn’t lessen the impact of the abuse I endured. I didn’t want his sympathy. I didn’t want him to look at me and see a victim. But I couldn’t tell Park that, so I stayed quiet. When he finally pulled back, he cradled my face between his hands and wiped away my tears with his thumbs.“What made you decide to finally leave?”
I froze and memories of that night: of the office, and the smell of his cologne, hit me in an agonizing stab to my heart. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I forced the thoughts back into the recesses of my mind. I wouldn’t think about that night; I wouldn’t remember what happened, I couldn’t. So, panting, I pulled myself away from Park’s arms and turned to face the counter again.
“I can’t,” I said, my voice crackin
g. Reaching forward, I lifted the kettle and started to make the coffee.
Park didn’t push me and I was grateful. We finished our drinks and then made our way upstairs to bed. We separated at the top of the stairs: me heading for my bedroom and Park for the guest room, but as I moved, his hand on my arm stopped me.
“When you’re ready, I’m here for you. I won’t ever push you to tell me what he did. But remember that I’m here, when holding in those memories gets too much.”
Rising onto my tiptoes, I kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Walking into that tattoo shop was one of the best things I ever did.”
“Love you, Nik,” Park said. Then with one last, haunted look he turned and walked into the guest room.
I watch Park in my rear-view mirror, his hands in his pockets, his posture weary as he watches me drive away. Without the radio on, I listen to the whoosh of the wind as I navigate the country roads that will lead me back to Archer’s Creek. Last night had been both cathartic and harrowing. It’s the first time in a very long time that I’ve allowed the emotions I’ve held so close about leaving my family, all those years ago, to rise to the surface.
On the day I left, I was so numb, so hollow, that my sole focus had been escaping. I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t deal with what happened, or spend another moment in that house, knowing what secrets those walls held. From that moment on, I’d lived day to day just trying to survive and to do what I had to do to bury my emotions deep inside of me. Admitting them, or sharing them with anyone else would have been redundant; after all who would have believed me? It’s my life and I almost can’t believe that what happened was real.
It turns out that pretense is an art. Pretending to be okay, pretending to be happy, pretending to be normal, I’ve perfected all of those things. I’ve pretended for so long, I’m not sure I still recognize what actual emotions feel like.
In less than twenty-four hours I’ve experienced more real that I have in the last two years. I don’t know if it’s my sister that makes pretending harder, or if the feelings I’ve repressed are just refusing to stay buried anymore. I almost wish my parents were still alive to see what they did to both Dove and I. Would our mother be ashamed? She should be, but I doubt she would. My baby sister—the shy, innocent—is living with a guy and is a fully-fledged part of the Doomsday Sinners family, and me, well I’m a successful business woman and I have more money than I know what to do with. But we’re still both a product of their neglect. My sister has thrived despite them, but I’m frozen, never able to move forward because I’m too frightened to look back.
