Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah

by Manda Mellett

  Since her death, I’ve been stuck in limbo. I miss them. I still haven’t come to terms with their loss.

  There was no will, and I was an only child so the farm had come to me. I could have sold the place and gone back to the city, but I felt close to them here, and something was stopping me from moving on. Again I gaze out of the window. The bulk of the land we’d sold off to neighbouring farmers while Mom had still been alive. It was too much for an invalid and a nurse to keep going. But the paddocks I kept for Star, my childhood pony now retired, though the way he kicks up his heels belies it, along with the barn and the chickens.

  I hadn’t consciously made my home here, I couldn’t afford to stay long term for a start. The upkeep while having no job makes it impossible. I’ve always known I would have to move on, but while I still had some savings, I couldn’t find the impetus to leave. It was like I was abandoning my parents somehow. This farmhouse had been in my family since my great-grandfather had built it. I’m the last of the line. As normal, the thought saddens me.

  “You going to sell it?” Weston asks me, as though he can read my mind.

  Suspicious of his motives, he’s not entitled to anything of mine, I turn back to him. “I’m not sure. I suppose so, eventually.”

  The gleam in his eyes suggests he’s wondering how he could work me coming into money to his own advantage. I suppress a shiver. I don’t need to know that he’d spent the last few years inside to know he’s not a decent human being. Growing up, we’d been thrown together, and he was an absolute bully.

  I stop being polite and ask him directly, “Why are you here, Weston?”

  There’s a shifty look in his eyes. “Can’t a cousin come to see one of his only remaining relatives?”

  I shrug. “We’ve never been close.”

  “Well, maybe that should change. I’m a different man now, after…” His voice trails off, but his expression becomes bitter.

  He must be alluding to going inside. Sure, he’s changed, like hell. He’s just like the proverbial leopard and nothing will alter his spots.

  “Hey,” he gentles his voice, “it’s been years, Catherine. I thought it would be good for us to catch up. My parents asked how you were doing. It made me realise I haven’t seen you for a long time. Why don’t I take you out for dinner?”

  I doubt his parents would have expected him to come and see me. My parents—once Weston’s cruelty to me, his younger cousin, had become apparent—had kept us apart. My aunt and uncle were alright, though even at my mom’s funeral, had refused to meet my eye. They knew. They’d seen the bruises. Huh, I think I’d been his first punching bag.

  I’ve got red hair and to my shame, the volatile temper that it’s known for going with it, but today I’m working hard keeping that under wraps. I don’t dare do anything he might think threatening, even raise my voice. I know my limitations. He’s too big for me to throw out. A gun, taser or pepper spray would be handy right now, but I don’t possess anything of the sort. Agreeing to go to dinner with him is last on my list of things I’d like to do, but the attractive point about his statement is he’d no longer be here in my house. Once I lock up, I’ll refuse to let him back inside.

  “Come on,” he cajoles, and winks—a gesture totally at odds with what I know of his character. “Brook’s Diner is still open, isn’t it?”

  While I’ve no desire to eat with him, at least one of my aims would be satisfied—he wouldn’t be breathing my air. Brook’s is always crowded, so I won’t be alone with him. Maybe the sheriff or his deputy would be eating there. Or someone who’d be suspicious seeing us together, and check that I was alright.

  “That’s a great idea.” I try to sound enthusiastic. And, as it’s just a mom-and-pop place, I don’t need to leave him alone while I get dressed, what I’m wearing now would do. While there’s not a lot for him to steal here, I don’t want him rummaging through my things. “I can come as I am.”

  “You can drive,” he tells me.

  “Why don’t you follow me?” After we’ve eaten he can take off to wherever he’s living afterward.

  His face darkens, sending a shiver through me, making my self-preservation instinct kick in. Nope, I don’t want to upset him. I learned that as a child. Weston’s fists can be pretty persuasive.

  “I came by cab,” he informs me. “Ain’t got no transport.”

  I bite my tongue. When you’re a scrap of a thing like myself, you don’t tell an ex-professional wrestler he can take a hike, or summon another taxi to take him back to whatever rock he’d crawled out of.

  The sooner we get to eat, the faster he’ll be gone. I don’t delay, pausing only to check Caspar’s water bowl is topped up. After patting my mom’s faithful dog on the head and telling him to be a good boy, I pick up the keys to my father’s truck.

  I’m not convinced this is wise, but can’t see what other choice I have. “Let’s go then.”

  Swigging back the remnants of his coffee, Weston looks at me and smirks, as though he realises why I’m being so compliant, that even after all these years, I know he’s a threat. Flexing his muscles, he lumbers over and snatches the keys out of my hand. “I’ll drive.”

  Under my breath I count to ten. He wouldn’t hurt me like he had when I was a child, would he? My arm still aches in cold weather from where he’d deliberately broken it. But I don’t want to test my theory. The vibes I’m getting from this man are not friendly.

  He wants something. But what? I wish he’d just come out with it.

  The truck’s big, but Weston still looks ridiculous as he pushes the seat back as far as it can go, and I lean into the passenger side so his muscular arm doesn’t touch me when he puts it into gear.

  Luckily, Brook’s Diner is only a couple of miles down the road, so I grit my teeth and don’t comment when he drives too fast. Maybe we’ll get pulled over and I can tell the cop he’s kidnapping me.

  But I have no such luck. We arrive, park, and walk inside. Once seated, we’re given menus. Wanting to keep a clear head, I refuse the alcoholic drink he offers to buy me, sticking to soda. Weston does the opposite, and he’s on his second beer by the time we’ve ordered.

  He goes for steak, while I basically point at a chicken salad. With no appetite under the circumstances, I can’t manage much more.

  He spends his time leering at the other customers. When he pays attention to me, he smirks, an expression I long to wipe off his face. It’s as if he knows something I don’t.

  As I sit, I’m wondering how soon I can get rid of him. Maybe when the meals over I can drop him somewhere instead of taking him home. He’s got my keys. Would an excuse I left my wallet in the car work? I could take off and leave him here. Or, I could say I’ve got to take a bathroom break and disappear.

  A voice breaks into my thoughts.

  “Hey, Cat. We don’t often see you.” Rosa, a waitress I’ve spoken to on a few occasions, stops by my side.

  When my mom was dying, I spent all my time with her. I’ve only recently started to venture out of the house. Most of my childhood friends have moved away, like me, preferring city life. I vaguely remember Rosa from school, but she was a year or two ahead.

  Seeing her eyes flicking warily at my companion and not wanting her to think I’ve poor taste in men, I sigh. “Rosa, this is my cousin, Weston.”

  Weston raises his eyes from her boobs, and gives a sly smile as they settle on her face. I don’t miss Rosa’s slight shudder, though good waitress as she is, she covers it quickly.

  “That’s nice. You could do with some family around you.”

  I probably could, but Weston isn’t the one that I want. For a second I need to suppress my sadness that my parents have gone.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Another beer,” Weston says, tapping the table.

  He’s going to get drunk if he doesn’t watch out. I narrow my eyes, choking back the comment that normally I’d make. I can’t afford to make him angry. What do I know? Man hi
s size could have hollow legs. Maybe he’ll drink so much I can sneak off and speak to Rosa? She could ring the cops. As he’s an ex-convict they would be on my side, wouldn’t they?

  With a plan in mind, I decide to follow it. Our meal is done, his plate cleared, mine barely touched. I pick up my bag.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the bathroom.”

  “Woman, you can hold it. You’re five minutes from home. You’re still as fuckin’ weak as you were when you were a child.”

  I could plea that I can’t, but I feel my lips set stubbornly. I’ll show you weak. He’s challenged me, and you don’t do that with a red-headed woman.

  With another of his smirks, he pushes the bill my way. Picking my battles, I roll my eyes and pay. It’s not much, but more than I wanted to waste on him. Hopefully, now he’s fed, he’ll leave me alone.

  “Shall I call you a taxi?” I offer, a little sweetly. See? I can be a thoughtful cousin.

  His eyes suddenly sharpen. “What the fuck for? I’m coming back with you. I’m staying at your place tonight.”

  Oh no you’re not. “Weston.” I start to protest, quickly looking around, but Rosa must be on a break, and there’s no one I know here. It would take too long to explain why I’d prefer my relative arrested than return to my home, and God knows what he’d do while I was doing so. He’d smash the place up, starting with myself. I might have a temper, but it’s nothing compared to his when roused. “Weston,” I start again in a hiss. “It wouldn’t be right. I’m a single woman.”

  “Fuck, woman, I’m not going to jump your bones, am I? We’re family.” His look is one of disgust. “And you’re not my type. I prefer my women more curvy.”

  I would tell him living in a house of death doesn’t do much to help keep weight on, but why bother.

  His body is tense, and he makes an effort to calm himself. His sympathetic smile he plants on his face looks forced. “Look, Catherine, I know we didn’t always see eye to eye. But my mom was right. You’re wasting away rattling around in that house. Just let me keep you company tonight. You’ve got a spare bedroom, yes? Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll be out of your way. Maybe we can watch a film and catch up or something? It’s not good for you to be alone.”

  He’s trying to sound sincere. With every bone in my body shouting out I mustn’t do this, so far, he’s done nothing to hurt me tonight. Maybe prison has changed him, and maybe, for once, it wouldn’t be so bad to have some company. I’ve lost everyone else. Possibly the most valid reason is, now he’s fixed himself to me like a limpet, I’m not sure how to shift him. Sighing, I capitulate. “One night, okay? Just tonight.”

  “All I want, little Cuz. Got somewhere to be tomorrow.”

  “Your new job?”

  He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  This time, he lets me drive, while he settles back with his head against the headrest, but his eyes stay open, as if he’s checking the road. All of my senses tell me what I’m doing is wrong, but I’m stuck in a hole I can’t get out of. Still, I take him back home.

  He’s not drunk as it turns out. Maybe tipsy, but not that much while six beers would have had me under the table. The amount he’d drunk had made me hopeful at first, that if I showed him straight to the spare bedroom, he’ll just crash, but no, instead he prowls around the house, coming to a halt in front of my PC.

  “You got an Airbnb account?”

  What? Flustered, I answer truthfully, “Sure. Not that I’ve used it in forever.”

  “Need you to book me a place to stay. Some of my friends and I are going fishing in Utah.”

  “Book it yourself.” I shake my head at the imposition.

  His hands form fists. In a remembered childhood response, I take a step back. With a shudder, he comes back to himself. “Thing is, Cuz, I’m not long out of the pen. I ain’t got a permanent address. Those bastards check. You book it for us, I’ll pay you back.”

  I doubt I’ll see the money again, but I’m starting to think he’s showing his true colours, and if I anger him, he’ll retaliate.

  I long to refuse, but this is Weston. There was a reason for him coming here, is this it? “If I do this, you’ll go?”

  “Yeah. It’s for this coming weekend, so I’ve got to be there.” He winks. “Need to get myself some rods. I’ll leave in the morning.”

  “I thought you had a job to go to.”

  His face tightens as though he doesn’t like me questioning him, but then he shrugs. “I start next week. Can’t a man have some fun first?”

  Should I? Book a place for him to stay? It might leave me short of a few dollars, but if that’s all he wants, wouldn’t it be worth it? Undecided, I bow my head, rubbing at my temples. I don’t trust him at all.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I’m starting to think this is going to be a long night. The last time I booked a vacation rental for myself and a girlfriend, we spent days checking all the properties out before deciding which appealed most.

  I’m to be pleasantly surprised. He opens his wallet and pulls out a scrap of paper. “This one.”

  Right. I turn on the PC, pull out my desk chair and sit down. It takes me a while to remember my login details, but at last I’m in. I search for the location he’s chosen. The price makes my eyes water. He might have told me he’d pay me back, but I’m likely to end up paying for an expensive fishing trip for him and his friends. It’ll be worth it, he’ll be gone.

  I go through the screens, put in the information, soon it’s all booked. I close my eyes briefly, sending up a silent prayer that good to his word, in the morning he’ll be gone. He should. It’s Tuesday now, and the cabin is booked from Thursday and all the way over in Utah.

  I don’t bother asking how he’ll be getting there, worried he’d tap me for airfare as well.

  “Thanks, Catherine. I knew I could rely on you. Now, I’m off to bed.”

  Grateful he’s forgoing the aforementioned film and social evening, I remember I’m an, albeit reluctant, hostess and start to stand. “The guest room—”

  “I know where it is. I’ve stayed before.”

  Has he? I couldn’t see my parents giving him accommodation, but it must have been while I was working away, and before my dad had died. I don’t worry my head about it, just feel the relief as he stomps his way up the stairs.

  Idly, I stroke Caspar’s head. “You know,” I tell my beloved dog quietly, “if you were any kind of guard dog he wouldn’t have gotten into this house.” Caspar wags his tail. Yeah. He must have missed that training session in puppy school.

  I let Caspar out and let him back in once he’s done his business, make sure the windows are closed and the door is locked and finally take myself off to bed.

  There are snores coming from the guestroom. Even so, I wish there was a lock on my bedroom, then laugh at myself. I might not trust him, but he’s my cousin. Any danger is not to my virtue, even Weston wouldn’t do that. It takes time, though, until I drop into an uneasy sleep.

  It’s still dark when I’m rudely awoken. One minute I’m sleeping, the next I’m flying through the air, or, more accurately, being carried by Weston.

  “Let go of me!” I scream, beating at him with my hands. Of course, my puny attempts to get free don’t work.

  Caspar’s almost non-existent protective instinct suddenly comes to the fore. I hear him barking and feel him leaping, followed by a yelp, and the sound of a body falling down the stairs. After that there’s a whine that’s followed by more barking.

  “Fuckin’ mutt bit me.”

  Good. But I’m scared. “Don’t hurt him, Weston. You’re frightening him.” And me.

  “Keep quiet, bitch, and I might let your dog live.”

  Might?

  “What are you doing?” I scream, punching as hard as I can, but my fists bounce off his muscles hurting me rather than him.

  He kicks open the door to the cellar, taking me down. While I was sleeping, he’d obviously got
ten himself prepared. There’s a thin blanket on the floor. I struggle, not understanding what he’s going to do but knowing I’m not going to like it. As if fed up with me fighting back he hits me, putting the force of his wrestling experience behind it, and I know no more.

  I wake up, my head throbbing. My hands are handcuffed in front of me, a chain connecting them that’s padlocked to an iron support. There are a couple of bottles of water lying beside me, a bucket and, what looks like the contents of my pantry he’s raided—a few bags of chips, a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a box of cereal.

  I hear his footsteps on the stairs. I’d thought he’d left.

  “Now you be a good girl. I’ll only be gone a few days, then I’ll be back to free you.”

  “Weston, please. Let me go. Why are you doing this?”

  “Why? Because you know where I’ll be. Can’t let that info get out, Catherine. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “I won’t tell anyone about your fishing trip. You can’t leave me!” I’m screaming now.

  “Can’t I?” He smirks, his finger resting on the switch of the overhead light. “You just watch.” He leaves me in the dark.

  Those are his last words before he thumps back up the stairs.

  I scream, plead and beg long after he’s probably left the house. I cry out until I’m hoarse, but no one comes.

  I may be twenty-five years old, but I’m scared of being in the dark, scared of him forgetting to return, scared of dying alone. My parents’ farmhouse is isolated and set well back from the road. It’s privacy a danger now, however much noise I make, there’s no one likely to hear.

  I can’t stay here until Weston decides to come back, I simply can’t. Why did I even let him inside? I almost curse that my parents had brought me up to be polite. I should have told him to get lost when he’d turned up at my door, or found some way to call the police, or had asked Rosa at the restaurant to summon help.

  I’m already cold. The farmhouse is old. This root cellar was ideal for storing stuff before refrigerators became common place, keeping whatever was here cool all year. I’ve been left with a thin fraying blanket and am wearing nothing more than a tank top and sleep pants.