Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah

by Manda Mellett

  My compassion starts to recede, until I remember the condition I found her in. And that anguish when she mentioned his name… Don’t jump to conclusions.

  “Who is he to you?” she counters. She’s scared, but there’s bravery in her challenge.

  I wonder how to answer. Is he her boyfriend? I might not know anything about her, but she doesn’t look the type who’d go for a man like him. He was responsible for chopping off Swift’s finger with no more thought than swatting a fly. Everything I know about him suggests he’s evil. She, I somehow think, is not. Trying to remain open minded—any woman can walk on the wild side, I suppose—I settle for, “I asked first.”

  There’s only a moment’s hesitation before she replies haughtily, “My cousin.” She grimaces slightly. “Is it a joke that you call him Tiny?”

  It is, he was a big fucker, the answer so obvious I don’t provide it.

  I suppose we can’t choose our family, and I can’t assign guilt just because they share blood. If he was the fucker who left her to die, their link didn’t mean much to him. That’s what I’ve got to ascertain now. While I prefer not asking leading questions, this time I’m direct. “He got anything to do with leaving you like this?”

  She glances away. As gentle as I can be, I touch her chin, and move her face back. “Catherine?”

  Again, her eyes widen. “How do you know my name?” An answer occurs to her and defeat fills her face. “Weston, of course. I presume he sent you. I suppose I should be glad he didn’t forget about me.”

  Well, it wasn’t a yes/no answer like it could have been. This time I’m the one with information. The fucker is dead, and whether he had any intention of returning to free her, the point is moot. Right now, I doubt it would do any good to explain I’m only here by happy circumstance. If I hadn’t turned up, she’d have died chained like an animal. She’ll realise that soon enough and will likely have nightmares about dying alone with only rats for company for a very long time.

  “Catherine—” I start.

  “Cat,” she corrects. “No one ever uses my full name, except for him.” There’s a wealth of disgust in the way she refers to who I assume is her cousin.

  “Cat,” I repeat, happy to give in on the small things, while thinking with her striking green eyes how well the name suits her. “You want to tell me how you came to be chained in your fuckin’ cellar?”

  She closes her eyes, wincing again as though it hurts to remember. Suddenly her eyes come open again. “Caspar!” It’s as though the name has just occurred to her. As I’m wondering how a fucking ghost fits in, she repeats it again, this time, urgently, “Caspar? Where is he? He should be here. God, he’s had no food or water. How long has it been? Don’t tell me Weston let him out, he could be anywhere by now.”

  I realise immediately she’s talking about her fucking dog, the one which bled out over her kitchen floor, presumably, so frantic barking didn’t alert anyone that anything was amiss. If Weston wasn’t already six feet under, I’d kill him for that alone. I can’t abide abuse to animals, nor am looking forward to being the one to tell her.

  I’m an expert at hiding my thoughts, but not this time it would seem. Cat covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes start to water.

  “Tell me. Tell me now,” she begs, then adds more strongly, “Where’s Caspar?”

  I can’t meet her eyes and look away.

  Her good hand comes out, grasping my chin with a strength I didn’t think in her state she’d possess. “Caspar?”

  What can I do, but simply say, “I’m sorry.”

  “He starved?” Her voice is choked.

  I can’t lie. “I presume Weston killed him. I’m fuckin’ sorry, Cat.”

  I barely get out of the way in time, as she vomits over the sheets, an agonised wail comes out of her mouth. “No, that’s not true.”

  “Hey.” I wipe her mouth with the edge of the sheet. “Hey.” I’m fucking useless at this. Another man would be able to comfort her, but I can’t find the words. I’m consumed by the need for revenge, but that’s already been dealt. If I could, I’d go back, dig Weston up and kill him all over again, this time with my own bare hands.

  I stand, turning my back on her. I don’t know the story, but I can fill in the gaps between what she’s said and what she hasn’t. Weston left her here to suffer. Even if he hadn’t been prevented, was he ever going to come back? Would he have left her to a lingering death? A glance back reminds me how much she’s been through. The wounds on her wrists showing how much she fought to get free, but she hadn’t a chance. And killing her dog? Fuck, just an animal, but he mattered.

  Always a practical man, I let her weep for a moment, hating the way her weakened body is subjected to shakes and shudders. When I’ve given her enough time, I turn around, scooping the comforter along with her, and pick her up gently and place her in the chair by the wall.

  “Clean sheets?” I ask when her sobs become less regular.

  Incapable of speaking, she inclines her head. Interpreting she means the closet, I go over and pull a fresh set of bedding out, and get on to remaking her bed for her.

  “I should… hic… be doing that… hic.”

  “Cat, you can barely stand.” Otherwise ignoring her, I go back to my task, cleaning up a spill of vomit she’d gotten on the floor. When I’ve finished, she’s in my arms once again as it’s the easiest way to move her. Business like, I notice she’s far too thin for my liking. I like a woman with meat on her bones. I sense it’s caused by more than however long she spent in the cellar. Does she starve herself to look fashionable? Is, or has she been ill?

  Strangely, I find myself wanting to find answers.

  I eye her, noting her pallor which looks improved now, but she could still do with some more colour. I might have found her unconscious, but I doubt she’s had a proper sleep without worry since Weston left. Rats would keep the strongest of us awake.

  “You rest up,” I tell her, collecting the half-empty soup bowl. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be up later to see what you want to eat. You need to get your strength back up.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To do your laundry, for a start.” I bundle the dirty bedding together. Seeing her looking nervous, I attempt a smile. “I’m not going to hurt you, or rob you, Cat. You can trust me on that.”

  There’s a small nod. If I was here with an ulterior motive, I needn’t have woken her up.

  “Wait. Who are you, and why are you in my house? You never said what your relationship is to Weston.”

  “No relationship,” I say fast. As to who I am? I’m conscious I’m still flying under the radar. Now, more than ever, I don’t want to be dragged back to the club until I’ve got the answers I set out to seek. I can’t be Stormy, nor Finn. Though it seems wrong to give her a fake identity, I give her the name I’ve been using along my journey. “I’m Jeremiah. Jeremiah Briggs.”

  “Army?” She weakly indicates the way I’d tucked the sheet in.

  “Navy.” I give her the minimum. “Former.” I stare down at her for a moment. “I’ll be up later; we’ll talk more when you’re stronger. Call me if you need anything.” I swing on my heels to leave her.

  “Jeremiah?” Hesitantly, she tries out my name. When I turn back, she’s looking concerned, and her bottom lip is trembling. “I’ve a horse, chickens. Can you check on them? If they, if they… There’s hay and chicken feed in the barn.”

  “I’ll sort them out,” I promise her. I can only hope Weston left them alone.

  14

  Stormy…

  I couldn’t let her see her beloved dog, I muse as I remove my shirt having found digging a hole in this unforgiving soil is hard work. Idiot that I am, I’ve chosen the spot carefully, under a tree. It’s certainly not the easiest, nor my normal method either. Usually I’d be burying a body where it would never be found.

  I even carefully carried the dog instead of dragging it. He’d clearly been a good friend to her, and worthy of r
espect.

  Not your fault, boy. I reckon you died a good dog. Too good, perhaps, trying to protect your mistress.

  Once I’ve replaced the earth on top, I fashion a cross out of two pieces of wood.

  The half a dozen hens who hadn’t made it, I throw in the trash, having checked that they’re no good for the pot. Luckily, the bulk of them had survived, and are very grateful for some feed and fresh water. The pony? He’d looked after himself, thank fuck. I wouldn’t want to be digging a hole for him.

  I’d never had a dog growing up, or any kind of pet. I doubt it would have lasted long in our trailer. If I’d shown any affection for it, my dad would have seen it as something to taunt me with. On tours, I’d thrown a few scraps to some of the dogs hanging around our camps, but never had the urge to take one under my wing. It’s just something I’d never thought about. The service dogs though, I’d known them not to bat an eye at being strapped to their master and parachuting out of a plane. To my mind, they were to be respected as fellow soldiers.

  Was Caspar a guard dog as well as a pet? Well, that doesn’t matter, nor that if he was, he failed in his task. At the end of the day, he’d been loved by Cat, and that’s all that matters.

  As I lean on my shovel, watching the sun dipping in the sky, I realise I’ve steered clear of letting anything get close to me in my life. Dad would have killed it, broken it, or fucked it up. Even women. I used them for sex, but never for anything more. I’m not a bastard about it, never leading them on. As a SEAL it wasn’t hard to find a lady to put out for the night, my excuse being I couldn’t get attached as I was going on tour. As a biker, well, the hangarounds at our parties were equally eager to get their itches scratched. Sure, some might dream to be an old lady, but I’d always kept them at arm’s length. Sometimes there are benefits to being a moody fucker.

  Am I even programmed to be a one-woman man? It’s not as if I’ve had a good example to follow. A psychologist would probably tell me I have a deep-seated mistrust of women, having been abandoned by my mom. Did she think my dad would take care of me after she’d gone? She must have been crazy if she did. His abuse to her was probably why she’d walked out, fed up with black eyes, swollen jaws and bruises covering her torso. Or was that not the worst of it? Did she leave because I was an unlovable kid? Was that why she didn’t maintain contact?

  In my head I’d often pictured my mom with a new family, a man who could give her everything she wanted. I’d have been okay with that, if only once she’d remembered she’d had a son. Shaking my head, I do what I normally do when I think of the mother I barely remember, confine her to the past where she belongs.

  After I replace the shovel in the barn, I walk back into the house. It’s charming, but again it strikes me how it’s not to a young woman’s taste. The PC on the desk is the only modern item here. I wonder what Cat’s story is. Does it suit her to live in this way, or, has she just moved in? Is this place rented, or owned?

  Spying some photographs on a wall, I walk over. My head tilts as I examine the evidence. The first is a photo taken, I would guess, sometime before the second World War. A couple in love, arms around each other, in front of this house. Moving on, the man disappears from the pictures, replaced by a boy, then the boy grows up himself. The pattern repeats until the final pictures show another man with more than a familial resemblance to the ones who had gone before, now with a young woman who looks a little like Cat. She’s pregnant in one, holding the hand of a daughter in another. The kid’s got red hair and green eyes.

  That’s Cat.

  This must be her family’s farm.

  Where are her parents?

  Something else to ask her. Except, it doesn’t interest me. Not in the slightest. Snapping back to myself, I realise I’ve been lax. I’ve no answers to take back to Utah. I should press her, question her further. When I’ve got all the information that I can, I should let the authorities deal with her and hightail it back to the Satan’s Devils.

  Or would that cause trouble for the club? Does anyone know Weston’s missing? If so, they might be interested if I turned up. Would the cops get involved, and would, somehow, my curiosity means his dead trail might lead them to the club?

  Whatever compassion for her I have, I need to suppress it, and give her no knowledge in return for her answers—questions for her, however, abound. Why did Tiny leave her tied up and helpless, and was he coming back for her? Am I projecting when I think she hates him, their only connection being that they’re cousins? Am I judging her innocent when she’s nothing but? Maybe she’s up to her neck in this business.

  He’d killed her dog.

  Could she ever forgive him?

  How the fuck should I know? Women, to me, are a mystery.

  Going to the kitchen I find a well-stocked fridge and freezer and am happy to see there’s meat. With Cat’s affinity with animals, I’d hoped she wasn’t a vegan. I’m hungry myself and am wondering what I can pull together when I hear a whimpering, followed by a scream from upstairs.

  My gun’s instantly in my hand. Carefully, I ascend, trying to keep to the sides to avoid the loose treads. Adopting a fighting stance, I leap through the doorway ready to shoot whoever’s molesting her…

  She’s dreaming. No, it’s a nightmare. The bed sheets are twisted around her, and she’s thrashing, her hands warding something off.

  It’s such a pitiful sight, it twists my gut. Putting my gun down, I go straight over to her, sliding onto the bed and pulling her into my arms.

  “You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Just three short sentences repeated over and over.

  Slowly she begins to still. Still half asleep, she burrows into me.

  Is this the first time I’ve held a woman for anything other than during sex? I think it might be.

  Suddenly she gasps. “I’m so sorry.” She tries to get away from me. I raise my arms, letting her get free, then move off the bed and stand with my hands held up defensively so I don’t intimidate her.

  “Nothing to apologise for. I shouldn’t have left you alone.” Rookie mistake. She was bound to have bad dreams after her ordeal.

  “Please, don’t leave me.” The dream’s still got her in its grasp of terror. “Please, I was alone so long.”

  Fuck. She was. I run my hands over my skull, feeling out of my depth. “I won’t leave you, Cat,” I promise. “But I’d like to get some food going. You need something, and well, I haven’t eaten in a while.”

  “I’ll get up—”

  “Nah,” I say fast. “I’ll do it. You just need to get your rest.” I notice she blanches at this and change my mind. “Tell you what, how about I bring you downstairs? You can keep me company while I get something together.” Her brow furrows, and her bottom lip trembles. “What’s up?”

  “C-C-Caspar.”

  “Darlin’, I buried him, okay?” I washed the blood up as well. I knew it would do her no favours to have to deal with the days’ old corpse of her pet. “He’s under the apple tree. You can go say goodbye to him there when you’re stronger.”

  Her chin drops to her chest. Her good hand wipes tears from her eyes. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I wish he was here.”

  I have nothing to say, so I try to stay practical. “Let’s get you dressed, then we’ll go downstairs. You got sweats or something comfy?”

  She seems to still be thinking of her lost dog. I have to enquire again before she tells me, “In those drawers.”

  I open them. In the top one I find underwear and extract a clean pair of panties, choosing plain white and avoiding looking through the lace which another time might intrigue me. In a lower drawer, I find a t-shirt, and in the one below, some stretchy leggings.

  I pass them to her.

  “No bra?”

  “Don’t bother on my account. You need to be comfy.” My shrug shows I’m thinking of her. It doesn’t matter one way or another to me. It was only hours ago I’d held her naked in the tub, and in the condition she’s in, she�
�s not going to arouse me sexually. “I’ll leave you. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

  I stand sentry outside in the hall. After a moment, I hear some grunts and groans, and a muttered curse.

  “You okay?” When she doesn’t answer, I put my head around the door. She’s managed to get her underwear on, but her leggings are stuck around her knees. As for the top, she’s got her good arm in. Her face is wet with tears.

  Weakness. That’s what’s making her cry.

  “Hey, let me help.” She squeals and tries to cover herself. I’m not put off. “Cat, I was holding you naked in the bath earlier, you’ve got nothing I haven’t already seen.” I didn’t take advantage earlier, and I certainly won’t now. I don’t say the words, but they hang in the air.

  Stepping back inside, I eye her clinically. “Lift your ass, and I’ll pull these up.” I bunch my hands in the material around her knees.

  “I feel so goddamn weak,” she complains with another sob, but she does as I suggest.

  Eyeing her sleeve, I analyse the problem, and curl up the loose material, stretching it wide so she can put her injured arm through the cuff. Then it’s a simple matter of pulling it the rest of the way up. Once she’s decent, I lift her.

  Her good hand clutches at me as though I’m going to drop her. I won’t. She weighs barely anything at all. Still, I watch my step as I go down the staircase. At the bottom, I gently place her on the couch.

  She struggles to get up.

  “Stay there.” My voice is firm. I wait a second, but the snap in my voice seems to have stunned her into compliance.

  Confident she’s going to obey me, I go back in the kitchen, opening more soup and heating it for her. Finding a tray, I place the bowl and spoon on it, add a fresh bottle of water, and take it back to her.

  Her face lights up, then she frowns. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  Why? Because I’m a bastard. Because what I should have done was call the paramedics so she could be cared for properly. But that would negate the reason I’m here. The reason is that I want to question her, to get to the bottom of what she knows and what’s her involvement with Tiny.