Tin Queen

by Devney Perry

  “I remember your brother.”

  She sucked in a short breath and even in the faint light, I saw the flush leave her cheeks.

  “I remember that night.” I never forgot those nights. The bad ones.

  Those were the nights I questioned everything. The nights when I didn’t want to wear the patch. The nights that stained my soul and no matter how many times I washed, the blood stayed on my hands.

  “For the most part, we hosted our fights at the clubhouse,” I said. “We’d have them in the basement. But every now and then, we’d organize something bigger. Something that would draw a larger crowd and more money. A lot more money.”

  The clubhouse fights had been an excuse to party. We’d fight and drink and mess around with women not afraid of some blood. When Draven had built the clubhouse at the far end of the lot at the garage, he’d made sure the basement was large and secure. It had been a bunker of sorts, a place where people could come in a disaster.

  Most of the basement had been one large open room and that was where we’d had the fights. The basement’s smaller rooms had been for other purposes. They’d seen far worse than some drunken fights. Which was why all the rooms, including the main room, had been built with a drain in the center to wash away blood and grime. Dad had once made the joke that the club should have bought stock in bleach for how much we’d poured down those drains.

  TJ wouldn’t have been allowed through the front door for a clubhouse fight.

  But the bigger fights had required we loosen the restrictions on the guest list. We never would have invited a Warrior, but TJ and his fellow members had slipped in the door regardless.

  “There was a rancher outside of town. He knew one of our brothers. They’d gone to school together. Somehow the topic of a fight came up and the rancher mentioned he had a large shop. He’d move out his equipment, let us come to his property and he’d look the other way while we hosted a fight. For a fee.”

  I ran into that rancher every now and again around town. Sometimes at the hardware store. Others at the gas station. He’d been older than me and had known Dad better, but each time he saw me, he’d nod and wave.

  I was recognized a lot around town. We all were. Small towns were like that. And people remembered who we were. The men we’d been. Dash, Leo and I had done our best to become upstanding citizens. Dash ran a successful business. I had my properties and investments. Leo made friends with just about everyone. But people remembered.

  Those new to town would eventually hear rumors. There were women who’d always pull their kids behind them when they passed me on the sidewalk. Men who’d give me a sideways glance when I rode past on my bike.

  We could pretend we’d been better men than the Warriors, but in the end, our clubs hadn’t been all that different.

  And here we were, still at war.

  “We set up the fight,” I told her. “Planned it for months. It wasn’t like we sent out invitations, but it was an open event. If you knew the right people, you were in.”

  “How did TJ end up there? Why would you let a Warrior in?”

  “Because he lied.” I shot her a glance. “He came with three other guys. None of them wore their cuts so we didn’t know they were Warriors.”

  There was no way I ever would have been without my patch, no matter the event. We wore them whenever we rode. It was a point of honor. Of pride. Apparently, getting into a fight and winning some money had been more important than club loyalty.

  Maybe we should have asked more questions because TJ and his friends had come on bikes. But a lot of men, affiliated with a club or not, had rolled in on a Harley, a Victory or an Indian.

  I’d been inside, getting the fights lined up, so I hadn’t seen TJ or his fellow Warriors come inside. None of the Gypsies had recognized them either. We’d all known the Warrior leadership, but prospects? It was hard to keep track. TJ and his friends had shown up at the door, said the right names and been let inside.

  “Each of them wanted to fight but we had a full schedule. Based on weight and size, we could only fit one of them in.”

  “My brother,” she whispered.

  We’d turned him down at first. He’d been young and cocky. He hadn’t had the bulk of the grown men, but our smallest weight group hadn’t had a lot of guys, so we’d agreed. Another fight meant more money. If I’d only known . . .

  “I wish I had turned him away.” And not just because she was here beside me. But because he’d just been a kid. An arrogant, reckless kid who’d gotten his ass handed to him in the second round.

  “He fought in one of the first matches. He lost.” I’d only caught a few glimpses of it, mostly toward the end. I’d been busy helping organize and also prep for my own fights. I hadn’t given that kid a second thought after he’d cleared out of the ring.

  Nova sat so still it was like she’d turned to stone, but she was listening. She blinked. Her chest rose and fell as I spoke. Her pain was tangible.

  “Those fights went nearly all night. It was pitch black by the time we all started to clear out. Well past midnight and closer to sunrise than sunset. Most of the Gypsies stayed until the end. We’d planned to meet up at the clubhouse, have a party to celebrate. Three of us stayed back to lock up the rancher’s shop. Me, my dad and my buddy Leo.”

  Back then, Leo was usually the first to race off for the afterparty, but he’d decided to hang with me and Dad that night. Make sure everything was secure. We’d cleaned up the shop. Shoved a fat envelope of cash in the top drawer of the rancher’s toolbox, per our arrangement. Then headed out.

  “We walked out of the shop, thinking everyone was long gone, and there were these kids. They started shouting at us that we’d cheated them. That we’d rigged the fights and stolen their money.”

  “Did you?”

  I clenched my jaw. “No. There was no reason to cheat. You placed your bets right and you’d leave flush.”

  She must have believed me because her shoulders fell a fraction of an inch.

  “It was dark but not enough to hide their cuts. They’d put them on, probably while waiting for us to be alone.”

  Leo probably would have died that night if not for them putting on their cuts. One glance and we’d gone on alert. We’d drawn weapons. If they’d shown up in hoodies, we wouldn’t have thought to go for our guns.

  “They fired first.” At Leo. Then at Dad. Thank God it had been so dark that they’d missed. I’d been locking up the shop and had been a few steps behind. But because of where I’d stood, I’d had the best position. “Then . . .”

  It had happened fast. Death rarely took its time when it came calling. There’d been bullets flying. Men shouting. Dad had fired the single shot he’d had left. Leo had shot twice and clipped a guy in the arm.

  Maybe we could have talked it out. Maybe had we not drawn our guns, they would have listened. Maybe we could have paid them off.

  It was easier to rewind now, to see where everything had gone wrong and think about maybes. But in the moment, I’d simply wanted to protect my dad and my friend from the men who’d been trying to kill them.

  “Your brother took a hit to the leg.” It must have hit the femoral artery because he bled out.

  “From your dad.”

  I rubbed my hands over my face, not sure how to keep going. Dad had wanted to take this. To bear this burden. But it had never been his to own. It had always been mine and the time had come to pay the price.

  “No. Not from my dad.”

  “W-what?” Nova’s face whipped to my profile.

  I turned, taking her in. If she’d wanted the truth, she found it on my face.

  “It wasn’t your dad.” Her chin quivered and the pools in her eyes caught the starlight. “It was you. You killed my brother.”

  The heartbreak on her face was almost too much to witness. But she needed to know.

  If she was coming after us for her brother’s vengeance, then she should know the truth. She should know who deserved to be puni
shed.

  “It was me.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nova

  Tears cascaded down my face. The Nova’s tires screamed on the pavement, so I screamed too. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

  Emmett had killed my brother. Not Stone, but Emmett. Dad must not know. TJ’s friends who’d been with him that night must have gotten it wrong because if Dad had known . . . Emmett would be dead.

  Except Emmett was alive. And I’d fallen in love with him.

  I’d fallen in love with my brother’s killer. The enemy. It was all too much for my heart, so I screamed.

  The noise was raw and hoarse. The sobs shook my entire body and with each one came excruciating pain.

  I wanted to go back, to erase the last hour. I wanted to forget that I’d asked for the truth and Emmett had given me just that. But there was no going back. There’d be no forgetting. And as my screams faded into the night, all that remained were the tears.

  This had to end.

  There were so many lies. So much hate. The devastation of this war between the Tin Gypsies and Warriors was horrific.

  It had to stop before someone else suffered.

  I had to stop it.

  Part of me wanted to lash out and rage at Emmett. He’d admitted to killing TJ. He could have let that lie go on forever and no one would have been the wiser. But he’d confessed because he didn’t lie to me.

  God, how I wished he had lied.

  I slapped a hand to my mouth as another sob escaped, my eyes so full of tears that the dark road ahead was nothing but a watery streak of black lit by my headlights.

  “Why?” I whispered to the road.

  It didn’t answer.

  “Why?” I screamed and pounded a fist on the steering wheel.

  This was so fucked up.

  This was so epically fucked up.

  After Emmett had told me the truth, I’d run from his house. There’d been nothing to say.

  It was me.

  Another cry escaped my lips.

  This had to end.

  I swiped at my face, trying to clear my vision so I could see to drive. I swallowed hard, embracing the pain, then slammed my foot into the gas pedal. I aimed the Nova toward town and the Clifton Forge Garage. Toward the Tin Gypsy clubhouse and everything that it represented.

  The Arrowhead Warriors had been destroyed. They were nothing but ash and smoldering coals. They were nothing. The Tin Gypsies should be nothing too. If there were no clubs and clubhouses, then there could be no more death.

  The tears began to subside as I wound through town, my hands clutching the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

  This had to end.

  The garage came into view and the tall, chain-link fence that surrounded the property glowed from a nearby streetlamp. The front gate was secured with a chain and padlock, making it difficult to enter without a key.

  I aimed the Nova dead center at the gates, illuminating them as I hit the accelerator. The car slammed into the fences, tearing them apart and busting the chain like a hot knife through butter. Motion lights flickered on as I raced past the shop, down the lot to the clubhouse.

  My tires screeched as I slammed on the brake, sliding to a stop in front of the wide building. Another chain and another padlock wrapped around the handles of the clubhouse’s door. Trees clustered around the dark-stained building. Grasses brushed their trunks, the stalks overgrown and brittle from the change in season.

  I shoved out of my car, not bothering to kill the engine. I wouldn’t be in Clifton Forge for long. A slight breeze picked up a strand of my hair and blew it into my tear-streaked face.

  Before me, the clubhouse loomed. The building swam in shadows. It sat abandoned and ominous.

  “Fuck you,” I said, my words swallowed up by the night. “Fuck you!”

  Fuck the Tin Gypsies. Fuck the Arrowhead Warriors. I hated them both.

  If the Tin Gypsies didn’t exist, if their club was truly gone, then they didn’t need this clubhouse, did they? I dove into the Nova and popped the trunk. Then I moved without hesitation, without regret or remorse but with an all-consuming purpose for my emergency supplies.

  The butane lighter. The Glock. The gas can.

  It was fitting that the fuel I’d kept for TJ would help me end this tonight.

  I tucked my pistol into the waistband of my slacks. I hadn’t touched it since my last practice session at a range in Missoula, before I’d ever set foot in Clifton Forge. Dad had insisted that both Shelby and I be proficient with a handgun. I doubted she’d touched a weapon in years. Not me. I’d always made it a point to practice regularly.

  Then with my lighter in one hand and the gas can in another, I marched for the clubhouse, climbing the two wide steps to the concrete platform that extended down the length of the building. Above me was a small overhang. Its eaves were littered with silky white spiderwebs that glowed like strands of spun silver in the Nova’s headlights.

  The windows were filthy and behind their hazy glass panes were sheets of plywood. They’d boarded the building up from the inside, making it hard to break in.

  Not that I had any intention of going inside.

  This was a wooden building. The foundation was concrete and I was sure the basement was too, but this building was wood and wood burned.

  I twisted open the plastic container of gas, the fumes wafting in my face as I took a step away from the door. Then I hefted the can to my hip, thrusting it forward so that a slosh of gasoline splattered on the door. Drops hit my shoes but I did it again until the door glistened with the liquid.

  Setting the can aside, I took out my lighter and set the flame against the wood.

  The gas caught with a whoosh, fire streaking up the door’s face and brightening the stoop. I stood there, watching it burn until the heat forced me back a step.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled up my chest. I’d set the Tin Gypsy clubhouse on fire. Oh my God, I was crazy. Maybe I hadn’t exactly expected it to burn. Maybe I was falling apart.

  Definitely falling apart.

  But the realization that I’d lost all control didn’t stop me from swiping up my gas can and hurrying around the building to repeat the gasoline pour and ignition on each of the building’s faces.

  My shoes were covered in dirt and the heels caked by the time I made it around the clubhouse. The October darkness was no match for my fire and the parking lot shined with flickers of yellow.

  The heat from the flames caught on the wind and carried the warmth to my face as I returned to the Nova.

  I’d just committed arson. The last place I should be lingering was at the scene of the crime but I couldn’t make myself move. I heaved the empty gas can toward the clubhouse, then clutched my lighter like a weapon and watched the clubhouse burn.

  The flames danced against the midnight sky. The crackle and hiss drowned out all noise until a distant rumble caught my ear.

  I tensed but didn’t move. I knew they’d come. It was only a matter of time before Emmett found me. Probably the same way he’d tracked me down in Missoula, likely through my phone. Or maybe he’d gotten an alert when I’d broken through the garage’s fence. Whatever the reason, I would stand here until he came.

  This was my fire. He didn’t get to take this from me. He didn’t get to take this sliver of revenge.

  This fire was all I had left.

  The engine thundered into the parking lot and I glanced over my shoulder, surprised to see not one, but two headlights.

  Emmett.

  And Dash Slater.

  I pulled the gun from my waistband and held it tight at my side.

  “Nova!” Emmett yelled, leaping off his bike beside my car. He strode my way, his bootsteps loud. He reached for my elbow, tugging me toward him. “Get back.”

  I shook off his hold as Dash rushed to his side, his eyes fixed on the burning clubhouse.

  “Fuck.” Dash dragged a hand through his hair.

  “What the fuck are you doing
?” Emmett’s eyes were wide, the flames reflecting in his brown gaze.

  It was roaring now, its fingers stretching for the stars. Soon there’d be sirens. Soon there’d be questions.

  “Get back.” Emmett reached for my arm again, but I yanked it away. “Nova.”

  “No.” I stepped back. “No.”

  His chest heaved. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking this from you.” I flung out a hand toward the building, the hand with my gun.

  A familiar click sounded above the noise of the fire. Past Emmett’s shoulder, Dash had pulled his own gun, both hands on the grip and the barrel pointed my way.

  “Put the gun down,” he ordered.

  Emmett held up his hands, shooting Dash a look.

  Dash ignored him. “Drop it.”

  “No.” I raised my chin. “You can kill me first.”

  “No!” Emmett stepped between us, shielding me from Dash. “Baby, drop the gun.”

  “Don’t,” I barked, a fresh wash of tears coating my eyes. I wasn’t his baby anymore. “You killed him.”

  “I didn’t know,” he said, his eyes so full of pain and remorse. “It was dark and—”

  “Don’t make excuses,” I snapped, my hands and arms beginning to tremble. The gun practically rattled against my leg. “You killed him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  “For you, yes.” He took a step closer.

  “Liar.” I raised the gun to his face, forcing his feet to stop. He held his arms up even higher.

  “Emmett,” Dash warned, shifting so that he could put his sights on me again.

  “Back the fuck off, Dash,” Emmett warned, his eyes never leaving mine. “Nova, please.”

  “You killed my brother.” My voice cracked.

  He only nodded.

  “You sent my father to prison.”

  He opened his mouth, but then his body flinched. My words registered like I’d just slapped him in the face.

  No more secrets.

  This had to end.

  “You ruined my family. You and your brothers.” I flicked the barrel of my gun toward Dash.