Ace: Devil’s Nightmare MC

by Bourne, Lena

  It isn’t fair that I got all the energy, all the fire, all the health, while my twin sister Misti got none of it. I always felt like a thief because of that. I felt like I stole all life from her. My mother’s acid tongue sometimes telling me this, before she found God and all, had a lot to do with me feeling that, but even if she hadn’t said it, I’d still feel it. And I’d give everything I have to help my sister, to save her. To give her at least a little bit of what I was born with and she wasn’t.

  My fake liveliness didn’t convince her, but she drops the subject of me coming home after that. Instead she tells me all about the two kittens she’s fostering. They were abandoned by their mother by the side of the road, but they’re the sweetest and kindest little things she ever met. Fluffy and grey, with identical heart-shaped spots on their chests. Like twins. Just like us.

  My sister and me weren’t exactly abandoned by the side of the road. We were left with our grandmother, by a mother that would flitter in every couple of months, or years, mostly when whatever guy she was with dumped her. I never knew my father. Knowing my mother’s ways he was probably nothing more than a fling. Why she hated my mirror image of that behavior so much I’ll never know, but she did.

  “How’s Mom?” I ask.

  “She’s already at the church, helping set up for the annual fundraiser picnic,” Misti says. “ It’s on Sunday. I’ll go help later on too.”

  Our mother returned and stayed when we turned fifteen and my grandmother died, and she’s been the picture of propriety since—church-going, praying, sanctimonious propriety. A total hypocrite.

  “Tell them about your own fundraiser. If they all gave just a little bit, it would add up to a lot,” I say. “You and Mom help them so much, it’s the least they could do.”

  I tried to keep the worst of the sarcasm out of my voice, because going to church and connecting with the community means so much to my sister, but, as usual, I didn’t succeed.

  “I don’t like asking for handouts, you know that,” she says. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

  I almost argue, almost get mad at her for saying that, for being so passive, but I manage not to. These short phone conversations are all I have left of my sister, of my old life, of being free, of kindness and love. I don’t want to spoil them with anger and sarcasm.

  So I turn the conversation to other things, smile as she tells me more about the kittens, ask what dish she’s preparing for the picnic. She loves to cook. If she wasn’t so sick that she can hardly walk a mile without needing to sit and rest, she’d be a chef. She’s been saying that since the first time she cooked something for my grandmother and me. I think it’s still a dream of hers.

  After we say goodbye, I just stare at the plastic Beauty and the Beast lunch box in my lap for I don’t know how long. Time stops for me sometimes lately. Just freezes with me frozen in it. It’s not a good feeling.

  But it passes.

  I place the phone into the lunchbox then pull out the pitifully thin wad of money I’ve been keeping in there too. There’s some twenties, but it’s mostly fives, which is as much as I dare filch at one time from the guys’ pockets, while they’re passed out in my bed. I’ll never raise five thousand by taking a fiver here or there. My math’s bad, but I’m pretty sure I’d be a thousand years old before I managed it. Just as I’ll never raise twenty thousand by getting paid a hundred a week. Both goals are as impossible as each other.

  I stuff the money in the pocket of my hoodie and shut the lid of the lunch box, latching it tight, before placing it back into its hole in the sand, and rolling the large stone that keeps it hidden over it. The usually clean and fresh ocean scent carried by the breeze is strongly tinged with kelp and the smell of fish this morning, making me nauseous. I think it means it’s gonna rain today. That’s OK though, the Beauty and the Beast lunchbox full of the only treasures left to me is made of sturdy plastic. That’s not the main reason why I chose this particular box though.

  Beauty and the Beast was the first book I managed to read all by myself, at ten years old, after Misti tirelessly taught me to work past my dyslexia, a task none of my teachers wanted to even attempt. I still get tripped up with reading, and I don’t much like doing it, but at least I can do it. Thanks to my sister.

  I’m also kinda living the Beauty and the Beast story now, though in my case it’s more like Beauty and the Beasts, plural.

  While I’m walking back to the clubhouse, focusing on nothing but scraping the damp sand from under my fingernails, but only pushing it in deeper, I painfully wish the ending of my story would be like the ending of the original one. That one of the guys would take me for his own, and protect me from the others. But hateful and mean as most of them are, it’s much more likely they’ll just end up devouring me like real beasts would. The wish and the pure desperation behind it waylays me, makes me sad and angry and depressed all at the same time.

  But even that painful wave passes like all waves do. I learned not to depend on men a long time ago. I’ve known that since I was old enough to understand I should’ve had a father who was never in the picture.

  I’ll survive on my own, just like I’ve always done everything on my own, or with just my sister’s help.

  * * *

  The rickety, tall wooden gate that opens onto the clubhouse lot is ajar, and just as I reach it, a white van pulls out. I think it’s the same white van that was supposed to take me to my death six months ago. It’s followed by three bikers and Horse is one of them. He turns to me as he passes, glaring, making me feel like something inside me died and is now rotting. I glare right back at him, but that’s just what I’m doing on the outside. Inside, I’m hanging my head down and shaking in fear. That’s what died inside me—my defiance and my pride—that’s what’s rotting. And all that’s left of my fire is a few glowing embers getting suffocated by the thick ashes of my life.

  I shake my head and clear my throat, trying to dislodge those thoughts.

  Only you can decide when you’re beaten.

  One of my teachers once told me that, one of the few good ones. I want to believe I’m not beaten yet, but these days I’m not so sure anymore. These days it’s just something I tell myself to feel better, even though it’s not even close to the actual truth.

  I push open the heavy door that leads into the bar that’s attached to the clubhouse, deciding I’ll do as little thinking as I can for the rest of the day. At least Horse won’t be around to taunt me.

  Brenda’s alone inside the dark bar. She’s cursing softly as she sweeps the floor, but when I join her with a second broom to help, she waves me away.

  “I got this, it’s almost done,” she informs me impatiently. “Go take the glasses out of the dishwasher. Where were you this morning, anyway?”

  I take the second broom back to the pantry and open the dishwasher before I reply. I’m used to her angry, snappy moods—hell, I share them—but I won’t grace her snappishness with meekness.

  “I went for a walk,” I tell her as I take out the first glass and start wiping it down on a dishrag that could use a wash itself. Technically, all the club girls should be working on keeping this place tidy, but all the other ones have caught on that Griff and Horse only blame Brenda and me when shit’s not done, so they’ve stopped doing any of the chores. Smart girls, I guess, but they’re bitches nonetheless. I hate them all.

  I’m willing to bet that this place hasn’t actually been clean since before I was born, and I doubt any of the Sinners really care one way or another. The thirty or so tables in here are all rickety, scorched and covered with stains even bleach can’t remove. Some of those stains are blood. Some are so old they’re black. And the floor is more or less in the same shape. On the floor by the jukebox, there’s a very large black stain that spreads up the wood-paneled wall, and I’m pretty sure someone once died there, a long time ago, but I don’t dwell on that. I don’t dwell on the many bullet holes in the walls and the floor either. In fact, I don’t dwell
on anything related to the Sinners at all.

  I did, in the beginning, until I was sure I’d go insane, if I didn’t stop noticing everything that was horribly wrong with my life. Now the bloodstains, the bullet holes and the smelly, nasty members of Roadside Sinners MC mean about as much to me as this dirty dishrag I’m wiping their glasses with. None of them are gonna notice the glasses aren’t clean.

  “Where’s everyone, anyway?” I ask Brenda once she comes to the counter. She balances the broom against it, takes a seat on one of the stools, and lights a cigarette.

  “Something’s going down this morning,” she says. “Old Griff was shouting instructions, and Horse looked very grumpy as he rushed to obey.”

  I thank my one remaining lucky star that I wasn’t here while that was happening, because even if he had just two minutes to take it out on me, Horse would.

  “Guess he fucked up yet again,” I say. “What else is new?”

  Brenda and me share a knowing grin, and for a second one of the ash-covered embers of my fire erupts into a flame.

  Horse hates me especially, because we’d never get to steal all that money, if he hadn’t bragged so hard about it, so I’d fuck him. He also drank way too much while trying to get me drunk, which made it very easy to steal the money. I think his father knows that, and six months on, he’s still giving Horse shit about it. I kinda wish he’d stop, because then maybe Horse would stop laying into me every chance he gets. But at least he’s getting some kind of comeuppance for treating me like shit.

  “Did Griff leave too?” I ask, wiping another glass before putting it on the shelf, not even bothering to remove the streak of dirt the rag left on the side of it.

  Brenda shrugs. “I didn’t see him leave. Why?”

  “Horse didn’t give me my pay for the last two weeks. I figure it’s time I go over his head.”

  She groans. “Get your head out of the sand, Stormi. They’re just playing with us. There’s no way either of us are ever gonna pay off that debt. And they’re really enjoying not giving us the money so we’ll beg for it. And you keep giving them exactly what they want. Can’t you see that?”

  I didn’t expect such a rush of anger from her. It smothered the little flame in me. Once upon a time, before I met the Sinners, anyone speaking to me that way would’ve woken the fires of hell in me. But now I don’t even know how to respond. I don’t even want to argue. What the hell is wrong with me? Will I ever be the person I was?

  “Whatever, Brenda,” I say and light a cigarette of my own, growing even angrier and sadder, because my hands are shaking and I can’t make them stop. “I need that money and I’m gonna get it. You can do whatever the fuck you want about yours. And they toy with us whether they pay us or not. I prefer to get paid.”

  “I wish you never made that stupid little deal with Griff,” she says, stubbing her cigarette out with too much force, making sparks and ash fly everywhere. “How long could he have kept us for what we did? A year? Two?”

  “Forever,” I spit out. “For as long as he wanted to. He was gonna kill us, for fuck’s sake.”

  We’ve skirted around this conversation in the past, but neither of us went this far into it before.

  “Get real, Stormi. We’re in this forever anyway,” she counters.

  “And at least we’re getting paid for it,” I say. “Thanks to me.”

  Blood is rushing through my veins hot and strong, making my head pound. I wish it would get even hotter, I wish the fire of my anger would Colt. But it sputters out and cools off just seconds after I’m done speaking. She’s right, and I’m right, and this situation is shit, and we’re gonna have to die to end it. All I bought us were a couple more years of being alive, while not actually living. Maybe not even that long. All I bought is maybe another thousand dollars to add to my sister’s operation fund. If that much.

  “I’m going to see Griff,” I announce and stub my cigarette out. I stalk to the back where his office is before she can say anything else.

  I best get this done while there’s at least an echo of my old fire still flowing through my blood.

  But even that’s pretty much gone as I knock on the door to his office at the end of a dark, narrow hallway behind the bar. My heart’s beating in my throat and my mind’s all jumbled around the question of why I’m even still fighting.

  For Misti.

  I’m doing it for Misti, for my poor sick sister who is the only person in my whole life who never gave up on me, not even for a second. The only person in the whole world who loves me unconditionally. And she’s dying. While I’m alive there’s a chance I can help her.

  There’s no answer to my knocking. Griff’s obviously not here and that’s probably a good thing. I doubt I could ask him for money right now without crying. And that’s just what the old bastard wants. To break me. To see me cry. To kick me while I’m down.

  I won’t give him the satisfaction. I’ll stay strong. I’ll find a way to survive. I’ll keep on fighting.

  For Misti.

  For the both of us.

  2

  Ace

  I put on quite a show at that bar. I think even Ice, Ink and Scar thought I might hurt them for real for a couple of seconds back there. I’m sure the charade worked. The two guys I saved, Precious and Honey—no, Piston and Horse! I gotta start thinking of them by their proper names—are following me like a couple of ducklings do their mother down this dark and empty, dark country road. I can smell their sour fear sweat over the gas fumes and road dust our speeding bikes are kicking up.

  Right now, I’m just leading them away from that bar as fast as we can go. In a bit, I’ll stop so we can talk, and so I can convince them to take me with them to the Roadside Sinners MC clubhouse. Cross had the idea of sending a man inside, into their ranks, to find the snitch that’s been talking to the feds and ratting us all out. I volunteered for the job, and even came up with the bright idea that I’m gonna tell them I’m the sole remaining member of Satan’s Spawn MC—the club that held Ice prisoner for years, and which we killed off in revenge about a year ago. It’s that bloodbath sort of killing Cross is trying to avoid by having me go undercover to sniff out the rat, which we’ll then kill quietly.

  Anyone familiar with how Devil’s Nightmare MC does things would doubt that we left any of the Spawns alive, but little rebel clubs like Roadside Sinners MC want to believe that our reputation is just bullshit boasting. It’s not.

  My heart’s still hammering in my ears as we ride, and the cool air and familiar, comforting rumble and shake of my bike beneath me is doing little to clear the heat in my head. Our tech guy, Hawk, tracked down the sons of the president of Roadside Sinners MC to a small biker bar in the middle of nowhere, aptly called The Nowhere. I went there by myself and played poker with the two sons for a good two hours before my MC brothers Ink, Ice and Scar showed up, apparently looking for the sons so Ink could get his revenge on them. They attacked, I saved the sons, Ice accused me of being a member of Satan’s Spawn MC, and I lost my shit over how much I hate the Devils and want them all dead. Especially Ice. His arm got cut up during the fake fight and I hope he’s alright, but I had to make it look real. Which meant I drew hard on the memories of blood and gore and foiled revenge I’ve been trying to bury for over a decade now. Those memories, the entire black mess of them, came too quickly to the surface of my mind, intact and painful as ever, not even dusty from being ignored for so long.

  It’s time to bury them again now.

  I can see the town lights flickering in the distance. It’s time to stop and have a chat with the boys. Maybe they’ll just leave me here and go on home without me. As much as I want to carry out the mission Cross gave me to perfection, I wouldn’t mind just going back home and start working on making the biting, snarling dogs of my memories lie back down and go to sleep for another decade.

  I signal that I’m gonna pull over then do it a couple of seconds later, ignoring my misgivings about this mission as hard as I can. If they f
ind out I’m lying to them, they’ll kill me. If I fail in convincing the Sinners to trust me, we’re gonna have to kill them all. I’m not the bloodthirsty, bent-on-revenge young man I was when I first joined the Devils anymore. Now, I wouldn’t mind forgetting what I’ve done with the Devils on top of all those other things I’ve been trying to forget. Now, I wouldn’t mind living the rest of my life in peace.

  “Thanks for that, man,” the younger one says as he pulls up next to me, offering me his hand. “You saved our lives. My name’s Piston.”

  I shake his hand and nod gravely. “Ace.”

  “I’m Horse,” the other one tells me, and offers me his hand too. I shake it hard. So hard he winces, but tries to hide it. “Thank you.”

  He’s stiffer in thanking me and slower to do it. There’s barely a trace of actual gratitude in his voice as he does it. But I suppose I only need one of them on my side for what has to happen next.

  “Don’t mention it. I’d do that anytime for anyone that Devil scum came after. Those fuckers killed off all my brothers. Getting revenge on them is all I want. I just wish I’d been able to take those three out before we left the bar. I want them all dead.”

  The lie is making my face even hotter and my heart is hammering worse than ever. The emotion behind my words is no lie though. It’s been a long time since the fire for revenge burned this bright in me. That hatred was for another club. In another life. I had another target for my vengeance back then, and it was the Devils who helped me get it when no one else would. It was the Devils who took me in when I had no one left in this world. I’m finding it hard to talk about them with such hatred. It’s much harder than I thought it would be.

  The brothers exchange a glance like they don’t know what to make of my snarling, red-hot rage. I better take it down a notch.

  “Why are the Devils after you, anyway?” I ask.