Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Seven

Ciara

It was dull this morning. The sunlight hadn’t assaulted me as I slept like it had the last few days. Instead, a dim grey light filtered through the gaps in the curtains. My head thumped furiously. Sleep had been becoming more and more sparse with the extra shifts I’d been picking up. But for once I wasn’t searching my pockets for change just so I could buy a loaf of bread to last till payday. The wages from Trouble were good, and even last night, when I was an hour late leaving, Terry gave us extra as a ‘thank you’ for sticking around. The tips were generous too, and I was learning to engage with the punters, because the more I was civil, the more money I got in tips.

This would do, for now. Someday I would have a real job. Just the one. One commitment with more sensible hours. Sort of. Although, if being a social worker was anything like I’d experienced when I was in the system myself, I knew it was a tough role at all times of the night. But I could do it. I could change the lives of those kids. It was too late for my brothers and sisters wherever they were now. But not for all the other neglected and abused children out there. And if it hadn’t been for that one social worker, who listened, who trusted their gut. I shook my head, forcing the memories aside. I was grateful, in the end, but it hadn’t been plain sailing, and it still wasn’t now.

But I was a survivor. I’d escaped him, and then the Polish, somehow. Now I just needed to keep working, keep my head down, and the door to something better would soon be within reach. And for the first time in my life, I’d have something to be proud of.

I glanced at the clock on the floor at the side of the bed. 8.30am. I’d had another five hours’ sleep. One more coffee shop, Uni, strip club stint and then at least I’d have the weekend to recover. Sort of. There were two assignments to finish this weekend, but I needed to complete an all-day coffee shop shift and a shift in Trouble tonight before I could even think about doing any uni work.

And I needed my car.

Reluctantly, I pulled my phone from where it was charging under my pillow. Yeah, yeah. Dangerous. But I didn’t have a bedside table, and I liked to have it to hand. There was a message that I hadn’t heard or felt. Demon.

‘Car’s out front.’

I read the text over again, then glanced at the door to my bedsit. Where my car keys were still hanging on the holder mounted on the wall. Kicking out of bed, I wandered to the window, staring down onto the street below, at the little red car that had been left in the carpark in South Shields. How the fuck had he got it here without the keys?

The hot water was all used up again, and I dunked myself under the cold spray, washing as quickly as I could before jumping out and wrapping myself in a towel. My body convulsed in a quake of shivers. Involuntary spasms as my muscles and flesh worked hard to warm myself up. And now I was very awake, despite the lack of sleep.

The car was unscathed and the driver’s side tyre was brand new. The rubber still had the white seal between the tyre and the wheel, and the tread was barely worn. I searched the rim. Michelin. Fuck. That was one expensive car tyre. Most of that money I’d made last night had gone into one tyre. Guess I was back to beans on toast for a few days. Fucking cars. Fucking Demon. I would have been better off sleeping in the damn thing and then trying my luck with a local garage.

I was still fuming about the tyre for the next hour and no amount of fancy, complicated coffees distracted me from the thoughts snowballing in my head. The coffee shop had been busy all morning, shoppers desperate to get out of the relentless drizzle and rest aching hands from heavy bags. I hadn’t really paid attention to the bodies through the door; every face merging with another. Extracts of conversations mingling together in one long monotonous drawl. But suddenly the tone changed. A different sound. A stark, harsh accent.

My heart drummed in my chest. The pace increasing to a frantic pounding like the damn thing might break right out through my ribs and bound away. And treacherously, my chest heaved in response. Heavy breaths, picking up a pace to match my heart rate.

The voice behind me still chattered. Eastern European words I couldn’t recognise. But the sounds I did. It was like a melodic Russian. The staccato pronunciations rounded a little more, a little softer. But the language was harsh to my ears. Terrifying. And still I froze to the spot, the metal pot held under the steam wand, my hand poised over the dial, not moving, the milk in the pot waiting patiently to be frothed.

The voice was feminine. Not male. Yet it still held a threat. Sweat prickled in the middle of my chest, cold, clammy, and anxious. And bile stung the back of my throat, my stomach clenching in response.

“Ciara! Ciara!”

“Huh? Yes? Sorry.”

I turned, flustered, dragging my mind back from somewhere else.

“A latte and a flat white. Large.”

“Got it.”

The coffee machine whirred to life as I moved around it, turning the dial, forcing steam into the metal jug of milk. And when I turned back round with the cups, the woman on the other side of the counter caught my eye. She wasn’t familiar, not in the slightest, but the language she spoke sent shivers racing through me. Not that I understood any of it. Her eyes darted across my face, pausing on the scar that ran the entire length of my right cheekbone. She smiled sympathetically, sliding the tray with her coffees from the countertop and picking up the conversation with the other woman stood just off to her left-hand side.

The scar tingled, like the flesh was still healing and was between that painful and itchy stage. I could almost feel the sting of the skin knitting together, a slight burn. It was almost ten months since it had happened. And although my skin was healing, the sense of impending doom idling in my stomach had never gone away.

*****

My day had sunk, anxiety performing a hostile takeover of my body. I scrutinised every face, watching for something suspicious or unusual on people’s expressions and mannerisms. And I eyeballed every car I passed as I walked from the car park to the club. And strangely, once I was inside the darkened building with its wipe clean seats and provocative red lighting, I relaxed a little. Despite the lack of doormen, there was always a biker on site. Someone to oversee the rabble. And although the odd random would create some trouble, the situation was always diffused quickly. Albeit not gently.

The place had its usual buzz. Booths packed with men and a couple of tables of regulars who came almost every night, spending a small fortune on the women and drinks.

“Hey, Ciara,” one of them greeted me as I delivered his pint of lager to the table where he sat alone. “How you doing today?”

He was an older man, always dressed in a shirt and jeans. Rumour had it he was a childless widower. And I guessed this was the one place he could get some female company. Or maybe it was the bikers that drew him here. Whatever it was, he always looked at home and the Northern Kings always swarmed to his table with energetic greetings and warm smiles.

“I’m alright, Billy. Tired. Looking forward to a day off tomorrow and a lie-in.”

He smiled. It was broad and animated, but if I searched his eyes deep enough, behind that friendly facade was a raw sadness.

“Here, pet. Get yourself something for your day off.” He pressed the paper money into my hand, closing my fingers over it, like my grandmother used to do with the pound coins she’d slip us when my mother wasn’t watching. And suddenly a sadness hit me too, mixing with the anxiety I’d been choking on all day to form a toxic cocktail.

“Thank you, Billy,” I whispered. And for a moment we exchanged sad glances, but for different reasons.

I didn’t check the money he’d placed into my palm till I walked away. With an empty tray in one hand, I glanced down, peeling back my fingers and watching the crisp note unfold into orange and red. Ten pounds. Might go some way to paying for that tyre.

“Whoa. Steady.” Hands gripped my shoulders as I stopped suddenly before barreling into the body that stood in my way.

The man smiled. An array of gaps and golden crowns greeting me. He had a tattoo over his eyebrow and more all over his neck, disappearing into the black polo shirt. And he didn’t drop his hands, his eyes roaming all over me, pausing on my chest as I watched his lips curve into a smile.

“’Scuse me.” I pulled a shoulder free, stepping out around him and back to the bar, feeling his presence behind me.

“You going to be on that pole later, babe?” I heard him on the other side of the bar.

“No. I don’t dance.”

“That’s a shame. Would have had a private off you. Gotta get my hands on those tits.”

“What can I get you?” I ignored his comments. Another drunk punter. He’d get bored and go watch the girls on the stage soon enough.

The man leant over the bar, staring at me.

“A pint and a feel.”

Fuck’s sake. Knob. I ignored the comment, pouring the pint and passing it across to him.

“Aye and the rest, babe. Let me see them?” He slapped a twenty-pound note on the bar.

I took his money, grabbing his change out of the till and refrained from chucking it back onto the sticky bar top for him to peel off. But when I set the money into his open palm, his fingers snapped shut around my hand. I pulled back, instinctively, but his grip was strong.

“Keep the change if I get a feel of them.” He dipped his head towards my chest.

“I think you’re confused,” I answered, pulling sharply and wrenching my hand free of his. “The girls are that way. I just work the bar.”

He put his hand under the counter, digging around in the pocket of his jeans and bringing out a wad of cash.

“Every lass has their price.” He flicked a few notes out, placing them on the bar and looking back at me.

“Not this one.”

From behind him, I saw Billy approach, his eyes catching mine.

“Mate. The lady said leave her alone.”

“Sit down grandad. I’m brokering a deal here.”

“Not with this one, you’re not. Now go on. Piss off.”

Billy didn’t see the fist coming. Smashing him square in the face and sending him staggering backwards. Blood dripped through the hands clutching at his face. Deep, thick claret. It oozed from him, gaining in speed, dropping onto the floor. Red. Not stopping. Draining out of him.

I stood frozen. The club slowing, a fuzziness closing in on me. Swallowing me and now it felt as if I was wearing blinkers, my peripheral vision nothing more than a blur of shadows. And those shadows moved. Slowly and menacingly. Closing in from the left of me. And then, as if someone had flicked a switch, the world sped back up. Back to its usual speed. And chaos rained down from my left-hand side.