Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Thirty

Demon

An almost silence surrounded me, the only noises in the dawn, the gentle sound of Ciara’s breath, her chest rising and falling under the arm I draped across her. And from the floor, just at my side, the soft snores of Kinobi. The light trickled in through the gaps between the windows and the blackout blinds, the smallest hint of daylight disturbing a fitful sleep. Ciara had distracted me for hours, but she couldn’t take that punishment all night and eventually I’d let her sleep. And I’d tried. I really tried. My body was tired, my eyes dry, but my brain kept sinking into the darkness. A darkness I didn’t want to visit. A darkness that threatened to drag me under, to a place I had been before. A place I’d tried so hard to never return.

But there was an itch in my skin. A call. A siren. Praying on my weakness. On my shock and grief. I slid out from beside Ciara, stepping carefully over the sleepy Doberman, who was proving she was neither use nor ornament and that any intruders would go completely undetected as she lay snoring her head off.

The wooden chair at the table in the open plan lounge and kitchen was mercifully cool under my bare skin. Morning light filtered in, grey and murky, ominous. I pulled the paper and pencils onto the table, letting go of the control over my mind and letting it spill into my hand, the white underneath quickly covered in grey brushstrokes. And in the quiet, away from the smell and sound of Ciara and the comfort of the dog, I could think.

And that’s what I did. Think about all the signs I’d missed. All the days when he hadn’t looked well, when I’d blamed his old lady for making him party too hard, or the stress of the club, or all the bad habits he’d all but a couple been able to defeat. I thought about the arguments we’d had, the beatings he’s given me as a kid, the bikes he bought me and forced me to ride when all I’d ever wanted was to play in football teams like normal kids. And draw.

Ste had never liked the drawing. It was a sissy thing to be good at art. And the more he mocked me, the darker the drawings got, till they showed only death and violence. Because really, that’s all I had ever seen. And the tattoos. They were the means to do what I loved doing, but in a way acceptable to my father.

I stared down at the table, at the paper below me I’d spent two hours drawing on, shading and shaping. Faces that stared back at me. His, Indie’s, my mother’s, from the little I remembered about her. And they all had bulging eyes, blood squeezed out the sides, and right in the middle, in the obsidian black of their pupils, was her face. Ciara’s. The face that I couldn’t stop drawing everywhere from the day she’d pulled out in front of me.

“Fuck.” She whispered the word. Right from over the top of me. Breathing it out, half whisper, half sigh.

Startled. Embarrassed, I leant over the top of it, covering the monstrosity, hiding my mind from her.

“No. Demon. Stop. Let me see?” her hand steadied my arm, gently squeezing over the fist that scrunched the paper, ready to destroy the evidence of the shit that had poured from my brain. “That’s incredible. I’ve seen you draw, but this. This is insane.”

And, of course, she was right. It was insane. I was insane. This. This life was insane. And screwed up. So, so fucked up. The whole thing. It had been a fuck up from the very day I had been born.

I stood suddenly. The rage hitting me from nowhere. Hard and fast and hot. A molten emotion striking me square in the chest. I watched my arm swing across the table, like I was two metres away from it, like it wasn’t attached to me, swiping the papers onto the floor, sending the pencils clattering dully after them.

And when I turned, she was in front of me. No fear in her eyes, no alarm, no anger. Just compassion. And pity. I sank back into the chair.

Ciara moved closer, her naked body in front of me, her scent swirling in the charged atmosphere of the room. Earthy and natural. My nose was in line with her belly button, the soft flesh pulling across her lower abs, over the frame that still hadn’t eaten enough meals, down the gentle mound with the tiny patch of dark hair. Turning, I pulled her into me, tugging her between my legs where my cock was already awake at the sight of her.

I should fuck her, distract the thoughts rioting in my head, still the chaos in my brain, even just for a few minutes. Ciara settled in closer to me, her tender flesh just above her pussy resting against my cock, the earthy scent of the solace between her legs catching in my nose. I inhaled, pulling in a lungful of her. Of my woman, even if she didn’t let me call her that – yet.

Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her closer, placing my lips on the skin between her belly button and her beautiful cunt. I moved over her skin gently, chaste little kisses, plucking at her flesh with my lips. Her skin was slightly salty, a residue from the fucking I’d given her last night. Her hands wound in my hair, scratching my scalp, and I closed my eyes, savouring the sensation and the taste of her skin. She would be mine, this girl. One day, she would acknowledge that. In the meantime, I would happily keep kissing this body and worshipping this pussy.

*****

The bikes roared together, chasing the birds from their trees and shaking the ground that we were parked upon. The entire club had squeezed into the carpark at the Dog on the Tyne , a sea of leather and the menacing faces of the three crowned skulls on every rider’s back. Bikes were lost under camping equipment and luggage, panniers filled, and pillion seats stacked with tents, and sleeping bags, alcohol and food. The rally was only for three days, yet between us, it looked like we carried enough to thwart a small siege.

I waited patiently, Ciara perched on the back, the big silver bike vibrating under us, an impatient purr, the pull of the road pulsing through my veins. When we moved away from the pub, the battle cry of exhausts was spectacular, something I’d never get bored with. From across the carpark the club’s officers mounted up, my father swinging his leg over the bike and patting the seat behind him, beckoning for his old lady to jump on behind him. Then he turned and nodded at Indie. It was something he always did, a nod to show it was time to ride. I’d seen it so many times, I’d seen it but not seen it. Not till today. And now I noticed it. Noticed things about him. I noticed him pat Tori’s leg before revving the engine; I noticed him tip his head in acknowledgement at the rest of the ride. And I saw him look at me and nod. And that I’d never notice him do before. But maybe he always had. Because suddenly I could no longer take him for granted. A weight rested heavy in my stomach.

Suddenly, the air filled with the revs from the bikes, and behind me the birds took to the sky again, startled from their leafy perches, escaping the steel monsters on the ground beneath them. The Kings were riding. Everyone would hear us. Everyone would know us.

We pulled out onto the road; the tarmac shaking under our wheels and the roar of our exhausts bouncing off the metal cages of the cars we passed. I rode beside Magnet and Suzy, keeping pace with the officers, the vanguard of the president, just in front of us. Whether the traffic we passed knew who we were or not, I couldn’t be sure, but nearly every single vehicle moved to the side for us, and together we rode north. And still we kept coming from the junction, pouring out, a procession of bikers, kings of the road.