Chapter 6 Slade
Slade
Why does Bane make me want to feel?
His comment had landed too close to home, but still, normally that wouldn’t cause my emotions to flare. When I’m around him, my emotions that have been locked up tight, flare to life and bang on the steel box, demanding to be let out.
He’s dangerous.
And I need to get out of here.
For multiple reasons. Because of Bane’s mysterious effect on me.
Because of the threat I pose to my brothers and the MC.
And God, because I can’t stand that bitch, Beatrice.
And to top it off, because I can’t stand being in one spot for too long, especially a small room like the bedroom I’m currently pacing.
Ever since being held captive in Antwane’s hellish cabin, I can’t stand being in small spaces. The anxiety is like acid in my gut. It’s fucked up that anxiety is the one emotional state I can be in that doesn’t bring the Numbers’ screams forth to overwhelm me and make me spiral.
Thanks a lot, fucked-up brain.
But I want to get out of here, get in my car and drive. Put distance between me and people I care about, so that once the Vanderalls do find me, then no one will be punished or hurt because they helped me or are around me.
But for some reason, Ash has decided I’m staying.
Honestly, I didn’t see that one coming.
Yeah, the Prez and I have a history tied to him saving me, but I didn’t bank on that parental bond that had formed back then to still matter. I’ve been gone for six years and am no longer part of the MC family. But the Prez’s word is law around here.
Beatrice might help me escape. But fuck that; she’s the last person I’d go to for help. Knowing her, she’d help me, only to betray me and get me recaptured, hoping that the MC would turn on me for wanting to leave.
The backstabbing bitch.
I pull at my hair and stop pacing. If I can’t leave the compound, then I need a different way to burn this anxiety off.
I look down at my clothing—I’m covered from head to toe.
The way I always am to hide the physical scars of Antwane’s torture.
I’ll be hot working out, but I’ve learned to become immune to it just like I’ve learned to ignore the questions and curious, lingering looks when I fully cover my body even in the heat.
But I’d rather not encounter anyone in the gym because the nosy bastards won’t keep their questions to themselves.
Bane is a prime example of that. But I can’t stay in this room for a second longer.
And given I can’t leave in my ride—AKA my stolen ride—then doing a grueling workout will help control the anxiety because the absolute last place I want to lose control, which would lead to the equivalent of an emotional and mental breakdown, is here.
When I yank open the bedroom door, I’m half-expecting someone to be standing guard outside, but the hallway is empty. I shut the door, then go in the opposite direction of the main stairs.
Having spent a good part of my childhood here, I know my way around the large, sprawling clubhouse.
As I enter the gym, the cool air washes over me in the temperature-controlled space.
Since it’s early morning—well, early morning for an MC clubhouse—it’s empty and doesn’t smell like sweat yet.
I won’t complain about having the gym to myself, though, so I go over to the fridge and grab a water bottle.
I take a drink while I kick off my boots and observe the space to assess what I have to work with.
There’s really nothing for cardio—no treadmill, bike, or rower.
I can’t imagine a huge man like Bane running in place on a treadmill, though.
No, he’d get his cardio chasing his enemies down some dark alley and pummeling the shit out of them after they wronged the MC.
The lack of cardio options doesn’t hinder me, though, as I, too, don’t rely on running in place to beat back my demons.
Taking a run at the pull-up bar, I jump up and grab it and do pull-ups until I can’t bring my chin to the bar anymore. I don’t drop down, though; instead, I hang from it, feeling the stretch and pull in my lats, then I do feet-to-bar until my muscles burn in protest.
Next, I drop to the mat and do my most hated exercise—military-style burpees—then jump squats until I can hardly stand.
For my last exercise, I go to the wall to shadow it for added balance and do handstand push-ups until my arms threaten to give way and smash my face into the floor.
I cycle through the circuit six more times, working through the grueling workout.
I nearly face-plant by my last rep of handstand push-ups. Every muscle in my body screams and trembles, but the anxiety, and my emotions are quiet and tightly sealed inside my inner box.
Flopping to the ground with no grace, I roll onto my back and struggle to catch my breath.
With my eyes closed, I hear the door open. I know that whoever has entered the gym isn’t Bane because he smells like a mix of leather, pine, and a hint of gasoline.
This person has a faint scent of spice and orange. Tyr. My second-oldest brother with an attitude from hell.
“What do you want?” I ask without opening my eyes.
I’m exhausted.
Not just from the workout, but because I slept like shit last night. And because pretending you have no emotions—when you probably have more emotions than most, and repress those said emotions, ignoring them while waiting for your hunters to track you down to end you—is fucking exhausting.
Tyr doesn’t answer, but I hear him move deeper into the room.
Sighing, I sit up, knowing that this confrontation is inevitable. Sitting on the mat, I twist around on my ass to face him. He’s sitting on the weight bench, resting his elbows on his knees.
He looks like shit.
His eyes are bloodshot, and his shirt is dirty under his cut. He doesn’t have the patches of a Brother, so he’s still a Prospect, like Sten. But with our dad, plus Jaarl, AKA Breaker, as full-fledged Brothers, they’ll be patched in soon.
Our parents had named all the boys with old Norse names, and it was a shame they would trade those for road names.
My name wasn’t Norse, though. Slade was actually more of a male name in Old English times.
Maybe my parents were hoping for a fourth boy, but they claimed it was because I was born in a valley on the way to the hospital, and Slade means valley.
My muscles are starting to seize since I hadn’t done any sort of cooldown, so I get up off the floor and arch my back to stretch. Tyr stays silent until I sit on the other weight bench across from him.
“Interesting choice of workout gear.” He eyes my now-sweaty long-sleeved shirt and leggings.
“Geez, sorry, my thong leotard is in the wash.”
“Still a smart ass, Slade.”
“Still a grouchy asshole, Tyr.”
He levels me with a stare that says he doesn’t appreciate my deadpanned sass.
I grab my water bottle off the floor and finish it. He’s silent, watching, clearly waiting for me to speak. Probably to explain myself to him, but I owe my brothers nothing.
Still, I say, “If I’m going to be held here against my will, then we might as well talk.”
“Yeah?” The word is a snarl, and his top lip curls back. “Talk about where you’ve been for six years?”
“Nah, you don’t want to hear that story.”
“What the fuck, Slade?” His eyes flare with anger, and he sits straighter. “And what the hell is with your lack of any emotion? As well as the wedding band on your finger?”
“Lots of questions. Most of which you don’t deserve the answer to.”
Anger mixes with his hurt. He has the audacity to look like I stabbed him. “I don’t deserve?”
“That’s right. You, Jaarl, and Sten don’t deserve. As for the wedding band…” I glance down at the band around my finger. “I got married,” I lie. “That’s all you need to know.”
He shoots to his feet. “For fuck’s sakes, Slade.”
The door to the gym opens, and I’m not surprised when Jaarl and Sten come in. This is my big brothers’ form of an intervention.
Tyr points at me and snarls, “Talk some fucking sense into her.”
Rising to my feet, I face my brothers. All three of them are less than a year apart from the next.
They look so similar, they had often been mistaken for triplets.
Blonde, blue-eyed, tall, rangier muscle rather than bulky.
I’m the opposite of my brothers—short and small with dark hair and green eyes.
Exhaustion, more mental than physical, presses down on me, and I suddenly feel weary as hell.
“I really did come here just to let you know I was alive and well. I don’t want to hash out what went down with our family. I want nothing from you. I don’t want to stay, so if you could please convince Ash that it’s in everyone’s best interest, then I’ll be on my way.”
Jaarl’s mouth opens in hurt shock at my emotionless speech, and Sten looks like I kicked his favorite puppy.
“Look. I get it.” I sigh, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “You have your lives here.”
Jaarl steps toward me but stops himself from coming closer. “When we left the MC with Mom and you, it was to help you guys get settled in Houston. We always intended to return here. Mom knew that.”
“I know.” I clear my throat, hoping my next words don’t come out so expressionless or cold by misinterpretation. “And I want nothing from you.”
“We’re family,” Sten tries to reason.
“Yet, that rationale meant nothing when I called all those times, trying to tell you what was really happening with Mom.”
“Mom wouldn’t do what you said,” Tyr argues.
That still doesn’t get any anger from me.
“You know shit about it because you didn’t want to, Tyr. None of you did.”
They’re silent, and I take the opportunity to finally air all this shitty, dirty laundry.
“You guys can’t fathom that Mom would try to sell me to her drug dealer for her next hit, because you weren’t there.
” They all blanche at the reminder of what I told them last night of why I initially ran, but I keep going.
“You all blame Mom’s overdose on me, yet each time I called any of you to tell you how bad her addiction was getting, you dismissed what I was saying, telling me that I was young, scared, missing my brothers, and that I was blowing things out of proportion.
You placated me, saying you’d visit soon.
“All three of you wanted nothing to do with it because you were back here with those you chose for your family, not who you were saddled with through blood.”
“Don’t say that, Slade.” Jaarl sounds distressed. “You’re our family just as much as any of the Brothers we choose.”
“I understand, and I get it. I found and chose a family of my own.” I hold up my hand with the wedding ring. Granger, Camber, Axel, and Sam are my ride-or-dies, my chosen family.
“Yet you’re here without your husband,” Tyr snaps, almost like he doesn’t believe me.
The bastard is too smart for his own good.
The ring and husband thing may not be real, but the family I had chosen isn’t fake.
Granger, Camber, Axel, and Sam had been my family after I ran from the drug dealer.
They know all about Antwane and had helped me survive since then.
They know who is hunting me, and that I refuse to bring that war to their door.
“Is that why you came back? To make us pay for what happened with Mom?” Sten asks, looking endlessly pained.
Sighing, I approach them. “I want nothing from you, no apologies or to make up for lost time. The past is the past, and no words or actions can change it…on any of our sides. You feel like I abandoned Mom, and that led to her ultimate demise; I feel like you all ignored everything I tried to tell you about how bad it was getting. You can judge me all you want; I’d do it all over again because I wasn’t becoming anyone’s whore. ”
Tilting his head back, Tyr closes his eyes and expels a long breath. “If you had told us how bad her addiction was getting—”
Instead of reminding them that I did, I reply, “Fuck you.” My voice is flat, even though I should be vibrating with rage because they continue to push this back on me. “I’m done here. Tell Ash to let me go.”
Jaarl shakes his head. “It’s best you stay. We need to fix this.”
“There’s nothing left to fix,” I insist. “Your life is here, and that’s fine. I’m happy that you have this family.”
“Are you happy, Slade?” Tyr asks, frowning severely. “Do you feel happiness? Do you feel anything anymore? Or are we to blame for that, too?”
“You’re not to blame for that,” I admit. “It had nothing to do with Mom.”
Sten grabs my hands and stares at me. “Will you tell us?”
Fuck no.
I’m not even going to attempt it—not after what happened when I tried to explain to my friends and was nearly shattered mentally.
But I need to give my brothers something because they’re morphing into protective mode, and that, along with their guilt, will be the death of trying to convince them to advocate to Ash about letting me leave.
Taking a deep breath, I admit, “Two years ago, a predator took me. I survived, he didn’t.”
“Who?” Sten rasps.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m breathing, he isn’t.” I pull my hands free from Sten. “It’s in the past, and I’m choosing to move forward.”
Until I’m found and ended.
“We’ll help you. Let us help you, Slade,” Jaarl insists, his eyes darkening.
“It’s better for all of us if I leave. That way we can heal in our own ways,” I half-lie. “I need to go.”
They shift. I don’t even think it’s done consciously, but it’s a very inconvenient time for their brotherly protection to pit it to make a stance. Shoulder to shoulder, they block my exit and say as one, “You’re staying.”