Chapter 2
Torren
Jesus Christ, I need a new bed.
This old-ass mattress will be the death of me—or at least the destruction of my back. I blink my eyes and awake to yet another beautiful day in Belmont.
Belmont. What a shithole.
At least it is when you live in the Patch.
A peek over the bed reveals an upright Brewsky from the night before. A little shake confirms it’s half-full.
Miracles do happen.
I take a big gulp, thanking drunk me for not throwing it against the wall the night prior—a nasty habit of mine when I’m good and toasty.
There’s a row of cans littering the floor, but no liquid pouring from them, which means I had the good sense to save the one I’m currently drinking for breakfast.
Well done, Torren. You’re too poor to waste good booze.
“Good” is relative. It’s the cheapest beer you can buy, but it has alcohol, so it’s “good” to me.
Another peek to my right reveals a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray on my bedside table.
“Now we’re talking,” I mumble to myself as I reach for the cigarette and wedge it between my lips. I light it up, inhale the rest of it in one breath, and admire the smoke circles I puff out as the nicotine courses through my veins. There’s nothing like that first-smoke-of-the-day buzz.
Now I can get this shit show on the road.
I smash the finished cigarette into the ashtray, then slowly rise to my feet, careful not to move too fast, or the hangover that’s turned my brain into soup will knock me flat on my ass.
My feet scamper across the cold linoleum floor as I make my way to the bathroom.
I live above my auto repair shop, so my little “studio” is really just a converted office.
The wood paneling on the walls is retro, but not in a cool, hip way.
More like a seedy 1970s-porn-studio-casting-office kind of way.
But whoever owned this place before me was fancy enough to have an honest-to-god office with a bathroom.
And now I get to call it home. Dreams do come true.
I remind myself that I chose this life, and that it’s better for me. The shop is the start of a new path, free from crime and violence. A wall between the life I’ve lived and the life I want.
A life that’s mine.
I used to be one half of the notorious Kay Brothers, co-leaders of the Hellcats.
Tobias, my adoptive brother, and I created the Hellcats because we had no other options.
After we freed ourselves from the clutches of our adoptive parents, we didn’t really have many prospects—barely even went to high school.
What started as a motorcycle gang with our close friends morphed into a criminal empire.
Petty larceny evolved into high-scale robberies and blackmail.
We became kings of the underworld, and the rumors about how we dealt with our adoptive parents created a haunting lore that made grown men tremble at our name.
But that’s over now.
And I’m happy for it.
I turn on the bathroom light and gaze at the face before me. My bloodshot eyes are a fright, and my black hair looks like someone took a weedwacker to it. I scrub my hands over my tan face before turning on the cold water to brush my teeth.
Someone once asked if I was Mediterranean, another if I was Native American.
I’m an orphan, so fuck if I know. I guess I could do one of those genealogy tests, but I really don’t give a shit. My parents either died or dumped me. Neither makes me feel particularly pleasant, so the desire to find out more never really appealed to me.
The bathroom tile is an odd shade of pink—interesting choice for a car repair shop, but I don’t really hate it. The only downside to the bathroom is the lack of a shower. I have a bathtub, which is even more bizarre than the pink tile, but it’s kind of relaxing on days when I have a hangover.
Which is most days.
I finish brushing my teeth and make my way to the tub. My hand reaches for the hot-water nozzle.
No cold water for me—I prefer to bathe in lava, thank you.
I pull down my boxers, kick them aside, then grip the tub’s edge as I step in. I fell yesterday and still have the bump on my head to prove it. I already mentioned the soup-for-brains issue, right?
My body sinks into the scalding water. Goddamn, this feels good.
I reach for the bubbles and pour a generous amount in.
I sink and let the water envelop my head as it fills the tub.
The sound of the running water beneath the surface soothes the pounding headache I have.
I try to hold my breath for as long as possible, something I do every morning.
I don’t know why, but the lack of oxygen makes me feel more alive than normal breathing.
When I can’t take it anymore, I sit upright once again and gasp for air.
It’s a reminder of how little I spend in the present moment. I’m either angry at the past or worried about the future. The sixty seconds or so I spend depriving myself of oxygen in the tub are the closest I’ll get to nirvana for the rest of the day. It also helps to soften the hangover.
With my mind fully present and the pressure behind my eyes slowly dissipating, I relax my body against the ledge of the tub and reach down to tug on my cock.
This is also a ritual of mine. Jerking off in the morning helps me keep the edge off throughout the day.
I’m bisexual, which doubles the chances that I’ll meet someone who gives me a raging hard-on.
I don’t even know if bisexual is an appropriate label.
What’s the label for, “I’ll fuck anyone who tickles my fancy?
” Slut? Maybe slut is my sexual orientation.
Whatever.
The point I’m trying to make is that it’s either tame the beast in the morning or risk knocking glasses off a table.
My eyes close, the vision of a man’s nice, subtle ass with a few of my glowing red handprints serving as the fantasy du jour. I like spanking men. It’s not really the same for women—I prefer they spank me. Thank you, ma’am. May I have another?
I finish up, careful not to get a drop of cum in the water, and clean it with nearby tissues.
Despite being a mess and having a fairly dirty profession, I’m pretty fastidious about the bathroom. There’s nothing worse than a gross bathroom.
I use my foot to release the drain and carefully exit the bathtub. The light above the mirror flickers as I pat myself dry with a towel. The landlord of this dump doesn’t do a fucking thing to keep this place in order.
Spoiler. It’s me. I’m the landlord.
I keep the shop in order because it’s vital to my survival, but a flickering bathroom light? Couldn’t care less. There’s an example of my OCD gone awry. If the bathroom is dirty, I’ll lose my shit. A flickering light? Meh.
Once I’m dry, I don a black t-shirt and black jeans.
I only wear black. I look good in it, and car grease doesn’t show on black clothing. The shirt is tight, which accentuates my chest, but the pants are baggy and don’t do a thing to show off my amazing ass.
This isn’t ego talking—every hookup I’ve ever had said I have a nice ass. A nice ass and a fat dick to be precise. The two do wonders for my sex life until my personality and kinks rear their ugly heads. Then it’s back to beating off alone in a bathtub.
Just living the good life.
Fully dressed, I descend the metal spiral staircase to the shop.
Gabriel, my right-hand man, is already here, setting things up for the day.
Gabriel doesn’t talk much. And by “doesn’t talk much,” I mean he almost never speaks.
He prefers to write things down. Other times, he grunts, and, if you know him long enough, you start to understand what his grunts mean.
He’s not mute; I’ve definitely heard him speak. He just doesn’t want to.
That’s probably why I like him so much.
We grew up together in the Patch. He lived in the trailer park near the outskirts of the city, and I lived nearby in the hellhole that was the Kays’ house.
One day, I let him bum a cigarette, and we’ve been buds ever since.
“What’s up, baby Gabe?” I call him ‘baby’ because he has a young face and brown eyes so dark that they’re almost black. Everyone around town thinks he’s spooky, so I do my best to make him feel lovable. What’s more lovable than a baby?
He stops restocking supplies and stares at me with those black eyes. The resting bitch face he usually sports slowly morphs into a little smile, and he closes the distance between us and gives me a fist bump.
Gabriel is the only person I trust in this world other than my adoptive brother, Tobias. We haven’t told each other everything about our pasts, but we know enough to understand what the other one needs and when.
It’s usually distance.
“Ready for some shitty coffee?”
He smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. Each morning, we get a cup of coffee and a donut at Maggie’s Diner, one of the few restaurants in the Patch. Maggie is tough as nails but funny as hell and never charges us for the donut.
Gabriel pulls his black hoodie over his head while I snag my leather jacket from the hook next to the front entrance.
I tap against the breast pockets, making sure I’ve got my gun and my cigarettes.
I keep a gun on me at all times. I may be turning over a new leaf, but I’ve made a lot of enemies while I was with the Hellcats.
A nod to Gabe, and we’re off.
The rev of the motorcycle’s engine ripples through my body, shaking off the last remnants of my hangover. The sky above is grey, and the dilapidated houses paint a dismal picture as we soar down back roads and side streets.
People lugging worn-out belongings in carts trail down the sidewalk like zombies—even the little kids waiting for the school bus look tired. Not sleepy. “I’m too young to have seen this much already,” kind of tired.
I know the feeling, kid.
The red fluorescent lighting of Maggie’s Diner comes into view, and I sigh with relief at the small glimmer of something bright in this crappy neighborhood.
Maggie’s Diner isn’t just a cheap coffee and a free donut for me. It’s the first part of a well-crafted routine that I follow each day.
Because, without my routines, the devil inside me might wake up.
When my hands remember things my mind tries to forget, like the feel of the blade in my hand or the blood on the walls, I latch onto my routines.
Because I can’t let that happen again.