Chapter 33 Xander, Asher, Nitro, Fallon, & Kane #2
This was the worst of us to the world.
To us? It was normal life. It was home.
My gaze traveled down Nitro’s target, now transformed into art some uppity nouveau riche would buy for several thousand at a bloated auction. If he ever gave up knives, he’d make a great tortured artist. Banksy meets Warhol.
Walking back to the seating area, I grabbed the empty recycling bin from the coffee table and headed to the attached garage. After tossing bin beside the trash can, I made my way toward the massive black shelving unit against the far wall.
“What else,” I mused, reading labels. Yellow topped bins lined the shelves neatly. This wasn’t important memorabilia. This was shit we probably should toss but didn’t for whatever reason.
“No,” I murmured, eyes drifting over the label ‘medication’.
Half-filled bottles of antibiotics we didn’t finish.
Never used bottles of anti-psychotics prescribed by court-mandated psychiatrists.
Shit for high blood pressure. John forced that on us.
We told him that high blood pressure came with the job.
There was a tub of antiquated CDs. A tub of Blu-rays. A heavy as hell tub filled to the top with car cleaning supplies.
My eyes landed and locked on messy scrawl, Asher’s handwriting.
“Shame box.” I reached up, grabbing the lip of the tub and pulling it off the shelf.
It was feather light, stuffed to the gills with trophies from past exploits.
Lingerie. Harnesses. Handcuffs. Thigh high stockings.
Stilettos. The works. The faces faded away, but the fuck remained.
Back in the house, I spread the proof of our sordid sexual past.
A white babydoll tossed onto the sofa. A purple thong draped on a lampshade. Fuzzy handcuffs hanging from a doorknob. Boyshorts. G-strings. Hipsters. French cuts. Push-ups. Demis. Balconettes. All different shapes, sizes, scenarios.
The slow rotations of the oversized fan caught my attention.
I moved beneath it and tossed up a teal bra.
One of the long, blunt blades caught it.
I watched the undergarment spin around and around, getting nowhere, and felt odd familiarity flood my senses.
It was just like us. Just like me. Rotating in the same spot, doing the same things, living the same life we’d settled into as emancipated teens.
I wanted to tear the bra down yet also keep watching it. Was this who I really wanted to be?
KANE.
“Come on, you fucker,” I cursed under my breath.
The ‘saw a person in half’ prop was heavier than I remembered.
As I hauled it through the musty, outside storage building, every step I managed took monumental effort.
The coffin-sized box had been an absolute terror to extract from the piles of forgotten shit in what had become our DemonX museum slash graveyard.
I probably should have given up before I started when I saw it was buried beneath broken targets, mangled bike frames, and a giant Smokey the Bear statue Asher had to have ten years ago.
But I’d pushed and pulled and shoved shit out of the way until I could get at it. I’d won. And now I was dragging my win across the yard towards the house.
Images flashed through my mind of that Vegas stint almost fifteen years ago.
Crowds thrilled by Nitro’s knives, Fallon’s archery, and Asher’s fire breathing.
Then there was me and Xander coming up with some bullshit trick because the venue wasn’t fit for bikes.
We’d figured it out though, rigging the illusion box with fake blood that sprayed out into the audience.
It had been easy money back then, before the real fame and big money.
I was halfway across the yard, sweat trickling down my face despite the chilly air. My breath came in hitched gasps, and I thought about pausing, but I knew if I stopped, I wouldn’t start again.
The damn prop swayed as I dragged it across the yard.
Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. I lifted my right foot onto the front riser of the porch.
I’d gotten this thing out of its burial spot.
I’d managed to move it all the way to the house.
I could get the fucker inside. Second riser.
Third riser. With a final grunt, I hoisted the prop onto the porch, my body protesting at the effort.
“Shit.” I leaned against the thick, wood post, feeling like my chest might crack.
“Need help?”
I blinked up, finding Xander in the doorway.
“No,” I grunted stubbornly.
Forcing myself into action again, I gripped the prop and fought inch by inch to get it into the house, to move it down the foyer, into the living room.
I’d succeeded, though I didn’t even know where to put the damn thing.
The place was already a house of horrors and sin.
I decided to set it on the floor next to the sofa for now.
I took two more steps, feeling triumphant.
And then I felt my fucking foot hit something hard and round. It rolled. I lost my balance, boot slipping forward and upward. The room tilted. I slammed to the ground, impact rattling the room. The heavy box fell against my stomach.
Someone chuckled. Probably our pack’s world-class asshole: Nitro.
“Fuck this all to fucking hell!” I snarled, punching the prop. From the impact of my knuckles, hairline fractures fingered out across the wood. “Son of a bitch,” I cursed again. I’d busted ass getting it, and now I’d broken it.
But was that any surprise? I was the guy who broke things now.