3. Cub
THREE
Cub
T he fast thrum of Layla De La Rue’s heartbeat beneath my double handed grip should kick my conscience into gear. It doesn’t. If anything, the knowledge that I have her life in my hands feels like kismet. I’m the one in charge. For the first time, I hold the power, and she dances to my tune, not the other way around.
It’s enthralling.
I like it.
We glare at each other until I break eye contact to scrutinise the changes in her.
She’s a contradiction.
Exuding wealth while projecting an air of punk rock.
Her black ringed eyes with the smudged eye shadow. The thick foundation that’s two shades lighter than her natural skin colour. Hair that’s dyed into a raven sheet devoid of sun kissed highlights. A blunt fringe that conceals her gaze. Contacts that turn her eyes green instead of the pretty brown I know them to be.
She’s hiding in plain sight.
The outfit she’s wearing is also a costume.
Torn black jeans that hang from her hips on a whisper and a prayer. The titanium piercings that decorate her ears, left nostril, and the little dimple under her bottom lip are a warning. Her boots wouldn’t look out of place on the back of my Harley... or in my bed.
Shock at the direction of my thoughts loosens my fingers.
I stutter, “Never t-took you for an emo?—”
“How lame,” Layla interjects. She rolls her eyes and smirks when I re-instate the hold I have on her neck. The feeling of her throat working beneath my palms sets waves crashing through my stomach. A strange warmth invades my chest, intensifying with the vibration created when she speaks. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer if the cause listed on my death certificate wasn’t boredom.”
Before I can properly comprehend Layla’s grumbling, she uses some sort of karate move to knock my arms away from her throat at the same time as she sweeps my feet out from under me. My back smacks into the concrete path. The air in my lungs bursts out my mouth. Pain rips through my skull. Blinking in slow motion, I stare up at the viperous bitch I’ve never managed to defeat a single time.
She’s completely calm.
Passive.
Detached.
“This is your only warning.” Layla kicks me in the gut to emphasise her point. Before I can curl in on myself, the pointed toe of her boot jabs my ribs. She presses the rippled sole to my chest and leans on me. Her aloof expression is at odds with the threat lacing her tone, “The next time you touch me without my permission, you’re dead.”
My eyelids descend, a barrier between me and Layla’s latest victory.
Pressure increases on my sternum. By the time she has what feels like most of her weight settled on me, I’m struggling to breathe. The ache in my chest is troubling. Resentment floods me. I flip-flop between the idea of submitting to her dominance and fighting her to the death. It’s been half a decade since she made me feel this way. Weak. Useless. Worthless . Expiring beneath her black boot would be an appropriate way to go—after all, it’s where I spent most of my teenage years.
“Touch me and die.” Layla’s voice is strong. Her tone unwavering. There’s a level of hostility radiating from her that is misplaced considering our positions. “Do you hear me, Luke? I’m not messing around.”
It kills me to nod my assent, but I do it.
She slowly removes her foot from my chest. “And I’m not emo, I’m goth.”
A sharp snort is my sole reaction to her declaration.
With my eyes still shut, I inhale through my nose until the hollow ache in my chest is manageable. Once I have my equilibrium, I slap my hands against the concrete and shove back to my feet. Layla’s placid facade breaks as I stand. She skurries backward two steps, then juts her chin. I ignore her to catalogue the aches in my body. The fingers I touch to the back of my head are stained with blood when I hold them in front of my face.
“Not sure why you’re here,” I remark while I’m shucking my Shamrocks cut from my shoulders. “But you’re welcome to fuck off.” After wiping the dirt and grime from the leather, I thread my arms through the holes and straighten the ends. With a sniff, I gesture toward the other end of the alley. “Don’t bother tryna return. I’m addin’ your name to our banned list.”
“Whatever you feel you need to do,” Layla retorts. “I’m here to apologise, not make your life harder.”
“Apologise?”
She has the good grace to look unsure of herself when she tells me, “Yes. I’m trying to be a better person... and that starts with owning my mistakes.”
My initial reaction is elation.
Quickly followed by anger.
I shouldn’t be happy that this bitch is on some crusade to salve her conscience. Layla De La Rue made my life a misery for years. Her cruelty was the icing on top of the shit sandwich that was my life. My home was a place of pain and humiliation. School was my safe space for a few hours a week. Without her nastiness, I had an escape. A refuge. Somewhere I could lick my wounds in relative peace.
She stole that from me.
Threading my fingers through my hair, I yank until the pain provides me with clarity. “I’m not in the business of forgiveness.”
Layla takes a tentative step toward me.
I back up like she’s an advancing snake.
Which, if you consider our past, she kind of is...
“I’m sorry, Luke.”
“Stick your sorry up your arse and?—”
My rude response is halted by Wyatt Mayberry dashing out of Club Mirage’s rear exit. I step to the right to avoid being smacked in the face by the swinging door. The movement brings me into Layla’s space, close enough to smell her perfume again.
I shake myself, determined to break free of the spell the fragrance casts over my psyche.
“Dandelion,” she murmurs. My toes curl inside my boots. “I still wear the same perfume from school... it makes me feel... things .”
The tattoo on the inside of my wrist pulses like a second-degree burn.
Like being scalded by boiling water.
An injury I’ve sustained more than once.
I lurch away from her.
It’s cowardly, yet instinctual.
An honest reaction in the face of danger.
The memory she’s invoked is painful and poisonous.
And Layla’s role in the destruction wrought on me and my friends is unforgiveable.
“Sander’s tryna pick a fight with Slash,” Wyatt blurts out in a rush. He bends in half, propping his hands on his thighs while he fights to catch his breath. “Pulled... him... off Cherub.”
“For fuck’s sake.” The curse comes from the depths of my soul. My thumbs fly across the screen of the phone I retrieve from my pocket while we’re on the move. After hitting send on my SOS message, I turn to Wyatt. “I’ve asked Toker to come here. He can calm things down.”
“Toker’s already here.”
The second youngest of the Mayberry siblings gestures toward the DJ stand. Looking like a leather version of Casper the friendly ghost, Toker observes Sander and Slash with an air of disquiet hanging around him. His stance is wide. His arms are folded across his chest. An eerie halo circles his head whenever the lights bounce off his white-blond crew cut. There’s worry in his eyes, but I can’t tell who it’s aimed toward—my best friend or his.
Wyatt answers my next question before I pose it, “He showed up with a face like a thundercloud, then the next second Sander was using Slash’s cut to yank him off Cherub. Soon as he stood there instead’a intervenin’ I went to find you. Not sure who called him, but he’s clearly not here to help.”
“Sander called him.”
“What?” Whirling on Layla, I’m in the process of reaching for her when self-preservation kicks in. I discard the impulse to shake the answers I seek out of her at the last second to link my fingers at the back of my head instead. My shoulders strain when I stretch to my full height and tilt my head to glare at the ceiling. A dozen thoughts circle my brain, each one more disturbing than the next. Expelling a steadying breath, I inhale through my nose before I return my attention to the raven-haired woman who’s trailed me inside the nightclub. “How do you know that?”
My role within the Shamrocks is new. A responsibility created by modern times. I’m the club’s inaugural Technology Officer. One of my main jobs is to use the internet, surveillance, hacking, and social media to know all the things before everyone else.
Things like who called our surly Enforcer into Club Mirage on his night off.
“I, ah —’ Layla licks her lips. I dig my fingernails into the back of my head and avert my eyes from the confusingly tantalising sight. “We spoke before I came outside to see you. He warned me not to hurt you in my quest to make amends.”
The bone I have to pick with Sander is Jurassic-sized.
His heart might be in the right place.
That doesn’t mean he has the right to meddle in my life.
I don’t need Layla’s apologies to find closure.
Whatever the fuck that is...
“Fine,” I grunt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the oldest of the Shamrocks’ prospects lose control of the situation when Slash aims a level of rage I’ve never witnessed from him toward Sander. Isaiah is shoved out of the way. He stumbles backward, then tumbles over a female partier. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly assists Nadia in dragging Cherub out of the fray.
The rest of my biker brothers are moving through the crowd as fast as they can. Big men dressed in leather should be able to part the masses easily. Unfortunately, the pounding music and the artificial darkness mean some of Mirage’s patrons are oblivious to the drama in their midst. Others are too busy rubbernecking. They hamper the Shamrocks progress in order to watch one of Perth’s basketball stars fighting with a local biker.
Slash is infamous.
Sander is plain famous.
This has the potential to cause ructions throughout the city and the underworld.
Seeing that Toker is sticking firm with his decision to take a hands-off approach to solving the problem, I realise that I need to step in.
I signal for the music to be cut, and the lights turned on.
The area is illuminated immediately.
Our DJ obliges a few moments later.
Slash freezes, seconds before landing a knockout blow on Sander.
Revulsion coats his face.
Part of me understands his self-loathing.
My dominant reaction is annoyance.
He’s better than this.
Still, I guess every man has a breaking point and Slash has finally reached his.
After all, this showdown has been months in the making. Sander’s over-protective of his twin sister, especially after Venom left her and she lost their baby. Slash is head over heels for her, and he has the opportunity to shoot his shot while Venom is on the outs.
It’s sub-optimal, but it is what it is.
Like most things in our life, it all started with Alexander Kingsley’s return. His inability to accept the word no. The might of the Maddison clan exploited to fuel his obsession. A dozen victims left in his wake.
Alex is a spectre that lingers over Cherub, the two men who love her, and the club...
My own complicated past with Alex also rears its head.
I seek out the viper who set me in his sights.
Layla’s nowhere to be seen.
I should be relieved that the trash has taken itself out.
So why am I vaguely perturbed by her absence?