Twelve
TWELVE
CHAOS
I’ve read the fucking thing cover to cover. Well, scanned the pages front to back, and nowhere in this goddamn dear diary does it tell me her name. I don’t want to ask Theresa. That would mean admitting that I’m interested, but I’m not ready to share just yet. Fuck it. I rest the crook of my elbow on my raised knee, ass tucked on the bare wood of the window seat in what will soon be my bedroom.
Dawn rises over her house in the distance, the orange hues of the warming day reflecting off the rusted tin roof. I tap the journal against my shin, studying the outline of her cottage.
My gut tells me she won’t be a problem, but my brain says it’s too soon to be sure.
She’s one woman. Nothing a fucking one percent motorcycle club should be concerned with, and yet, fuck, it’s less about who she is and more about what she represents—trouble. Another headache. Somebody else to micromanage so we can keep our business working.
I’m tired of the eyes on us, of the whispers in the streets, of the cynicism and hatred toward my family. I’m fucking tired of people sticking their noses where they don’t fucking belong. Sure. We don’t do good shit. We sure as fuck ain’t good people.
But we don’t shit where we sleep, and neither should the people of Temperance.
Better the devil you know. Maybe I should let the Devil’s Breed take over. Then the fuckers would have something to complain about. Three arsons and a handful of aggravated assault charges are all we’ve contested since I’ve sat at the head of the table. Let any of the less respectful clubs in here, and Temperance would be looking at a rap sheet as long as their arm within a week—murder first and foremost on that list.
Fuck this shit. I want to ride my fucking bike, smoke a little green, and make a fuckload of cash. Is that so goddamn difficult?
The book weighs heavy in my hand as the rage slowly grows teeth within my chest. I clamp my fingers tighter around the cover, then hastily flip to the page I dog-eared for quick reference.
…during the worst of them, I still feel his fingers clamped around my wrists. The hot wash of his breath as he told me to be a good girl and behave. The rotten smell of the fucking asshole he sold my time to and the burning ache of things shoved where they don’t belong. When I let the anger win, I ache to do those things to him. To have tears pool in HIS eyes when he begs for reprieve. In my weakest moments, I want MY boot on HIS neck, blood on HIS lips, and that’s what I hate the most. That deep down, I’m just as fucked up as he was for wanting to do such depraved things to another human being.
My chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, jaw achingly tight as I stare at her bullshit facade of happiness amongst the nothingness of the surrounding farmland. She tries so goddamn hard to make her life something pretty and full of joy, but one moment within her walls and you can goddamn feel it—fucking near smell it. The desperation and the despair.
The demons from whom she can’t hide.
Her soul rots because of these things she writes about, and despite the mountain of club business demanding my attention, it’s her problems that I itch to solve.
And I don’t know why. I hate that. I hate not understanding things. Not knowing why people do what they do, lest of all myself. Call it my repressed childhood trauma, but I feel better when I can understand a person’s motivation. Knowing how their brain ticks makes them predictable, and predictable is safe.
Right now, I’m anything but predictable, and that sure a fuck doesn’t bode well.
I got the road name Chaos for a reason. “Because wherever you go, boy, Chaos is sure to follow.” My father’s voice echoes in my mind, the day I was patched in as fresh in my fucking memory as this goddamn woman’s smell.
Fuck me. I ain’t no florist. I don’t know what it was. I just know that if I walked past the fucking plant now, I’d be tempted to palm my cock to her memory. I’m doomed. The heel of my hand pressing against my closed eye does nothing to distract from the imagery clear as fucking day in my head. Her swollen lips half an inch apart as she stared at me seated on the foot of her bed. Those goddamn tits—so full and perky beneath that oversized T-shirt. The ink on her skin, like a crooked finger beckoning me to follow the lines toward the heaven between her legs. Shit. Even the fucking way the moonlight shimmered over her midnight-black hair… I’m fucking ruined. And I don’t even know her name.
The pages scratch against one another as I flick back through the journal, seeking a clue. Some days she writes fuck all—a few lines. Some days she upends entire fucking novels into this thing. And others? Other times, she draws.
It’s the pictures I love the most.
I trace my thumb over the rough indentation of her pen on the page, the grooves the nib made. She pressed so goddamn hard that the lines impressed onto the following pages. But it’s the detailed monochromatic imagery that has me smoothing my palm across the page to feel the story against my skin. The edge of the paper wrinkles with the saturation of ink. Small pictures are scribbled atop one another into a creeping dark that inches toward the huddled figure in the center. Yet the imagery around the outer rings has me intrigued the most. Generally, people draw animals, clouds, flowers, or simple symbols such as hearts or skulls.
Not my enigma. No. She scribbles mainstream logos for chain stores, names, shapes of states, and what seem to be dates. It’s a collage of the things that haunt her—of corporate America.
What does it have to do with the guy she repeatedly mentions? What connection do they have?
Doesn’t matter. I’ve got more pressing shit to take care of now that daylight scours the landscape.
I shunt the journal back into my waistband and go downstairs toward where my bike waits in the yard. My footsteps echo throughout the vast, empty rooms with every strike of my boots against the staircase. I pause in the foyer, short fingernails pressing repeatedly at my thumb as I slowly turn on the spot to take it all in. Once the brothers arrive, silence will again be as rare as unicorn shit, as sought after as the pot at the end of the rainbow, and just as unrealistic as both. Eyes closed, I tilt my head back and relish the nothingness. The break from insanity.
The echo of my thoughts.
My fucking phone rips me from the serenity.
“For fuck’s sake.” I tug the device from my pocket and stab Accept . “What now?”
“She won’t go to school unless you take her.” Loki sighs.
Fucking Selena. “Put her on.”
The scratching of the phone being passed over precedes my sister’s growl. “Two nights in a row, Seamus.” That she knows of. She’s also the only one who can get away with using my birth name.
Not even my mother has the privilege.
“Get your fucking ass to school.”
“No.”
“I’m not playing games, Selena.” I march out the front door, slamming it shut behind me. “Your attendance already raises red flags. Too many more days off, and I’ll have the fucking superintendent asking for our plan to re-engage you. You know what that means, right?” I mount the phone and switch the comms for my helmet on, missing most of what she says before I tug it over my head. “It means,” I growl, cutting off her tirade. “That I have to fuck around in meetings at your school once a week until they have evidence that your grades have improved and your attendance is flawless.”
“So fucking wh?—”
“You swear at me again, and I’ll fucking revoke phone privileges.”
She huffs.
“If I have to fucking play nice with your goddamn school, that means I miss time with the club. And if I ain’t at the club, do you know what that means?”
“You remember you have family?”
“Fuck me, Selena. You got a death wish, girl?” I stab the starter on my bike, the growl somewhat calming my mood. “Club comes first. You know that. I can’t always pander to your fucking neurotic obsessions.”
“You told me you’d always tell me where you are!”
“I WON’T ABANDON YOU!” My ears ache from the reverberation of my hollered words inside my helmet. “I fucking made you that promise the day she died, and I goddamn meant it.”
“You meant it when you said you’d always share your location, too.”
I can fucking envision her bottom lip dragging as I flick up my stand and gun away from the house. “Stop fucking sulking.” The rear tire slides out, leaving a wide arc in the dirt. “I’ll be there in fifteen and take you to school. But this is the last time. You hear me?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Go check that you’ve packed your bag right, and get your gear ready. Put Loki back on.”
The phone scratches again as I blaze past the cottage, my enigma’s curtains still closed.
“Boss,” my enforcer asks.
“Next time she fucking throws a tantrum because I’m not there, lie, for fuck’s sake. Tell her you know where I am and get her ass off to school.”
“She’s just scared, man.”
“We’re all scared. All the time. She can’t let it rule her life.” Otherwise, she’ll start making stupid decisions like her mom did. “I’ll be there soon. Round everyone up. We’re sitting down this afternoon to go through the details of the new property.”
“Sure.” He hesitates. “You’ll see it when you get to the loading dock later, but just a heads up, the truck is still there.”
The fuck? “Why?”
“Crow can tell you.” He makes a hissing sound. “I’m staying the fuck out of this mess.”
“For how long?” I smirk. “It’s your job to get involved.”
“When you tell me to,” he clarifies. “You ain’t told me to get into this fuckup yet.”
“Make the most of it, asshole, because I bet tomorrow it’ll be the first thing on your fucking agenda.”
“Can’t wait,” he sasses. “Also, you owe me ten dollars.”
“What the fuck for?”
“Selena’s lunch money.”
“The hell?” I slam the shifter down through the gears, getting satisfaction from the screaming engine as it slows me for the corner. “Is there not any food in the fucking kitchen again?”
“There’s plenty. She just refuses to make herself anything, saying the other kids make fun of her for bringing food from home.”
“Kids are assholes.”
“You don’t say.”
I sigh. “Can you ask Crow to set her up with a bank card?”
“Sure.”
I draw a deep breath, relishing the clean, open air as I tear past fields of green and yellow.
“Something else?” Loki hesitates on the other end of the line.
Am I doing a good job? Do you trust me? Was my father better… “Nah, man. I’ll see you in fifteen. Make sure Selena has her gear ready because we’ll turn tail the second I get in.”
“No problem. Catch you in ten.”
I disconnect the call and settle into the seat, twisting the throttle a little harder.
Dancing with death that bit closer.
Enough that for a fleeting moment, I feel alive.