35. Slick
Bones
I pull into the turnout, kill the engine, and wait. Two hours from town, deep in the mountains, nothing but stone walls on one side and a sheer drop on the other. The air is thick with silence, the kind that swallows sound before it even has a chance to echo. At this time of night, this place feels cursed. A stretch of forgotten road.
I tighten my grip on my gun, anticipation thrumming in my veins. Three days. Three fucking days of this asshole tailing me, staying just far enough that I couldn't pin him down. I haven't been able to go to Temper because of this fucker. Let's see what he does now that he has my full attention.
I don't have to wait long.
Less than ten minutes later, the low growl of a bike cuts through the silence. Headlights sweep across me as he pulls in, stopping right in front of my ride. Before his boots even hit the ground, my gun is up, aimed right at his head.
He removes his muzzle slowly, like he's savoring the moment. When he finally looks at me, I clock the yellow-gold glint in his eyes. This asshole is uncanny as fuck.
Then the bastard smirks.
"You can put the gun down, jefe." His voice is deep, smooth, laced with amusement. "I think you already know I'm not here to attack you. I let you see me for the past two days, after all. Been waiting for this meeting."
I don't lower the gun. "You've been following me for three days, not two, fucker."
His expression shifts — first surprise, then something close to appreciation. "Shit, jefe." He whistles low. "You really are as good as they say. I had some doubts. That maybe the legend was bigger than the man."
He grins, too fucking relaxed for someone with a gun pointed at his skull. I don't speak. Just watch. He's trying to bait a reaction out of me, see where my patience snaps.
After a beat, he sighs. "I'm not here to cause trouble, jefe. On the contrary. I'm here to help. And maybe I'll get some help in return." His eyes gleam in the headlights. "How's your VP? Still alive?"
"None of your fucking business." My voice is flat. Final.
He tilts his head, glancing briefly at the sky before locking eyes with me again. "I take it he is. Tough guy, that one. Took out thirteen men from Los Verdugos." He pauses, watching me closely. "Of course, the cartel doesn't know it was him. Not yet."
I let the silence fall, waiting him out. He's not here to make threats about Ghost and his hunting missions. He's not that stupid. No, this fucker has something else on his mind. And I'm proven right when he speaks again.
"But they know about the girl, jefe."
Everything inside me goes still.
"Your VP's girl." His voice is even, but there's something sharp beneath it. "They left her alone before because she had a deal in place. Kept quiet. Didn't make waves. But now? Now she was spotted inside your club. And that, jefe, they see as betrayal. Betrayal that can't go unpunished." He raises his eyebrows. "Now how in the hell would they know she's with your MC?"
My jaw locks. I grit my teeth. "Rat."
Motherfucker.
"Dormant," he continues. "Been inside your club since before el Fantasma went to prison. It wasn't the girl who put those drugs in his saddlebag. She just made the accusation. Gave the testimony." He tilts his head slightly. "I don't know his name. But I can find out. If you help me bring down Sombra, that is."
I lower the gun, stretching out my hand. "Phone."
He doesn't hesitate, passing it over. I punch in my burner number, call it, and toss the phone back to him. "Keep in touch."
Then I ride off into the night, my mind a storm of violence and calculations.
A week later I'm sitting in a too-comfortable chair, arms crossed, watching Dr. Monroe with suspicion. The enemy.
Alright, maybe not the enemy, I'm definitely exaggerating with that one. She's Temper's therapist. Highly recommended by her. The infamous mind fixer that she's been seeing. The woman who probably knows more about my girl's thoughts than I ever will. Not sure how I feel about that.
The office is nice enough — warm tones, soft lighting, a couple of overstuffed chairs that look way too inviting for my comfort. There's a plant in the corner, some books on psychology stacked neatly on a coffee table, and a small dish of hard candy within arm's reach. It's a trap. The whole room is designed to make you let your fucking guard down.
I hate it already.
But Temper was right. I have to do this. And I will.
I'm staring with narrowed eyes at this woman who probably already has an entire psychoanalysis mapped out for me just from just the way I walked into the room.
She's calm. Seated across from me, pen in hand, eyes steady. No judgment. No impatience.
"So," she says finally, her voice smooth and even. "Why are you here, Bones?"
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "Hell if I know. Ask your other client. She'd probably have a list. A long one."
Dr. Monroe doesn't react, doesn't twitch a muscle. "This isn't about her. This is about you."
I snort. "Yeah? You sure about that?"
Her head tilts slightly, gaze unshaken. "That depends. Are you here for yourself? Or are you here for her?"
I open my mouth, ready to throw out some smartass response, but I stop. Why am I here?
"Okay, doc. Let's get this out of the way — I don't love being here," I admit, flashing her the kind of smirk that usually gets me out of trouble.
It doesn't work on her. Not even a hint of amusement. Fuck.
"But," I continue, "I promised Temper I'd try. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't break promises to that woman. She'll find a way to make your life hell."
Dr. Monroe offers a small, knowing smile. "It sounds like she holds you accountable."
"That's a polite way of saying she'd kick my ass if I didn't show up."
That gets a soft chuckle out of her, but she doesn't take the bait. She's waiting. Letting the silence stretch. She's good at this shit. I could sit here and throw jokes her way for an hour straight and she wouldn't budge.
I rub my palms together, sighing. "I fucked up. Bad. Five years ago, I did something I can't take back. You already know all the fucking details. I can't figure out how to live with what I did. The guilt isn't as bad as it used to be. Not every second of the day. There are good days now. Lots of them. But when a bad day comes, it fucking comes, if you know what I mean. It's like I'm drowning. And the only thing that gets me out of it is Temper. Just her being there, looking at me like I'm worth a damn. Touching me. Saying my name. It's like she throws me a lifeline, pulls me up before I go under."
Dr. Monroe nods, not writing anything down. Just watching. "I hear you. It makes sense that she helps ground you, that her presence gives you relief. But I need to ask you something — what happens if, one day, she isn't there when the guilt hits? What if she's out of town? Asleep? Busy with work?"
My jaw tightens. "Then I'd deal with it. Wait it out."
"How?" she asks, genuine, no challenge in her tone.
I clench my fists. My knee starts bouncing. "I don't fucking know, doc. I'd go for a ride, drink, hit the gym. Find something to do until it passes."
She watches me carefully. "So your solution would be to distract yourself. Push it down. Ride it out until Temper comes back to pull you out of it."
"Yeah. I guess."
Dr. Monroe leans forward slightly. "Bones, healing can't be just about Temperance. You're putting everything on her shoulders — the responsibility of your peace, your ability to function when the guilt is heavy. That's not fair to her, and it's not fair to you either. Because if you don't find a way to handle it yourself, then that guilt still owns you."
I breathe in deep through my nose, trying to let that settle. But fuck, I don't like what she's saying. It makes sense. Too much sense.
"You need to forgive yourself," she says softly.
My head snaps up, eyes locking onto hers. My chest goes tight, breath short. "I can't do that."
"It's not easy, but it's necessary. You can't rewrite the past, Bones. You can't undo what happened. You can't change that you hurt her. And you can't change that she decided to give you a chance. But you haven't given yourself a chance. You're still punishing yourself for it."
I run a hand over my face. My skin feels hot, like I'm boiling from the inside out.
"I should be punished," I grit out. "What I did to her—"
"She doesn't want you to suffer. Not anymore, at least," Dr. Monroe cuts in gently. "She wants you to move forward with her. You think holding on to the guilt means you're proving something to her? It doesn't. Your guilt is not redemption. It's self-destruction. It's just keeping you shackled to a past that she is trying to move on from. You're the only one dragging yourself back to it."
I shake my head. "It's not that simple."
"I know," she agrees easily. "But you have to start somewhere. Because this weight you're carrying? It's not making you a better man. It's not making you more worthy of her. It's just hurting you. And that's not what she wants."
I press my elbows onto my knees and let my head hang for a moment, exhaling hard. My mind is spinning, clawing for something to hold on to.
"How do I start?" My voice is low, rough.
"By recognizing that guilt is just a feeling. It's not a prison sentence. It doesn't define you. You're more than your worst mistake, Bones. And if you can't see that for yourself yet, then start by trusting her. She sees it. She chooses you. Every single day. The least you can do is try to see what she sees."
I close my eyes for a long moment. Try to picture what she sees.
It's fucking hard.
But for Temper, I'll try.
I scrub a hand down my face, exhaling sharply. "Alright, doc. What do I do next?"
Dr. Monroe smiles. "We start small. One step at a time."
Yeah. One step at a time.
For her.
For me.
For us.
Therapy with Dr. Monroe is illuminating, sure. But I've got my own brand of therapy, too.
Four months. That's how long I've been sitting through weekly sessions with the doc, listening, talking, unpacking the weight I've been carrying. And I bet she'd be horrified to know how the therapy sessions where I'm the one running the show look like. How I really deal with the darkness when it rises. Because sometimes, talking doesn't cut it. Sometimes, you just need some fucking blood.
Right now, I'm walking toward The Fun House, and I can feel it — the thrum in my veins, the beast stretching awake inside me. I don't have much time for this. I'm meeting Temper in a few hours. But fuck if I'm not going to enjoy it.
Lucas Hall is my toy today.
I could've let him get lost in Nemesis. Could've let him disappear in seconds, swallowed whole by my unholy creation. But after that night with Temper at the viewpoint, after hearing every fucking thing she went through right from her mouth, I felt the darkness riding me. Rising. Demanding this fucker's pain and blood to come directly from my hands.
Temper doesn't need to face him. Jinx was enough. She's truly healing now and this asshole could send her back spiraling. But that doesn't mean I don't get to have my fun.
I don't think Temper realizes it fully, but Lucas targeted her. He wasn't just some reckless kid. He was nineteen. Grew up in the club. At that age, he was already caught up in club business. Already had his road name — Slick. And I'm sure it's not a stretch to think that road name came from the fact that he was good at luring girls for the club. Evidence points to underage girls.
He got Temper through that fucking door. Led her straight to Jinx.
I'll have all the answers soon.
And then I'll paint the fucking walls with him.
I enter The Fun House slowly, my eyes measuring the twitching mess trapped in the middle of the room. The stench of fear is thick in the air. Ghost, Joker, Domino, Fang and fucking Reaper are already inside, waiting for the show to start.
I glance at Reaper, his expression carved from stone, unreadable.
"Thanks for picking him up," I say.
Reaper nods, voice cold. "It was my pleasure."
I turn back to Lucas. He's bound to a metal chair, similar to the one where Jinx took his last breath.
He's twitching worse now, clearly struggling to piece together what the fuck is happening. I take my time looking at him, watching how his wide, bloodshot eyes dart from man to man. Then his gaze lands on me.
Terror blooms.
Beautiful.
He flinches, his hands straining against the zip ties. His whole body starts shaking, an addict in withdrawal and a rat trapped in a cage.
I take a seat across from him. No table between us. No barrier. Just the weight of inevitability settling over his wasted life.
"Hey there, Slick." My voice is calm, conversational. "How are you liking your early release?"
His head jerks up, confusion clouding his sunken features. "I...I...I don't know what's going on. What's going on?" He whips his head around the room, panic crawling up his throat. "Why am I here?"
I smile, slow and lazy. "So many questions." I tilt my head, amused. "But no 'thank you' to the man who arranged that fancy, expensive lawyer who got you out a year early?"
His brows furrow. "Th...Thank you?"
I sigh, feigning disappointment. "That sounded more like a question than genuine appreciation."
Someone snickers behind me.
Lucas' frown deepens, but then his expression twists with slow, creeping realization. "Who...Who are you?"
I let the silence settle. Let him stew in it.
Then I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, casual as fuck.
"Meth?" I muse, watching the tick in his jaw. "That what you're hooked on? Heard it fucks with your head pretty bad." I smile. "Bones. Ever heard of me?" My smile turns into a full on grin.
His breath stutters. His entire body locks up. The tremors stop, but only because pure, undiluted terror takes over.
"No...no...no!"
He starts shaking his head, the words coming out like a panicked chant.
I lounge back, enjoying the show.
"Why? Why? Why?" His voice rises, a desperate, pathetic wail.
I suck on my teeth, watching him with quiet amusement. But the novelty is wearing off. I'm already getting bored. He became a full on junkie in prison, his mind is half-gone. I just want a couple of answers and his blood.
Time to cut to the chase.
"Elyna," I say, voice flat. "You targeted her when she was just a kid. Was it for the club?"
Lucas swallows hard, pupils blown wide. He knows there's only one way this ends.
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
I tilt my head, letting the silence answer for me.
Then, finally, I whisper, "Yeah, Slick."
His tears fall in messy streams, his shoulders shaking under the weight of his own terror. I feel nothing. No flicker of pity.
"I...I'm sorry," he chokes out, his head bowing. "I had to. They sent me to find girls for them. Ely...she was a target. But then Jinx saw her that first night I brought her to the clubhouse, and he...he became obsessed. He wanted her for himself, so she wasn't sent through the ring. She stayed with the club."
His breath stutters between ragged sobs. This fucker. He's not crying for what he did. Not for Temper or the other girls whose lives he stole. He's crying for himself. For his own impending death.
"Ji...Jinx had this kink," he stammers. "He liked being the first. The first to fuck a girl after she turned eighteen. He said...he said it was about turning her into a woman." His voice wavers, his lips trembling as he looks up at me. His eyes plead, but I don't see regret in them. Just fear.
"How many?" My voice is cold steel.
His brows pull together in confusion. "What?"
"How many girls did you lure for the Riders, Slick?" I say his road name like a curse, dripping with venom.
He flinches. His eyes twitch, darting around the room like the walls might whisper the answer to him. As if he has to count. His lips move silently, no sound coming out. And then, in a voice so quiet I almost don't hear it—
"I don't remember."
What he means is he doesn't care. He never did. If he did, at least a little bit, he'd know the name and face of every girl he ever sent to hell.
I exhale slowly, rising from my chair, shaking my head in disappointment. "This has been so anticlimactic for me," I say, rubbing a hand down my face. "I had plans, Slick. I was looking forward to this. But you?" I sigh. "You're a real fucking downer. I once met a snake whisperer who was much more fun than you."
I glance at the table of tools, walk toward it, let my fingers hover over my bat. It doesn't call to me this time. This fucker spoiled my good mood.
Instead, my hand wraps around the hilt of a knife. A familiar one.
I lift it, studying the blade, and something dark twists inside me. Oh. I smirk. "Well, would you look at that."
It's the knife. The one that severed Jinx's dick from his body.
I tilt my head, considering Lucas, who's still whimpering, his breath coming out in desperate little gasps. Poetic justice.
"Fitting," I murmur.
He doesn't even get the chance to beg.
Twenty minutes later, I step back, breathing steady, watching the slow trickle of blood pool beneath the chair. That first spill of his blood brought back some of my good mood so I still enjoyed myself a little. He's slumped forward, head tilted, lifeless eyes fixed on nothing.
I grab a rag, wiping his blood from my hands as I turn toward my waiting audience.
"Take him to the oven," I say, my voice even. Then, after a pause, my nose scrunches up in disgust. "And throw his ashes in the nastiest, shittiest fucking place you can find."
Fang lets out a long, theatrical sigh. "Man, I really wanted to use the wood chipper this time."
I shoot him a glare. "I already told you — it's too fucking messy, and it leaves too much evidence."
He throws his hands up. "Not if we—"
I don't wait to hear the rest. I'm done here.
Stepping out of The Fun House, I roll my shoulders, letting the tension bleed from my muscles. The fresh air wraps around me as I pull my phone from my back pocket.
I hit dial. The call connects.
I only need to say one word.
"Nemesis."