3. Vandal
VANDAL
It’s hard to decide what to process first.
There’s the warmth of a little human dressed in the cutest pajamas; shorts and a little T-shirt with little cherries on ‘em, squeezing the heck out of my leg. She’s clinging so tight, I feel like I could throw a kick or something and she’d manage to stay connected to me.
Then there’s the fact that I almost tossed a man over a balcony to death. He was a man I didn’t know and had no beef with. And I did it all because a little girl called me, and I couldn’t say no.
There’s also the realization that I rode my bike for the first time since the accident, in spite of the sickening fear that rolled through every part of me.
I should give myself some bonus points for that little feat, even though I’m not cleared to ride yet.
My vision’s too blurry still and that’s before I’ve had a skinful of whiskey.
And finally, there’s Elsie’s mom. At least, I’m assuming the woman with the prettiest long blonde curls and sharp blue eyes is Daisy. After all, she’s wearing the exact same pajama set as her daughter.
With no bra.
And a great set of tits that fill out the T-shirt to perfection. It’s ribbed, nips her waist, and has a stellar V-neck presenting those pretty titties perfectly.
Once upon a time, I’d have made a quick move to spend some uninterrupted time getting to know them. But whiskey dick, adrenaline, and the spinning and sloshing sensation I get when I move stops any thoughts of that.
Her eyes are narrowed, her brow furrowed. I get it—she doesn’t know me and has no reason to trust me. She reminds me of a tiny kitten Mom had when I was younger. Mabel would scream bloody murder for milk, pitiful tiny mewls with an angry face.
As it is, I unwrap Elsie’s hands from around my leg and crouch down in front of her. “You and Boo Boo Bear okay?” I ask.
The volume of music from the apartment reverberates through the concrete, and Elsie covers her ears.
She nods, and I almost die when tears fill her eyes. “The men are so shouty,” she says. “I don’t like them.”
I nod at that. “Yeah. Can see why. They’re dicks.”
Her mom coughs, and when I look up, she’s raising both eyebrows. “She’s five,” she reminds me.
“Sorry. Yeah. They are definitely…being naughty.” The floor shifts a little, and I wobble as liquor sloshes in my gut. Haven’t showered in three days either. Should probably get on my way.
But Elsie throws her arms around my neck and clings to me, so despite the fact my body is in various stages of falling apart, I stand with her in my arms and hold on to her.
“You okay?” I ask her mom.
She watches Elsie curiously. “I am. Thank you. I’m Daisy.”
Daisy and Elsie.
Their names match, and I can’t explain why. Same vibe.
I remove the hand placed on Elsie’s back and offer it to Daisy. “I’m Vandal. Elsie called me.”
I can see the reluctance on Elsie’s mom’s face, and I get it. Who would want an unshowered drunk biker around their daughter?
“Um…we’re grateful.”
The door to the apartment down the corridor opens, and the music gets even louder.
Elsie buries her head against my shoulder, and Daisy jumps and places her hand over her chest. I place my hand over hers on her sternum, and it’s a shock how soft and smooth her skin is.
For the first time since the accident, I feel like lingering, but instead, I nudge her back inside the door so those assholes can’t see her.
“Here,” I say, offering her daughter back. “Take Elsie back inside and close your door. Don’t answer it unless you hear me ask you to open it.”
Daisy shakes her head. “Don’t. You’ve already done more than enough.”
I glance toward the nearby door and see a cloud of smoke come out of it. Mom and I lived in places like this when I was a kid. I remember the noises. People having sex, even in the stairwell. People fighting. Music and parties all times of the night.
The first thing I did with my Outlaw paycheck was get her into the house she’s in now. Lived there with her for two more years before I found my own place, just so I could be sure she was safe.
So I know what it feels like to live in a place that’s so out of control, each day is a hyper-vigilant struggle.
“Thank you, Vandal,” Elsie says.
I smile at that. It’s weak, but it’s been a while since I’ve felt the corners of my mouth lift. So I tip my head in her direction. “You’re welcome. Now go in. Lock the door. I’ll knock again if I need you.”
Daisy steps back enough to reach the door, but before she closes it, she pauses. “Thank you. For helping us.”
I nod, then turn to move down toward Chris’s apartment, where Chris and another man stand outside. I’ve dealt with men exponentially more frightening than Chris. Wealthier. Better armed. Stronger fighters.
And I force myself to consider the odds. Out of every fight I’ve ever been involved in, from school to the club, only once have I had my ass handed to me.
But this is the first time I’m gonna enter a fight with three distinct disadvantages.
First, I’ve got injuries that will never heal if they get smashed up again.
Second, I’m not even sure if the metal plates in my skull will bend or break or whether screws will pierce my brain if I get hit, but I’m guessing they will.
Three, my vision is blurred, which means my aim will be off.
Oh, and a fourth one: There are more of them than there are of me.
I shake my arms off and crick my neck from left to right.
Any punches I land need to hit home fast. So, when the first occupant of the apartment—a man with a shaved head and a Nazi vibe—looks at me in surprise, I punch him so hard, his head spins as he smashes into the wall before he can say a word.
One down.
“Joe, Mark,” Chris yells over the deafening volume as he stumbles back into the house, and I catch him trying to scramble for a baseball bat in the corner.
A guy on the sofa stands, startled, as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. A cursory glance in his direction says there’s no immediate threat. I don’t see a weapon, and the scrawny guy is all of five feet seven.
Meanwhile, fear makes Chris unsteady. For a second, it looks like he has a hold on the bat, but he fumbles it, and it falls to the floor.
“Do something, Mark,” he yells at the sofa guy as he bends to pick it up, but I slam my boot to his ass, sending him headfirst into the Sheetrock, where his skull leaves a dent before he hits the ground.
I bend to reach the bat, and my whole head spins with memories. The sound of the bat hitting my head, the way the world tilted, how I thought I was gonna die from blunt force trauma. The scans to check for brain bleeds and skull fractures.
“Life or fucking death, Van,” I mutter, trying to shake myself out of the grip the past has on me. Either I get the bat, or I’ll end up looking down the wrong end of it.
With immense effort, I pick it up in sweating hands before Mark jumps off the sofa and launches himself onto my back.
Skinny arms and fingers try to get me into a choke hold.
He’s stronger than he looks, but bat in hand, I march backwards to the wall and slam him against it, before moving slightly so I can hammer the handle of the bat into his chest. Something cracks. The handle or his ribs, I’m not sure.
For a second I’m thrust back to being on the road again. My hands shake, and the urge to run heightens.
Mark slumps to the floor in agony as a third man hurries from the bedroom.
Maybe he’s Joe. He’s dragging on a pair of black jeans and loosely holds a knife.
And that’s how I realize he already lost. Because I’d let you see my junk hanging out all over the place before I’d have anything less than a perfect grip on that handle.
Bringing back childhood memories of hanging out on the school diamonds with Havoc, I find my feet, lift the bat, and swing it at the fucker’s hand.
The knife goes skittering off back down the hall, and the man drops to the ground in a howl of agony, nursing his wrist. I raise the bat automatically to hit the guy again, but then I pause.
The look in the guy’s eyes? Yeah, I bet mine looked a lot like that when Alvarez hit me with a bat. And I can’t bring myself to hit him again with it, no matter what happens to me next.
I’m spinning out. The fucking noise is killing me, the bass hitting my chest. Whatever happens tonight, these men are going to be right back to blasting the entire building with their terrible music choices.
Taking a deep breath, I lift the bat above my head then slam it down on the sound system. It takes six swings to destroy both speakers, and the room is suddenly thrust into quiet, only filled with the sounds of groans and curses and heavy breathing.
The shaved-head guy clings to the wall as he tries to shakily point a gun in my direction. And it does nothing to me.
I made peace with dying the moment Alvarez threw me out of his van onto the ground of the motorcycle clubhouse lot, where my brothers could all witness my failure. There have been days since that I’ve felt like moving this whole circus along.
But something makes me think of Daisy and Elsie.
I know nothing about them, except they’re struggling if they live here. And they’ve had to deal with these assholes. Plus, if anything happens to me here, they’re gonna carry the weight of that for the rest of their lives.
So I do the only thing I can think of, given that gun is waving too close for comfort.
I throw the bat at him, and in an effort to protect himself, he brings his arms in front of his face.
Once his vision is obscured and the gun is raised, I charge him again, wrestling the gun out of his fingers without breaking all of them.
I empty the weapon of bullets in a second, and then I stuff it in the back of my jeans.
“You guys so much as cause a second’s trouble to anyone else in this building, I’ll come back.
You tell the police I was here, I’ll be back.
And if for any reason I can’t, my whole club will come for you.
I’ll personally take great joy in sticking a meat hook through your ball sac and hanging you from that railing while your blood drains out from the slit I put in your neck.
But my best friend prefers a bullet hole straight to the brain. Am I in any way being unclear?”
Mark has the common sense to shake his head.
“Good.”
Then I pick up the bat, walk out of the apartment, and drop it over the railing into the dumpster below. As I’m getting rid of the evidence, an old man steps out of the apartment next door.
He reaches for my hand and gently shakes it. “Thank you,” he says. “Was about time someone taught those punks a lesson.”