Obsession (A Bad Boy's Secret Baby) (19 page)

I folded the phone shut and took the heaviest breath of my life. Standing there, I was unable to think or move. The residuals from the conversation seeped ever deeper into my mind and heart.

My gaze drifted upward, not for any kind of prayer, but to will the ceiling to give way and crush me.

Loneliness gave way to something even more primal. I was extremely good at letting heavy shit slide right off me, usually with a joke and a smile. This time, I couldn't find the levity.

Like the red-tinted fog of dawn over an eerily calm lake, this time, there was no holding back the dormant anger from invading me.

My eyes glassed over. I stepped forward and launched a nearby wooden chair into the door frame that separated the fireplace from the foyer. Two thick, spindly legs broke off, the delicate backrest shattering across the floor.

One call from Remy, and that was it. I was nobody again.

I'd been riding for the Steel Veins since I got back from Afghanistan. All those years, and in the end, it didn't amount for shit. I'd spilled so much God damn blood for this club, both mine and others, and they were just going to hang me out to dry because of a little scuff up from a card game?

A
rigged
card game. One that I fucking won!

Everything was coming down around me. With a vote from some assholes that I barely knew, the only thing that mattered to me was ripped away!

I threw a punch into the nearest wall. Pulling my dusty hand from the drywall, I expected a shout of protest or a whine from Roach, but he must've fucked off while I was on the phone. That was fine by me, I didn't need his grief right now.

I brushed the plaster off my arm and my now worthless vest. After a moment, I searched Roach's desk. There was a forth of Jim Beam in the bottom drawer. I took the sad bottle and found a table and chair to sit at. Although it wouldn't be nearly enough, the bourbon was at least a good start,

How could they do this to a brother?

That's it, project. It's everyone else's fault, right?
My PTSD counselor's unwelcome, vaguely-patronizing drawl was a piss-soaked blanket that I couldn't peel off my mind. As much as I tried to ignore the memories of all the lets-talk-about-our-feelings-and-cry sessions from people that had never seen a day of actual war, some of the truths that bubbled to the surface were just too raw to dismiss.

After leaving the Army, this club was the only thing that has made sense. That feeling of camaraderie, of being part of something bigger. It's what got me into the military in the first place. And now, for the second time, I'd thrown it all away.

I tried to drown that rawness with whiskey, draining the bottle in big, molten sips. I hadn't eaten much, so the blessed numbing started setting in right away.

It didn't take long to finish the bottle, not that I was in a rush, really. Time crawled by. Fortunately, I had my demons and failures to keep me company as I sat alone in the foyer and reflected on my past.

My only solace was the fact that I wouldn't be left in the wind for long. One way or another, this whole fucking mess was temporary. Either I found a way back under the Steel Veins' protection, or someone with a score to settle would catch me with my guard down and that'd be the end of that.

A hard rain loomed above me.

The alcohol drained, I sent the bottle gliding off the table. The tough glass thudded against the floor, still very much intact, before spiraling into the kitchen. I found myself grinding my palm into my forehead, as if I could push the doubt out of my mind manually. There was no escaping the truth of it all. My excuses were see through and stretched thinner than plastic wrap.

What the fuck was I thinking?
I scolded myself.
I should've walked away with Repo, but no, I was too blinded, like always
.

I was so full of shit that the smell of the lies nauseated me. Duty may have brought me to that meeting, but Poet was right. My pride forced me to stay.

Sometimes it was so damn hard to call it like it was. There was no honor in the way I fought for Flora, just self-serving pettiness. I'd saved her for all the wrong reasons. I couldn't let a slight against me go unpunished, and I'd used her as an excuse.

Because of that, both of us would suffer.

“What the fuck, Ronin!” Roach burst into the room from the kitchen and looked over the damages.

“Nah, fuck...” I wiped the water from my eyes before he could see. Fishing out a stack of twenties, I tossed it on his desk. I had no idea how much I gave him, it was probably too much, but I didn't care. It was only money. “Sorry, Roa— Sorry.”

He ran a hand over his thinning hair and grumbled something under his breath. His inspection complete, he walked to his desk with another half empty bottle of Jim Beam. Roach snatched up the money, flipping through it with the dexterity of an aging con man. Begrudgingly satisfied with the amount, he tossed me the bottle.

Within a few seconds I had the cap off, eagerly pulling swigs. I just wanted to drown in a waterfall of bourbon.

He lingered, then sighed and awkwardly asked, “Bad news, huh?”

Roach wasn't a friend, not that I had many to begin with. He was more of a useful associate of the club. Before the Knights of the Only Order set up shop here, another gang ran this area. For whatever reason, they didn't like Roach or the rundown motel he'd owned.

They'd occasionally break in and trash his place. They'd trash him, too, if he was there. I was the one to
politely
convince them to fuck off and leave him alone. Ever since then, Roach has always hooked me up when I rolled through.

Some time back, Roach's shitty motel burned down. With the insurance money, he bought this little gem. All things considered, Roach was a shifty guy, hence the nickname, but he always came in handy as a set of eyes in an area where the Steel Veins weren’t so welcome.

“Something like that,” I said in between sips. Roach shuffled uneasily, it was obvious that he had something else to say and it wouldn't be any more strained niceties. “The hell is it?” I looked up at him. “You wanna offer me your shoulder to cry on?”

The apprehension in his face soured, but his expression lightened as he began to speak. “I wasn't listening in...”

“You—” I shot to my feet.
I wasn't exactly discreet while talking to Poet, but eavesdropping on club business? A guy like Roach should've been smart enough to know that shit like that was bad for his health.

“Wait, wait! I wasn't listening in
but!
” Roach threw his hands up and shuffled backwards a step. “I may be able to help you out of your... situation.”

I was drunk, pissed off, and in no mood to have my patience tested. “Talk fast.”

“Okay, Okay. Listen, it sounds like that girl upstairs is nothing but a problem. I can take her off your hands for you, maybe smooth all this over with the Knights.”

“The fuck are you working with the Knights for? You switch sides on us,
Roach
?” I grabbed a wad of his sweater vest and jerked him towards me. “You know the Steel Veins' policy on rats.”

“I'm not working with them, but of course I know them! They come by every month to collect their extortion money—”

“Last I checked, the Veins compensate you for that.”

“As long as I keep providing information! How the hell am I supposed to give your MC what they want if I don't know the enemy?” Roach's explanation was quick and emphatic.

He was worried that I might put him through the same hole in the wall that my fist made earlier. I thought about it for a minute; Roach was sleazy by nature, I'm sure he would've deserved it, regardless.

I let him go. I wasn't thinking clearly, I was trying to solve problems, not make more.

“Okay,” he said, breathing a little easier, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. “I'll call them and set a pickup for the girl tomorrow night in exchange for them dropping whatever beef they have with you.”

I eyed him skeptically. “You don't strike me as the benevolent type, Roach. What do you want from me?”

“I want this arrangement to end. I want my debt with you cleared. No more favors. Every time you come into town, you drag trouble to my fucking doorstep, and when you leave I'm stuck cleaning up after you. I'm a legitimate business owner now, I can't be dealing with—”

“Legitimate?” My abrupt snort cut short his self-righteous rambling.
Yeah, and I have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you, you fucking con man.
“Tell me again who caused that fire at your old motel?”

Silence.

His mouth closed into a scowl. Suddenly, defending his own honor didn't seem as important to him. The only thing that mattered to Roach was that he was insured for arson. Ethics were disposable to men like him.

He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried to salvage his dignity by changing the subject back to the situation at hand. “Do we have a deal?”

I'd heard that question asked countless times by dozens of people in my run with the Steel Veins, and every time it felt like a victory, like an agreement reached where I, or the club, came out on top.

This time was different. I couldn't place it, but everything felt wrong. Why? This was the easiest way to smooth things over with the Knights. Once they had what they wanted, the tension on the Veins would lesson and they could vote me back in without fear of retaliation. By the end of the week I could be back under their protection and living life on my terms again.

This was everything I wanted, wrapped up in a nice bow.

I opened my mouth to agree, but a flash of doubt skittered across my heart. I gritted my teeth instead, exhaling forcefully through my nose. Not only did it feel like I was behind the eight ball, but also that I was betting with somebody else's chips. It was very unsettling and not how I usually did business.

Flora.

I thought of the girl locked in the room upstairs and felt guilty. Tash, the little Irish number I'd met a few days earlier, slipped into my head as easily as she'd slipped out of those denim shorts. Yeah, I'd felt guilty then, too...

Right before taking a brick to the back of the skull and getting robbed.

I wasn't a hero. I had to stop pretending, or it'd get me killed.

Finally coming to terms with what I knew I had to do, I glared at the weaselly man.

“Set it up.”

Flora

––––––––

I
didn't know how long I spent under that cleansing torrent of hot water. I just knew that, when I finally turned everything off, my limbs were swollen. Wrinkles crawled over my fingertips, the skin around my nails white and loose.

I looked like I'd been lost at sea for days and I...

I didn't care.

Shoving the curtain aside, I snatched a towel and rubbed myself raw. If I could have erased all the evidence of my kidnapping, I'd have done it. The red needle marks itched, no matter how hard I scrubbed at them.

The wounds represented both my mistake, and my success. Yes, succumbing to Fiddle's drugged drink had gotten me onto Claudine's path, but the scars were terrifying. I'd resisted every offer to try heroin as a teen. In my shitty, bored town, the kids sucked that stuff up.

The pressure had been constant at every turn. From everybody except my sister.

Claudine.

Grimacing, I squeezed my shoulders, eyeing myself in the mirror. My sister was an addict, but she'd always insisted I stay away from such things. Without her, I can't say I would have been strong enough to resist. Especially when things were extra depressing at home.

My bare toes touched something rough. At my feet, my clothes lay in a pile. Now that I was clean, I could really see how filthy I'd been. The stale, sour scent of sweat came off of everything like a summer heat.

I nudged the clothes again, sighing.
It's like I shed my skin.
I liked that idea. Didn't snakes only leave their skin behind because they'd grown larger? I didn't
feel
larger, not exactly, but I did feel different.

Maybe some kinds of growth can't be measured so simply,
I mused. Kneeling, I checked the pockets of my jacket. My phone and wallet were long gone, someone had taken those early on—probably Fiddle. Swallowing nervously, I dug deeper, my anxiety growing.
Come on, come on.
Finally, I felt the hard corner of something flat. Breathing through my nose, I lifted the photo into the flickering bathroom light.

Yellowed on the edges, bent and crinkled, it was a wonder the picture had held up. There weren't many photos of Claudine and I together, we weren't
that
kind of family. Having this one had been a solid comfort over the years.

Now, it was my lifeline.

Hugging it to my chest, I brushed my thumb over the surface and held it in front of me. In it, the two of us were smiling, Claudine wearing the most ridiculously bright purple lipstick ever. She was always the one to glow, to stand out. I'd never been jealous, though part of me did envy her lack of fear.

We were leaning on the shiny handlebars of her brand new motorcycle. She'd been so proud of that thing, she'd saved up for it forever. The first time she'd taken me out for a ride, I'd been terrified.

But then, she'd shown me what it felt like to fly.

Nothing was better than the wind playing with my hair, kissing my cheeks. The road was our path to freedom, an escape from the dreary slum of our town and home. Once, she'd promised me we'd leave together. Just go, never looking back.

I'd been naive enough to believe her.

Well, we're both away from home, now,
I thought bitterly. Clutching the photo, I fought down a fresh wave of sorrow.
No. I can't get swept up in this, not here.
There was too much to do.

And I needed to do it now.

Sliding the picture back into the jacket pocket, I put everything on the top of the toilet. I'd take it all with me, but changing into it now felt like a step backward. Clean and clear-headed, I wanted to take advantage of my evolving mood, find a plan—any plan.