The Death Lords, Volumes 1-3: His Wild Desire, Her Secret Pleasure, Their Private Need (18 page)

When I was younger, he spanked me with a paddle that had the scripture carved into the wood. Between getting my mouth washed out with soap and my butt burned with the paddle, I learned not to stray too far from the path my parents had set for me. Before Mom left, it had been easier but when I was around fourteen she’d had enough of being the preacher’s wife and left us. She lives in Seattle in a writer’s colony. I think she may be a lesbian although I’m not entirely sure, but Father rails about the sins of homosexuality with special fervor.

Father forbade contact. The one time I thought about disobeying him, he had a literal heart attack. The doctors told me to keep his stress down or the next one would kill him. Father told me that not taking care of him would send me to hell. There’s so much that’s going to send me to hell. My reading choices, the pervy online pictures, the men who parade themselves bare naked in my imagination.

But I still can’t find myself turning my back on Father. He’s been the one parent who stuck with me and while he’s not super affectionate, I know he loves me. I can’t abandon him and frankly I don’t have many marketable skills.

If I left him, what would I do? I know lots about the Bible, how to put together a bulletin, pay bills, play the piano and smile when I don’t really feel like it. I haven’t seen a lot of want ads that are looking for those particular skills.

At eighteen I declared I was going to move out, get a job and live on my own. A few months later I slunk back with my tail between my legs. No one would hire me in town or even in the next county. I was too inexperienced. He never once judged me after my failed bid for independence and I was too embarrassed to try again.

I’m well suited to be church secretary. I have the dowdy clothes, the lack of sex appeal and soon I’ll be a pruny old maid. Truly, how’s a knitting club going to be worse than sitting in the parish house looking for more free clip art to stick into the church bulletin?

“Sure, I’ve been thinking I could knit a shawl.”

He nods approvingly. “You should think about a blue one. It would look pretty with your eyes.”

See? Not all bad.

“Thanks, Father.” I take the bulletin and place it in my lap. I don’t really need it though. It’s not like I have such a busy schedule that I’m not going to remember that I have an appointment after dinner tomorrow at the coffeehouse. And hey, maybe there’ll be some of my high school classmates there and I can check out how the other ninety-nine percent of the world lives.

• • •

The coffeehouse is nearly empty but for the eight ladies of the knitting circle, all of whom may be older than my dad. Disappointment threatens to overwhelm me but I straighten my shoulders and smile because there isn’t any point to nursing those blue feelings. I could be home watching reruns of
Duck Dynasty
or the Duggars
.
Learning to knit and spending time with these ladies is better than anything I’ve got going on back home.

“Hey, Mrs. Wilkins, I hope you don’t mind a beginner like me joining you,” I say cheerfully and take a seat on the sofa next to her. She’s got the start of an afghan draped over her legs.

“While I don’t mind newcomers, aren’t you a little young for our group? You should be out with my grandkids.”

“If I was out with them, then I wouldn’t learn how to knit this amazing blanket. This is beautiful. How long does it take you?”

“About forty hours, dear.” She smiles kindly. “It’s good to see you out even if it is with us old ladies.”

Mrs. Wilkins may be in her sixties, but she has that Helen Mirren quality to her. Still beautiful and still turning heads of men twenty years younger. I should sit by her every knitting session and see if some of her magic rubs off on me.

“I’d kill to look as good as you, Mrs. Wilkins.” I pull out my plastic bag of supplies. “I went over to the Walmart and picked up needles and yarn so I’m ready to learn. Teach me,” I plead.

Mrs. Wilkins shows me the basics—how to hold the needles and hook the yarn around my thumb and pinkie. How to dip the ends together to form a purl or a knit stitch and soon I’m clacking along with the rest of them on my test row.

“How do you like that new librarian?” Mrs. Erickson asks. She appears to be working on something small and white. I remember then that her granddaughter is pregnant with her third kid in as many years.

“Pippa is awesome. She’s so smart and has great ideas for kids’ programs. We’re having a contest for the preschool kids to see who can read the most books before school starts. Each child who reads ten books gets a free one to take home. And we have things planned for older kids too. I’m really excited.”

“That’s wonderful,” replies Mrs. Wilkins. “Perhaps you will be able to work more hours there.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just volunteer.” I asked Pippa the other day if you needed a college degree to be a librarian. She has a degree in library science and is actually going to work on her master’s degree online. I didn’t realize you had to have schooling even beyond the initial four years. Seems like you need a college degree these days to work the gas pump.

“I hear she’s seeing Judge,” interjects Mrs. C. Mrs. C is the town megaphone. Anything that goes on in her circle is blasted all over. I think it’s a clever marketing move. After all, people keep going into her town grocery to buy things that they could get at half the price at the Walmart on the edge of town. But you go to Mrs. C’s because otherwise you don’t know half of what’s happening in Fortune.

“She’s too young for him,” Mrs. Erickson purses her lips in disapproval. “She is young enough to be his daughter.”

“Speaking of daughters, did you hear that Chelsea and Wrecker are seeing each other? Why, yesterday they were holding hands coming out of the Cut-n-Curl.” This gasped outburst came from Stella Jonas. She is not a missus. In fact, she has never been married. As I stare at her lined, leathery face, I wonder if that’s my future—outraged because two stepsiblings decided their feelings for each other weren’t familial after all. Father’s next sermon will probably be about the three categories of love—eros, filial, agape—and how we sinful creatures have twisted God’s ideals into something dark and unsavory.

Mrs. Wilkins merely knits quietly, smiling to herself as if the idea of the biker dudes pairing off in these unholy ways is completely normal. Then I remember. One of Mrs. Wilkins’ grandsons is Easy, a member of the Death Lords MC. The coffee shop door swings open at that very moment and in walks the devil himself.

Easy

The coffee shop isn’t my scene. My scene involves either red meat or alcohol, and the coffee shop in Fortune is as close to a New Age establishment as a small Minnesota town will tolerate. There’s caffeine, crystals and sandwiches with weeds in them.

But when I see her car outside the Brew Ha Ha, I hit the brake on my bike so fast I almost end up ass over elbows. I haven’t had a bike related accident since I was ten and my front tire hit the curb as I was trying to wave down Kelly Pickleheart, my fifth grade crush.

Inside I find my grandma knitting with her church club but next to her on the sofa is my target. Because I’m not still ten, I don’t make the mistake of gawking at Annie. I’m fully aware of her sitting like a stone statue turning redder than the cardinal painted on Grandma Wilkins’ teacup.

“You’re looking as gorgeous as ever.” I lean over and give Grammy’s slightly wrinkled cheek a kiss.

“What are you doing here, Van?” she asks delightedly.

“I saw your car sitting outside and wanted to say hello.”

“Sit down, sit down,” she orders, and scoots over to make room for me between her and Annie.

“As long as I’m not going to be interrupting anything.” I take my seat and spread my legs out wide, brushing up against Annie’s leg. Her swift intake of breath makes me smile.

“Of course not—none of us mind, do we, ladies? Have you met Annie Bloom, honey? She’s Pastor Bloom’s daughter.”

I turn as Annie tries to press herself into the armrest of the sofa. Look out, Annie—the big bad wolf is here. “We met the other day at the library.”

“Is that right?” Grammy gives me a knowing smile. She didn’t raise five kids and a passel of grandkids without picking up a thing or two. I give her a discreet wink which she shoots right back at me.

“I stock all the new bestsellers,” Mrs. C cuts in. “You should stop by. I discount them by twenty-five percent, just like the big stores.”

“My reading appetite is…voracious,” I reply wickedly. Grammy tries to disguise her laugh with a fake cough and Annie looks torn between stabbing me with a needle and ripping my shirt off. “Can’t afford to buy new all the time, Mrs. C.”

Mrs. C tut-tuts in disappointment while Grammy takes pity on Annie and instructs me to get them all refills of their hot water.

As I wait for the teenager to fill up a jug of hot water for the ladies, I text Michigan.

I’m at Brew Ha Ha. LRRH is here.

Since when we calling annie little red riding hood

The thing about Michigan and me is we’ve been together so long we read each other’s minds.

Since I walked into the coffee shop and she looked at me as if I was going to eat her alive.

Which you want

But not at the coffee shop. Come over.

No

Chicken

Bawk bawk

I glance at the time before pocketing the phone. I’ll give him about ten minutes to get here. “What do you guys have to eat?”

The girl behind the counter licks her lips. “How about me?”

“Sorry, I’m not into jailbait, honey.”

Her lower lip pops out. “I’m nineteen.”

“And I’m old enough to be your daddy.” I quickly peruse the chalkboard menu and order two turkey sandwiches. “No, make that four. Hold the mustard and the weird green things.”

“You're only ten years older," she mutters and stomps away to make our sandwiches while I wait for Michigan.

He'll want to do something with his hands and mouth since he won’t be able to put them on Annie—yet. The time on my phone says nine minutes have elapsed when he blows through the door. He grunts a greeting to everyone but can’t get past Grammy without giving her a peck. Anyone watching him would think he didn’t even see Annie whose hungry eyes track him all the way back to the counter where I’m sitting. I grin at her and she flushes again. If she gets any redder she’ll burst.

“Stop,” he mutters under his breath.

“Why?” I ask, turning away from Annie as I do.

“You’re going to scare her off,” he says.

“I doubt it. She’s interested but doesn’t know how to get over the hump of saying yes. We got to lay out the invitation as obvious as possible.”

“Why am I here?”

He knows why but he’s having a hard time getting over the hump too. His obstacle is disappointment but I know in my gut that Annie’s the one for us. I know it like I knew Michigan would be my battle buddy and that we’d both make it out of the desert alive. Sometimes there’s just something inside of you that recognizes your other half. In my case, it’s happened twice. First when I met Michigan way back in boot camp and again a few days ago when I went into the library to keep an eye on Judge’s old lady and wound up being glued to the librarian’s assistant.

“You’re here because you can’t stay away.”

“This is never going to work.”

“Remember when we were in boot and that guy got the box of brownies from his grandma and the kill hat made him eat the entire box?”

Michigan tilts his head and gives me a
what the fuck are you getting at
look. “He puked all over the quarter deck and then everyone who laughed at him had to clean it up with their toothbrushes.”

“Everyone but you and me because neither of us laughed. That’s when I knew that you’d never do anything stupid to get me killed.”

“Never doubted your instincts, man. Kept us out of trouble more than once.”

“So why’re you doubting me this time?”

“Because your dick is talking this time, not your gut.”

He grabs one of the turkey sandwiches and stomps out, still not looking at Annie. He can’t look at her because if he does, he’s lost. Or that’s the lie he’s telling himself.

Annie

Michigan leaves as quickly as he arrives but just being in the same place as the two of them starts a burning inside of me. My body is tingling in spots that I didn’t realize even had nerve endings and I’m clenching muscles I didn’t know existed.

I pretend I’m utterly fascinated with the knitting when in all reality, I’m trying to hide how red I’ve turned. But I’m not red because they’re staring at me. Oh no. I’m red as blazes because my imagination of the three of us together is making me hotter than a furnace.

Exactly when the three of us became firmly planted in my mind, I’m not sure. I only know that when I close my eyes or drift off into fantasyland, I’m there with both of them.

I might be inexperienced but I’m not stupid. Easy’s obviousness is hard for even me to miss.

His winks and stares tell me that he’s willing to take me to bed and show me a few things. At the counter, he’s waiting for an answer. If I was a different woman, I’d have thrown down my failed attempts at knitting and sauntered over to both of them and demanded that they take me to bed.

I shake my head over my own fanciful thoughts. And while I’ve seen a lot of things on the Internet, the truth is I probably don’t have what it takes to satisfy one man let alone two, particularly these two since the rumors are that every licentious act spoken of in the Bible gets acted out at least three times a night in the old granary west of town that the Death Lords call their clubhouse.

I’d give my right kidney to visit during one of their infamous mashes. Lord, I’d give my right kidney to just sit by Easy a little while longer. I almost came apart when his knee brushed mine.

As if she can read my mind, Mrs. Wilkins says my name.

“Yes, ma’am?” I answer.

“Honey, will you see what the holdup is on the refills?” She gestures toward the table and I remember that Easy was supposed to get a carafe of hot water to fill the empty cups.