Fury’s Promise_A Motorcycle Club Romance_The Devil’s Kin MC Page 3

  “So what am I—your literary guinea pig?”

  She pouts at me. “That makes you sound less important than you are. No, Gloria, you are what we call a character.”

  “The last time I checked, I was just a struggling freelance editor with student debt coming out of my ears.”

  She rolls her eyes. “There’s no need to be morbid.” She swigs her champagne bottle, pointing the end almost directly up and tossing her head back, more spilling it down her throat than sipping it. She burps, wipes her mouth, burps again. “Tell me, though. Every excruciating detail.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” I say, and then I tell her.

  She sits cross-legged, elbows on her knees, watching me with complete attention. She calls it research or character study but I know the truth. Alexis is just a fiend for gossip.

  “So you were excited,” she says, nodding like a therapist. “In the bathroom, when you were freshening up—sorry, when you were making sure that all his come had spilled out of you—you were excited to see where the night would head next. And then it turned out that it was heading nowhere, not with him.”

  “I feel like you’re rubbing it in,” I mutter. “I was excited. Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? When have I ever done anything like this?”

  “Never,” she says with disgust. “Even in college,” she goes on, voice slurred now, “you were the angel, the overseer, the protector, the watcher. You were like Nick in The Great Gatsby when he’s at Tom’s party: both within … and without.”

  “So now that’s settled. You’ve skillfully diagnosed me.” I finish my champagne bottle and my burger and then crack open the third. Since Alexis has finished hers, too, I go into the kitchen to get us some glasses. That’s when I see it: on the counter, wedged under the expensive, shiny bread bin.

  Sorry, the note reads. I reckon in a different life, I might’ve hung around a while. But that just isn’t me. I hope you’re not upset, for what it’s worth. Jack.

  I stare down at the note for a long time. It takes a while for my drunk brain to register it. He left—fine—but then he decided that it would be a good idea to leave me a note. Which means he must’ve cared a little bit, surely? But then maybe he just felt guilty because we fucked and he didn’t want me to feel like a prostitute. I don’t know; I can’t think clearly. All I know for sure is that the note affects me way more than it should. It stings me, makes my chest tight. I abandon the champagne glasses and go to the sink, shove my head in and turn on the faucet. I get as much water on my face as in my mouth, but it is soothing. I take greedy gulps and then return to the note.

  Sorry.

  He apologized, at least.

  Alexis clears her throat behind me. “What’s that?” she asks.

  I immediately shove the note down my cleavage. I’m turned away from her, so she hasn’t seen. All she’s seen is me being suspicious.

  “Nothing,” I lie, facing her. I pick up the champagne glasses. I walk past her into the living room.

  “Nothing. Yeah, right.” She follows me like a bloodhound which has caught a scent. “Are you seriously going to tell me it’s nothing? You’re acting all weird.” She stumbles, catches the wall, rights herself. “Don’t keep things from me.” She makes her mock-sulking face, though I’m not sure it’s as mock as she’d like. “We’re blood sisters. We tell each other everything.”

  “Since when are we blood sisters?” I laugh, dropping onto the couch. The note burns into my chest. For some reason, keeping it hidden is important. She can have the sordid details of a sordid few minutes, but this is private.

  “Since forever.” She shakes her head, looking at me like I’ve gone mad. “What a silly question to ask. Since forever!”

  “I guess I forgot. I’m sorry. I don’t remember cutting my hand, or you cutting yours, and then putting our palms together and swapping blood.”

  “Ew.” She narrows her eyes. “No, we’ve never done that.”

  “I’m sorry to break it to you, Alexis, but that’s what blood sisters means.”

  “Oh.” She clumsily pours two glasses of champagne, spilling plenty on the table. “That’s not what I meant at all. Are you really not going to tell me?”

  “I was thinking about the car crash,” I say, which is only half a lie. I’m always thinking about the crash.

  “Oh.” She softens, touches my hand. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” I don’t want to steal guilt from her. I shrug it off. “It’s not a big deal. I’m not upset or anything.”

  “You know, if you ever want to talk about it …”

  “I’m a miracle.” I raise my glass, spilling just as much as she did. “Dad, Mom, little Jimmy. All dead, head-on collision. And me—the miracle child—I survive!” I drain the glass and pour myself another, which I instantly drain.

  She tilts her head at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Better than ever!” I exclaim. Why did I bring the crash up? That was foolish. Next I’ll be crying about my time in the children’s home. “Just ignore me. Tell me about your opening line.”

  This is an ever-growing conversation with Alexis. Once she gets started, it’s difficult to stop her. She talks and talks until three a.m. turns to four a.m., and then she falls asleep on the couch, the champagne glass balanced precariously in her hand.

  I wander the suite, not ready for sleep yet, feeling amped up. I pace from one end to the other. My foot strikes something. I kneel down. It’s a small wooden carving of Satan, with horns and a pitchfork: the whole deal. Along the bottom of the carving are the words Devil’s Kin MC. I turn it over in my hand, wondering if it’s real; I really am drunk, if I’m conjuring this out of nowhere.

  But it’s real. I feel it. The Devil’s Kin MC. It must be his bikers’ club.

  Chapter Four

  Fury

  Two Years Later

  I nod to Butcher and he nods back, but neither of us looks certain. Both of us know that this could be a bust, just like the other four places tonight have been a goddamn bust. But a man who goes into a battle thinkin’ it ain’t no battle at all ain’t gonna last long. The Kid, looking shiftier’n hell, stands between us. He nods when I nod at him and the three of us approach the warehouse, a squat, lonely building in the middle of a dusty field.

  We stop outside the service entrance, Butcher fiddling with the lock.

  “Fury?” he asks, taking a step back when he’s done.

  “This bastard’s got two floors,” I say. “You two take the upper floor. I’ll take the lower. Don’t hesitate.”

  Butcher nods. “You’re the best shot,” he says.

  I snap off a mock salute.

  We run through the door, guns raised, ready to wage war. My blood pumps way too fast around my body, like it always does before a life-and-death fight, as though it knows that this might be its last chance to, or like it’s getting ready for a bullet, ready to spurt out of me good and quick. But as soon as we run into the warehouse, I know that the intel was faulty. The warehouse is abandoned, as quiet as the grave. All we see is abandoned industrial equipment, cardboards boxes, and dust.

  “Fuck!” Butcher kicks the dirt outside, spits on the ground. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “Fuck!” the Kid says, but his heart ain’t in it. He just sounds like he’s trying too hard.

  “You’re an enforcer now,” Butcher says, turning to him. “Might be you wanna sound like you ain’t so glad to avoid a fight.”

  “Might be.” I nod in agreement. “But lay off him, Butch. It ain’t the Kid’s fault.”

  “He’s been patched more’n two years now, Fury. Maybe it’s time we stopped calling him the Kid.”

  I nod at him, still as Kid-looking as the day we picked him up. Butcher shrugs.

  “I’m getting tired of this shit,” he grumbles as we head back toward our bikes. “Sick’n fuckin’ tired of it. How are we supposed to be enforcers when we can’t even enforce? Tell me that.
”

  “I know. I’m pissed too.”

  “You don’t sound or look pissed,” Butcher points out.

  “You’ve been ranting and raging every time a lead turns out bust. What good’s it doing?”

  “I love my club,” Butcher says defensively. “That’s all the reason I need.”

  “It is annoying,” the Kid says, patting Butcher on the arm.

  Butcher gives him a small shove, sending him back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

  “Butch, man, goddamn.” I catch the Kid. “Let’s just head back to the clubhouse.”

  “The Burnt House, you mean. I’m telling you, Fury, I didn’t get into this life for this shit. This club is gonna be a shadow if we don’t start making some smart moves. Riding around Cali with our dicks in our hands ain’t a smart move. I’ve got a family to feed. The standing of our club is the standing of my family. We ain’t what we used to be. You know it. I know it. Even the Kid knows it.”

  “We’re making money,” I point out.

  “Easy for a single man to say.” Butcher shakes his head. “Half of what we used to.”

  “Still double most salaries,” the Kid mutters.

  “Most salaries.” Butcher spits out the words. “If I was sittin’ behind a desk or working in a garage, I reckon the chances of me being shot at are pretty goddamn low.”

  “I reckon so too. But cryin’ like a little bitch ain’t gonna help matters.”

  He turns to me, standing up straight, pushing seven feet. Anger flares for a second. But then he looks into my face and sees I’m not in the mood for this posturing bullshit. He turns away and climbs onto his bike. “Maybe I’ll see you at the Burnt House, but not tonight. I’m seeing my wife.” He rides away, leaving us.

  “What do you reckon, Kid?” I ask, watching him carefully. “How is it that all this intel is bad, eh? It’s like they know we’re coming.”

  He shifts nervously, but then that ain’t saying much, seeing as he’s always shifting nervously. “I don’t know, Fury,” he says. “I really don’t.”

  “He was right, wasn’t he? You’re glad this didn’t come to a fight. Two years is a long time to be a coward, Kid.”

  “I’m not a coward!” he snaps. “I just—who likes being shot at?”

  “Nobody. But a man has to learn to hide what he don’t like when he’s around his brothers, ’cause maybe he infects one of ’em with his fear, and then maybe that man infects another, and all the dominos come tumbling down.”

  “I get it.” He nods firmly, or as firmly as he can. “I won’t let it show again.”

  But he will. I know he will. He’s built for comfort, a house husband, a takeout worker. Something like that. It’s a miracle he managed to get into the club to begin with.

  “Let’s ride.” I sigh.

  “What’s up, Fury?”

  “Butcher’s right, that’s what. If we keep letting Big Loco walk all over us like this, we’re done for.”

  “Big Loco’s no joke, is he, Fury?”

  “That he ain’t, Kid. That he ain’t.”

  We ride back to the clubhouse, which is almost completely rebuilt now except for the dormitory wing, which is now just a patch of tarmac. The clubhouse proper is done, though, and so is the bar. A clubhouse ain’t a clubhouse without a bar. I walk into the building, nodding to men, saying hello, and then sit in the corner with a glass of whisky, staring at the photograph of me and Jackson from when I was younger. I’m thirty-one now, but that seems like centuries ago. His smile is ridiculous, like he thinks shit’s gonna get easy from here on out.

  “Fury.” One of Jackson’s couriers stands over me. “Boss wants to see you.”

  I go into his office, which was the first place to be properly rebuilt. It has his high-backed chair and large oak desk, his decommissioned bike in the corner, which must’ve run at least one-hundred thousand. A photograph of the two of us hangs over his desk like I’m his son, which I guess I am: the closest thing he’s ever had, anyway.

  “I hear it didn’t go well.” He swivels in the chair. These two years ain’t been easy on him. His hair is almost completely gone and his face is tired-looking. He’s all sinew now. “At the spots.”

  “There weren’t any spots.” I sit down when he nods at the seat. “Just whispers. It was bullshit, Jackson.”

  “I heard.” He massages his temples. “It’s all falling apart,” he goes on quietly. “Devil’s Kin, Devil’s Kin. What sort of kin are we if we can’t deal with Big Loco’s dogs?” He laughs, an out-of-place cackle. “But I don’t have tell you that. Things are complicated, Jack.”

  “It seems to me they’re simple, sir. We need them gone. We ought to deal with them. What’s the complicated part?”

  “Things are simple for you,” he mutters. “But I have to think about the next step after the next step. The repercussions. The fallout. Do you remember when we first met?” he breaks out, suddenly. “You were—what—fifteen, sixteen?”

  “Around that.” I shift uncomfortably. “I can’t remember exactly.”

  “What those animals did to you, Jack. Some parents. Can’t even call them parents, if you ask me. Squeezing you out don’t make her a mother. You were their child and they … folks might say we’re evil, Jack, but just look at what those monsters did to you. You were angry, though, hungry. You were ready to fight, to drag yourself up. You were filled with hate for those bastards. Does it still anger you, when you think about it?”

  “I try not to think about it.” My voice has gone dead, devoid of emotion. “It ain’t somethin’ a man sits around reminiscing about.”

  “No. I’m sure it isn’t. You picked a good name for yourself. Fury.”

  “I’m sorry, Jackson, but you picked it for me.”

  He waves a hand. “Whoever picked it, it fits. Fury. That’s what you were, fury made flesh.” He looks down at his fingers as he speaks. “Age is a tricky thing. One second you’re a young man, ready to take on the world, and the next you’re an old man. I wonder if there was a day when these wrinkles cut into my hands. One day when I could say: ‘I’m an old man now.’ But I suppose time doesn’t work like that.”

  I stay silent. I’ve only ever seen him like this when he’s drunk, and a drunk man’ll get all sorts of ways.

  “You’re my family,” he goes on after a pause. “But a man can have more than one family, can’t he? Look at you; you have the family you were born into, those animals who called themselves parents, and you have me. This club.”

  We sit in silence for a while, Jackson looking down at the desk and me just looking at him, wondering what’s gotten into him. He’s been acting strange ever since this war with Big Loco started.

  “Sorry to change the subject, sir, but I need to tell you something. A suspicion. It might be nothing—or it might be everything.”

  “That sounds dramatic.” He smiles, leaning back and folding his hands on his belly, the old Jackson again. “Go ahead.”

  “I think there might be a mole in the club, somebody feeding information to the Lady’s Death. We’ve been getting our intel from the same sources as usual, bar owners and homeless and professional trackers, all the normal networks, but then when we get there, they’re gone. They know we’re coming. It’s the only way. Either that or every goddamn informer has turned Lady’s Death, which ain’t impossible.”

  “No.” He sighs heavily. “It is very possible that everybody in New Oak has turned on us, isn’t it? If you’d told me that two years ago, I would’ve laughed. But it isn’t so funny anymore.”

  “So what do we do?” I ask.

  “Let me look into it,” he says. “This isn’t your job. No offense, Jack, but this requires some finesse and that’s never been your strong suit.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” I sit forward. “Is there anything else?”

  “Do you remember the first time we spoke to each other?” he asks, an edge of desperation to his voice I don’t much like. “I was riding through your neighbo
rhood and your old man had just beaten you within an inch of your life. You were sitting on the curb, bleeding out right there, and so I rode to the club and came back with a first-aid kit. Your old man gave me some damn mean looks from the window, but what was he going to do? The coward. And then you told me to leave it, ’cause I was going to go up there and teach him a lesson. But you said he wasn’t worth it. You were a wise kid. Wiser than I was at that age—”

  “Okay, sir.”

  I leave quickly, not wanting to venture into the past any further.

  Family … why did he have to bring them up? I go outside, get on my bike, and ride through New Oak to my apartment building. I can’t be around people right now, not with all that shit swirling around my head. Mom and Dad, a mole, Jackson acting all weird. It’s a fuckin’ mess. I do miss the old days, though, when things were simple, when we didn’t have to worry about another club pressing us, when Jackson didn’t randomly bring up my parents.