Satan's Revenge (17 page)

My heart skips a beat as I recognize the gleam of gun metal. I fight to remain looking normal as my throat begins to narrow and my breathing hitches. I can’t afford to panic right now.

“Left at the light,” Marcus murmurs. I reflexively flip on my blinker as I pull into the left lane before stopping at the red light.

Why didn’t I ask him more questions before we left the house? I should have trusted my instincts that the Sons wouldn’t have beat him up like this. Something is going very wrong right now, and I doubt I have much time to act. I need to do something, but I don’t want to let Marcus know I think anything bad is going on. Marcus in a panic with a gun is not something I want to see. 

I turn to my left as though I’m looking out the window, and pull my left arm up and into my sweatshirt pocket.

“I think the site Drifter’s working on right now is down that way,” I say, nodding to the right. Marcus follows my gaze and I flip the phone open inside my pocket as he’s turned in the other direction. I adjust my grip and click the volume down on the side, then press and hold the “1” button. Thank god I set my frequent caller list.

I slide my hand out of my pocket just as the light turns green and Marcus turns back to face forward.

“So, Marcus, do you remember the name of the bar yet? Where Drifter is, I mean?” I ask, trying to nonchalantly get as much information as possible without cluing him in.

“No, just keep going down this way. I’ll tell you when to turn,” he replies, staring ahead.

I glance at the street signs. We could be headed toward that skinhead bar, but if so, he’s taking me on a really roundabout route. Maybe he’s worried about setting off my suspicions, too.

“What’s…what’s your favorite card game?” I ask, trying to get him talking.

He glances at me, frowning. I shrug.

“Just trying to get your mind off your injuries. I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain, right?”

I can see him consider my words, and his mouth twitches slightly.

“Yeah,” he admits. “It’s poker. My favorite card game.”

“I like poker. But I’m terrible at it.” I pause. How far can I take this? “You have any luck with it lately?”

“Not really, no,” he grunts back.

“This looks a little familiar,” I say innocently, glancing around at the street signs. “Wait…is Drifter at that bar where I saw you? The Double Eight bar?”

His heads snaps toward me and I try to keep my eyes on the road, but I catch a look of confusion cross his face. Then, much to my surprise, he begins to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, the “double eight” bar, that’s where he is. You’re right. I completely forgot the name of it.” His laughter dies out.

I don’t know what was funny. But he just admitted that he’s taking me to the skinhead bar. Where I saw Ace. No way Drifter is really there.

My hands begin to shake and I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to hide it. Why is Marcus taking me there?

I blink furiously as my vision begins to pinhole, the panic that I had been fighting against now taking me over. I try to breathe deeply, but the row of streetlights on the road ahead begin to blur, and I feel my grip on the wheel slacken.

I feel the car swerve to into the opposite lane and overcorrect.

“What the fuck?!” Marcus yells, and I gasp for air, pulling the car back between the yellow lines.

I glance over at him. His gun is out now and pointed at me, and his body flattened against the passenger side door. He eyes me warily.

“The fuck are you trying to pull?” he spits out at me.

“Marcus, please…I can’t…” I murmur as I forcefully pull air into my chest.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m having a panic attack,” …
you fucking asshole
, I want to add.

“Well, just…calm the fuck down,” he orders me.

“You’re pointing a gun at me. Maybe you could not point a gun at me,” I reply, trying to keep my voice even. Don’t antagonize the insane person.

“Sorry, I have to deliver you,” he says, and I can almost hear genuine guilt in his voice, but the gun doesn’t move.

“Deliver me? What does that mean?” I whisper, though I’m beginning to get an idea.

“I won for a while…but then I got on a bad streak…I’m in debt…there’s no way I can pay them back…”

“The skinheads? They’re the ones who beat you?”

“They were going to kill me, but their leader, Vince, he said he’d forgive the debt if I delivered you.” His voice begins to waver.

“What does Vince look like?”

“Um, tall, really dark beard, shaved head. Why?”

I don’t answer. I know there’s only one skinhead who would consider this kind of deal, anyway.

“Left up here,” Marcus says.

“I know,” I reply. It’s obvious to me now where we’re going. We pull onto the street, and I see the familiar faded sign over the bar where I followed Marcus weeks ago.

I park one building down and kill the engine.

“Marcus, please, you don’t have to do this. We can pay off your debt, Drifter will sell the house if he has to.”

“No. No. This way, Drifter will never know about any of this. You’ll just disappear, and I’ll have a clean slate, for once in my life. Besides, he owes me.”

“Ace—Vince, he’s going to kill me,” I whisper, trying to break through to him. “Marcus, I know you’re not a bad person.”

“Sorry,” he says, gripping his pistol more tightly. “This is the only way. Get out,” he adds, nodding toward my door.

I slowly turn and open the door with my right hand, closing my phone softly in my pocket with my left. I can only pray someone was listening.

Marcus is shutting the passenger door behind him, and he brings the gun up and flicks it toward the hood, indicating that I should head that way. I walk around the front of the car and onto the sidewalk. He pushes me forward and I start toward the bar. I glance around furtively, wondering if I should try to make a break for it. My legs are shaking and my breath is shallow. How far could I make it? Would Marcus shoot me in the back?

As I’m thinking, the door to the bar swings open, and a figure steps out, backlit by the yellow light from inside. It’s clear we were expected.

“Violet,” Ace says, running his hand through his beard, “it’s so good to see you again.”

Chapter Eighteen

Drifter

Present Day

I blink my eyes open to the sound of footsteps near my head. A wave of nausea and blinding pain hits me and I immediately close them. I slowly, cautiously, open them again, squinting at my surroundings. Where the fuck am I?

A wide sink looms over where I’m lying on the floor. I see the back of a blurry figure leave out of a swinging door. I nudge the scratchy blanket on top of me. Not mine.

I sit up and the nausea comes back, worse than before. I grab onto the edge of the sink next to me and pull myself up, retching into it, a stream of foul-smelling liquor swirling around the drain. I pause, breathing heavily, then throw up again. It feels like my insides are coming out of my mouth. Fuck. I must have had a lot to drink last night. I can’t remember the last time I got sick like this.

I spit into the drain and turn on the cold water, rinsing out my puke from the sink. I gargle some water around in my mouth, trying to remove the horrible taste. I shut the tap off and stand up. The room spins, but puking definitely helped.

I look around again, my head feeling slightly clearer. I appear to be in a kitchen. Not in someone’s house, but maybe a restaurant. I glance down at the blanket and thin pillow on the tile floor. I guess I slept here last night.

I look up as the door swings back the other direction and I recognize Sam, the Station House’s old bartender, walking in.

“Well, you’re finally up,” he says with a smile. “I thought I heard someone moving around in here.”

“Sam…what the fuck happened last night?” I murmur, rubbing my head as the pounding resumes.

“You drank more than I’ve ever seen a man drink. Tried to cut you off, but you were very insistent. Finally I just let you drink yourself to sleep and parked you in here when it was clear you weren’t leaving.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Sam. Hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”

He shrugs. “’S’OK…you and Violet alright? You kept muttering about her.”

“Had a big fight.”

“Well, don’t let that shit fester. That’s how come I’m twice-divorced and currently married to this bar. You feel like lining your stomach with some food? There’s some bread, eggs, if you want ‘em.”

“Maybe just the bread, if you don’t mind.”

“Bland toast, coming up. You can go grab a seat at the bar,” he adds as I stand around awkwardly.

I move to the door and push it open. It spits you out right behind the bar, and behind the customers gathered on bar stools I can see that the sun is sitting barely visible on the horizon through the front windows. I pause in confusion.

“Hey Sam, what time is it?” I ask, turning back to him.

“’Round 8, I think.” He shakes his head with a smile. “You didn’t go to sleep ‘til after six this morning. I tried to wake you up earlier but you wouldn’t budge.”

“Yeah, I’m running behind on sleep, I guess. Shit…” I run my hands through my hair. I was supposed to be at church at 6 tonight. “Hey, eighty-six that toast, Sam. I gotta run.”

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah, but thanks for putting up with me, and helping me out.”

“No problem. I had quite a few nights like that when the first wife and I were splitting up.”

I frown as I push the door back open. Splitting up…that can’t be what Violet and I are headed for. I remember most of our argument last night, much as I tried to forget it. I suddenly want another drink, even though my body is still trying to rid itself of the poison.

“Hey, Drifter!” Sam calls after me. “Your phone fell out of your pocket! I put it behind the bar, next to the ice machine.”

I glance around and see it sitting there on a shelf.

“Got it!” I call back as I head out toward my bike, which I’m hoping I left somewhere obvious because I have no recollection of where I parked it. I scroll through my missed calls and voicemails as I head to the alley where I usually park in this neighborhood, and thankfully, there’s my bike.

My call log shows several of my brothers have called and left messages, and so has Violet, which has to be a good sign. Maybe she’s rethinking that ultimatum.

I select Hollywood’s name and bring the phone to my ear as I swing one leg over the seat of my Harley.

“Is it over?” I ask as Hollwood picks up.

“Ended over an hour ago,” he grunts, referring to church. “The fuck were you?”

I run my hand over my face. Flint is going to fucking kill me.

“Passed out at the Station House. Should I come by the clubhouse?”

“Nah, I’d give Flint some time to cool off. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“Fuck.”

“Why don’t I meet you back at your house?” Hollywood suggests.

“Yeah, be there in ten,” I reply. I know he wants to tear me a new one, and I deserve it, too. I tuck my phone into my front pocket and gun the engine, heading for home.

I pull into the driveway and notice Marcus’s car parked out front. Hollywood’s headlight cuts through the darkness as I step off my bike and walk up to the house. He parks at the front curb and cuts the engine as I unlock the front door, and silently makes his way up the walk. Kalb and Scout run to the door, barking, and jump up on my chest to greet me.

“Hey, boys,” I murmur, rubbing their ears before gently pushing them off. Hollywood steps in and closes the door behind him. “Violet?” I call out, walking into the living room and flipping on the light. No sign of her. “Marcus?” I glance around the clean kitchen and walk into the hallway leading to the bedrooms, pushing open the doors as I pass. I finally make it to the empty master bathroom and frown, then return to Hollywood, who is sitting in the living room on the couch, eyeing a half-finished joint on the coffee table.

“You mind?” he asks, nodding toward it.

“Go for it.”

He leans forward and lights it contemplatively. I take a seat in the armchair. Hollywood joined the club while I was on one of my tours, and I didn’t know what to make of him for a long time. Alternately arrogant, loyal, and funny, it wasn’t until this past year that I really got to know and like him.

“Marcus here?” he finally asks.

“No, don’t know where either of them are. Though his car’s here.”

“Maybe they got the munchies,” he suggests, flicking the ash into a mug on the side table.

“Violet and Marcus don’t do anything together,” I say, shaking my head.

“She picked him up at The Tease that time,” he says with a shrug.

“What time?” I ask, frowning.

“When you were on that run to Utah,” he replies, as though he’s reminding me of something I already know about.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hollywood eyes me for a second. “Marcus was high, causing trouble, she came to pick him up. Stopped me from beating the shit out of him.”

I shift in my seat. I don’t like not knowing about what’s going on between people in my own house. “Neither of them mentioned that.”