Sons of Mayhem 2 Chaser (Sons of Mayhem Novels, #2) (11 page)

The first sign, I guess, was the hair.

“Hey babe, I booked you an appointment at
Trudeau’s,”
he’d said to me one Saturday morning as he ate toast in our kitchen.

“Wow! Isn’t that fantastic, Karen?” Mom had said.

I beamed. Trudeau’s was the
expensive
hair salon in town. I’d never been there myself, in fact I don’t think even Mom had. It was a big deal.

“Thank you! How come?” I’d asked.

He wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Why not? You’re my princess and you deserve it.”

I giggled and just about melted inside. “Thank you!” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. Mom gave me a smile, a shake of the head and a look that said
you don’t know how lucky you are
. And at that time, I thought she was right.

While we were on our way there I was nervously thinking about what I would ask them to do. I wasn’t sure if I even had the right vocabulary for a place like that; I even feared they might look down on me and kick me out for being a yokel!

But I needn’t have feared, well, not about that anyway. Dewey took care of it. When we entered I was sat down while
he
went and spoke to the hairdressers and stylists. “Don’t worry about a thing, babe.”

So it turns out, I didn’t get a say in the matter at all. My dark hair, which I’d always loved, was bleached and dyed and cut and blow dried and when they were done I was speechless. I stared into the mirror, not recognizing the girl in front of me at all. I was now a blond.

I didn’t
dislike
the idea of being blond. But I would have liked to have a say in the matter, you know? I should have said something then, I should have told him that he needed to speak to me about things like that before doing them, or arranging them, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“You look
a-ma-zing
, love,” he told me, his eyes shining with excitement.

I’d smiled, trying to share his enthusiasm, not wanting to disappoint him. I never wanted to disappoint him back then. “
Thank
you. I can’t believe it! Is this really me?” I asked, holding a tendril of blond in front of my eyes.

He nodded. “It’s you. It’s the new you. It’s
my
you.”

My you
? What the fuck did that even mean?

We went to a movie after, and he couldn’t stop stroking my hair and running his fingers through it. He seemed so goddamn pleased with it. I didn’t realize it then, but this was the first step in his
project
. His plan to re-create me into exactly what he wanted me to be.

The next thing was something I didn’t realize for the longest time. Not until years later. It was a small thing, but it was important to him. Nail polish.

As a tween I’d
loved
my nail polishes. I didn’t care about expensive ones, I cared about having
lots
of them, in every color you could think of. Sometimes I’d have rainbow fingers, as Katie and I had called them, with every finger and toe painted a different shade. As I’d gotten older I still had quite a variety of them, until Dewey and I became serious, that is.

The bottles had started disappearing. First the less common colors, which he really disliked, like the green and the blue and the brown, then the others too. It wasn’t all at once, it happened over the course of weeks or maybe even months.

One weekend, he surprised me with a small gift, and when I unwrapped it I gave him a kiss of thanks, though I wasn’t all that thrilled. It was a bright red nail polish.
Hooker red
, I’d thought, though I didn’t say it.

“Thanks babe!” I told him, before going to place it on my vanity. As usual, I caught myself staring at my reflection for a moment when my eye caught the mirror, still not used to my blond hair.

I put it down with the rest of my depleted stockpile of nail polish. I frowned for a moment. It seemed all I had left these days were different shades of red.

“Will you put it on, for me?” he asked.

“Sure, I’ll do it tonight,” I said. I thought I’d do it in front of the television with Mom.

“No, now. Please? I want to see it.”

I gave him a quizzical look. “Really?”

He grinned and nodded.

I shrugged my shoulders. If that’s how he wanted to spend his afternoon then it was fine for me. I would have thought it boring, but apparently he didn’t.

I grabbed my makeup bag and cotton balls. He sat on a chair and watched me as I removed the old polish, and applied the new,
his
, to my fingers and toes. His expression was rapt the whole time, he didn’t seem to get bored at all.

When I was finished he stood up and came over to me. “Come here, babe.” I stood up and he wrapped his arms around me. I did the same, though keeping my fingers extended as they were still drying.

His arms were strong, and his embrace was tight, almost too tight. He kissed me hard on the lips. “Thank you. I love you, babe.”

“I love you too,” I whispered, though even then I wasn’t sure.

After that I didn’t wear a different nail polish again. Every time it began to grow out or get chipped he noticed. “You need to do your nails babe. Use the one I got you, please?” he would ask. And I would dutifully comply.

It started with the hair and nail polish. But it went on. If I was buying new clothes, he would be with me. Even little accessories, he wanted to be there. At first I had items of clothes he didn’t approve of, and he would suck in air through his teeth and tell me that, if I didn’t mind, he’d prefer it if I wore something else?

Of course those shirts and dresses, those pants and skirts that he didn’t like disappeared too, over time. I never saw him take anything, and it happened over such a long period of time that I didn’t really notice - it wasn’t until we were seniors in high school that I really thought about it, and investigated, and realized what he’d done.

He was very rarely overtly controlling, it was all very subtle. If I went to take a second scoop of ice cream, he’d give me a little look that said
do you really need that?
And I’d guiltily re-consider.

Dewey kept careful watch of my weight. He didn’t want me working out and getting strong like him, but he wanted to make sure I stayed thin. When no one but us was around he’d make disparaging remarks about the heavier set girls, and tell me, “I’m glad you’re not like that, babe. I couldn’t stand it if you got like that.”

I’d nod and agree and giggle at first. Later I just remained silent - it wasn’t like I had a choice; I couldn’t ever get like those girls, he wouldn’t allow it.

The first time I realized he was truly warped was when Mom got sick. It was cancer. My bubbly, smiley mother withered before our eyes. It was the beginning of senior year, the worst year of my life.

It was rapid. Her health failed far quicker than the doctors said it would. Near the end she’d sit in the living room, in her chair, a drip feeding her IV tube. Dad sat there too, he’d lost his construction job after an accident, but his disability payments were enough to let us keep the house, just.

When Mom got sick and Dad got injured he changed. He’d sit there all day, ‘keeping her company’, when in actual fact he was keeping a case of cheap beer company. A case of Natty Ice, starting at midday (
only alcoholics drink in the morning
,) and ending whenever he finally passed out.

That’s when he said it. We were in my kitchen, and he had a cold arm wrapped around my unfeeling shoulder. He whispered in my ear, “We’ll be able to spend more time together soon, babe. Soon it’ll just be us.”

I turned and stared at him, not believing he’d told me to look on the bright side of my mother’s rapidly impending death.

I let out a sob and ran up the stairs to my room, leaving his no doubt confused visage behind. I ran into my room and slammed my hands down on my vanity, staring into a stranger’s eyes in the mirror. The girl before me had bright red lipstick, bright blond hair, and sunken, ruined eyes. Who was she? I sure as shit didn’t know.

I ran to my bed and buried my head in my pillow, wracking sobs passing through my body. I barely recognized my own life by then. Who was this blond haired girl with blood red cosmetics, a dying mother and drunk father? Where had she come from? Where had the happy girl from the happy family gone?

Soon he was there, lying on the bed next to me, an arm and then a leg wrapped over me. Comforting me? No. Soon a hand was under my skirt and a meaty finger was inside me. As tears ran down my cheeks he whispered in my ear, “It’s okay babe, let it all out,” as his breath quickened.

Soon his pants were down and he was inside me, holding my shaking, young body tight. He loved it when I cried.

B
ottle

Shit, I think I’m getting addicted.

Not to her, to this stupid little box I’m talking in to. Shit, maybe to her too. There’s something about that crazy broad.

Anyway, talking like this clears the mind, clears the head. It’s fuckin’ weird. I guess I see why those Catholics like talking in that box to their priest.

Enough about that.

Shit, that poor Karen. No wonder she’s so fucked up. It seems her ex is a complete fucking loony toon. I think she got through most of my flask before my goddamn phone rang again, too. I know I would have ended up with her sobbing into me again if Twist hadn’t called.

I’m not cut out for all this comforting shit. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Give me a jaw to break, a nose to smash, an engine to pull apart - I’m your man. Getting a woman to stop crying though? Man, I don’t know how to do that shit.

Usually I wonder what’s up with all the emotional bullshit women put out. Surely they take it too far. But Crazy Eyes? She’s seen some fucked up shit in her day, so I guess I understand why she’s so emotional.

The rest of them bitches out there in the world though?

Fucked if I know.

K
aren

I hadn’t finished telling Bottle everything, hadn’t gotten to the worst part, when his phone rang again. This time he spoke in English.

“Yeah... uhuh... no shit? We’re coming.”

He reached over the table and grasped my hand. I gave him a wan smile. I felt drained and was glad for the warmth strength he offered.

“Time to go. Twist has found something again. You okay to come?”

I shrugged and sighed. What choice did I have. And where else would I go anyway? I didn’t have anywhere left. I gave his hand a squeeze and we rose together. He dropped a twenty on the table from a surprisingly chunky billfold and wrapped an arm around my shoulder as we headed to the exit. It was getting dark outside now.

I climbed onto the motorcycle behind him, and tried to count how many times I had been on a bike now. It was strange how quickly it had become natural to sit astride this powerful metal beast. It was a comfort to me now to feel it purring beneath me as Bottle started it. A shiver ran down my spine as Bottle gave her a gentle squeeze with the palm of his hand and we soared back to the clubhouse, the bike growling between my legs, hungry to tear up the road ahead.

My hands ran over Bottle’s soft jacket to rest on his jean-clad thighs. They vibrated along with the bike and I rested my head on the biker in front of me for the I-don’t-know-how-many-times that day.

Everything would be alright, wouldn’t it? They’d catch Dewey, save their friend, and then kill the motherfucker. At least that’s what I hoped.

––––––––

I
n the clubhouse Gauge and T-Bone nodded their heads and held up their hands in greeting. Bottle clasped each of their hands as I trailed up behind him, feeling shy again.

Rock music was pouring out of the speakers now and there was a small crowd of people hanging around. The teenage girls from the day before were back again, this time giggling at a big bearded man over by the pool table, a prospect judging by the lack of a full patch.

Bottle pulled out a chair for me as we all sat down. Twist came over to join us holding a brown paper bag.

“Sit down.” Bottle’s voice was firm but not unkind as he spoke to the young prospect. “What’s in the bag?”

Twist sat down and grinned. “Whole-grain flaxseed low-gluten bagels with low fat Argentinian grass-fed cream-cheese. Organic.”

“The fuck’d you just say?” growled T-Bone.

“I think he just said he’s coming out,” said Bottle.

The three club members laughed at the frowning younger man, who re-phrased his earlier statement: “Organic bagels.”

There were nods of comprehension around the table.

“How do they taste?” asked T-Bone, leaning forward and eying the bag with an appraising look.

Twist laughed. “Like shit.”

I smiled and the men around the table laughed.

“Fuck it.” T-Bone grabbed the bag and upended it on the table. Four bagels individually wrapped in saran wrap fell onto the stained table. T-Bone frowned at the bag and shook it again. I could hear something bounce around inside the bag, before an envelope finally dropped out onto the table.

Twist had a serious look on his face. “That’s why I called. The bagel chick said she had been told to give it to the first biker who came in. She said she’d told him bikers never go in there, but the guy had been insistent.”

“How the fuck did he know we’d be looking for him there?” growled T-Bone.

Before I could open my mouth Gauge was already speaking. “She said he was intelligent.” He nodded his head indicating me as he continued, “He may be an asshole, but he’s not a stupid one. He knew we’d be hunting him, and he knew what she’d say to us about him being a health nut. Fuck, he even guessed we’d find him at the Motel. The shifty fucker is way ahead of us.”

Bottle was leaning back in his chair, shaking his head and frowning. “It’s time to stop the bullshit. We’ve got to get ahead of this fucker. We should be second guessing his moves, not the other way round. Fuck.” Bottle shook his head and sighed before leaning forward and picking up the envelope. He held it up. “Well, what do you know.” He shook his head in mild surprise as he indicated the front of the white envelope, upon which was simply written
Bottle.