Wrath (2 page)

Emma

“Think you can handle it?” Kat stared at me, her eyes intent, a small grin parting her lips devilishly.

She knew I could handle anything that life threw at me.  She’d been there for most of it.

“The only question is, are you going to try to convince me to strip because –”

“Calm down, Cuz.  I’d never ask you to.  Besides, I don’t want to see any family jewels up there on the stage.  No, we keep it strictly non-familial around here.”  She grinned at me and then opened the little half-door that kept the customers from going back behind the bar.

“You wanna see what I can do?” I asked, grabbing the ingredients to her favorite drink.  Tequila Sunrises were so nineteen seventies, but they were also so Kat.  A little bit slutty, and a little bit classic.

I mixed it up with a little flare, and then searched for an umbrella to put in it.

There were none.

“Not bad.  We don’t need much of that though,” she warned me.  “Most of the guys will want a beer or some kind of rot gut liquor.  They drink it with ice or straight.  You won’t have much call for cosmos and mojitos.  Still… it might help us to get a ladies night going.”  She was off and thinking like usual.  The woman was always scheming, coming up with a plan.  It was why I came to stay with her when I finally had enough of my mother’s shit.  She got me away from the mess and into a halfway house.  At Fresh Beginnings I had found the resources to get a job – and a lawyer.

I owed her for that.  Unfortunately, I hated owing people.  As a result, I had promised myself that I’d never ask her for another favor again.  But when I accepted the application to Carlow University, I had to come to her again, this time asking for a job.  One that paid well.  I’d done some bartending and some waitressing, but those little joints barely provided enough to make ends meet.  The Cat House brought in a lot of customers, which meant a better chance of getting decent tips more often. 

I had refused loans, so I got put on a payment plan and I knew I had to find a job.  Fast.  Being able to pay for college was worth eating my pride.

“When do you want to start?” Kat asked.

“How does tonight sound?” I needed the money and I needed it now.  I had two text books to buy and I needed to pay the first installment to the college in two weeks.

Kat’s grin broadened.  “Great! I like bartending in the middle of the day, but, fuck.  I am getting way too old for that shit.”

Kat was thirteen years older than me, and really, in her prime.  She was gorgeous and in great shape.  This had nothing to do with her being too tired, and definitely nothing to do with her age.  She knew I needed the money, and she was making excuses to help me along.  It hurt my pride, but I was thankful for her.  College was expensive.

Scholarships covered most of my tuition, but I still have activity fees, textbooks, and a large portion of my room and board to cover.

Kat always needed bartenders, but when I told her I was interested, she hired me without even an interview.  Better still, her main bartender was going to night school, so she needed someone to cover nights and weekends.  Prime time.

“I’ll have everything set up for you tonight.  Be here at quarter six.  You’ll work an eight.”

“Great.”

“Just watch John Burnett.  Bigger guy in his late twenties.  Jagoff is a grab-ass.”

I listened to her give me the rundown of the night crew and felt a flush of gratitude.  Kat had never let me down.  She had even offered to pay my tuition upfront, but that was too much.

I wouldn’t take that from her.  I would never be beholden to anyone again.

Aidan

When Rage warned me not to touch his lady I thought he was joking.  Looking at the woman in front of me, though, I knew he was dead serious. 

I preferred to keep my remaining leg.  That didn’t mean that my hand didn’t itch.  “Layla” was fucking beautiful.

It took me a moment to realize she was talking.  “What can I help you with?” she was asking.

I shut my jaw and tried to remember why I was there in the first place.  A job.

“Ma’am, I’m Aidan Crowne, reporting for work.”  I didn’t intend slip back into soldier speak, but it was a natural part of me,

“Ah, you are the man Cullen talked about.” 

Confused, I parroted the name back to her.  “Cullen?”

“Uh, Rage.  Sorry.”  She blushed.  “I’m Layla.”

Yes, she was.

She shuffled through a stack of papers, then looked up and smiled “You are early, ready to work.  I like that.”

She was clearly the office manager, or the head of the operation, or something.   “You – uh – work here?”

She smiled and explained, “I’m the book keeper for the Club.  Donna McKenna, my Aunt, is the office manager.  She’s out, on family leave.  So for now you’ll have to deal with me.”

I could deal with that, and gladly.

“I have W-2’s that need to be filled out.  You a felon?” she asked, almost conversationally.

“No ma’am.”

“Good, good.  Got experience?”

“91B.  Wheeled Vehicle Specialist, ma’am.  Mechanic.  Army.”

“Great.  And your… disability, if it interferes –”

“It won’t.”  I almost snarled it.  I’d heard that question too many times.  I wasn’t coming all the fucking way up here to be told there was no work for me.

Her brow furrowed just slightly at the change in my voice, but she was used to aggression.  There was no fear in her eyes.  And no judgment.  She just nodded to me and said, “If you’re having any trouble with it, let me know.  We’ll make accommodations.  If you need to take time off for it, you’ll need to fill out FMLA paperwork.  It’s not a big deal, but I want to make sure you don’t ignore it.  You seem like you know how to work, no  matter what.” 

When I nodded, her eyes sparkled.  Oh hell, yes.  I would work.  I kept my eyes down to keep out of trouble.

“I won’t have you getting hurt on the job, you hear me? If you do, it’ll cost us more money than if you take care of yourself.  Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She could read me already.  Damn.  No wonder Rage scooped her up.  Gorgeous and she didn’t take shit.

“One last thing.  I ain’t no one’s ma’am, you hear me?  I’m Layla.  Just plain old Layla.”

I couldn’t help it.  I looked her in the eyes then and grinned.

She returned it without thinking twice.  They always did.  This one still wasn’t going to take shit, though. 

“Get on to Cullen,” she said, shooing me out.  “He’ll like that your early, but don’t piss him off.”

I thought about my old Chief.  Son of a bitch was a guy you really didn’t want a fuck around with.  I had a feeling Rage was the same way.  I wasn’t going to fuck with him, and I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t even going to flirt with Layla.  No matter how bad I wanted to.

Instead I turned and carried my tool box out into the garage area.

It was a nice sized garage: four bays total, two in the front, two in the back, all with bay doors.  It was perfect.   Probably got a moderate amount of traffic per day and built to suit.

I expected the place to be oil stained and dirty, but it was spotless.  There were dark marks where oil must’ve fallen, but it was well-swept.  Minimal dust meant less build up on tools and better work.  But clean took time.  Or discipline.

I looked around.  Someone from the service had to run this place.

“He shows up, and early too.   Told you, Thrash.  Knew I picked a good one.”

Rage walked around a car that was jacked up, a broad grin across his sharp face.  The other man from the bar followed behind.  He must’ve been Thrash.

“Looks good around here.  Military boss?” I reached out my hand to shake his.  He took it, his grip strong. 

Yeah.  I was in the right place.  Rage filled me in.  “That’d be Mick.  Vietnam.  He keeps this place running.  Knows his shit and can still kick ass.”  Rage chuckled.

Thrash got straight to the point, his eyes narrow and watching me carefully.  “So, you know how to work on a car?”

I took the chance to inspect him, too.  He kept his head held high, judging me with dark eyes.

It made me bristle.  I didn’t need to be judged, and I had no quarrel with him.  Just wanted to do my job and knew better than to back down.  Back down once with a man like that and he’d walk all over you.

I looked him straight in the eye, said, “Spent four years working on wheeled vehicles for the Army, in worse conditions than this.  I can fix just about anything you put in front of me.”  And I puffed my fucking chest out for good measure.  My leg might be gone but I still kept up as if for fit reps.  Had to stay strong.  I wasn’t going to depend on anybody.

“Good.  You’re bay four.  It’ll be yours.  You can leave your tools, or take them.  I don’t give a shit.  No one’ll touch them, or they’ll have to deal with me.”

“Touch my tools and they’ll deal with me.  Just hope you know where to hide the bodies.”

Thrash smirked at that, but in a way I was all right with.  Maybe we could get along.

“I’ll take them with me.  For now.”  I gave Thrash one last look and then headed over to bay 4.  It was completely empty. 

I took a minute to get acquainted with everything: the equipment that they kept in the shop, things I couldn’t pull around with me.  Then I turned and looked at Rage.  “Orders?”

My military speech didn’t bother him.  Instead, he looked me right in the eye and said, “You’ll do a lot of wrench turning here, I can promise you that.  I’ll start you on brakes, rotors, and oil changes today.  Ain’t much, but I wanna see how you do.”

Rage was right: this was the easy work.  But it got me turning a wrench again.  I was on the floor with the tires, all day.  Sweat, grease, and the smells of old metal and motor oil.  Take the disk off, shimmy the rotor off, put a new one on, put a new brake on.  Easy shit, but I was glad to be at it again.

So when I started sweating, I ignored it.  It was hot as hell in the garage.  Who wouldn’t sweat in that?

My fucking hands were cold and clammy as fuck, though.  And my heart started racing. 

That’s when I heard it.

Gunfire.

I’d felt this before, so I knew what to do.  I knew that I couldn’t let it take me with it, so I did what I knew worked.  I focused on the shoe of the break and stared at it.  Not moving my eyes.  Not moving a muscle until the voices and familiar gut-wrenching
rat-a-tat
echoing in my head abated, floating back into nothing.

It was a small attack this time, but I felt it loud and clear.

The horror was there with me, stalking me, waiting to swoop in – or was it swoop out? – and swallow me whole.  Every time I tried to get back to my own brand of normal, it was going to come out.

It was going to try and fuck me over.

Not this time, motherfucker. 
I thought, grinning grimly, my jaw tight as the brake-clamps, as I got back to work. 
No big deal
.  It was just another day for me.

One more brake job and quittin’ time was callin’ my name.  I’d fucking earned a beer, and a show, and that was my aim.

When the MC President walked in, my hands were steady, my gaze straight. 

“Damn, you got through three days of work in one shift.  Fuck.”  Rage grinned as he looked at me, my jumpsuit covered in grime.  “Whatcha think, Thrash?”

The other man nodded, his eyes hooded.  “He’ll do.”

“Oh, he’ll do alright.  We’ve been backlogged for weeks with jobs.  Going to clear that out real quick.  Tommy, how you makin’ out?”

The kid in stall three murmured, then dropped his fucking tool, followed by an “ow.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Rage laughed too and gestured the kid out.  “You dumb-fuck.  Finish the job, then get your station cleaned.  Aidan, you clean your station then meet me out front, alright?”

I nodded.

Clean-up was a quick job.  I never did leave too much of a mess. 
Clean up as you go
.  The Army had demanded clean, and I had always been good at that.

On my way out I heard the clunk of a tool falling onto the garage floor and a loud “shit.”  Yeah, Tommy was going to be there a while.

I grabbed my toolbox and headed out of the shop to catch up with Rage. 

“You did damn good today, wanna go for a drink?” the President asked.

I looked at him, then at my bike.  I had been planning on it, but being asked by the boss made me hesitate.

“That your bike?” he asked, pointing to the heavy frame of my Chieftain.  It was an older model, but I’d done some work on it.  Kept it gleaming.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.  I didn’t know you could ride.”  He meant amputees.

I cracked my knuckles, one-fisted, and shrugged as if it didn’t bug me.  “Got special modifications done.  When I got home, a couple of charities reached out, found out what my interests were.”  I pulled up my jeans to show the fiberglass material.  “Set me up with a couple of legs, one for working out, one for every day, and a bike with all the modifications.”  I patted the bike idly.  “Helps us get to job interviews.  Doesn’t suck up too much in gas.  A little work and here we are.”  I was proud of the work I had done on the piece.  It could hold its own next to Rage’s Harley.

“Nice.  We ride American only.  As long as it ain’t a zippy little crotch rocket, you’re good to go.”

I didn’t need his approval, but I had to admit, I was glad I had it.

“You’ll wanna leave your tools here.  I’ll lock them in a spare room.  You know, just in case you want some room on that bench for a sexy little number.”

I chuckled and raked my hand over my stubble.  He had a point.

As if she had heard us, Layla appeared outside of the garage.

“Tommy said he has to lock up?” she called.

Rage yelled back, “Shit pissed around all day, so he ain’t leavin’ ’til the job’s done.”

Layla shook her head.  “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

The telltale grin on his face let me know he did in fact, know it.  And I was willing to bet that neither of them minded it one bit. 

It only took a few minutes to lock my tools in the room and then we were off on our bikes, me on my Indian, Cullen and Layla on his Harley, and Thrash on a Victory.

Thrash was still reluctant to accept me.  I could tell by the look in his eyes.  But he was also impressed.

I knew how to ride.  The Chieftain was heavy, which I liked.  It balanced well beneath me, giving me a greater sense of control.  With my missing leg, I needed the lean-in.

I knew how to repair, too.  My bike hadn’t been new.  She had been a gift in beautiful condition, but she had a few kinks I’d had to sort out.  The throttle had been suffering from a hairline crack, which I spotted after a series of delays.  These babies were known for their get-up-and-go.

I had also tackled the mammoth task of cleaning her engine the old fashioned way.  She had purred like a kitten when I got her.  Now she roared every time she took on the road.

I knew how to maintain.  Unable to just take her like she was, I had studied her long and hard, gently improving upon the already exquisite frame, replacing and powdercoating the mill, and shifting around the saddle bags just enough to compensate for the difference in weight on either side of my body.  The prosthetic kept me upright, but it didn’t weigh what a full leg would have.  On a bike, that made a difference.

The end result was a fully modded beauty of a beast.  Even Thrash had to nod to that.

Fact was, I knew what the fuck I was doing, and it showed.

We rode tight through the city streets of Braddock, over the Rankin Bridge and right into Homestead.  It was a rundown shithole of a place, all of it.  But it was my home.

I craved the broken down ruins of a town once built on a thriving steel industry.  An industry that’d long since been forgotten.

I had fought to get back here.  As soon as I landed in Walter Reed, I knew I had to get well enough to get back to this city.  My city.

We turned into Kat’s Cat House, and parked our bikes in a row up front on a reserved space.

That was the perk of riding with a club like this.  You never had to worry about your bike getting jacked, or your shit getting stolen.

Thrash grinned as he climbed off his bike.  “Once we get inside I don’t know any of yinz, ya hear? I got some shit I need to take care of.”  He was clearly joking, and clasped Rage on the shoulder, before heading in.

I was going to turn and follow suit, but some fucking asshole had to go and ruin that for me.  I overheard a raised voice and knew the tone.  There was trouble, and at a place like this, it was going to get ugly for someone real fast.