Exiled (Anathema Book 2) (13 page)

“Wow,”
she whispered. “This is nothing like Sacrilege’s business. A few stolen bikes
and a couple pounds of meth to trade. Not…war.”

“It
wasn’t always war. I was tired of all the goddamned violence. I wanted to set
Anathema up in an era of prosperity and power. Temple and my father might have
done that for us.”

Martini
tugged at her hand. I didn’t let her go, but she regained her confidence,
little by little.

“Why
didn’t it work?” She asked. “Anathema found out?”

“Yes.”

“But
why wouldn’t The Coup protect you? And why is Temple shooting at you if they’re
loyal to your father?”

Because
I was a fool. I was an asshole who thought only of his club, who didn’t stop to
see the truth. For thirty-eight years, I lived my life to be a man like my
father, to make him proud, and serve our club just as he did when he helped to
form the chapter.

Then
I realized his blood was a curse, and his existence was a crime waiting to be
brought to justice.

“You’re
out of questions,” I said.

I
pushed her away. Martini stumbled back, but she didn’t let the scowl darken her
features for long. A moment passed, and the pinkish tease colored her cheeks
once more. She nodded, tucking her hands in her pockets.

“Thank
you,” she said. “I think I understand.”

“You
really don’t.”

“No.
I get it.” Her voice shadowed with softness. “You’re going to let one mistake
bleed you dry. Define who you are for the rest of your life.”

“I
can’t bury my sins.”

“You
already have,” Martini said. “You think you failed Anathema. But you haven’t.”

“Enough.”

“You
think you failed Rose.”

“You
got three seconds to shut your mouth.”

“You
didn’t fail me, Brew,” she said. “You saved me even if you won’t admit it.”

She
took a breath, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna wash this day off me.
Let’s hope this hotel has a lot of hot water and soap.”

I
said nothing. Strained every muscle in my body to stop my cock from hardening
as I imagined her under the steaming water. She shut the door behind her, but
she didn’t lock it.

She
trusted me too damned much.

I
rubbed my face as the water patted against the tub. I wasn’t a good man, but
even I wouldn’t fuck a girl three hours after I pointed a gun at her temple.
Four hours after I led her to a murder scene. Ten hours after I nearly killed
her on my bike.

The
adrenaline raged, but Martini tempted a devil. A night with me might have
buried either my cock or a sharpened blade too deep in her to rescue either of
us.

I
swore. I brought her to the hotel to keep her safe, not threaten her more. But
she wasn’t safe here. Not from me. Not from her club. Not from Temple.

What
the fuck were they doing so far from home? And what would they do to Martini if
they found her?

I
had to make sure she stayed whole. I hated doing it, but I needed reconnaissance
on Temple. There was only one person I trusted to help me.

The
phone weighed heavy in my hand. I dialed from memory.

My
brother answered after the fifth ring.

I
hardly recognized his voice. Whatever demons he injected in his veins didn’t
just steal his sanity—it took his excitement. Once, Keep might have been the
first to hop his bike, piss off the strippers at Sorceress, and fuck three of
them before he made it home. Now, he sounded as dead and flat as the bruises
that stained his arms.

The
bruises came from the drugs I scored from Temple. I had to buy and deliver to
earn their trust, but handing them off to my recovering addict brother would
land me in Hell. I hated myself, but it worked. Keep stayed off my ass long
enough for me to arrange the meetings, talk to the men, and convince The Coup I
was loyal before I tried to destroy it from the inside out.

“Keep,”
I said after my brother forgot to answer.

The
confusion didn’t clear easy. “Huh?”

“Keep.
It’s me.”

“Thorne?”

I
gritted my teeth. “Tristian, it’s fucking
me
.”

If
he recognized his given name, it took him a hell of a long time to answer. Only
Rose and Mom ever called him Tristian. His real name was strong enough to sober
him up, but thirty-five years of memories, crimes, and heartache hurt more than
a cold shower and cup of coffee.

“Brew?”

“Yeah.”

Keep
chuckled. First a stoned snort, then the amused grunt of awareness. I swore at
him before he lost it all together.

“Christ,
man. Are you high?”

“Nice
to talk to you too.” Keep groaned. The squeal of bedsprings squeaked over the
phone.

I
checked the clock. “It’s fucking noon. What the hell are you doing in bed?”

“Jesus
Christ. You call me for the first time in three months, and all you do is
bitch.”

“Someone
should. You using?”

“You
really want an answer?” The chip of a bottlecap rolled into a sink. At least it
wasn’t a needle. “Christ, Brew. Why are you calling? You’re supposed to be
playing dead.”

“You’re
supposed to be sober.”

“Yeah,
well, since when do us Darnells do what is expected of them?”

“You
okay?”

Keep
snorted. “You ain’t calling to ask me that.”

“How’s
she?”

Now
he really laughed. “Pissed. You haven’t returned our little sister’s calls.
She’s freaking out. Thinks something happened to you.”

Rose
always was the smart one in the family. “She okay though?”

“Yeah,
sure. Little 4.0 suck-up. Dean’s list or some shit.”

It
was the first good news I had in months. “Is he treating her okay?”

“Fucking
Thorne? Christ. Won’t let her out of his sight, but I don’t think she minds.
Finally got her cast off, but something fucked with her neck from the accident.
Goes to physical therapy every once in a while, I guess.”

“She’s
hurt
?”

“Just
says it bothers her.”

My
stomach detonated. I swallowed the bile and collapsed on the chair.

“Fuck.
What do the doctors say?”

“I
don’t know.”

“What
do you mean
you don’t fucking know
.”

Keep
groaned. “Look man, I let Thorne deal with that shit.”

“Well,
what are you doing to help her?” I took a breath as my fist started to tremble.
“What about her gigs?”

“I
don’t go. I watch the videos.”

“
Videos
?”

“That’s
more than you fucking do.”

Keep
was just lucky he had most of the country between him and my temper. “You don’t
go watch her play?”

My
brother’s silence answered the question. Which one of us was the real traitor?

“You’re
an asshole.”

“Oh,
fuck me,” he said. “You wouldn’t be there either. Not after...”

“After
what
.”

His
voice hollowed. “Brew...I fucking love Rose. I’d take a bullet for her too, don’t
think I wouldn’t. But I...I can’t...”

“You
can’t
what
.”

Keep
pitched whatever he was drinking into the sink. The glass broke. “I can’t
fucking look at her. Every time I see her, I just imagine...I can’t stop
thinking...”

“For
Christ’s sake.”

“I
don’t want to imagine Dad doing that to her.”

“Yeah,
well, I’m sure she didn’t want to go through it.”

“Shit.”

“Why
don’t you man the fuck up? Get over yourself so you can take care of her like I
fucking told you to do!”

“This
conversation have a point?” Keep had a temper like Dad’s. Like mine. And rotten
sin like ours had limits to civility. “Gotta tell you, man. I’ve missed you
like hell, but you call me up and start bitching me out, I have no problem
pretending you’re six feet under.”

“I
need a favor.”

“There
it is.”

I
ignored him. “I got a problem. I hope your head is on straight enough to go to Church.”

“One
of us still has the cut. Drop the attitude. What the hell do you want?”

“What
have you heard about Temple?”

The
silence on the other end hung like I coiled the rope around my neck. Keep’s
voice rasped with an incoherent laugh.

“First
you betray Anathema—and I don’t care if it was to organize a hit on The Coup,
or for the drug money, or to get our fucking douche-bag of a father out of jail.
You almost got
killed
for betraying Anathema. I gotta pretend like the
fucking
president
shot you in the head and then went home to rut my little
fucking sister. And you’re gonna call me up after three months of thinking you probably
died in a gutter somewhere and ask me about
Temple
?”

“It’s
complicated.”

“It
ain’t complicated. It’s Temple. You traded your cut for easy money from an
organization that acts more like a cartel than motorcycle club. Now you’re
askin’ me to spill on what we’re hearing?”

“Yeah.
Something like that.”

“Christ.
Maybe Thorne should have put that bullet in your head.”

“Someone
knows I’m alive, Keep. You been running your mouth?”

“Fuck
you.”

“Three
of Temple’s men tried to kill me yesterday,” I said. “I walked into another
massacre today, different clubs. Same calling card.”

“Where
are you?”

“North
of Pittsburgh.”

“
Pittsburgh
?”

“Erie.
By the lake.”

“Holy
fuck,
” he said. “Look, we’ve got enough problems here. We’re trying to
keep the club together. Jerking off Temple is all Knight’s game now. He took
over The Coup, but that blood is still bad. We’re not getting out of this
without a war.”

“Knight
say anything?”

“Nothing.
He’s trying to make peace, but he’s still working with Temple and trying to
expand.” Keep paused. “Makes sense. No wonder Temple’s sticking their dicks
into the great lakes.”

“Temple
wants to shove drugs into Canada.”

“Ain’t
no better way. Who runs shit over there?”

I
snorted. “No one now. I got mixed up with a group called Kingdom. They ran the
drugs through the northeast.”

“I
take it they’re dead.”

“I’d
say so.”

“Temple?”

“It’s
gotta be. Making a move.” I grimaced. “But if they realize I’m alive…if they
think I double-crossed them?”

“We’re
all fucked.”

“You
watch over Rose. Temple’s gonna piss with her too. Tell Thorne she might be a
target. Fuck, get him to sit down with Knight. Figure this shit out before
Cherrywood ends up a goddamned crater.”

“What
a fucking mess you made.”

I
exhaled. “Yeah.”

“What
are you gonna do?”

“I
got my own trouble here.” I glanced toward the bathroom door. “Gotta take care
of this.”

Keep
was quiet. “Dad’s got a hearing coming up.”

He
didn’t have to tell me. I counted the hours until the perversion of justice
presented me with an opportunity. “You go visit Rose. Make sure she’s okay.”

“Want
me to take her a message?”

“No.
I’ll call when I learn more. Get yourself clean. You’re gonna need a clear
head.”

I
didn’t let him answer. The phone tossed on the bed next to me. I rubbed my face.
A shower sounded good, but I’d never scrape off all the grit.

The
TV was one of those smart ones, the kind a guy used to surfed the internet if he
didn’t have a bike to tune, a drink to drown in, or the willpower to deny what he
wanted most.

I
grabbed the remote and went to YouTube. Rose’s channel filled with all
different types of music. More videos than the last time I dared to look. I
picked the most recent one.

I
didn’t know the difference between cool or warm jazz. I really didn’t care
about minors or majors, and I recognized the songs she sang only because she
used to cover them at the clubhouse. But she sang like an angel, and every
second I listened killed me.

For
the first time since she was a kid and I was in jail, I wasn’t able to listen
to her perform live. At one point in my life, only a locked cell and barred
windows would keep me from her.

Now?

It
was my own cowardice. My own mistakes. My fault the only place safe enough for
her to sing was a strip club controlled by Anathema under the protection of the
man too dangerous and rough for someone as delicate as her.