Knight (81 page)

“Let’s go, Bud. If he’s lucky, maybe I’ll let him see the pictures.”

I would die before I let that happen. I started the bike on his command. Thorne shouted.

“You wanted me, Ex! Let’s finish it.”

Exorcist groped me through the jacket. My mind darkened with memory. The damn silence stole what little comforts I used to block out the past. But the rumble of an engine wasn’t the strumming of a guitar. And it wasn’t a comfort.

“I have what I came for.” Exorcist laughed at Thorne. “Consider us even.”

He made me drive.

It would be the last thing he forced me to do.

The bike peeled out of the parking lot, alone, surrounded only by me and ill-intention. The gun pressed deeper into my side.

“Take the highway into the city!” He shouted over the whipping wind. “Across the bridge. Don’t stop. Don’t look at anyone. And speed the fuck up.”

He’d kill us both.

Though I stole Luke’s bike before, I had no real experience riding such a powerful piece of equipment, and I never driven with a passenger, let alone one holding a gun to my side and threatening me with every horror imaginable.

Fortunately the roads were abandoned. I didn’t want anyone to be around when it happened. The less people, the better.

I burst through the city limits well over the speed limit, quick enough to jostle my bloodied hands over the handlebars and drive the air from my lungs with every bump in the road and shadow that crossed before my front tire.

But the sickly glow of the streetlights wasn’t the only halo trapping the bike within the street. The war cry of a throttled engine screamed behind us. Exorcist swore, twisting in his seat, almost casting the bike off balance and onto the sidewalk.

“Fucking hell.”

Exorcist jerked the gun away from my side only to aim it behind us. He fired, and I screamed, ducking down against the bike. It didn’t do any good. The ringing pain of the shot deafened my ears to danger.

My mirrors vibrated against the speed as I tore through the town, but I recognized the shadowy figure who raced after us. He blew past the intersections and gained as I wobbled against the bulk of my passenger, twisting and turning to fire at our pursuer.

“Faster, bitch!”

If he expected me to outmaneuver and outride the president of Anathema, Ex was more insane than we thought.

I didn’t trust the bike, I didn’t trust my instincts, and I certainly didn’t trust the road. Cars populated the streets in the city. Ex cursed at me until I passed them, splitting the lane between a Honda and a pickup truck, darting through a red light into a dangerous intersection. I braked and wove between a confused SUV, but my eyes blurred with too many tears to see if Thorne made it through the street as well.

My mirror darkened as I sped through another block. The bridge leading to the industrial district loomed empty and foreboding. Anathema lost territory beyond the river, and The Coup made too many friends. Empty warehouses and abandoned factories dotted the river.

Ex could lose me within half a dozen buildings, hide me within the city forever, and Thorne would never find me.

The war would overflow into the streets, and blood would stain every alley just like before.

Except this time a chapter wouldn’t splinter from the mother club.

This time, everyone would die, and no one could protect me from reliving the same abuses I suffered in my childhood.

So I’d have to protect myself.

Exorcist shot again before we slipped onto the bridge. My heart stuttered with every popped echo. I’d never let him get a clean shot at Thorne.

I seized one final breath and held it.

It didn’t taste good. Not the fresh scent of victory but the stale, thick breath of failure. Of disaster. Of lost hope and options. I didn’t need to worry. I’d taste only blood soon enough.

I wobbled. Jostled the bike. Wove and weaved until I forced Exorcist to turn around and face what I meant to do.

Just like when I was a child, just like when I was forced to ride a bike I feared with a man I hated, the wind punished our bodies, the engine threatened our balance, and the road welcomed our fall with the required tribute of crushed steel, broken bones, and bloodied vengeance.

I braked as much as I could before Exorcist braced himself.

The squealed tires ripped against the road as the wheels skidded, slipped, and twisted, uncontrolled, against the pavement.

I angled my body, cleared my feet, and dumped the bike against the street.

It was one of the worst mistakes of my life, but the only way to save it.

I didn’t have the strength to control the motorcycle. Exorcist tumbled from the back as I bounced along the bridge. My metal tomb pinned me in the crash. My wrist snapped, and the crude snip of bone belted in my head like a sour note. Luke’s jacket absorbed the impact of my fall, but my jeans ripped, and the shattering agony of my ribs pinned under the handlebars stifled my screaming.

I rolled twice before collapsing against the street. The bike smacked the concrete median and stalled.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Was too afraid to try to move. But I trembled, and I felt every last inch of me scream in fear, pain, and absolute
victory
.

Then, the city stilled.

Quiet and watchful and punishing.

My ears rang—the tinny beat of a struggling heart and hollow regret. It hurt. I expected nothing else. A harsh moment passed, and I battled against the road to let me up, to force myself to crawl away, to escape from the tease of blood and choking lungful of fuel.

The limping shuffle of metal tipped boots tapped the silent road.

I couldn’t open my eyes. It was too late for that, and I didn’t want to see what would happen.

Exorcist loomed over me, his rasping breath shuddering with moist, blood-soaked coughs.

The gun cocked, but I won. I saved myself.

The last touch I’d experience would be Thorne’s passion and not the resurgence of terrible memory and vile retribution.

The rumble of wheels punishing the road squealed to my side.

Ex swore and twisted, but it was too late.

The gun fired, and the echoing blast shook the bridge with unrepentant conquest.

Thorne said nothing as Exorcist crumbled before him, landing face down in a puddle of his own blood and bone and sinew. I flinched.

It happened faster than I thought it would.

But the moment didn’t blink fast enough from my mind.

Lifeless eyes stared at me. I couldn’t scream, and I couldn’t black out. A murdered man bled before me, and I couldn’t move to avoid the trickle of his blood.

But I didn’t have to. Thorne grabbed Ex’s body and hauled it away. He sucked in a breath, but his triumph passed, short-lived. He heaved Exorcist’s body to the bridge railing and, with a grunt, tossed the lifeless waste of flesh into the merciless river below.

I expected Thorne to celebrate. To revel as his enemy’s body bobbed and sunk between the waves. Unchallenged and restored in his rightful glory, Thorne had the vengeance he wanted, all the power he had lost, and the entire town under his control.

But he fell to his knees at my side. Gathered me in his arms. He held me tight.

“Christ, I thought I lost you.” The break in his voice sliced through me. “You okay?”

I nodded, but he didn’t let me speak. Thorne lifted me for a kiss and ground his lips against mine.

“I didn’t care what happened to me as long as you were okay.” He surveyed my bruises, my cuts and scrapes, the other man’s leather protecting my chest. “I’m so sorry, Rose. I swear it, I will
never
let anyone hurt you ever again.”

I rested against his arms. “I believe you.”

Thorne grinned, the relief etching away years of agony and regret, hardened obsession and bloody revenge. He held me tighter.

His embrace was every honesty I needed.

But even Thorne couldn’t protect me from himself.

If I have a soul, it was ripped from me.

If I had a heart, it bled under the motorcycle that nearly killed Rose.

I already knew I didn’t have a conscience. I didn’t become president of a 1% motorcycle club by staking a claim in the moral high ground.

I was a monster.

Dark and twisted and possessed by a demon that wasn’t sated with the blood of just one man.

An angel tried to save me. And she nearly did.

Within her arms, within her body, I held a grace and innocence uncorrupted by even the darkest fiends unleashed from hell.

But Rose was a miracle wasted on me.

She was my anathema. Not a curse. Not something to be exorcized and feared. Not something wicked or vile or evil that represented the basest aspects of our lives.

An Anathema once referenced an offering that was worthy, good, and presented to divinity. An object people would set aside, ban from use, and give as a sacrifice because it offered the gods something better than the rest of mankind’s worthless and petty sin.

Rose offered me more than what I deserved and everything I needed to regain my humanity.

And I tried to sacrifice her.

I used her to fuel my own vengeance. To find, conquer, and eliminate my enemies, without thinking, without realizing a girl like Rose was worth so much more than bloodshed.

And so I had my vengeance. And I had my angel.

But, like all things anathema, retribution had consequences, angels lost their songs, and absolution was the greatest myth of all.

I couldn’t ask Rose to forgive me. She never would.

Anathema went through hell and back, but Pixie welcomed us at the pearly gates. Not enough whiskey existed in the world to fully celebrate the death of our dearly departed, so we supplemented with tequila, gin, and beer. The men drank, and the smart ones didn’t ask any questions. They kept their mouths shut. The first one that asked where Rose was earned a broken nose, fat lip, and a fist size portion of common sense.

The truth was I didn’t know how Rose was. Keep took her to the emergency room and returned with her doped up on enough Vicodin to keep her sleeping through what needed to be done.

I never drugged a woman before. Never needed to. Never wanted to.

Until Rose. Until I saw her thirty stitches, the bruises peeking from under her torn clothing, and a fucking pink cast wrapped over her broken wrist.

I didn’t deserve her.

When I was finally killed by some lucky bastard searching for street cred, I wouldn’t go to hell. Eternal existence was too much a spiritual reward. If I went to hell, I could still think about her. Know she existed at one point in my life. And even in some fucking convoluted way, my regret would be bittersweet.

At least she loved me enough to be heartbroken when I destroyed what remained in her life.

So she slept off the nightmare while the party raged downstairs celebrating my victory. Celebrating how I nearly lost her to Exorcist.

Celebrating how she almost committed
suicide
to protect herself from more pain.

I didn’t deserve a drink. I deserved to be cut open, slashed hundreds of times only to have the alcohol poured into each and every gaping wound.

I skipped the festivities and approached the office. Scotch waited by the door. Patient. He wiped the blood off his hands with a handkerchief. Seemed unnecessary.

“How is he?”

“He’ll live,” Scotch said. “Up to you.”

I didn’t answer. Why did I even ask? Peace of mind? Morbid curiosity?

If he died in the back of Pixie, I wouldn’t have to worry about pulling the trigger. Blame his death on Exorcist and take the coward’s way out.

But Rose would ask. Maybe not at first, maybe not at all, but she had her way. Her curiosity. Her goddamned innocence.

And I’d have to tell her the truth. I couldn’t protect her from everything Anathema. I couldn’t protect her from everything I was. She knew that.

So why did she even want to try?

Was she that suicidal? Or was she that sadistic? She might have had the broken wrist, bruised ribs, and road rash, but that was the extent of her pain.

For me?

One goddamned look would bring me to my knees.

And just the thought of her crying would make me swallow the bullet instead of wasting it on her brother.

I pushed open the door. Brew looked like shit, but he was breathing. Figured. Rose nearly died because he was idiot enough to make deals outside of Anathema. He’d die for all the shit he put Rose through.

Then again, the man bleeding across from me wasn’t the brother who served me. Guilt was a bitch, and I earned my fair share. Keep had a pocket full of drugs to distract him from the truth, but Brew never had that crutch.

I didn’t know how much time I had to kill him. If I wasn’t careful, he do it himself. Some sort of fucked up retribution for failing Rose.

I hadn’t protected her from The Coup. And Exorcist nearly killed her. Brew committing suicide wouldn’t undo any of the fucked up shit that happened to her. If she was too afraid to tell her brothers about the abuse because she thought it’d upset them, losing a brother to his guilt would destroy her.