Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (9 page)

BOOK: Warlord (Anathema Book 1)
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They flipped
tables, swore at me, swore at each other, and screamed until all I imagined was
breakfast back home where Dad rampaged through the halls, my brothers and their
new patches slammed the front door, and Mom wept in the bathroom with a bottle
of bourbon and a pocket full of Vicodin.

The phone buzzed
again.

Absolutely not.

My brothers
could scream and stomp and threaten all they wanted. It wouldn’t change a damn
thing. I was
done
. I’d find a new job at another dollar coffee diner—one
that hadn’t watched my brothers beat my boss to a bloody pulp. I’d upload another
song on YouTube to get some ad revenue. Hell, I’d even sell the few pieces of
jewelry I had of Mom’s—Craig’s List. No more pawn shops.

I’d make it on
my own.

My brothers
wouldn’t like it.

And Dad would be
furious. And it didn’t matter how many secure walls and steel bars the courts
used to separate us. He could still get to me. I’d never be far enough from
that man. As long as he breathed, he’d always be too close.

The phone
continued to buzz.

I ripped it from
my pocket. No sense hiding from Keep and Brew. No Darnell ever left without a fight.
I only hoped I didn’t end up tethered to my apartment with my car keys stolen. Or
worse. Tethered to an IV with half a dozen concocted stories about the stairs I
accidentally tripped down.

I didn’t
recognize the number, but Brew and Keep never stayed on the grid with a real
cellphone. I tried to growl. My sharp squeak was about as metal as a clarinet
with a splintered reed.


What
?”

The unfamiliar
voice hesitated. “Is this...Rose Darnell?”

My blush might
have spread pink from my cheeks through the stranger’s phone. I cleared my
throat.

“Oh!  Yes, sorry.
That’s me.”

“This is Randal
Nix. From Club Sanctuary.”

My stomach
flipped like I had wandered too close to a drum kit and got drop-kicked by the
percussionist.

“Yes!” The squeak
hadn’t disappeared. “Of course. Hello!”

“Would you be
available this Friday for a booking?  Two hours. Nine until eleven. We’re paying
three hundred dollars.”

My heart
flooded, sputtered, and stalled out before he even finished offering. I sunk
onto my bed, completely missing the mattress and plopping on the floor. The
quilt fell to my side, and my suitcase tumbled with it. A tennis shoe stuffed
with a dozen guitar picks escaped the bag and spilled.

“Hello?” Randal
asked. “Rose?”

I couldn’t
speak, but I never did like silence. Dad did. He hated when I sang. When I
cried.

When I tried to
scream.

I blinked and
forced myself into any bit of noise.

“Yes,” I said. “I
wasn’t expecting a call.”

“Something’s
come up. A slot is available if you want it.”

“I—” The
suitcase popped a hinge and opened. I hadn’t even folded the clothes right. Just
stuffed shirts and skirts into any opening I could find. I had the drama down,
but graceful wasn’t yet in my repertoire. “This Friday?”

“Is it possible?”

If I was still
in town. I banged my head against the bed. The mounded blankets didn’t help
clear the cacophony.

“Only two
hours?”

“For Friday, yes.
If we like what we hear, it might become a permanent booking.”

Of course it would.
“Three hundred?”

“I can see our
terms aren’t acceptable.”

“No—I mean...”

“Four hundred. For
the first performance. We can negotiate a contract if the arrangement works.”

My mouth watered.
“Well...that’s generous.”

And absolutely
the worst timing imaginable. I gnawed on my lip. It’d be awfully hard to escape
my brother’s reach if I accepted a gig centered right in the middle of the
city.

Independence.

A solid gig.

Freedom from my
brothers.

Four hundred and
the possibility of a contract.

I kicked the
suitcase and silently swore.

“I’ll be there,”
I said.

“Excellent. We’ll
see you Friday. Daryl, our floor manager, will help you set up.”

Not much to set
up without equipment. I thanked him, probably three too many times, and hauled
my butt from the carpet. Regret sucked. Especially when it smacked me just as
soon as I finally achieved everything I worked so hard to accomplish.

Except this guilt
was worse. It gutted me. Pitted my stomach and soured everything that hadn’t
already been twisted, curdled, and rolled. I should have been excited. Should
have leapt around my bedroom, celebrated with ice cream, and started planning
my set—as if I didn’t know exactly what I would play and what lighting I’d
request.

Most people made
sacrifices for their dream. They’d give up their jobs, their friends, and their
families just to have that one shot to make it.

Instead, my
dream sacrificed everything. Freedom. Safety. A world beyond the 1% and police
files on my family’s name.

Music bound me
to the valley just like the patch on my brothers’ jackets marked their
territory. I sighed. I even played the acoustic guitar. No wires to hold me
down. Only opportunity.

The knock on the
door wasn’t unexpected. I checked my phone. An hour’s peace. Had I not taken
the call, I might have sped out of town already.

Or they would have
caught me loading my car.

Thank goodness
for small miracles.

The pounding
didn’t stop. I scowled. They’d drum against the door all night. Maybe I
wouldn’t answer. Maybe I’d put my headphones on and pretend like my lunatic
brothers weren’t shouting for me from the landing of my apartment. My neighbors
could call the police, but I doubted they’d respond if the caller mentioned the
Anathema patch on their vests.

Brew shouted for
me, the edge of his voice laced with bundled aggression and something else.

Fear
.

My throat closed.
I hated the feeling, the panicky sweat that prickled my neck when I heard my
brothers’ angry desperation. Didn’t happen often. I could count on my hand the
times the chilled grip choked their voices. When Mom died. When the DA
threatened Dad with the death penalty. When Anathema bled over the streets and
Exorcist’s war nearly decimated their ranks.

I sighed. No
sense in worrying them while I pouted in my apartment. Trying to run was cruel
enough, and they deserved to be called psychopaths to their face. At least
they’d know it came from the heart.

I stalked to the
entryway but flinched as Keep launched his weight into the door. The wood
squealed, and the hinges cracked. I shouted but a second kick shattered the
door and wrenched it open. It smacked against the wall, the knob imbedding in
the drywall.

“Jesus
Christ
,
Rose!” Brew pushed Keep out of his way to loom over me. “When we knock, you
fucking answer! Who the fuck knows what might have happened to you?”

My mouth
dropped, and a stunned squeal eked out. “Are you two out of your minds?”

Keep ripped the
door out of the wall. The hinge cracked and tumbled to the floor. The frame
splintered as well. My landlord would pitch a fit if I wasn’t so sure my
brothers’ would kill him for even mentioning the security deposit.

“Where the hell
were you?” Brew asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m pretty
freaked out right now.” I edged away from the busted drywall.

“No problem
getting home?”

I glanced at
Keep. He shrugged.

“You mean
besides the two prospects manhandling me out of Pixie, shoving me into the car,
and running two red lights to get me home?” I asked.

“Everything in
order here?”

I crossed my
arms. “I’m fine, aside from being thoroughly humiliated.”

“Oh, you better
watch that smart-ass tone,” Keep warned. “Better humiliated than getting throttled
in front of the club.”

“Really?” I
raised my chin. “You gonna hit me?”

“Why the fuck is
she challenging me?” Keep tensed his jaw. His stare lasted only a minute before
he slapped Brew’s shoulder. “Straighten our sister out before she says
something she’ll regret.”

Brew grunted. “She
sounds like she wants that frown smacked off her mouth.”

“Then
do
it!” I stepped toward Brew before I realized what a horrible idea it was. Then again,
a Darnell never retreated. We just bruised easily. “Go ahead. Hit me. Just like
Dad. He’d do it. Why don’t you too?”

Brew’s brow
threaded. He sucked in a breath. “Jesus.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I’m not going
to fucking hit you. Sit down before you cry.”

“I’m not crying.”
The tears prickled my eyes. “What do you want?  Tell me so you can go.”

“Now she’s
kicking us out?” Keep softened his voice at my first sniffle. “The hell is
wrong with you?  Pawning guitars. Storming over to Pixie. You’re not acting
right.”

I still clutched
my cell. The excitement for the gig fizzled and popped without ever settling in
me. My stomach flipped, but throwing up would only delay the inevitable. I
collapsed on the couch.

“I can’t do this
anymore,” I said.

“This again.” Brew
claimed an easy chair I took from the house after Dad left. “Rose—”

“I’m serious. This
life. The danger. The panic and the rules and the pawn shops I can’t go to and
the restaurants across the river I’m not allowed to eat at. I can’t do it. I
won’t.”

My brothers silenced.
I looked at the broken door and turned to glance at the tumbled over suit-case
resting against my bed.

“I want you guys
to leave me alone. Forget about me. Just let me live my life.”

Keep curled his
hands behind his head. He shrugged at Brew.

“You tell her,”
Keep said. “It was your idea.”

“Wasn’t my
idea.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m doing right
by her.”

Keep grimaced. “You’re
putting her right in the middle.”

“It’s the right
call,” he said.

“It’s a fucking
mistake.”

I tensed. Goosebumps
tickled my arms. They stared across the room, the blue of Keep’s eyes clashing
against the stoic darkness I shared with Brew. Arguments were nothing new to
the Darnell family. Dad yelled all the time.

But not my
brothers.

Nothing
separated my brothers.

Getting sick
sounded better and better, if only to avoid the smothering tension. I swallowed
the bile.

“What’s wrong?”
I didn’t know who to ask. “What happened?”

“You happened,”
Brew said. Keep swore and turned away. “We don’t trust Exorcist. That’s a given.
You know how dangerous it is now.”

“Okay.”

“You need to
come with us.”

I hid behind a
throw pillow, but unless the decorative cushion was made of Kevlar, it didn’t
offer the protection I wanted.

“Come
where
?”

Keep sighed. “Pixie.”

“You’re kidding!”
I sucked in a deep breath, but even my singer’s lungs couldn’t hold enough. “I
just
came from there!  You nearly wrecked the place because I
was
there!  You
insulted me, dragged me around, and kicked me out!”

“Time to go
back.”

“No!”

“Don’t argue,
Bud.”

“Don’t call me
Bud!

“It’s not safe
for you here.” Keep shrugged at the busted door. “Especially now. We’re going
to keep you hidden for a while.”

I stayed still
and tried to prevent my heart from exploding. Counting to ten never did a damn
thing for me, but I used to play some Hendrix or Santana to stifle my family’s
inherited temper. Too bad I pawned my only form of anger management.

“You want to
hide
me?” I ground my teeth. “After I tell you I want out, that I want nothing to do
with the MC, and that I want to live my
own
life, you decide to
hide
me in Anathema?”

“Gotta keep you
safe,” Brew said. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“And what if I want
to risk it?”

“Not gonna
happen.”

“Why?” I pitched
the pillow at him. “What gives you the right—”

Brew stood,
towering over me and the couch. “I am your fucking brother. Dad told me to keep
an eye on you. What I say goes. You’re coming with us.”

“No.”

“Club voted,”
Keep said. “They agreed.”

“I’m not even a
part of the club!” I ran my hands through my hair. “You can’t vote on someone’s
life who isn’t in Anathema!”

BOOK: Warlord (Anathema Book 1)
8.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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