Unholy: The Unholys MC (2 page)

Chapter Two

Johnny

I watched as the other members helped up Worm. He was beaten pretty badly, his left eye ringed with yellow and purple colors, and his mouth and chin stained with blood. It covered his shirt, too, an awful, dirty white wife beater that did little to help with the gut situation.

He wouldn’t have been my first pick, I had to admit. He wasn’t the sort of image that the Unholys liked to promote most of the time, but rather a wider, jigglier version of what we liked people to think of us. But then, we weren’t really about appearances.

I’d had this argument with Specter before things got started. He’d wanted to know what the hell I thought I was doing, letting a guy like Worm get into the game. It wasn’t any of his business really, and I’d told him that much. I was leader of the Unholys, whether anyone liked it or not. True, Specter was my lieutenant and I valued his opinion in a lot of things, but when a call had to be made, in the end it was
my
call. I didn’t care what kind of position Specter was in, he was still beneath me.

Even so, he was only saying what more than a few of the guys were thinking. I understood that. The Unholys had a reputation to uphold—a pretty nasty one, all things considered—and that reputation would be shot all to hell if the motorcycle club was made up of people like Worm.

Except that I didn’t give a shit what other people thought. Our reputation was based on more than appearances and I intended to keep it that way. I thought that Worm would bring something to the table, something valuable, something we’d been missing for a while now. I wasn’t exactly sure what that was, but I thought it was something to do with morale.

Worm was determined, he wanted to be here. Sometimes I wondered if that was true for any of the other members. Sometimes I wondered if that was true for me.

Besides, when it came right down to it, it didn’t much matter what any of us thought. Worm was in, and more importantly, he was a full-fledged member. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, or the toughest, but at least he was a tool on
our
side.

The Berserkers, a piece of shit baby club, was starting to get a following. They were flexing their muscles and they were doing it on
our
turf. If we wanted any shot at keeping up our strength and holding on to our territory, we were going to have to increase our numbers. Fast.

I wasn’t sure we were going to swing it, if I was being honest, but I had to try. This was my club; they looked to me for help. I couldn’t let them down.

I watched as the other members, my brothers and my family, patted Worm on the back. I decided that if Worm was half as determined and loyal as his head was hard, he would make an excellent addition to the club.

It didn’t take my eyes long to wander, though. I was leader of the Unholys and took my job very seriously, but there was one thing that could tear me away from business: Charlotte.

I spotted her standing off to the side, arms wrapped around herself and hip cocked in what might look like a tough chick position, but I knew better. She was
holding
herself. Something tonight had upset her and I yearned to know what it was.

Sometimes I thought that Charlotte was too damn innocent for all of this shit. It wasn’t true, not really, but it felt like it. Charlotte had seen more violence and grief and trouble in her short life than probably most of us here combined.

Specter wouldn’t be included in that, but then he was usually the exception.

She was the kind of girl who was sort of fragile, though. She put on a brave face when the guys were here and smirked in all the right places, pushed out her chest at all the right moments, and fought like the best of them when she had to—but it was all just an act. It always had been.

I came from a family where violence was the norm, and in a way Charlotte did, too, but it was different for her. The violence wasn’t
directed
at her. Her dad maybe didn’t always do right by her, but he tried.

And what did I do? Dragged her right back into the middle of it.

But I couldn’t help it. I needed her here with me. I needed to feel her legs wrap around me and her nails claw at my back. I needed the things that an innocent little girl shouldn’t give, but it didn’t matter, I had to take them anyway.

She’s not a little girl,
I reminded myself, because I couldn’t be
that
kind of an asshole. But sometimes, when I looked at her and she had those big eyes, that vulnerable look on her face with that trembling lower lip, I felt like I was anyway.

It took me a moment, but finally I caught Charlotte’s eye. I knew that she hated these things, initiation. She didn’t like the violence and didn’t think it was necessary, not really. I thought she knew it was, but didn’t want to admit it to herself. She wanted to believe we all could be better. I wasn’t so naïve.

I sent her a smile, cocky and self-assured, though I didn’t feel much like either of those things lately when it came to her. Things were different between us, strained, and I hated it. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

When she didn’t smile back at me, I winked at her.

She’d been different recently, and I couldn’t really blame her for it. Things had changed abruptly for all of us six months ago and Charlotte out of everyone was taking it the hardest. She had the right to, after all; it was her father who died.

His name was Reverend—it was actually Adam Canders, but the only people who knew that were me, Charlotte, and the Reverend’s widow—and he’d led the Unholys like a righteous but stern king. No one crossed Reverend and everyone respected him.

But six months ago that changed. He died and no one had an answer for that, least of all me. And I wanted one, bad. I wanted to be able to tell Charlotte that everything was fine, everything
would
be fine, and there was a reason for this terrible thing that ripped through her family.

What the hell did I know?

Now, I could see it in Charlotte’s eyes that this wasn’t the same for her anymore. It wasn’t more violent by any stretch, but she’d lost her shield and I was beginning to think she didn’t feel like I was enough to make up for that.

I wanted to prove her wrong, but didn’t quite know how. Not yet.

The beating was over and Worm was on his feet. Someone had even given him a bag of ice to press against his face in the hopes that one of his eyes at least might open the following morning. I sincerely doubted it. The guys were still congratulating Worm on his successful initiation, but they were starting to filter out now. It was just about time to go.

Strictly speaking, it was part of the biker’s code—ours at least—that the women of the club stay back when it came to the beatings. They could be present, like Charlotte, but had to stand off to the side and wait.

Once, I’d told Charlotte that she didn’t have to go. I wasn’t sure if I’d really meant it or not, probably not, but I had said it anyway in the hopes of appeasing her. We’d been arguing for the last week before that, it seemed, but when I’d made the offer, she just seemed all the more pissed off at me. It was like I had insulted her.

Even now, I wasn’t really sure what had set her off, but after that she’d made it a point to not only attend every initiation and every meeting, but to force herself to watch as much as she could stand.

Tonight had been especially brutal, and I’d noticed her look away several times.

I didn’t think it affected the other women—the old ladies of members of the club, since Charlotte was the only “official” female member, and that was more due to special circumstances than anything else—like it did Charlotte. She was more delicate than they were.

I watched as the women who had been standing near or sitting on the bikes head into the ring now. They joined their men, hugging and kissing and showing general displays of affection that was maybe more than I wanted to see just then.

I waited for Charlotte, but I knew even before I saw her turn away that she wouldn’t come to me. I
knew
it. Part of me wanted to stalk over to her and grab her wrist as she reached for the car. I wanted to jerk her around and make her look at me, make her stare deep into my eyes until that familiar yearning, burning sensation filled my body and I kissed her like I couldn’t breathe without her.

Sometimes I felt like I really couldn’t.

Instead, I watched her like a hawk. Watched as she yanked open the car door and slipped inside. Since she didn’t ride with us, she wasn’t required to have a bike. She could use her father’s, of course, but if we were riding, it was more likely that she’d ride with me anyway—her arms wrapped around my middle and her crotch pressed against my back, until the vibrations drove us both nuts. When Charlotte started the car and backed up, she finally looked up at me. It was a brief glance and she still didn’t smile back at me, but I didn’t hold it against her.

Charlotte would come back, she always did.

Chapter Three

Charlotte

I backed the car away from the circle of bikes surrounding the older members and the newest member. I saw Johnny, knew he was looking at me even before I saw him, but it was hard to look at him just then. I knew his hand was throbbing and bloody, bruised from the punches he threw at Worm’s face and ribs. It wasn’t like I didn’t know it was all coming; I’d been in this “business” for a long time now. But the fact of the matter was, I knew that some part of Johnny enjoyed all of this. And worse, once upon a time,
I’d
enjoyed it, too.

Maybe I hadn’t craved the violence like the others, but I had craved the adrenaline of a fight and the eager, heated look that came over Johnny’s face whenever his fist connected with flesh. It was heated and manic and incredibly sexy. It never failed to turn me on; normally this would be the time when I went to him, wrapped my arms around him, and ground myself into his crotch. This was when I usually whispered in his ear that we needed to get the hell out of there so that he could fuck me into the ground.

But not tonight. So much had changed and I couldn’t seem to come to terms with it; so even when I finally got brave and met Johnny’s gaze from across the pavement, I didn’t stay. I ignored the look of longing he gave me and pretended that I didn’t feel that familiar urge to have him any and every way.

I pulled out onto the old highway that led back out towards home. We made a point of having things like initiations way out there so that police and civilians alike were less likely to stumble upon us. It made sense and I knew it was better this way, since a lot of these guys would fight before they let the police take them in, no matter what Johnny said, but it meant for a long drive home. And I had too many thoughts to be stuck alone in a car with them for the next hour.

I fiddled with the dials on the radio, hopeful that I might catch something to drown out some of those thoughts, but it was useless. Until I came down off the mountain and got a little closer to more occupied civilization, I wasn’t going to get shit by way of radio stations or a signal.

“Fuck,” I said aloud to the car.

An image of Johnny grinning at me flashed through my mind. I tried to shove it away, but I could already hear his deep, heavy voice grating against me and touching my body like a ghost,
“Pretty little mouth like yours shouldn’t say filthy things like that.”

A shiver ran through me and it took everything I had to push thoughts of Johnny and the things we could’ve been doing right then away. It was a true testament of will and just how shitty I was feeling that I managed it at all.

Unfortunately, with Johnny no longer taking up the space, another man was happy to fill it.

The Reverend. My father. Adam Canders. He’d only been fifty-three when he’d died and everyone said it was too young, and I had to agree.

I knew it was coming before it did, but the memory of that night still shocked me enough that I had to take a moment to swerve off to the side of the road. My breathing was heavy, labored, and for a minute, I thought I might start hyperventilating. I flipped on my hazards, just in case I blacked out from lack of oxygen and tried to force myself through the experience.

Blood. It was everywhere. Sticky and ready and thicker than you would think, and darker, too. Blood—

I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and focused on my breathing. In, out. In, out. Slow and easy. Focus. Calm. My hands gripped the edges of the steering wheel until my knuckles were white and my fingers were sore, but I didn’t let up. I tried to focus on that instead, but I couldn’t block out the images as they rolled on through.

“Dad?”

I’d come home kind of late in the evening. I was still living with Mom and Dad, because I was scared of eliminating the space between me and Johnny. I needed that buffer and wasn’t ready to give it up yet, no matter how crazy I was about Johnny.

It wasn’t unusual or anything for me to be out this late and no one would say shit to me, because I wasn’t a little kid anymore, and besides, everyone knew who I was with. I didn’t have to tell my dad that Johnny and I were serious, because he already knew. Everyone did. And if anyone happened to forget that, Johnny was more than happy to talk to them with his fists until they did.

I’d called on my way home, but no one had answered. I’d gotten the voice mail, an old message recorder that took cassette tapes, the kind you couldn’t really find anymore nowadays, but mom and dad refused to get rid of it.

My message had been quick, just an update to say I was on my way so that if it took me too long to get home, everyone would know that something was up.

Adult or no, rules were rules. And given that my dad was club leader of the Unholys, it was fair to expect me to take a few extra precautions.

When I walked in the door, I called out for Dad to let him know that I’d gotten in alright. When he didn’t answer right away, I frowned. I’d think he was out, but his bike was parked out front; he should have been home.

I headed into the kitchen to look for Mom, but she wasn’t there. She left a note saying she was out, that she had some lingering bookkeeping for the club and wouldn’t be home until later. It was the job I’d take over when she couldn’t handle it anymore.

“Dad?” I called again, but still no answer.

I was starting to get worried, nervous. He was such a light sleeper and he always waited up for Mom. It didn’t make sense, I couldn’t make sense of it—

That’s when I made it to the back garage where dad liked to tinker with things. Old project bikes or sometimes an old car. Things he might work on with Johnny when they were doing the bonding thing or when Dad wanted to talk to him without me overhearing.

I pressed my eyes closed desperately, but that did nothing to stop the images from flooding my mind. There was nothing I could do about that or what had happened or anything else, either. Life had thrown me a curve ball and I didn’t know what to do except back away from it helplessly.

I found Dad. He was on the floor and there was blood. It was everywhere. It pooled onto the concrete like some sort of abstract art that would cost a fortune to some critic in New York who would go on and on about how
expressive
it was. But it wasn’t art. It was my dad, lying face down in it, and the blood was his.

The shotgun was beside him and he had his fingers clasped around the handle and his fingers snuggled in next to the trigger.

Part of me wanted to turn the other way and walk back out of the house, to do the whole thing over and just pretend like no one was home, because it was better than the alternative, but I couldn’t.

The thought came to me even as I raged against it: Dad’s dead.

I backed away, unable to turn my eyes from the grisly sight, but needing to put space between it and myself. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cellphone. I didn’t look at it as I dialed his number. After only one ring he picked up.

“Hello? Charlotte?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I tried again and this time a shuddering breath slipped between my parted lips.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you? I’ll fucking kill them, babe, you just tell me who it was. I’ll fucking kill them.”

He said all of these things instantly without even considering them or the consequences, because that was the kind of man Johnny always was. He was brazen and bold and maybe a little foolhardy, but he was tough enough to back it up. If he said he was going to do something, he’d do it. And when it came to me, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

In that moment it both scared me and soothed me. Johnny was familiar. Johnny would protect me.

“Johnny,” I breathed, my voice coming out as barely less than a whimper. “Daddy, he—” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, but that was all Johnny needed. He reacted instantly.

“I’m coming over. I’ll be there in a few. You just hold tight, and, baby, you keep a gun on you and don’t open the door for anyone but me, you hear?”

I managed to get out a yes and then the line went dead. I crumpled to the floor. I stared at the body of my father for probably ten or fifteen minutes before Johnny got there; he must not have made it all the way home yet when I’d called. Maybe he stopped for gas or food or to talk with one of the guys. Maybe he was just waiting for me to call, willing me to, wanting to hear my voice or—

My thoughts kept running into each other as I stared ahead at the blood that was cooling, drying. I tried not to think about it, but how could I not?

Then Johnny was there. He cursed a lot and pulled me up, wrapping me in his strong arms. He was warm and safe; I was grateful that he was here with me. He held me and stroked my hair, shushing me—I must have started to cry—until finally I calmed down a little.

He pulled away and lifted my chin up so that he could look me in the eyes. The intensity there always startled me, but tonight it was welcome. That intensity meant that he’d fix this, he was the only one who could fix this.

“Babe, I need you to sit in the living room, okay? I need you to stay there while I take care of this, okay?”

I nodded and let him lead me to the couch. I sat there as he made calls and people came and voices talked about what was going on, but I was numb to all of it. All I could think about was the blood.

When the flashback was over, I managed to calm my breathing down. I was shaking and my hands were sore from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, but I forced them to relax. Slowly, I took several calming breaths before finally turning off my hazard lights and pulling back out onto the old highway. I had no idea how long I’d been sitting there, but it couldn’t have been too long. If one of the other members had passed, they would have stopped to check on me.

I was grateful they hadn’t.

I started driving towards home, remembering all that came after that night. Johnny had been so good to me in the days that followed, so helpful. He took care of everything. He got some of the guys to…to clean up the body. He made all of the funeral arrangements, he kept me wrapped up in his arms as much as humanly possible.

The funeral had been closed casket and I’d worn a black dress beneath the leather jacket that my father had gifted me so many years ago. The others—the rest of the club—had worn black, too, and their jackets to show respect for my father and all he’d meant. I’d watched as each and every one of them had walked up to the casket and rapped on it twice with their knuckles, the echoing sound too deep and too loud for my ears.

I knew what it had meant. Revenge. It meant that every one of those club members, our
family
, wouldn’t stop until they found the person responsible for the Reverend’s death and exacted a fair price. His life.

But that was the problem, because the man who was responsible was already dead, wasn’t he?

They’d found a note with the body. I hadn’t seen it because I couldn’t bring myself to get any closer to my father and face the truth of his death, but when they cleared it away, they found the note.

Tell Jan I’m sorry. She’ll understand.

I never saw the note. I never wanted to, but they showed it to my mom—she was Jan—and she cried even harder after that. For a full day she wouldn’t even open the door for anyone. Not even me. But then she came out and when they asked—because they had to—she denied knowing what the note meant. It couldn’t mean anything, I thought, but then she confirmed it and I was sure that they’d gotten it all wrong.

Apparently, most of the members felt the same way. The Reverend wouldn’t have ended his own life, and yet, he was still dead.

After the funeral, I went home with Johnny. My mom stayed in her bedroom and cried until her pillow must have been soaked, but I couldn’t go home and remember where my dad had been and where he’d lived. Where he’d died. It was too much for me, so I went to Johnny and let him comfort me after the funeral.