Unholy: The Unholys MC (9 page)

I finished my shower, then dried off. Johnny was lying down on the bed when I went to our room for some clothing. He had an arm thrown over his eyes and his breathing was even, though I seriously doubted that he was sleeping. I didn’t disturb him, though, instead just grabbed a pair of skin tight leather pants and a baby blue top that was a button down, but low cut.

Sending one last glance at Johnny, who hadn’t moved, I sighed and shook my head. I wasn’t sure how long I could wait.

Turning away, I headed downstairs and grabbed my leather jacket from the closet, then went out the door. I walked towards my car, but as I did, I caught something gleaming in the morning sunlight. Something silver and shiny.

I froze.

It was a knife.

I glanced back towards the house, thinking that I should show Johnny. But I didn’t want to see Johnny again, couldn’t handle it right now, so I grabbed the knife, holding it by the very tip, pinching between my two fingers so that I didn’t have to really touch it. Unsure, but knowing that I didn’t want to take it back inside, I dropped it down into my purse.

Then I headed back towards the car, because whatever else was going on, I was still the bookkeeper for the club, and I knew I had a day of long, boring paperwork ahead of me.

I thought about Johnny and the knife that weighed down my purse and I wondered just what I thought I was going to do when it was all said and done.

Chapter Ten

Johnny

Violence.

There were probably some people in the world who would go the rest of their lives without seeing what true violence was. People who lived in little suburban neighborhoods in cookie cutter houses, oblivious to what the real world was like other than the nightly news talking about things that made those people just shake their heads and mutter about how they just couldn’t believe how there were some people who could do things like that.

I wasn’t one of those people and probably never would be. Violence was a dirty word, but it was in my vocabulary and used often. Did I like it? No, at least, I didn’t think so, but it was there, always lurking just around the next corner. It was part of the life I’d chosen to live and it was part of the life I’d lived before that.

You didn’t avoid violence in foster care anymore than you avoided jumping from home to home.

But just because I was used to it and I expected it, didn’t mean that I enjoyed it. I didn’t have to take pleasure from necessary things, I just had to do them.

That was what had happened last night. I should have known things couldn’t go smoothly with Stitches and the Berserkers. They were into some bad shit and I’d started hearing that it wasn’t just hard drugs and arms deals that they were getting involved with either. It was worse than that, the kinds of things I had always promised myself that I would never get behind. I wasn’t a pimp and I didn’t like the idea of human trafficking—young girls sent out on the streets to do the dirty with strange men,
paying
customers, and that was only the tip of the iceberg—but I had to do something. I told myself that whatever the Berserkers were into, the Unholys didn’t have to follow. We could coexist, split the territory and the profits, then go on our merry way.

I told myself that over and over again, but it was almost impossible to believe. How could I claim that I wasn’t a party to those sorts of activities when I was taking some cut in the profits they were making?

It didn’t sit well with me. None of it did. But funds were low. Members were low. And if we didn’t make peace with the Berserkers, we’d have to make war, and I wasn’t dumb enough to think we could win that. Not now.

But even with all that knowledge—the Berserkers, Stitches, the drugs, and the prostitution—I never would have been prepared for last night. How could I have been?

“What the hell is this?”

“A present. I hope you like it.”

I shuddered at the memory of our conversation that night. How eager and pleased Stitches had been with himself. I still didn’t know if it was because he enjoyed torturing others—which wasn’t a bad guess—or if it was because he knew that the guy had been lying all the while. The problem was, I couldn’t rule out the second possibility no matter how much I figured the first was true.

“A good faith present. A favor, if you will.”

“And why would this present of yours matter to us?”

“Because this is the man who made the Reverend kill himself.”

Those words would echo and rattle around in my mind like ghosts for the rest of my life. I would never be able to be completely rid of them, no matter how hard I might try. They’d been perfect, regardless of the truth. Just enough to get our blood and anger pumping, but not concrete enough to really give us anything.

It was widely known that the Reverend, the last leader of the Unholys before I reluctantly slipped into the spot, had killed himself. There’d been a gun, a pool of blood, a hole in his head, and most importantly of all, a note. It hadn’t been detailed. It hadn’t given much by way of reasoning, but it had been there. And it had been in the Reverend’s handwriting. Both Charlotte and her mother had confirmed that much and it didn’t matter how much everyone would like to argue, there was no denying that the note wasn’t a forgery.

If it was a suicide, as it seemed, then the Unholys were left floundering about. Code stated that the death of a member should be avenged, because members were family, but how did you avenge the death of a member when they killed themselves? None of us were quite sure, so to find some evidence, any evidence at all, that might suggest that there had been more at work here, gave us all a little hope.

At least, it would when I told everyone about it. As of yet, I hadn’t.

I was lying on the bed upstairs, staring blankly at the ceiling. Charlotte had showered, dressed, and left, but I hadn’t even moved since breakfast. We’d argued and it’d been bad, but what could I tell her? The truth?

That almost made me laugh, though it was hardly what anyone would call funny. Charlotte was in a bad place right now, lost at sea after finding her father’s body, and I probably shouldn’t have told her the things I told her. But I didn’t have a lot of options. She wanted to leave; I couldn’t let her. Not yet.

Now that Charlotte was gone for the day, to work on something safe and boring, I couldn’t help but think of how it had gone down the night before. I’d screwed up, bad, but there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t walk away.

Stitches and the Berserkers left, but Specter and I lingered behind. The man hung by his bound hands off a hook that was tied to the ceiling. He was already in pretty bad shape and something in my stomach churned nauseously as I realized that I’d have to put him in worse shape. Once the sounds of the Berserkers’ bikes reached our ears, the revving followed by the squealing of tires, I knew it was time to start. If I lingered for much longer, there would be no excuse. Specter would start to wonder if I was man enough for the job, and that was a question I didn’t have the time for right now. Too much else was going on.

Besides, however much I didn’t want to do this, however much I’d finally gotten tired of the violence, there was a part of me that wanted this. If this man really was responsible for the Reverend’s suicide, then damnit, I wanted to know. I wanted answers. It just wouldn’t be pretty how I was going to try and get them.

My throat was suddenly dry and it was all I could do not to swallow heavily in nervousness to try and ease some of that.

I cracked my knuckles to buy myself some time, trying to think of how I was going to do this, but I already knew. There was only one option to me now. I’d ask the questions, but it wasn’t really about them. It was about my fists connecting with his face and the knowledge that his beating was all that really mattered. In the eyes of the Unholys—should they ever know what happened—he was guilty as sin. There wouldn’t be any trial for him, though something in my gut told me that there should be.

“Wake him up,” I told Specter, who was standing silently behind me.

The man had already begun to rouse towards consciousness, but he was only halfway there. I imagined that he’d already been through quite a lot tonight, courtesy of the Berserkers and their mad leader, but it unfortunately wasn’t enough. He’d have to go through our punishment, too.

Specter did as I asked. He was looking a little pale and his brow was dappled with drops of sweat, and for a moment I wondered if this made him as sick as it made me. The idea was almost laughable, however, and I quickly pushed it out of my mind. Specter wasn’t the kind of man to be squeamish, if anything, he was looking forward to this.

There were several open water bottles on the table, remnants from our meeting, and Specter grabbed one quickly. He stepped up to the hanging man and grinned widely, his teeth gleaming an off white in the dim lighting, almost like they were being illuminated by a black light. He threw the water at the man’s face, emptying the bottle’s contents. It was effective.

The man began to sputter and spit, coughing up water and maybe some swallowed blood, it was hard to say. He was in rough shape. When he’d stopped, Specter stepped up and grabbed him by the face, pinching his cheeks between his thumb and fingers. Jerking the man so that he was looking at Specter, my lieutenant grinned at him. “You’re in a bad way, my friend,” he said darkly. “So you’d better answer right if you wanna walk away tonight.”

There was a hollowness in his words. I had the distinct impression that Specter didn’t expect him to walk away at all, regardless of what he said. I hadn’t decided yet if I could bring myself to do that. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d killed a man, but it would be the first time that it was like this.

Specter stepped back, letting the man’s face drop, and I stepped up to the plate. This was my show after all. The man’s gaze whirled around quickly to me. He paled when he caught sight of my face, recognizing me instantly.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, and I nodded in agreement.

“I’ve got some questions for you,” I told him, trying to remain calm.

The man immediately let out a whimper, obviously knowing what was coming, and it made me feel a little ill. I liked it better when they manned up; it left less of an impression on my conscience.

“What do you know about the Reverend?” I began easily, taking a moment to step closer, close enough that I could all but smell the fear radiating off of him in waves. It made me nauseous, but I pushed that down. I had to be tough as nails; Specter was watching.

“Please, just let me go. I didn’t have anything against him or his.” The man was begging already and I hadn’t touched him yet, though it was clear that someone most definitely had.

I ignored his plea and pushed through. “Did you meet him? Did you know him?”

He shook his head, sucking in a harsh breath. “Please, I don’t know anything about anyone, I swear.”

I hit him before I thought about it. That made it easier. When my knuckles collided with the man’s already tenderized cheek, I was reminded of initiation. Worm had been big and blubbery, but he put up with a lot. He put up with the punches and the kicks and the brutality that came with joining the club. I’d enjoyed that, in a way. It had liberated me and when it was all said and done, the violence brought us closer as a group. It made us family.

This wasn’t like that, I told myself. This was about causing someone pain in order to get answers. Or maybe not even that, because somewhere inside, I knew the answers that came from his bruised lips wouldn’t be worth shit. How could you trust someone to give you any real answer when they’d say anything just to get you to stop?

“I asked you a question,” I told him, running my left hand over the knuckles of my right. They were pinching and throbbing already, and I knew that was only the start. “Did you know the Reverend?”

“C’mon, man,” the guy told me, whining again. “Everyone knew the Reverend. He was a fucking legend.”

A smart answer. Probably the only smart answer I’d get that night. “I see. And did you know this fucking legend personally?”

The man hesitated and that told me more than his words. I hit him again and felt skin split. I’d caught him hard against the cheek, slicing it open. He cursed, trying to pull away, but there was no point. Because of how he was strung up, there was no getting away from me or my fists.

“Did you know him?”

“No, I didn’t! I’m a fucking Berserker, man! Why would I know him?”

I thought about that answer even as I punched him again, this time hitting him hard in the gut. The air whooshed from his lungs and I knew it would take him a long time to regain it. That would give me a second before he could talk again, a second to think.

A Berserker. It made sense, then, that Stitches would get his hands on him, right? I would have a better chance of knowing that my guys had done something fucked up than Stitches or the other Berserkers would. So it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that Stitches had found him out and presented him as a means of getting an edge on us during the negotiations.

It made sense, but it didn’t sit right with me. I knew Stitches was out of his mind, but he also understood the importance of loyalty and numbers. If he started throwing his men under the bus like that, then he’d start losing them.

So then the question became: Why would Stitches give me his own man?

When the man coughed and wheezed in another breath, I got in on the next question. “You said everyone knew him.”