Devil's Fall: Dust Bowl Devils MC (18 page)

“You’re leaving?” She nearly shrieked it. They’d only just gotten together for the first time in years. Senna was in deep shit and part of her had hoped her sister had changed, that she’d be there for her instead of running away.
Nothing’s changed at all.

Dawn only shrugged. “Don’t worry. They’ll do the right thing.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“Well.” Dawn withdrew. “Then I guess I’ll have to come rescue you with guns blazing.”

Then Dawn was gone, leaving her, escaping, and anger flared in her chest.
What did I ever do that was so wrong?
She wanted to hit something. Their father was the asshole, not her. Fleeing him made sense; fleeing your own sister, though? She’d seen the years-old hurt echoing in Dawn’s eyes.
Maybe I just remind her too much. But it wasn’t all bad, we could have clung to each other.
But it had never been that way.

No sister, no family, Senna was stuck there alone, listening to the thuds of the men’s fists outside and the grunts of pain that Gunner couldn’t hold back.
Please be okay. Please be okay.

When it finally stopped, only the red-bearded man returned to the house. “Heya, girly,” he said, extending a friendly hand. She shook it in a daze.
Please be okay.
“Name’s Mort. Go on and get yourself stretched out on the table on your stomach while I get my gear.”

“You’re a tattoo artist?” she asked. He wore the club colors, too.

“A hobbyist.” He winked.

Bars interrupted, “Bill wants it visible.”

Mort frowned. “How visible?”

“Always visible. He suggested her forehead but I’m willing to compromise and say the back of her hand.”

Her stomach flipped.
I’ll be unemployable forever. I’ll look like a damn gang member myself.
“Are you guys serious?”

Bars raised his eyebrows. “You want the forehead?”

“No. God, no.”

She helped him stand the table back up while Mort went out front to get his things. “Can I go check on him?” she asked, nodding towards the backyard.

“No. Sit.” She had to bite her lip hard against the tide of fear and pain that kept rising, threatening her composure and making her want to scream. She sank into the chair in silence. Arguing would get her nowhere. Losing it would get her nowhere.

Mort gave her a sympathetic look when he returned with his tattoo gear. At least with his gloves and the device wrapped in plastic and the new needle he showed her, she could pretend as if this was somewhat sanitary.

He traced the design onto her first. “There are girls who voluntarily get this done?” she asked, incredulous. She wasn’t surprised to see their Devil character, with its scythe and its dust cloud. But in bold letters above it, it read “Property of,” and below it, in a ladder of words leading down her wrist, it said “Dust Bowl Devils MC.”

“Yeah,” he said, “Usually on their hip or their ass. But if you wanna be an old lady or a club girl…” he shrugged.

“Rich girls don’t get it, Mort, don’t waste your breath,” Bars said. He still stood in the doorway.

“No need to be a jackass, Bars,” Mort said. He winked at her. “You won’t steal her away from Gunner for a night with that attitude.”

She liked this Mort; he seemed pretty okay. Maybe Dawn was right. She felt a glimmer of hope, then. How many more members were there? The president and his VP were obviously against her, but with Nomad, Dawn’s guy Irish, and maybe Mort… maybe she stood a chance after all.

The tattoo itself hurt more than she thought it would. It was a struggle to keep her hand still but she had to. She had no doubt they’d have her restrained if she jerked away or tried to fight.
Just one ugly, black, tattoo. Right where everyone can see it. Too dark to cover without half a bottle of concealer. No big deal.

But for all the pain of the needle leaving trails of fire across her skin, the pain in her heart was worse when Gunner finally stumbled through the door. Bars stood aside and let him pass but made no move to help. He limped to the kitchen sink holding one arm across his chest, lip swollen, nose dripping blood down his neck and spreading into his shirt, one eye swollen and bruised as well. He leaned over the basin and spat a mouthful of blood before running the water.

She shielded her eyes with a hand and closed them tight, fighting the tears that threatened to rise.
Don’t show weakness.
She took one deep breath, then another, before lowering her hand and making herself sit up straight once more.

“Hey,” Mort said. “He’ll be fine. I’ve seen him take worse.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“Well. Once you’ve been part of the club circle for a while you’ll understand. It’s just how things work.”

She didn’t think she’d ever understand but she didn’t argue. Not with the man leaving a permanent mark on her hand.
At least he seems confident that I’ll be around for a while.

Gunner finished half-heartedly washing his face and sank to the floor, sitting with his back against the kitchen cupboards. She longed to go to him but Mort was making slow progress. The pain of the process was bad enough to make her light-headed, but she bit her lip, kept her eyes on Gunner, and endured.
Not much longer. Six more letters. Five more letters.

As soon as Mort finally finished and wrapped her hand in plastic wrap, she scrambled over to Gunner, dropping to her knees with a bone-jarring thud.

His eyes had that empty look again.

"Can you drive?"

He nodded. She kissed him softly, tasting sweat and a hint of copper. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Stop." He winced as he stood.

She found Nomad watching them with a thoughtful look on his face. "Vote's in two days," he said. "We decided it would be best to have everyone present."

"Should we stay away from any windows until then?" Gunner asked. He was leaning heavily on the counter. She wondered if he might need a doctor, though she couldn't imagine him agreeing to see one.

"No, and fuck off for saying it." Nomad's expression went dark. He turned on his heel and left the house, Bars right behind him after sending a glower their way as well.

"Got my truck if you want a ride," Mort said, continuing to pack his supplies.

Gunner gave him no reply. He turned his back and led Senna through the house and out the front door.

The sun was lower in the sky than when they’d arrived. How long had they been there? Birds sang all around them; a cool breeze brushed her forehead. It was too nice of a day for so many awful things to happen. "Where are we going? Do you need a doctor?"

"No doctor."
Figures
. "Nothing's broken." He settled heavily on his motorcycle's seat. He seemed unusually distant, but she chalked it up to his injuries. "Let me see," she said, gently cupping his chin. The one eye was bruised and nearly swollen shut. "You probably shouldn't be driving like this," she mumbled.

"We aren't going far."

His nose looked broken, though it was hard to tell with all the swelling. His lip was still trickling blood from the corner.

He finally pushed her hands away. "It could have been worse," he said. "Let me see."

He held up her wrapped hand and squinted at the tattoo through the plastic. "At least it doesn't look like it was done by an amateur."

"Not much of a bright side." She sighed. "Can I ask you something?" He looked away, but she pressed on. "Why did they seem to hate me so much? I mean, I guess I get it. But it seemed sort of personal. Like I went to their homes and kicked their dogs or something."

He refused to meet her eyes before speaking, though he clasped her hand. "To them, I
am
their damn dog. They think you're manipulating me." He looked down at his boots. "They think I'm all fucked up over..." He squeezed his good eye shut and took a sharp breath. "Over Alvarez dying. And they think you've just been taking advantage. Using me to protect yourself from your stalkers."

She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. He was waiting for an answer - did he believe them?
And am I? Am I subconsciously using him?
He was vulnerable, he was hyper-emotional, it wouldn't have been hard for her to do. But the thought of it made her feel physically sick.

She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a choking sound, somewhere close to a sob. It surprised her even more than it surprised him. "I couldn't." Her voice sounded strangled.
Don't cry, goddammit, stop this
. She shielded her eyes. "I couldn't."
Bottle this shit back up
. But his hand on hers threatened to coax it all to the surface, to make all her stress and her fear and her grief spill out into the world. She pulled away. "Can we please go?"

"Look at me."

"No."

He waited in silence for a moment before pushing his helmet into her hands. "We can go."

His father's attitude and his club's attitude towards him had hurt. Bill's fists delivering Jupiter's justice had fractured ribs, bruised everything. But none of that compared to the pain he felt when Senna's voice had cracked.

They almost convinced me that it could be true. Almost
. His father, Bars, Bill - the three of them had planted those vile thoughts in his head.
She's using you. She sees the wounds from this awful shit with Alvarez and she's used them to crawl inside. You're weak for letting it happen
.

The worst part was that he could understand where they were coming from. How well did he really know her? She'd stumbled into his life only four or five days ago.
But a lot's happened to both of us since then. A lot's changed
.

He drove slower than usual. Her grip around his waist was loose and he didn't want to goad her into hanging on tighter. His ribs were one reason, but his accusation had hurt her. She seemed like she needed some space.

I should have kept my idiot mouth shut.

It was his own father who had started the conversation, right before Jupiter demanded he take the punches he had coming. “She’s using you, son,” he said, “I can understand it, the girl wants to live. But she doesn’t care about you. She’s just going to hurt you.”

Bill had worn his usual smug smirk. “Too pussy-blind to see it,” he said. “You’ll have your vote when the rest of the club is here to witness this sorry joke. Take my advice and get her out of your system before then.” He shrugged as his expression softened. “We’ll compromise. We’ll drug her and dump her as far south in Mexico as we can drive in a day.”

“Unacceptable,” Gunner had growled. She was safest with him. That was just a plain fact.

What they didn’t understand was that he already knew she was going to leave, he was already prepared to have her wreck him - but it wasn’t deliberate. She wasn’t some manipulative monster, some bitch out for blood. Their connection was real. It would end because it had to end, because that was the way things had to be.
Because everything that’s good ends. The rest of this shit drags on forever.

His house wasn't far. It was a small one-bedroom located on a quiet street not too far from his father's home. It wasn't much, and he was surprised to find it clean when he led Senna inside.
Bet it was Lily
. The woman liked to talk big and sound like a bitch but there was a kindness in her.

Senna dropped her things right by the front door.

"You can lie down in the bedroom if you're tired," he said.

"Couch?" He led her into the living room - just a small space with a couch, a TV, a coffee table, and a horribly outdated shag carpet. Nothing else. He dropped his wallet and his phone onto the glass surface as she took a seat and picked up the remote.

"I'm gonna take some painkillers and pass out," he said. "Kitchen's probably empty but you can order something for delivery when you get hungry."

She nodded. She still wasn't looking at him.

Don't push her. If she falls apart, you're both fucked. You'll never make it through the next few days
.

He forced himself to turn away despite the awful ache in his gut.