Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1) (12 page)

“Men! Men!” cried Dingo.

I had enough of an advantage now to back off a few inches and turn to look at the Prospect. He stood there with grocery bags—I’d been given the authority to purchase him his own Softail Harley, and he was having a blast riding his used scoot.

“Fighting is not the answer!”

He looked so clean and chaste standing there, which I guess he was. I still wasn’t used to having someone so uncorrupted and righteous living under my roof. “Hey, Dingo. I hate to break it to you. Sometimes fighting
is
the answer.”

Behind me, Breakiron just roared his reply. His face now resembled spaghetti and meatballs, but he clutched a deadly shard of ceramic. “I’m not going to be Veep under you, you sleazy asshole! First you push up on Papa’s old lady. Now you’re schmoozing all over one of The Prophet’s wives. Who the fuck can trust you?”

Dingo asked seriously, “You made passes at the Prez’s old lady?” He was just getting the hang of the biker lingo, and everything sounded funny coming out of his prissy mouth.

Ignoring him, I loomed over Breakiron. “Well, that’s just fucking fine with me! Because I don’t want you being Veep under me!” I had no idea what he was talking about. He appeared to have heard some news that I hadn’t. In retrospect, maybe Sax Saxonberg had even heard this news before me. So I bluffed my way through. “When I’m Prez of the Avalanche chapter of the Assassins, I’m going to pick someone totally new for my Veep! You’d make a shitty Sergeant-at-Arms, too. When are you going back to Bullhead City?”

Continuing to the fridge and crunching breakfast cereal underfoot, I swooped a bottle of cold water from the crisper and sauntered past Dingo, still standing there holding the bags. I had a fucking important job to do, and couldn’t risk Breakiron giving me a broken bone.

“I’m never gonna let you become Prez!” was the last thing Breakiron shouted, still in a pile of fried eggs and bacon bits.

I was heading down the front interior stairs when Dingo made his big statement. He declared, “I want to come with you.”

That made me stop. It had never occurred to me to bring anyone with me on this run. “Say what?”

“I want to come with you down to Mesquite. If you’re going to be the Prez of our new chapter, I should be allowed to start doing things most Prospects do. You’ll need someone to guard your bike while you negotiate the guns, right?”

That was true. “You’ve never even handled a gun, much less shot one.” That was on my to-do list. Take Dingo to the shooting range.

“But I can look menacing in this cut. I am better than no one.” Finally putting down the bags, he straightened himself up, tall and proud. “Just wearing this cut will scare off a few thugs, at least.”

I paused, thinking. Then I heard Breakiron bellowing in the kitchen, so I quickly said, “Okay. Come right now, though.”

We’d ridden together before, of course. Dingo knew how to ride sweep behind me, and he was right, it was better than no one. Not that
he
looked menacing, with his white Nikes and absence of ink.

But he was right. I had no one else. Dingo was it. And if I was really going to start a new chapter here in the Zion foothills, I’d need to start with the best of the best.

MAHALIA

T
he summons came
at four o’clock.

I was in the Relief Society office when Parley came in. He seemed filled with disgust when he said, “The Prophet wants you at the book bindery at eight. A shipment is coming in that he needs inventoried. Some tools. Wrenches, screwdrivers, stuff like that.”

I knew this was the shipment we’d been expecting from Gideon Fortunati. They had discussed adding tools to the truckload. Of course, I hadn’t seen Gideon since he’d kissed me a week ago. About my sappy poem, I’d been thrilled beyond belief when Gideon had texted back,

Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed.

He’d obviously googled it, not pulled it out of his memory, but I knew that he obliquely referred to me, as I had referred to him. The next line of the Keats poem spoke of death, and that wasn’t romantic or sexy, so I had typed,

Truer words were never spoken.

I thought he’d know that I, again, obliquely referred to him. He was infamous, and he could spell, or at least retype what google told him to. His beauty was beyond reproach.

But he never texted back.

I’d been in the pits of despair the past few days, waiting for the medication he got me to take effect. A few weeks, he’d said. And would I ever see him again? I’d had one reason to drive outside beyond the gates and meet with a new charity in St. George, and, of course, I’d driven down Crosstown Street in Avalanche and checked for his ride in the High Dive parking lot.

Then, looking more and more like a crazed desperate woman, I’d driven by his house. His Fatboy, as well as a new Harley I’d never seen before, was parked in the driveway, and lights shined bright from the floor-to-ceiling windows, but what could I do? Stop in for exactly what reason? I needed to stop this activity before it became dangerous—as if it wasn’t already.

Still, it was obviously the high point of my week, if not life, when Parley came in and told me to report at eight o’clock. Again, I went home and walked into a cloud of Pine Forest scent, but this time, Kimball caught me doing it.

I was shocked she didn’t chastise me for it. She just folded her arms and said, “My, let me guess. Gideon Fortunati’s shipment is coming in tonight.”

I had to admit it. “Why, yes. But I’m just wearing this perfume because I think I stepped in some dog poo earlier.”

She looked down at my sensible black shoes. “Why didn’t you just wash it off?”

I glared at her. “I
did
, of course, but you never know! Anyway, I’m late.”

I tried to breeze on past her, but she followed like an insistent hound. “I know you, Mahalia. And I hope you’re not getting yourself into hot water.”

“
What
hot water?”

Kimball and I both gasped. My daughter Vonda was standing in my bedroom. The long plain prairie dress didn’t hide her luscious, ripe figure. I’d been shapely at her age, but she was even more so, obviously something to do with Field’s genes. A fierce protectiveness had always risen in me when Vonda was around, now more so than ever, now she was to be sealed to Orson Ream.

I said, “Oh, it’s business, pumpkin. Nothing of interest to you. Going down to the book bindery.”

Vonda sneered in that way teens have. “Oh. Stockpiling more weapons?”

Kimball and I gasped again. I would have been within my rights to slap Vonda, but of course I wouldn’t. Especially now. “That is
not
what goes on at the book bindery, and aren’t you supposed to be at a BIA Maid meeting?”

“Yeah,” she admitted sullenly. “But Mom. I want you to know. If you decide to do anything that’d get you into hot water…I’m all in.”

She vanished then, leaving us staring at each other in disbelief.

I said, “Do I think she said what I think…”

Kimball nodded. “Yes. She wants out of here. And I do too. DeLoss and Clebert Flake vanished yesterday. Rayd saw two men grab them and drag them screaming into a Humvee.” Rayd was Kimball’s son, and DeLoss and Clebert were two deacons maybe thirteen years old, friends of his.

“And no one’s seen them since?” I knew the answer to that one.

“No. Marhanda Flake asked Velroy about it, and he told her to mind her Ps and Qs.” Velroy was Marhanda’s husband.

“So she’s just never going to ask anyone else about it ever again? I can ask Allred about it.”

“I wouldn’t. It’s enough that he’s asking you to help with Gideon’s shipment. Ssh, here comes Emersyn.”

Our sister wife was coming innocently up the stairs, so we hot-footed it out of there.

I had only two minutes to think while walking briskly to the book bindery.
Vonda wants out. So does Kimball.
Even if I accepted Gideon’s offer to stay at his house, what the hell would he do with all of those people? That was an awfully giant burden to put on one man I didn’t know very well. He was just being magnanimous, I knew, trying to seem like a good guy. And he very well may have
been
a good guy, from all the signs I’d seen. But even foisting myself and my daughter on him was too much. No, we had to find another way of escaping Cornucopia. But we didn’t have much time.

I didn’t see any truck in the back of the bindery’s loading dock. The heavy metal door was open, though, so I slipped inside. I went straight to the office and set my laptop on the desk. Normally, Wes Shirk ran the operation from here, but there were numerous reasons Allred wouldn’t want him here today.

I soon found out one of them.

“Woman.”

I twirled around to face the odious man. I hadn’t seen him since he’d beaten me with the rolling pin. I folded my hands before my lap and lowered my head. “Sir.”

He was so repulsive, with his oily hair that always showered dandruff onto his shoulders, his bald eagle’s nose, his stupid bolo tie. “I’ve heard rumblings that you may not approve of my decision regarding Vonda and Orson Ream.”

“My approval should have nothing to do with your decision,” I said ambiguously.

“I also got wind of some sightings of your truck over at the High Dive in town.” He meandered around the office as though about to whip a riding crop from his belt. I turned like a decorative Christmas tree to keep my face to him at all times. “It occurred to me you may be enamored of my new business partner, that outsider biker, Gideon Fortunati.”

I bluffed. “Who? That biker you met with weeks ago?”

“Don’t play games, woman. I know all and see all. The amount of guilt we experience is related to how intentional the hurt we cause.”

“But I have meant to cause no—”

“
Shut up!
” He turned on me, taking two stomping steps toward me. We were now nearly face-to-face, and I wished more than anything Gideon’s truck would pull up. Of course, it occurred to me Allred had invited me here a half hour before Gideon was due to arrive, simply in order to torment me. “You feel no guilt because you’re a lowdown sinner from the outside, a slut who hankers after the rebel prick of Gideon Fortunati!
I’ll
give you a rebel prick, you thankless slut! Down on your fucking knees!”

Steeling my heart—and my innards—for what was about to happen, I kneeled. I tried one last time. “Prophet, I have not spent more than two seconds thinking about that bike—”

“
Bullshit
! I call
bullshit
on your fucking lying, slutty games! Here!” Of course, he was shoving his limp, smelly hambone in my face. I made a nominal effort to turn my head this way and that, but he just grasped the back of my skull and smashed my face into his stinky pubic hairs. “Suck me the way you wished you could suck Mr. Fortunati. I know you want his big, fat, studly penis in your mouth, so
suck!
That’s it! The pain you’ll feel as a result of your sin is just the result of the bad choices you’ve made. Ah, yes, my slut, suck me better. Better, I said! The pain you feel isn’t God’s retribution—it’s the pain from your bad choices!”

As if I’d decided to smoke some marijuana, or had had the nerve to watch an R-rated movie.

I sucked because I had to, moving my head back and forth mechanically. He shouted at me to put more gusto into it, so I moved my head faster. A burning bile was stuck in the pit of my throat, and that was practically all I could think of, being accustomed to having to perform this unpleasant task. If I vomited all over his meat whistle, he’d probably beat me with my own laptop.

“Come on! Show me how much you love it! Show me how much you love sucking the penis of that big, bad biker!”

But it was impossible to pretend, to fantasize with that half-limp sausage in my mouth, and I was flooded with gratitude when the distant rumblings of a truck pierced my consciousness.

Allred didn’t stop, then, though. He kept yelling about Gideon’s delicious penis to the point where I wondered who really wanted to suck it. Only when the truck’s engine was killed just outside did Allred admit defeat. Shoving with his palm against my forehead, I went spinning back on my bottom.

“Worthless slut! I hope your daughter does a better job than you!”

He stormed to hit the switch for the roll-up dock door. I sat on my bottom in shock. It had never occurred to me that Allred would use my daughter in such a way. I tried not to think about Orson doing it—that was bad enough. But I had only known Allred to use and abuse his own wives, not the wives of others. That was his particular, skewed moral compass at work, I’d always told myself.

I was still sitting there when Gideon’s wonderful voice wafted over. “No problem at all taking over from the driver in Mesquite. I left my associates outside the gates here. Everything went smooth as silk.”

“Well, that’s great, just great, Mr. Fortunati. I only want to deal with you, as you know. I asked Mr. Pipkin to accompany us—why, here he is now.”

But Gideon Fortunati had a curious soul, and he peeked around the corner into the office. The concern that flashed across his face stunned me into wakefulness, and I started getting to my feet.