Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (14 page)

“She doesn’t
have to know.”

I sunk into the
seat. A waitress bargained with the manager over who would serve us before a
dolled up, forty-something with bleached hair and a kick in her panties
approached the table. Scotch had her on his lap before we placed the order. Brew
ignored her. I kept my eye on Rose.

She didn’t need
a lot of equipment. Just a guitar and microphone. She squeezed into a dusty
spotlight cast by a half-burnt out bulb. The audience didn’t quiet when she
greeted them with a gentle murmur.

“Good evening. My
name is Rose.” She shouldered her guitar and strummed a soft note. “I’ll be
playing a few songs tonight.”

Nothing. The
crowd sipped their beers. Brew checked his phone.

“Where the fuck
is Keep?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Left
him three messages. Haven’t seen him since this morning. He usually loves when
she sings.”

Rose wasn’t
discouraged by the club or the lighting or the jackass hooting and slamming his
fist on the table while he entertained two disinterested women. The guitar
twanged a quick melody.

And she sang
like a goddamned angel.

I flinched like
she smacked me with the guitar. Brew smirked.

“She’s good,” he
said.

“Fucking good.”

It wasn’t my
style of music or my preferred entertainment when a girl took the stage, but
the soft little song and gentle voice didn’t deserve the club. Or the bikers
listening to her. Or the ass slamming the table with a drunken hand and
shouting out a request for her to take the dress off.

She ignored the
drunk, but the next song flashed her fingers over the guitar in a rush of quick
notes. I recognized the song, but not the speed she played it.

“Aw shit.” Brew
sipped his beer. “Metallica.”

I frowned.
“What?”

“She’s rattled.”
Brew’s jaw tensed. The demand for Rose’s dress silenced, but now the man had a
new death wish as he shouted over her song for the waitress. “When she gets
upset, she plays the harder songs.”

“Why?”

“Who knows. Always
did. I’d come over to the house, and she’d be in her room all pissed off and
messing with Allman Brothers or Hendrix or something.”

“She’s good at
it,” I said.

The song wasn’t written
for an acoustic. She made it work. Didn’t force the song. Didn’t strain her
voice. Just played like she was one heartbeat away from earning a harp and a
fluffy cloud to play it on. Good thing that day was far off.

The jackass
thumped on the table. His attention focused on Rose. Whistled too sharp at her.

Brew grimaced.
“She better calm down. I know
Freebird
isn’t the third song in her set.”

Rose missed a
note. Her voice trembled before she recovered. The flush of crimson on her
cheeks was like flashing red before a bull. I hauled my ass out of the chair
and stalked to the asshole waving a dollar bill toward the stage.

The fucker
quieted when I approached. The color drained from his fat face. I leaned over
the table. My cut fell away and revealed the gun tucked in my jeans. I didn’t
bother hiding it. A little respect would be a good thing. If nothing else I’d
finish streaking his red hair gray. I pointed to the stage.

“You’re being
disrespectful to the lady.” I stared him down, surprised by the venom in my
voice. The hardness encasing my chest with rage on her behalf. “Shut your
fucking mouth while she sings.”

His third beer
gave him the courage to scoff and poke my chest.

“Or what?” He
snorted. “This ain’t the wild west. You gonna hit me or something?”

I grabbed the
beer bottle from his hand and slammed the bottom against the table. The bulk of
the glass shattered, and I jammed the jagged remnants to his throat.

“Yeah,” I said. “Or
something.”

Now he did the
right thing and kept his mouth shut. I flagged a waitress down, tossing the
broken bottle onto the table and slapping his shoulder.

“Bring him
another round on me.”

I returned to my
table. Brew and Scotch laughed, but Rose watched with widened eyes as she ended
a song and froze before choosing another. Brew hooted her name. That didn’t
help.

It’d be a few
seconds before I’d reach her if she passed out and fell. But she surprised me. Tucked
the guitar close and had her way with a cover for a whiny pop ballad. Sweet. Soft.
Not my music at all, and not the pulse pounding challenge of the thirty year
old songs better suited for Pixie than her set list. But anything sounded
better than what I normally listened for.

Engines.

Footsteps.

Clips slamming
into guns.

Two hours, a few
songs, and no interruptions later, I hadn’t taken my eyes from Rose. The damn
kid sang like a diva, looked like a kindergarten teacher, and would be tucked
in my bed later that night. Anathema didn’t let girls like her survive for long.
Gentle. Passionate. Her voice danced with ballads as if she believed the words.
And the fucking smile she offered when she played something quick?  She dared
to shift her hips like she wanted to dance.

And I wanted to
see her dance.

Without the
guitar.

And to a much
different song.

But Rose wasn’t
Lyn or the girls at Sorceress. I had my standards. Hers were much higher. I
wasn’t about to go ruin some darling co-ed just because I hadn’t rolled my ass
out of the gutter long enough to see the pretty little treats society groomed
anymore.

Didn’t mean I
couldn’t imagine what it’d be like. Turning a kitten into a hellcat, a singer
into an entertainer, and a good girl into a biker bunny all started with the woman
on her back and good intentions cast aside.

Rose finished
her set to mild applause and wished everyone a good night. The manager didn’t
pay any attention until she tapped him on the shoulder. He grunted and gestured
for her to follow him to the offices behind the stage.

Christ, I didn’t
want to imagine what I’d do if he didn’t pay her. Nothing like contemporary pop
and a bloodbath to sell her songs on iTunes.

I prepared to
break a nose in exchange for her dignity, but Brew and Scotch tensed as Gold
dragged a bloodied prospect to the table. Brew swore, but the man tucking a
knife a little too close to Gold’s neck shoved him into a seat. He twisted his
ugly face to look at me. Two other members of Ex’s crew stormed through the
door.

A gun cocked
behind me. The cold metal pressed against my skull.

Priest grinned. He
hadn’t replaced the teeth I knocked out since the last time he shoved a gun in
my face.

“Prez.”

Brew and Scotch
motioned to flip the table. Priest shook his head. Gold grunted as his attacker
pressed the knife harder against his back. The bastard didn’t look up, but I
recognized his shaved mohawk. Tommy. Some slimy ass prospect we didn’t patch in.
Apparently, Ex took all kinds, including child molesting ex-cons.

“What can I do
for you?” I grunted. The gun jammed harder against my head.

“You’re in our
territory,” Priest said.

I frowned. “No. You’re
in
our
territory. We donated a few streets for you to spread your
filth.”

Priest practically
jerked the gun off into my skull. “You owe us a little toll. Fully refundable,
once we’re done with our sweet-ass collateral.”

Brew launched
out of his seat. Gold yelled, but I silenced them both with a stare.

“You fucking
touch Rose, and I will rip out your goddamned heart.”

“You make a
move, and Miss Centerstage gets a curtain call as the homicide on the local
news.”

“What do you
want.”

“From you?”
Priest’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message.
“Absolutely nothing. We got what we came for.”

The gun cracked
against the side of my head. My vision fragmented black as Brew and Scotch
leapt over Gold and aimed for the prospect with the knife. I collapsed on the
floor. Priest slipped away. I reached for my gun, but my vision darkened,
lightened, and fucked with my stomach before I could get a decent shot.

A woman’s scream
tore across the club, cut abruptly short.

I surged to my
feet and pushed aside a cowering waitress and fleeing people from the bar. She
didn’t scream again. I kicked into the door behind the stage and aimed my gun.

Nothing.

Nothing but a
thin trail of sickeningly red blood splattered from where someone cracked a
head against a wall. Brew shouted from the back entrance of the club. I tossed
the door open only to see the van peel away and the two bikes chase after.

Exorcist’s men
were gone.

And the bastards
stole Rose.

Only one person
ever aimed a gun at me, but Dad wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.

I stared at the
monster lining the handgun with the center of my forehead. I didn’t recognize
him, but I recognized his colors. The design on his cut. The tattoos on his arm.
His vest read
Treasurer
, but he wasn’t Anathema’s rightful officer. He
held the gun with a righteous determination and spoke with the amusement of Hell’s
demons set loose in a prison.

“Exorcist is
requesting an encore.” His one eye clouded with a ragged scar, but he stared at
me with ruthless attention. “Don’t make a sound or I’ll string your guitar with
your guts.”

“Wouldn’t tune
right.” I gripped the guitar’s case. I offered the envelope the bar manager
stuffed in my hand without a word, thank you, or contractual offer. “Four
hundred. Will it buy me a head start?”

The gun tilted. He
moved close, took the money, and pressed the gun to my temple.

“You’re gonna
have to do better than that, sweetheart.” His eyes drifted over my dress. “Much
better.”

My stomach roiled
with sickness. “No thanks.”

The gun butted
against my head. “You’re gonna learn real quick that Ex doesn’t believe in the
word
no
. Better start practicing nodding with a mouth full of cock now.”

My chest
tightened. I screamed and cracked the guitar case up, aiming for the cloudy,
sickly scar slicing his face and eye. I wasn’t strong enough to pummel the man,
but the blow staggered him. I ran for the door. He caught me after only a few
steps. His gnarled fingers bruised my arm, and he tossed me into the wall.

My head cracked
against the drywall.

I thought he
killed me.

The crash
rattled everything inside my head. My brain. My thoughts. My teeth. Worse of
all, he shook loose every forgotten memory, every lost fear, every suppressed
bit of knowledge that hid within the darkness of my mind.

I knew too much
about Anathema. Whatever biker club or motorcycle hobbyists or road enthusiasts
they pretended to be during charity runs or while raising money for the children’s
hospital existed only in the shadow of the true demon. Drugs. Theft. Murder. I
remembered the stories I heard from Dad, and I imagined the truth in the rumors
whispered when the crimes were too horrible to repeat.

Keep, Brew, Thorne...they
were nothing compared to the monsters that lurking within the ranks. They lived
life outside society with little regard for rules and laws and standards, but
they never targeted innocent people. Their battles never impacted those outside
the club.

But Exorcist’s
men were not Anathema. Not anymore. They had no rules. No regard. No conscience.
They thought nothing of threatening the family members of their enemies. Of slamming
already bleeding heads into walls. Of backhanding my cheek and laughing as I
crumbled to the ground at their feet.

The first kick
to my stomach taught me to behave. The second offered him a bit of fun. I
coughed, but he didn’t let me catch my breath. He hauled me up by my hair and
tossed me over his bony shoulder, slapping my behind with utter cruelty.