Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (2 page)

I spoke too fast.
“It doesn’t matter. Dad’s gone.”

Brew frowned. “Not
for long.”

“Twenty years.”
I knew better than to sound relieved around my brothers. “No one will offer him
parole. Not for a long time.”

“That’s why
we’re doing it my way,” Brew said. “And that’s why you’re gonna listen to your
oldest brother. Do as I say.”

My stomach
twisted. The jukebox skipped again. My fingers itched to make music in the
silence. A chord or riff or
anything
that would distract me from making
yet another mistake.

“You know what?”
I brushed the curls from my face, hiding my warming cheeks. “Forget it. I’m
sorry I called you here. I don’t need your help. It was stupid to even ask.”

I stood, but
Keep tapped his finger on the table. “We ain’t done here.”

Part of me
wanted to ignore him, tie my apron around my waist, and get back to my job
serving the thoroughly intimidated and obscenely curious diner patrons.

It was nothing
but false bravado. I could no sooner walk away from them than hop their bikes
and ride into the sunset.

Everywhere else
in the world, family came first. Brothers protected sisters, sisters loved
brothers, and fathers weren’t in jail for murder. In my life? The club came
first, fathers were commended as heroes, and sisters learned to be very careful
when disobeying brothers.

“Five minutes
ago, our money was good enough to buy you a guitar,” Keep said. The harsh bite
to his voice softened as I slid into my chair. “Now you’re gonna pout about it
for school.”

“I can pay you
back for the guitar,” I said. “But I won’t be in your debt for that much money.”

“You’re our baby
sister. I don’t care if you’re one-year-old or twenty-one years old. We’re
gonna keep an eye on you.” Keep held my gaze. “This ain’t a loan. Not for the
guitar, not for college. We love you. Got that?”

I nodded. Brew
leaned over the table, cupped my cheeks, and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“Love ya, Bud.”

I pushed them
away, blushing pink enough to hide my freckles. I slipped them a smile. Despite
the mud-crusted, metal-toed boots, the dust-coated jeans, and the leather
jacket armoring their muscular bodies, my brothers were too affectionate for
the biker stereotype.

Then again,
who’d be crazy enough to tease them?

Few people recognized
the emblems on their jackets, but most were smart enough not to ask. Both my
brothers wore a new patch on their vest. I pointed to their chests.

“Those are new,”
I said. “Secretary?”

Keep smiled. “I have
to keep order at my bar anyway. It made sense.”

Brew waited for
my assessment of his patch. The silence lingered a bit too long.

“And Sergeant At
Arms?” I didn’t know what to say. “That’s how Dad got started.”

Brew nodded. “Been
a few changes at the club lately. Since the split.”

“I know. The
paper had articles about...the incidents.” A polite way to phrase
bloody,
awful street-war
. I feared those stories, but I worried even more about the
day I’d read the front page only to find the news of my brothers’ murders. “Sometimes
a few police officers stop in to get some coffee. They mention Anathema.”

My brothers
didn’t like that. I stopped them before they got worked up.

“I’d call if anything
happened. They don’t know I’m related to you.”

“Doesn’t
matter.” Brew touched the knife strapped to his belt. I don’t think he realized
he did it. “You keep your head down. They get desperate enough, they’ll go
after family. The cops, the Feds, ATF. They’d eat you up like your pancake
special, especially with Dad in prison.”

Keep didn’t
answer. He clenched his fist, but his fingers still shook.

And he pretended
like nobody noticed.

“
Tristan
.”
I’d never demand he take off his jacket, but I didn’t dare pull up his sleeve
to see the track marks. “You
promised
. You said you quit!”

I stood and
busied myself at the counter before they forced me back to the table. The
coffee pot warmed a full carafe. I dumped it out and made a fresh batch with
double the grounds. I could make the coffee super potent, but nothing I cooked would
ease the demon lurking inside my brother. The mug slammed onto the counter, but
my eyes still burned with tears. Tantrums never solved anything. They only
earned a smack. Open-palmed, if I was lucky.

Brew and Keep
moved to the counter. Neither said a word. There was nothing to say.

Anathema. I grew
up in the club, watched my father groom my brothers for entry, lost all three
to prison in its name, and waited for the violence to finally consume them.

I hated it.

I hated what the
brotherhood stood for, I hated how it ruled my family’s lives, and I hated the
type of men it made them become. Most of all, I hated the demon—the grinning
monster bound within the club’s crest, and the one living inside each of the
members.

Tristan was
fifteen and Brice seventeen when I was born, but they already earned their
handles. Tristan became
Innkeeper
as he willingly maintained the
clubhouse. In another life, he might have been an accountant. Not like he ever
had that choice. Dad made both of his sons in his image. They were patched men.

Proud members of
the Anathema MC who worshiped the scarred demon.

But Keep had a
demon of his own, and the club provided him all the vice the monster desired. I
thought nothing broke my heart more than seeing my brother suffering through
withdrawal in a prison cell. A rite of passage for the men in the MC.

God, was I wrong.
I pushed the coffee toward Keep and distracted myself by wrapping silverware.

“How did you let
this happen?” I didn’t dare look at Brew, not while I scolded him. “You guys are
supposed to watch out for each other.”

“Rose,” Keep
said. “It’s nothing.”

“Please don’t
lie to me.” I dropped a spoon.

“I’m not.”

“You’re
shaking.”

I huffed as a
fork tumbled from my hands and joined the spoon on the floor.

Keep snorted. “So
are you.”

“I’m mad.”

“Stop.” Keep
rubbed his face, extending his hand over his shaved head. “Get me a piece of
pie with the coffee. I’ll be fine.”

Fine
.

That was what
Mom always said too.

She was fine.

Fine until she
finally OD’d in the living room while Dad, Keep, and Brew were on a run in
California. A fourteen-year-old shouldn’t be allowed to sign releases for the
coroner.

I sighed, as
defiant as I could get with Keep. With either of them. Brew promised he’d watch
out for Keep. Nothing could be done about the addiction though. The club must
have known, but it wasn’t like they’d help either. They’d stuff Keep into
darkness as long as it didn’t impact the club. Just another reason to hate that
life.

I tapped at the
broken carousel bearing the coconut cream pie. Was my life so much better?
Struggling to make ends meet from measly tips? Practicing songs in my
acoustically-friendly bathroom night after night until my throat ached and the
neighbors pounded on the walls?

Without college,
and with a name like Darnell shadowing my every move, I ran out of options that
didn’t include a Harley. I couldn’t even afford to fix my own guitar. For as
much as I craved a job where people wore suits instead of aprons, a world where
I served pie was safer than the one where my brothers were served warrants.

Once I got my
break, once my YouTube channel earned a couple thousand hits, I’d never worry
again. All I needed was one more gig in a cafe or private party or fundraiser,
and I’d meet the right people. Get noticed by the ones who mattered. Everyone
started somewhere.

But the daughter
of Paul “Blade” Darnell started in a different place from the rest of the
world.

I dropped two
plates heaped with pie in front of my brothers. I never handled silence well,
and the quiet wore me out quicker than my eight hour shift. I debated humming. I
shrugged instead.

“I’ll get some
whipped cream,” I said.

Keep shoveled
the pie into his mouth without waiting. “Thanks, Bud.”

He sounded just
like Dad, and I wished he’d stop using the nickname. I slipped into the kitchen.
Suzy, the other waitress, gossiped into her phone and ignored me. My boss,
unfortunately, didn’t have her sense.

“What the hell
are you doing?” Steve slurred. Drunk. Fantastic. I imagined he was only in the
restaurant to grab some money from the cash register before heading to the bar.
“Get those guys out of here.”

I clutched the
two containers of whipped cream as if that were the great crime occurring
within the diner. But an extra heap of sugar on their desserts wasn’t the disaster.
I didn’t want anyone to realize the two leather-clad men covered in ink and MC
patches were my brothers.

“As soon as I
can,” I promised. “It’s not a problem.”

“Not a problem?”
Steve shouldn’t have followed me out into the diner. He spoke too loudly, and
the bit of middle-aged pudge and receding hairline wouldn’t protect him. “Those
two douchebags are
gang
members. Who the hell knows what they’ll do. If
they rob this place, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

“They won’t rob
us.”

“I’m not giving
them one dime in protection money.”

The diner didn’t
warrant any protection money. A fire would probably improve the land value. I
pushed Steve into the kitchen.

“I’ll take care
of it.”

“You better.”

I presented the
whipped cream to my brothers with a smile. Keep and Brew scowled.

“He always talk
to you like that?” Keep asked.

I thought
decades of bike engines would dull their hearing. No such luck. “He’s just
tipsy.”

“No one disrespects
my little sister.”

“It’s nothing.” I
shook the can, but Keep had finished most of his pie. Brew always did have the
most patience in the family. I buried his slice in whipped cream and handed the
can to Keep. “Forget about it. Please. I’d like to still have a job here
tomorrow.”

Brew elbowed
Keep. “How much you got on you?”

“Enough.”

Brew pulled his
wallet and pushed a handful of twenties toward me. Keep took the last bite of
his pie and did the same, though a few hundreds tucked inside his pile.

My stomach wound
tight. “I don’t need that much.”

“Take it,” Brew
said.

“Seriously, I
won’t be able to pay you for a while.”

I flipped
through some of the money and pushed it back.

Mistake.

“Look.” Keep dropped
the fork and his smile. “You want a guitar? Fine. You want to stuff the rest of
that money under your mattress and sleep like some goddamned depression era
princess, whatever. But you don’t tell us what we do with our money.”

Brew took a
bite. “You need tires on your car. And, knowing you, I’m betting an oil change
and tune-up too.”

“Really, I’m
fine.”

Brew scowled. “If
you were
fine
, you wouldn’t need our help for your fucking guitar. You’d
have money saved up. A reason to keep playing these gigs.”

“Brew—”

“Take the money.
Get whatever you need for your music, but don’t forget to drop back into the
real world once in a while.”

Sometimes I
wished my brother would just smack me. At least a bruise would heal.

“You win.” It
was the smartest thing I said all night. I wished I meant it. “Thank you.”

I didn’t count
the money before stuffing it into my pocket. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick
enough, and the cash exchange wasn’t as discreet as my brothers intended. Steve
scoffed from the kitchen, stumbling out to the counter. He waved a finger in my
face.

“What the hell
is this?” He bumped into the coffee pot and spilled most of the container. “I
thought you were going to get rid of them. Don’t tell me you’re their goddamned
whore now?”

The hair rose on
my neck. “Steve, go back to the kitchen. Please.”

“The fuck did
you say?” Keep nudged Brew. “You hear what I heard?”

Brew’s eyes
narrowed on Steve. “I hope I heard wrong.”

“I think he
called Rose a whore.”

The alcohol on
Steve’s breath reeked. He poked at my chest with a knobby finger.

Another mistake.

“This ain’t no
whore house. You turning tricks for these dickheads? Should have offered me
some first. I should fire your ass.”

Keep and Brew
stood. I pushed at Steve.

“Please, leave,”
I said. “I’ll close the diner tonight. Just go home.”