Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (33 page)

I never had
that.

I shared their
name, I suffered their crimes, and I tended their addictions, but when I needed
to talk, I was punished. Backhanded, for speaking about things pertaining to
the club. Secrets I had no business harboring.

When I needed
protection, I was isolated.

When I needed
help, I was ignored.

When I needed my
brothers, I was abandoned in favor of their true family. Keep and Brew weren’t
my siblings. They were Anathema. And Blade Darnell wasn’t my father. Just a
monster wrapped in a vest with a Vice-President patch.

And so I played
my guitar. I learned to sing. I produced my music and offered my talent
anywhere that cobbled together a microphone and an audience. And only Thorne
and the Feds listened.

ATF would
destroy my life to complete their objective. They didn’t care about me or my pain
or why I carried around a backpack full of non-sequential bills.

If they had
asked, I might have shared. Explained why I agreed to do Exorcist’s dirty work.
Confessed that I feared my brothers. Laughed about ducking when I got into my
car because I expected a gun to poke me from the backseat.

I needed a plan.

It didn’t matter
if it was to rat on my father or to steal the money and speed for the border. Both
plans only bought me time, but I didn’t know what I’d do with those precious
moments.

Either my heart or
my neck would break. At least one could save me from the other.

I pulled out of
the parking lot and lapped the block twice before hitting the highway, ducking
between a couple semis and exiting the very next ramp to return to town.

I hated that I learned
how to lose a tail. I hated even more how paranoid I was that ATF might have
been following me. But Brew raised me well. He didn’t teach me to drive, he
taught me how to peel out outside the clubhouse, dodge lanes on the highway,
shift gears on the fly, and weave in and out of traffic when he needed the getaway.

His lessons
failed my driving test six times, but I kept him alive twice. Failing to
parallel park was worth it if it meant my brother was safe.

I fumbled for my
phone and hummed a nervous warm-up to chase the trembles from my voice. It
didn’t matter if I muttered along to the radio or belted out an entire opera.
The words spilled from my lips like I shivered in a blizzard.

Luke answered on
the first ring. “You shouldn’t be calling this early.”

“Sorry.” I
cleared my throat. It didn’t help. “I can’t do this.”

Luke’s
connection scratched, like he smashed his hand over the receiver. I worried he
hung up, but after a long minute and a few profanities, he returned.

“What the hell
are you talking about?”

“This is too
dangerous. I just had ATF force me into the restaurant to eat with them.”

“You wouldn’t
let me buy you a cup of coffee, but you snuggled up with the Feds?”

“It wasn’t by
choice.”

“What did you tell
them?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you
fucking
tell them?”

“Nothing, Luke!”

He exhaled, but
I imagined he had a lot more to say than he did. “You better not be lying to
me.”

“Look, if ATF is
stopping me, they’re probably following me too. It’s too risky.”

“Did they ask
about The Coup?”

I hesitated. He
heard it. Luke hissed my name.

But something
didn’t add up. Not The Coup trying to buy drugs from Temple, and certainly not
my father suddenly making enough friends to spring him from jail years before
his parole hearing.

My stomach
twisted, and I was fortunate I hadn’t eaten any of the pancakes offered by ATF.
They weren’t poisoned, but I’d choke just the same.

“No, it was
about Anathema.” The lie wasn’t convincing. I babbled as best I could to
prevent him from asking any questions. “I can’t do this deal right now. Not
with them watching.”

“You have a hell
of a lot more problems than ATF, Bud.”

“That’s not
something anyone wearing a cut has ever said.”

“Sorry. You’re
out of options.”

“What am I
supposed to do?”

“Believe it or
not, The Coup isn’t as organized as Anathema. Not everyone is thrilled that we
gave a clueless little girl our money. I don’t care if ATF is on you or if
Thorne is fucking your ass. You’re doing this deal because I can’t guarantee
you survive today if you don’t.”

“And when I’m
arrested for drug trafficking?”

“You know to
keep your mouth shut.” He grunted. “For Christ’s sake, Bud, you’ve stayed
silent about worse things.”

I didn’t answer.
He exhaled.

“Nothing is
going to happen if you stick to the plan and keep a low profile. Got it?”

“I don’t see how
that’s possible.”

“Call me when
it’s done. I’ll pick up the merchandise.”

“Luke—”

The line went
dead. I swore and tossed the phone into my purse. The radio murmured my
favorite jazz song. Had Luke wanted a set list, a tuned guitar, and a Beatles
cover, we’d be fine. Instead, he wanted to show off the eyes and nose I
inherited from my father.

But I wasn’t a
drug trafficker. Or a biker. Or even my father’s daughter anymore.

I was a
musician. Struggling, but
la boheme
wasn’t known to be a glamorous life.
Temple wouldn’t accept a jaunty tune for the drugs, and, apparently, ATF wasn’t
a fan of contemporary acoustic music.

But some people
were.

And then I knew
exactly how I’d survive another few hours.

Plenty of places
existed in the city where a girl like me, in her pink Aerosmith shirt strumming
a guitar, blended in. Places where a sketchy, inked man wouldn’t dare show his
face.

I could hide in
plain sight, entertaining the masses with a folksy guitar and a smoky voice. It
didn’t guarantee my safety for long, but at least Temple wouldn’t kill me out
right and steal the money if I set up the deal in conjunction with an impromptu
concert.

My brothers would
never allow it.

Thorne would
probably break the guitar.

But it wasn’t
like I could go to any of them for help. Not when I needed to prove my brothers’
innocence before their president killed them both.

It was the most
important performance of my life, and I didn’t have my music, looper pedal, a
decent outfit to wear, or a freaking clue what I was doing. But if nothing
else, I’d sound good before Temple gunned me down in the street. Like the
modern day John Lennon, except without the fame, glory, and international
success.

I parked my car in
a nearby lot, clutched the bag of money, and pulled the guitar from the trunk.
As much as I hated to combine music with the MC, at least Thorne would be proud
to see his father’s guitar put to such a use.

The thought
burned me. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much
I screamed and begged and demanded to be freed from this world, I strapped the
guitar over my chest and strummed the first sweet note poisoned by the
nightmare of what was to come.

So why did I
sound better than I ever had before?

Temple didn’t
pick the busiest corner for their deal. Just a little side street facing a
bakery, hardware store, and a closed down metal shop. The area didn’t see much
foot traffic. That didn’t ease my frantic heart, fluttering too fast for the
beat of the song. A black sedan rolled to a stop at the red light across from
my impromptu stage. The windows tinted, and my insides turned into a stage-frightened
mush.

I doubted the
car slowed to enjoy my acoustic rendition of a Lady Gaga song. The words
bittered in my mouth. I jerked away, the guitar strap digging in the tender
skin on my chest strained hard by a breath of air that refused to dip into my
lungs or belt out in crescendo. The song faded.

My fingers
clutched the guitar, trembling, shaking, and begging to be sliced upon the taut
strings. At least then I wouldn’t have to pretend. At least then when the blood
pooled from me and dripped onto the sidewalk, somebody would see how much
trouble I was in. That I wasn’t just singing and hoping somebody would toss a couple
bucks into my open guitar case.

The next song
erupted from my memory. Classic rock. Biker rock. The bluesy, mournful songs
about life on a highway, anarchy, and lyrics riddled with violence.

But I sounded
good
.

Comfortable and
poised as every note draped over me in a protective shadow of confidence.

My heart cradled
the song and welcomed the melodies like the prick of a needle with its
aphrodisiac poison. Why did I even try to fight it?

The songs
belonged to the MC.

Clandestine
meetings between clubs on a busy sidewalk might have patched me into the club.

Anathema or The
Coup wouldn’t trust a prospect to handle a trade like this. Now, the only thing
separating me from the men I tried to avoid was the leather jacket and the
police record. And, after a meeting with ATF, it wasn’t like my file was
squeaky clean.

The guitar
warmed the intersection with folksy rock. The rumble of motorcycles muffled the
song. My heart stilled.

I sang to
protect myself, to protect my brothers, and to protect my fracturing courage
that wavered as the growling of fierce motorcycle engines added bass to a song
that already beat my snapping mind.

A mother and
child hurried past the intersection as the bikes pulled alongside my
performance. Smart. I’d have run too, if I hadn’t bound myself in terror while
strumming Vietnam era protest rock.

Only my father
ever dealt with Temple. He spoke Spanish, an impressive feat for a man who cursed
every brown-skinned person who wandered too near his bike. But Temple wasn’t
just a “Mexican” gang, they were business associates. They respected my father.

For the first
time, my father offered me protection.

His name became
the Kevlar wrapping over my chest.

I didn’t stop singing,
except my quivering voice didn’t project well enough for Kansas, Aerosmith, or
Clapton. Not that the grinning man with the caterpillar mustache, scar across
his forehead, and patch on his vest that read “Sergeant at Arms” cared. He
laughed, gestured to both members of his crew tagging along after him, and
glanced me up and down as if I were dancing in Sorceress.

His lecherous
grin mirrored secrets I tried to forget.

“Do you take
requests?” He licked his lips. “I’d love to have you play at one of my
parties.”

I forced a
polite smile and a shrug.

When I was
seventeen, Keep threatened my skull with a hammer after a weekend of memorizing
Freebird
in his bar. My fingers wove over the guitar, quick and fast,
relying on muscle memory to strum the notes that panic stole from my mind.

Without missing
a chord, I edged the backpack of money toward Mustache, and powered into the
song’s bridge.

“Daddy always said
how pretty you were,” he rasped.

I stared only at
the guitar case. The song neared a difficult solo, and I gritted my teeth,
fought against the darkness threatening both my memory and my wavering stomach.
Mustache laughed.

“When he said
you are talented, he never mentioned music.”

Every college
kid with a guitar and a red cup brimming with Natty Light fancied themselves a
musician. They learned a song or two, played in front of a couple pretty girls,
and maybe had a calloused finger or two.

They didn’t practice
like I did.

They never
needed to practice like I did.

It wasn’t for
the music. And it wasn’t for any song.

It was because
the music was the only reason I didn’t kill myself, and the only reason I could
ignore what had happened, what would eventually happen again, and how only jail
prevented the encore performance.

The music
bandaged old wounds and comforted broken memories. I didn’t stop playing. I
kicked the bag toward him, and concentrated on the solo complicated enough to
distract me from the ugliness that forced me to run from home and seek shelter
in a biker bar.

Mustache
gestured to his brother. A second, identical bag dropped by the first. He took
my offering and unzipped it only to verify that more than enough green stared
at him.

“If it isn’t all
there, I’ll flay you alive,” Mustache said. “But you’re Blade’s girl. I trust
you.”

Mustache reached
into his vest. I tensed as he dropped a hundred dollar bill in the guitar case.

“Daddy would be
proud.” He gestured to his crew and climbed on his bike. He winked. “I bet your
big brother is too.”

The strings
snapped in my hand.