Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (34 page)

My guitar
silenced.

No music echoed
in my head. Only my thoughts. Only my fears.

Absolute
revulsion swept over my body. The guitar dropped into the case as Temple’s crew
sped away with fifty thousand dollars, a completed deal, and my brother’s
innocence.

I stared at the
bag on the sidewalk, filled with vile, horrible truth.

I wished they
packed in a bomb instead. Something quick, something that could end me before
the shattering remnants of my world slashed me apart from the inside.

I feared I was
bleeding. I wasn’t.

I fought to be
sick. Nothing came up.

I imagined I was
alone.

I was right.

I slammed the
guitar into the case, nearly breaking the frets as my trembling hands dropped
the instrument. The backpack loaded next to it in the trunk of my car. But the
cold sweat and selfish masochism of curiosity forced my fingers along the
zipper of the bag.

All zippers
sounded the same.

The drugs
bundled inside.

Red
.

The meth dyed
red.

Just like the
drugs in Keep’s drawer. Just like the drugs sludging through my brother’s
veins. Just like the drugs that my brother used and craved and needed to
function.

He sold his
soul, his family, and his club for drugs.

Keep’s addiction
wouldn’t just kill him. He killed all of us, and Thorne and Exorcist would fight
over who would pull the trigger.

I didn’t have
any time. My phone trembled in my hand. I dialed Luke, and steeled my voice
with all the strength of a singer who practiced until her throat bled for the
chance to escape, to save herself, and to lead a life far from the brutal
violence of the MC.

I didn’t wait
for him to answer. I slammed the door to my car and gunned it from the parking
lot.

“The deal’s
off,” I said. “If Ex thinks about me the wrong way, he can fish his drugs out
of the river.”

Luke swore. “What
are you doing, Bud?  What the hell do you want?”

I sped out of
the city and prayed the heartbreak hadn’t also shattered my sanity.

“I want my
brother.”

The goddamned
helmet choked me as I pulled it off. I slammed it against Pixie’s wall. It
cracked.

Better than my
skull. Maybe.

Two hours.

For two hours I
prowled the fucking streets for her. Looked in her apartment. Checked
Sorceress. I sped through every godforsaken puddle and nearly pissed myself
when her brothers called. They couldn’t find her. Better than what I thought
they’d say.

How the hell did
she make me so angry?  She was just a kid. A pissed off, confused, kid.

Woman.

I remembered a
time when it was easy to demean a woman. They crawled all over Pixie trolling
for a drunken biker to give them a ride. They didn’t care who was wrapped in
the cut, and I didn’t care who was sucking my cock.

So when in the
fuck did it start to matter? And why the hell did it have to matter with
her
?

I used the
little diva as my own instrument. I imprisoned her. Rescued her. Seduced her.
And, when she delivered the little bag of meth from her brother’s room, she
fulfilled her purpose.

I fucked her and
she rooted out the traitor. Two weeks ago the only thing sweeter than ripping
out the heart of the man who disgraced his club would have been taunting him as
he died about how enthusiastically his little sister ground against my cock.

But now that
traitor wasn’t just a traitor.

And that little
sister wasn’t just a little sister.

I would have
ripped out my own heart, spilled my own blood, crippled my own body if it meant
sparing Rose even the slightest bit of pain.

But the scarred
demon patched onto my vest darkened everything with the grimace of evil. Wickedness
begat wickedness. Sorrow fed sorrow. Violence submitted to violence. I wore
misery like a crown and reveled in the few hallowed moments when I was blessed
with the taste of something pure, beautiful, and good.

Even that angel
had her halo shattered by the hatred festering within Anathema.

I didn’t hurt
her first. I didn’t even hurt her the most.

But just because
I wasn’t her greatest demon didn’t mean I wasn’t a monster.

I searched for
two hours for her. Not to apologize. Not to make sure she was okay. I didn’t know
if I wanted to kiss her, fuck her, or kill her. Since The Coup split from
Anathema, I had one purpose in my life. Destroy my opposition. Murder Exorcist.
Eviscerate the traitor.

Now I killed
myself to find Rose because my number one fucking priority was to prevent her
from
crying
. I wanted her to understand why. Why I’d be taking her
brother. Why I’d be destroying her family. Why I had to break her heart.

And why I would
never be able to take a deep breath again until she understood.

I’d never ask
for her forgiveness. Part of me despised her for breaking my obsession and
pissing on my resolve. I didn’t deserve absolution. I didn’t want it. Anathema
acted outside the law and within its own moral code. Keep betrayed us. He’d die
for it. I understood that.

But Rose didn’t.

I slammed the
helmet against the brick until flecks of mortar and shards of the helmet fought
back.

She could be
anywhere. And anyone could find her.

I kicked open Pixie’s
door. The bar cleared out after Brew threatened me.

He was lucky. He
might have defended his sister’s honor, but Brew didn’t have a pretty smile, a
sweet ass, and the voice of an angel.

I let Rose go because
I didn’t know how to comfort her. Because I didn’t know how to handle her
deliberately disobeying me. I wouldn’t hit her, so I aimed her heart instead.

I couldn’t have
driven her away any faster if I dumped her ass off my bike on the highway.

Keep twitched
himself into a stupor in his room. If overdosing that bastard wouldn’t have
been like injecting the junk straight into Rose’s veins, I might have ended it right
there.

At least I knew
where the traitor was, unlike his idiot little sister throwing a tantrum in the
middle of the fucking city where Exorcist waited to kidnap her. Hurt her.

The
possibilities tore my guts in half and boiled them in my own fear. Gold waited
behind the bar. He offered me a shot. The whiskey wasn’t the right caliber.

“Anything?” I
asked.

Gold shook his
head. “Brew said not to worry. Left a while ago. Said he was going to look for
her.”

“Jesus Christ.” I
regretted slamming the helmet instead of my head into the wall. “Scotch?”

“Hasn’t seen
her.”

“Lyn?”

“Lyn said she’d
call around.” Gold shrugged. “Thorne, dude, Bud’s just pissed off. She’ll check
in.”

“It’ll be hard
if she’s gutted in the street.” Standing around wouldn’t bring—drag—Rose home. “If
she shows, tie her ass down in a chair until I get a chance to straighten her
out.”

“Don’t think her
brothers will like that.”

“Won’t be a
problem for much longer.”

Because that was
what I needed. More threats. More violence. More of an opportunity for her to
hate me. And that was fine. If she was safe, I could be the biggest bastard in
the world. Anathema was bigger than both of us. Vengeance was bigger than both
of us.

I started my
bike as my phone vibrated in my pocket. I read the screen and swore.

“Where the fuck
are you?”

I had a lot more
to say to Rose than that, but I’d start small. No need to terrify her before I
had her in Pixie, under my rule, and in my bed. No woman was ever good enough
to worry me, and the only way I’d ever be calm again was when I pinned her
against my mattress.

She didn’t
answer. My hand balled into a fist. A lot of good that would do, not with her
family. Getting smacked around didn’t scare her. Even a spanking wouldn’t do
anything. She already submitted to me, and I already destroyed that trust. Then
again, she was still breathing. She needed to count her blessings and decide
who to fear.

Exorcist or me.

I gave her ten
seconds. Then I got angry.

“Where. The
fuck. Are you.”

The sniffle
broke me. The quiver in her voice weakened my knees. The hesitance pitted my
stomach like a bike losing traction on wet roads.

“
Rose
.”

“…I need help.”

Fuck.

“What’s wrong? 
Where are you?”

The sniffle
again. So quiet and so goddamned far away.

I regretted
every decision in my life, every single choice that wrapped me in the cut, and
every heinous crime I ever committed that voted me in as Anathema’s president. Had
I actually watched the tears stain her cheeks, I’d have popped the gun in my
own fucking mouth and pulled the trigger.

But I didn’t
deserve that mercy. Ending my life was only the beginning. My hell would be the
constant torment of her sadness—the gnashing of teeth and crushing of bones
traded for Rose’s tears and inconsolable sorrow.

“Are you okay? 
What’s wrong?” My questions were as useless as slashed tires on a bike. “Rose,
are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt.” Her
voice wavered. I recognized the sound. She rocked herself, back and forth. “I…can
you meet me?”

“Name the
place.”

“Highway 5.”

“Where?”

“Um.” Her
breathing broke. “Just…Highway 5. Follow it outside town about ten minutes.”

“Rose—”

“Can you hurry?”

The timid plea
in her voice scraped into forced urgency. I started my bike. “Are you in
trouble?”

“Aren’t I
always?”

I didn’t smile
much. The proverbial saying was to laugh in the face of danger. Maybe that was
why I didn’t trust my chuckle. I knew danger. The kind Rose beckoned wasn’t
just a risk. The kid was a menace to herself, others, and every goddamned
motorcycle club in a fifty mile radius.

“Stay there. I’m
coming.”

“Thank you.”

Her gratitude
might have broken my heart had I not already forsaken it years ago. I tore out
of Pixie’s parking lot in a blitz of gravel and unholy determination. The road
never posed a challenge to me. I punished the asphalt when I was a kid, wore
tread down on my tires, and ran enough miles on my engine to crisscross the
entire country multiple times. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would stop me from
finding Rose.

I just didn’t know
what I’d do to her when I got there.

Night crested
behind me, but my bike sped toward the remaining light. I might have crept
within the fading daylight or maybe I brought the shadows with me. The valley
pitched from consumerism to agriculture as the last strip mall yielded to an
undeveloped, weed-eaten parking lot and then to cornfield and pasture. I followed
the highway to a scenic little turnaround. A picnic table and rusted-out
trashcan that once designated a parkette dedicated to some long dead public
official. Rose’s car parked just out of sight.

She sat on the table,
Starbucks cup shaking in her hand. She panicked until she saw me. The relief
that gentled her smile only fueled the adrenaline now poisoning my veins. She
stood, but she didn’t know how to greet me.

I’d make it easy
for her.

I parked the
bike, hopped off, and immediately seized her in my arms and crushed her against
my chest. Her whimper of surprise wasn’t the sound I wanted her to make, but it
was the only noise I let pass beyond her lips.

I kissed her.
Hard. Punishing. I wasn’t a romantic, but she didn’t deserve the comfort. I
regretted letting he rout of my sight, my bed, but it was the last time the
girl would escape me.