Exiled (Anathema Book 2) (12 page)

The
man I was, the pride I possessed, the wealth I accumulated meant nothing once
the weapon recoiled and the trace of gunpowder cleared the air. My heart broke
into pieces and stopped, crushed at Rose’s feet even as I held her in my arms.

Three
months I lived, but my life meant nothing. Revenge consumed me, but I didn’t
tame that hatred. I couldn’t escape my guilt. I accepted that shame.

And
now, for the first time since my exile, my heart beat.

Pulsed.

Thudded.

Roared
to life.

No
one was going to hurt Martini.

Not
while I lived. Not while I breathed. And not while another innocent girl lived
through a nightmare I could end.

I
grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

Too
late. The rumble of bikes shattered the stillness of the bloody tomb. The pack howled
like wolves, but I knew the type. They weren’t rabid. They’d descend like
starving coyotes, too timid and weak to attack with the big dogs—the bastards
who slaughtered the men in the cottage.

My
decision wasn’t reasoned. I had no plan, but it wasn’t like I had a life to
throw away or a name to protect. Brew or Noir. Didn’t matter worth a damn, not
when I already failed the only one who ever cared about the man behind the
handle.

I
swore and grabbed Martini around the waist, slamming her petite body against my
chest as she kicked and protested. I hauled her close with a pinning arm and
pulled my gun.

“Sorry,
Darling,” I muttered. “Hate to do this.”

“Brew?”
She fought as I dragged her to the entry. “Stop. You don’t understand!”

I
tightened my hold. She’d get an arm around her neck if she didn’t shut up.

“
Brew
!
What are you doing!”

I
kicked the door open. The light blinded me, but I counted four guns trained on us.

It
wasn’t my first stupid move. These guys weren’t Anathema—they were meth-heads
with expensive, fully-loaded toys that might have blown our heads off the
instant I stepped outside. I over-estimated them. It was a free lesson they could
have delivered in slugs of lead.

I
didn’t believe in an honest God anymore, but it was a miracle they hadn’t
riddled Martini with bullets for my careless mistake.

Sam
hollered. His gun lowered first—a show of weakness he didn’t understand. He
slapped at the Vet’s gun and pushed a prospect’s weapon down too.

That
left Goliath. The hulking beast hadn’t rolled off his bike. He grinned, a
slimy, lecherous grin. He got off on the gun in his hand and the power it gave
him.

His
finger drew tighter against the trigger. He wasn’t a hero, but I wasn’t giving
him the chance to act like one.

“Don’t
be an idiot,” I said. “Toss the guns on the ground.”

Martini
whined as my gun pressed against her temple. Her nails dug into my arm. Hard. She
pushed against me and pulled me closer. She couldn’t run, I couldn’t release
her, and a bullet would pass through both of us like fucking butter.

Sam
hissed at Goliath. “Christ, drop the gun! He’s got Martini.”

“Probably
fucked her last night too.” Goliath tilted his head. “Thought you got in an
accident, baby? Thought you were hurt
real bad
?”

“I
was,” Martini whimpered. “We wrecked, but I got up here, just like I said I would,
baby. Please put the gun down before Noir gets mad.”

“He
can get fucked. Tell him to drop his gun.”

I
tightened my grip. Martini yelped.

“I
don’t think he will. Goliath, please, stop. Just for a minute, please, baby?
For me?”

If
he didn’t bend for the quiver in her voice, he wouldn’t break for anything. He
wasn’t a hard-ass. He was a fucking monster.

And
I knew monsters. I learned first-hand what they did to girls like Martini.

Rage
prickled at my vision, and I saw everything with a hyper-clarity. The guns
aiming for me. The muscles twitching in the bulk of Goliath’s arms. The
fluttering breath of Martini as she clung and fought against me.

The
gun rested against her head.

A
bluff.

One
of us would blink first, and I hoped to Christ it’d be Goliath.

“Baby!”
Martini begged. I wondered how many other times she begged for her safety. “
Please
.
I’m scared! Do what he wants.”

“Who
the fuck knows what he wants?” Sam spat on the ground. “He already murdered
five men in cold-blood. He’ll do the same to you!”

“Back
off,” I said. “Guns on the ground. Get the fuck away from my bike. I’ll take
the girl, and, if I make it somewhere I feel safe...” I shrugged. “She gets out
of this untouched.”

“Where
the fuck’s Red?” Sam shouted at a prospect furiously dialing a phone. “Martini,
I’m sorry—”

“It’s
okay.” She nodded too many times, her entire body shaking. “Just...do as he
says. Please.”

Sam
greyed as the seconds passed. So did I. Sweat rolled over my forehead, but the
October chill sliced through the heat and imbedded the cold right into my
spine.

Goliath
snorted. “You touch her and I’ll cut your goddamned cock off and feed it to
you.”

Martini
flinched. I gritted my teeth. How many times had he touched her? Threatened
her? Frightened her with all the violence the behemoth of strength could force
over a girl as tiny as her?

His
gun dropped to the ground. I didn’t release Martini.

“Walk,”
I growled. “To the bike. Slow. Don’t even think of running again. I’m too good
a shot.”

She
nodded, shuffling to the bike. Goliath stared, strangling me with an untempered
hate that might have earned a bullet to the knee from the old Brew. Instead, I slung
onto the bike and glared back. Martini’s arms wrapped over my chest. I ordered
her to grip tighter. Her nails dug in.

God,
I loved the feeling of a helpless girl clinging to me.

What
the hell was wrong with me?

Pure
adrenaline might have started the bike. I grinned and peeled out of the
driveway, gunning it through the mid-morning light as Goliath’s enraged
profanity roared over the woods.

Martini
sunk her head against my back. She still trembled. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t
have any time to explain what I was doing.

I
probably didn’t deserve the opportunity to explain.

I
learned everything I needed about Goliath. The sweet words, the timid glances,
the undeserved respect she forced herself to give.

Just
like Rose and Dad.

Every
detail was the same. She flinched when he raised his hand. The quiet disgrace
shadowed her smiles. She suffered in endless frustration of a secret no one
thought to uncover.

I
tried to help Martini, but I only offered her more violence. More fear. Another
gun, another threat, and another asshole abusing her.

My
father did a lot of horrible things, but he never used Rose as a goddamned
human shield.

Martini
said nothing. Neither did I. I accelerated and hit the highway. The bike had
half a tank of gas, enough to force distance between us, Kingdom, and
Sacrilege. It’d give me time to find somewhere safe for Martini to go while she
called for help.

Shame
fueled what the gasoline didn’t. I pushed the bike until the afternoon swelled
into evening. She’d need a place to sleep. That was easier than other decisions.

The
hotel was nicer than the last one—continental breakfasts and vending machines
instead of barred windows and vibrating mattresses. I pulled into the lot, but
she hurried from the bike and into the lobby without the threat of the gun. The
clerk tossed a key in my hand with minimal threat, and I pulled Martini to our
rented room.

She
staggered behind my steps and squealed as she stumbled inside.

I slammed
the door and locked it, but I didn’t turn around.

I
couldn’t see what I had done.

Facing
another crying girl would have killed me. Slit wrists, rope around my neck, gun
to the mouth, high-speed crash.

Everyone
I tried to save got hurt.

And
everyone I didn’t save ended up worse.

I
flattened my palms against the door and seized a breath. This was what a
monster did. Kidnapped women. Threatened them with guns. Forced them into hotel
rooms as the sun set. Christ only knew what she thought I was going to do to
her.

Was
this how Rose had felt all those years?

What
the hell did Martini think of me now?

She
unzipped her coat. The rustling leather landed on the bed. I closed my eyes. She
probably thought that’s what came next. The weapon was too familiar a foreplay.

I
didn’t expect the minibar.

Or
the clinking of bottles inside the fridge.

She
rummaged and tisked her tongue as I turned around. She glanced at me, a pout
tugging from her lips and into that siren charm. She grabbed two little bottles
from the shelf and stood before me. The whiskey chilled my hand. I feared I’d
break the glass.

“So,
my daring rescuer.” The silver in her eyes shimmered like sunlight on snow. She
offered a toast. “I think this calls for a celebration.”

The
bottles clinked.

Martini
downed hers in a single shot. She smiled.

She
fucking
smiled.

She
encouraged me to drink, but I felt like I already had one too many and followed
the shot up with the crushed glass and a match. I wanted the fire to consume me
from the inside out.

It
never came.

Martini
wiggled across the room and kicked off her shoes. She peeked out the curtained
windows but didn’t draw them. Her hand tickled around the pink scarf at her
neck. She picked at the knot, but left it on, flipping the silken tails over her
shoulder.

I
didn’t move.

Didn’t
speak.

Martini
perked an eyebrow.

“You
okay?” She asked. “It’s not the greatest digs, but we can at least clean up and
rest here.”

She
asked if
I
was okay. In my lifetime, I had enough guns point at my body
to bluff a full execution squadron, and I answered every offered blindfold and
cigarette with two middle fingers. Somehow I doubted a girl like Martini ever
went toe-to-toe with a .45, especially one held by a man who had twice
overpowered, manhandled, and threatened her.

Five
disembodied heads, a stand-off with her behemoth of a boyfriend, and a race
across the state to hide before nightfall, and she celebrated by charging
twenty dollars to the room for an ounce of bad whiskey and a request to take
the bed closer to the window.

For
over three hours, I held her in my possession on the back of my bike. I
kidnapped her. I used her as a shield while I saved my worthless ass from her
MC.

And
she...
partied
?

“Are
you hurt?”

It
was the only question that made sense to me. She was a tiny woman I had pinned
to my chest, hauled around with one thick arm over her waist and thrown where I
wanted her. I hadn’t thought about her injuries from the bike crash. I
just...acted. I used my weight, like I did to all women.

Most
liked it. The others were probably too terrified to tell me otherwise.

The
shame slashed through my gut and exposed every part of my shredded conscience.

Martini
rubbed her wrist, but the lightness of her words weren’t a match for the dark bruise
staining her pale skin.

“Don’t
worry about it,” she said. I’ll live.”

She
parked in front of the mirror and ran her fingers through the gentle, golden
wisps framing her face. The steel in her eyes cracked as she peeked at me from her
reflection.

“Damn,
Brew. We’re out of danger now. You can relax.” She gestured to the bed. “You probably
have a concussion. You should sit.”

“You’re
not...” I expected a slap to the cheek. A woman cowering in the corner. A half
dozen profanities insulting my name and manhood. Martini gave me nothing. “I thought
you’d be...scared.”

“I’m
safer with you than Sacrilege.”

She
wasn’t. I didn’t correct her.

“Besides,”
she said. “There was only one way out of that mess. Goliath and Sam believed
you murdered those Kingdom men. They wouldn’t have let you live. This was a
great idea.”

“What
was?”

“Kidnapping
me.” She sighed, resting her hand on her forehead like she was swooning. She
collapsed onto her bed. “It was brilliant, Brew. The best escape we could have
hoped for. I wish I thought of it.”

“You
knew what I was doing?”

“Of
course. You’re a better actor than me.”

My
voice lowered. “I held a gun to you.”

“You
weren’t going to hurt me.”

“You
didn’t know that.”

“Yes,
I did.”

“Bullshit.”

She
twisted. Her molten gaze might have brought me to my knees if I didn’t have a
noose of self-doubt and loathing swinging me from the ceiling.

“You
weren’t going to hurt me, Brew.”

“What
if I hurt you now?”

Her
fingers drew tiny circles over the comforter, marking a place for her to sit
and recline as she bled me out. “You won’t.”

“You
willing to take that chance?”

Her
voice gentled. “I trust you.”

“You
shouldn’t.”

“I’m
the first to admit I make the same mistakes again and again,” she said. “You
aren’t a mistake.”

“What
am I?”

“My
rescuer.”

I snorted.
“You must have hit your head off the road harder than you thought.”

“Nope.
Right now? I’m thinking clearly.”

“And
what are you thinking?”

She
leaned back. The tight little t-shirt stretched over her midsection. She
crossed her legs at her ankles. Smart thinking. I didn’t let myself envision
what it it’d be like tucked between those legs. Not when my blood roared at the
thought of pinning her to the bed. My hand curled as I imagined the grip over
her slim throat. Holding her still. Watching as her lips parted.

I
clenched my jaw. Martini’s voice edged with all the confidence I lost over the
past three months.

“I’m
thinking, I want to figure out what’s going on. Learn why those men were dead.
Why Sacrilege was even dealing with that type of club.”

“Those
aren’t questions you should be asking,” I said. “Didn’t they teach you a
woman’s place in the club? It ain’t sitting in church with the members.”

“Fine.”
She met my gaze. “Then I want to know who the hell you are.”

That
made two of us.

I
turned away. Enough heat suffocated my body without the additional layer of my
jacket. I swore as I peeled it from my shoulder.

“How’d
you get shot?” She asked.

Christ.
We weren’t getting into that. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I
think it does.”

“You’ve
been thinking a lot of things,” I said. “You ain’t been right once.”

She
accepted the challenge with a coy shrug. “But I’ve come close?”

“No.”

“Liar.”
She laughed. “You’re a horrible liar.”

I
didn’t used to be. I said nothing.

“Why
aren’t you with your MC anymore?”

Staying
silent would have been safer for her. Too bad she summoned trouble. A wiggle of
her hips only saved her so much.

“Those
Temple guys? They knew you. But they didn’t recognize you as
Noir
, or
whoever you’re pretending to be. They were after
Brew
.” Martini purred
my name. “Brew from the Anathema MC.”

“He
doesn’t exist anymore.”

She
said more things with her eyebrows than her smart mouth. Probably learned it when
she overstepped her bounds and got smacked one too many times. A good smack
might have helped me now. If I threatened her, she might have dropped it.

But
rescuers
didn’t hit their girls. I saved Martini only to wait for her to
slice her nails across my jugular and end my fucking torment.

“So
what are you? A ghost?” She asked.

“Would
that scare you?”

Her
legs crossed at the knees now. It might have been a warning if I hadn’t watched
every last inch of her perfect body shudder. Her curves invited—ready to be
pushed and tasted. She was a delicacy I didn’t deserve. I should have punished
myself for the thoughts tempting my sin.

“Who
are you?” Martini said. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Do
you talk that way to Goliath?”

She
flinched. The implication hurt.

“Maybe
I trust you’ll let me talk?” She bit back. “Maybe I have a hunch you won’t
backhand me for trying to get answers out of you.”

“Keep
asking, Darling. Let’s test it.”

“You
want to hit me?” She shrugged. “I’m used to it. Hasn’t kept me down yet.”

She
was right. I swore. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Answers.”

“If
I had answers, I wouldn’t be three thousand miles from home, pointing guns at
pretty girls and counting rounds in case I gotta stage a fucking stand-off in
the hallway of a Holiday Inn.”

 She
smirked. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Jesus
Christ.”

“Three
questions.” She held up her fingers. “Three questions, three honest answers.”

“Darling,
you can ask all you want, but I don’t got a drop of honesty left in me.”

Her
first finger tucked down. “Why are you running from Anathema?”

I hadn’t
agreed to this, but I shot back with the truth.

“I
exiled myself.”

“Why?”

Second
question. “Because it felt a hell of a lot better than a bullet to the brain.”

Only
Martini’s index finger remained. She licked her lip. Her words sucked the heat
from the room. I tensed for her next demand.

It
wasn’t what I expected.

“What
did you do to Rose?”

I
gritted my teeth. “Wrong goddamned question.”

“That’s
not an answer.”

My
hand curled into a fist. Every ounce of restraint bound my muscles. She was
lucky. If I were my brother, the drugs would have blinded me to all
rationality, and she’d be dead before I tossed her out the window. If I were my
father, the gun would have shot before the question passed from her lips.

If
I were Rose?

Christ,
if I were anything like Rose, as good as Rose—the past twenty-one years of my
life wouldn’t have been stained by blood, tears, and remorse.

Martini
stood. She approached me like it was safe. Like she might have curled against
my chest, held me, and whispered comfort for my bleeding heart.

I
didn’t let her get that close.

I
grabbed her hand, squeezing with the intention to break the fucking bones in
her delicate fingers. I succeeded only in curling mine over hers.

“I
didn’t do anything to Rose.”

My
words laced with menace. Her expression shifted, darkened with the fear she
should have always felt within my presence.

“That
was the problem,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Brew—”

My
hand tensed. She stilled, thinking I might hurt her. Suddenly, she wasn’t so
sure. Neither was I.

“The
Anathema MC split into two factions a few years ago. It was a civil war. Men died.
Brothers turned on brothers, and half left to form a new chapter—The Coup—after
slaughtering most of our leadership in the middle of the night.”

“Jesus.”

“The
club was splintered. I wanted to fix it. I tried to fix it.”

Martini’s
eyes widened, not the hardened steel but white-capped waters.

Worried.

“I
fucked over my own club.” The truth tasted like blood. I wondered if every old
wound picked open with memory would sit as foul in my mouth. “I made a deal
with The Coup to start a drug trade.”

“Why?”
Martini swallowed. “Money?”

My
grin turned cold. “Because the MC who traded the drugs with The Coup worked
with my father. While he rotted in jail for murder, I was the next best thing.
His son. They’d wanted me to do the deal while they spent tens of thousands of
dollars in bribes to get my father out of prison.”

“You
betrayed Anathema because a rival club could get your Dad out of jail?” Martini’s
praise was misguided. “That’s almost noble, Brew. Nothing is more important
than family.”

“Yeah.
I learned that lesson too late.” I shuddered.

Martini
saw, but she didn’t ask. “The drug trade? Was it between The Coup and…Temple?”

I
nodded. “My father and Temple were great allies. If he got out of jail and the
deal was set, he’d convince Temple to take out The Coup’s president—a violent
psychopath Anathema couldn’t touch without renewing the war. We planned to tell
Temple he was a danger to the deal because they’d end the problem.”