Fourteen years later . . .
Because inside my shell I’m that boy
Who was never given a say
The real me I’ll cover and destroy
To keep the worst of the pain away.
--Ataxia
Rex
“Rex, dude, heads up.”
I look just in time to see a bottle sailing through the air, and I snag it before it hits the dirt. “Thanks, man.”
Talon drops down into the folding chair next to me. I pop the cap on my beer and take a long drag. The bonfire flickers, illuminating at least two dozen faces standing around it. Some friends, others strangers, most shitfaced.
I keep my eyes to the fire but, with my peripheral vision, tune in to a few new faces that look as if they’re out to shake shit up.
“How many crates did Lane throw in that bitch?” He scoots his chair back a foot, distancing himself from the fire. “That shit’s hot. How can you sit that close?”
Talon’s been Ataxia’s drummer since the band started. He should know me better than to ask that.
It burns, yeah. But I like the pain.
“Don’t be a pussy. It’s not that hot.” Yeah, it is.
“Not that hot, my ass. That thing’s like, what, at least five feet of pure flame.” He cringes away from the fire. “Good thing we’re out in the boonies or the cops would be all over our shit.”
It’s become a tradition, coming out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing but our dirt bikes and enough beer to intoxicate a small country. Our band has been playing so many local clubs lately it’s a nice change from the everyday Vegas nightlife.
The sound of a girl squealing gets my attention. She’s wrapped up in the arms of some dude, and he has her lifted off the ground. She kicks her legs and he puts her down. I go back to watching the fire.
Tonight started off relaxing, but as the pile of empty beer bottles grows, so does the tension in the air. A group of guys who don’t usually hang out with us followed some girls out here. There are only a handful of them, but they’re drunk, loud, and throwing vibes.
“Speaking of being all over our shit, who invited the assholes?” I flick my gaze over to a group of girls who’re laughing loud and trying harder than usual. They’re huddled around the guys they brought out here. Chicks and their bad-boy fantasies. No doubt they could smell the trouble and flocked like pigeons on popcorn.
He laughs and chucks his bottle cap into the fire. “Pretty sure they came with Trix.”
I shake my head. Should’ve known. She’s a local stripper who hangs around some of the bigger gigs we play. The ballsy blonde is popular with the guys and rightly so. She’s gorgeous. Everyone in the band has had a taste, except me.
Groupies are notorious for blabbing about their sexual conquests. I prefer to keep my encounters private, but not for the reasons most would think. It’s not the media I care about or the fear of getting a playboy rep; it’s that I hate doing it. Nothing turns my stomach more than my body’s primal needs. I fight off the urges for as long as I can until there’s no other choice but to find a willing female and pray that it’s over quickly.
A mix of shame and nausea well up in my throat. I swallow it back with the last swig of my beer.
My face is so hot it feels like the skin’s about to peel off. I toss my bottle into the flames. “I’m bored. Wanna ride?”
Talon stands and downs the rest of his beer in a few short gulps, tossing the bottle into the fire. “Fuck yeah.”
Night riding is a rush. Even with a light, it’s impossible to see anything beyond two feet of my front tire. All the shit I got going on in my head dissolves with an adrenaline ass-kicking. And right now, I’m looking for a beat-down.
“Hold on. I have an idea.” I move to what’s left of our woodpile and fish out a few long planks, laying them down to make a ramp toward the bonfire.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Talon says louder than I would’ve liked.
The small group of partiers stops talking and moves closer to my makeshift ramp. I throw a few two-by-fours that I don’t use into the flames, stoking it higher.
“Rex, dude, you can’t jump the fire. It’s too tall.” Lane, our guitar player, pushes through the crowd. “That ramp’s only high enough to get you about two feet of air.”
I ignore him and continue to make the ramp, checking the angle before standing on it to check its stability. Good enough.
Ty kneels down to check it. “He’s right, dude. You won’t clear the flames.”
No shit. I walk over to my bike and grab my helmet, which is hanging off the handle bars. Everyone erupts in different versions of what-the-fuck. I straddle and kick-start my CRF-450.
Talon rushes to my front wheel, blocking me. “You’re going to get yourself killed. That fire’s five feet deep, eight feet tall, and we’re miles away from a hospital. This is fucking lame.”
“I got it. Now move.”
“You heard the guys. You won’t clear the fire, bro.”
I shake my head. “Not trying to clear it.”
His eyebrows drop low, and confusion pinches his expression. “You’re not gonna jump through . . . ?”
I rev the engine and wait for him to move.
He yells something, but I continue to lie hard on the gas, drowning his words in the growl of my bike.
He throws his hands in the air and moves to join everyone else at the ramp.
I hit the gas and turn. Rocks and dirt spit from my back tire. My mind spins with the hundred different things that could go wrong. If I hit the ramp off center, I’ll go face first into the fire. I take a second to consider what it might feel like to be burned alive—engulfed by flames, deprived of oxygen, the agonizing burn. My heartbeat speeds with excitement and I settle into the familiar feeling. Danger, possible death, pain . . . there’s nothing that compares. Not drugs, sex, or money.
A good twenty yards away, I turn and face the fire in the distance. The small crowd of people fades into the background until it’s just the flames and me.
“Do your worst, fucker.” I hit the gas hard but keep the brake engaged.
With one full throttle, my bike takes off so fast the front wheel comes off the ground. I lean forward, tucking in for speed. My flesh itches to feel the flash of heat. I spot the ramp, tiny in comparison to the inferno raging behind it.
Closer, closer . . .
My front tire hits wood. I’m airborne. I hold my breath. Heat singes my bare legs and arms. I feel a flash of euphoria.
Then it’s over. Unable to predict my landing, my tires hit dirt. Skidding out, I land hard on my hip and shoulder, sliding in a cloud of dust and rocks.
Pain splinters through my shoulder and feels so damn good.
“You’re fucking insane!” Talon kneels down by my face. “Asshole! You broke something, didn’t you?”
I groan and roll to my back. Nah, I know pain. This isn’t a break. Sprain? Maybe.
There’s a tiny part of me that recognizes I should feel bad. People count on me: the band, the UFL. But I can’t dig up enough concern to give a fuck.
The pain is all I have. It’s the only thing that reminds me I can still feel. It may be sick and insane, but it’s real.
I push up, stand, and pull off my helmet. “I’m going to try again.” There’s a small stack of pallets that still need to be burned. “More fire this time.”
Talon shoves my shoulder, sending a shock of pain up my neck. “No way, dick. We’ve got a show tomorrow night. You’re fuckin’ stupid if you think—”
“What’re you? His mommy?” One of the drunk-ass guys who’s been picking fights all night comes stumbling toward us. “Let the pussy do it.”
Great, just when I was starting to have fun.
Talon steps up to face off with the guy. “Who’re you callin’ pussy, bitch?”
“Whoa.” The guy stumbles and laughs. “I get it. You’re not his mommy; you’re his boyfriend, that it?”
My muscles tense. “What the fuck’s your problem?” Heat ignites my blood.
The guy grins through his mustache and goatee. “Yep, you two are definitely fuckin’.”
Talon and I advance on him just as a few other guys get this mouthy fuck’s back.
He stands taller now that he’s got back up. “Cocksuckers.”
My body floods with rage. I cross the few steps between me and the tubby shit. With a shove, I send his ass to the ground and straddle his torso.
There are things I can’t stand, won’t tolerate. And this dipstick just walked right into one of my no-nos.
“You call me a cocksucker?” I pull back and slam my forearm into his jaw. He tries to fight back with an uncoordinated swing that I easily block.
The sound of an argument rages behind me, but I ignore it, seeing this guy through a haze fury, and I rain down shots to his face. A slight sting against my shoulder and jaw proves he’s getting his licks in, but it doesn’t stop me.
Firm hands grip my biceps from behind. “I dare you to call me that again.” I let myself be pulled away. “Go on! Say it. Call me a cocksucker!”
His friends help him to his feet and he brushes himself off, smiling. “That all you got, momma’s boy?”
“Piece of shit!” I throw my body forward only to get blocked by Talon.
“Rex, man, chill the fuck out.” Lane pulls me back.
My muscles burn for a fight, but they’re right. This drunken loser isn’t worth it, and judging by the blood dripping from his lip to his leather vest, I’d say I proved my point. I stop struggling and shrug them off.
They let me go but stand barrier between me and the bloodied biker.
My blood is still cranked from the adrenaline and the ache of my fall. A slow smile pulls at my lips, and I can feel the wild in my eyes as I glance at Talon. “That was fun.”
He stares at me with a look I’m familiar with. It’s in the pinched brows, squinted eyes, and the slight lift of his lip.
He thinks I’m insane.
He’s right.
~*~
Mac
“Fucking fantastic.” My mumbled words are lost in the tepid desert air. It’s early May, and already the weather is warming with the promise of punishing summer temps.
I spit a few windblown strands of hair from my mouth and turn my motorcycle into my driveway. I hit the garage door opener and glare at the Harley beast parked just a few feet away.
Hatchet’s here.
After the night I’ve had, I’m in no mood to deal with his shit. I groan and pull my motorcycle into the garage.
It’s late–or early. Working the closing shift in a Vegas nightclub is a bitch. Besides having my ass grabbed, a drunk chick slosh her drink on my shirt, and getting stiffed by a group of frat boy assholes, now I’ve got to deal with this biker piece of crap. My only hope is that they’re asleep.
I shove into the house from the garage, and I’m met with complete darkness. Caught off guard, I stumble and my chest gets tight.
“Dammit.” I hate the dark. I flip on the closest switch, which illuminates a single bulb by the pantry.
Trix knows to leave a light on when I have to work late. Now I know they’re asleep—or to be more accurate, passed out.
For a second, I almost envy my roommate and her biker hookup. They’re probably so deep in the land of the intoxicated that nothing short of being stabbed could wake them up. I allow myself the fantasy of driving a knife into Hatch’s leg after one of his wise-ass taunts and smile. A girl can dream.
My grin fades and I blow out a long breath. Dream, what a joke. More like nightmare. I lie in bed half the night, fighting sleep for fear the dreams will come: memories of the life I lived before I got free, locked up and alone with revenge as my only company.
I shake the thoughts from my mind and stay focused on the present, my immediate needs, and now I’m hungry.
I work my way through the cabinets and fridge, looking for something to eat. A quick shake of the Cocoa Puffs box. Empty. Fruit Roll-Ups? Gone. I reach for a strawberry Pop-Tart and grab a Capri Sun from the fridge. Score!
The nauseous smell of Midori wafts from my sticky shirt and up my nose. How do girls drink that crap? It’s like cough syrup and Jolly Rancher mixed. I need a hot shower, pronto.
Leaving the light on, I make my way to my bedroom while ripping open the Pop-Tart package with my teeth.
“Mornin’, Big Mac.” My roommate’s voice, scratchy with sleep, comes from the living room. “You’re just getting home?” She’s lounging on the couch, her long blond hair in a tangled mess and Hatch’s wide muscular body passed out between her legs, his face in her belly.
I cover my eyes, wishing that I’d turned the kitchen light off. I can’t un-see that shit. “Hatch, you mind getting your naked ass off my couch?”
He mumbles something and grunts. With the sound of movement and the desire to avoid seeing his business, I give them my back.
“You should come back to work at Zeus’s.” Trix moans as if she’s stretching in naked contentment on my damn couch. “Better hours.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Bartending in fishnets and a G-string isn’t my thing. And those Brazilian waxes are a bitch.” All right, I still get those, but not for the reason I used to. Natural red hair isn’t an easy thing to hide.
When I first moved to Vegas, working at Zeus’s was where I wanted to be. I thought it’d be hard to get hired with no ID. I was wrong.
My name is Mac Ellenshire. I’m new in town and got my purse stolen. I need money to get a new ID. Will you hire me? Push out my boobs, wink, and wiggle my ass. Hired.
I worked there long enough to meet Trix, who helped me with a place to live, and Hatchet, who got me a fake ID and social security number. My plans were all panning out until the only reason I worked there in the first place ended up with a bullet in his head. Eh, details.
I sink my teeth into the sweet crumbly pastry and motion toward my roommate. “There a reason you two decided to soil the couch?”
“Sorry, roomie. Party out in the middle of nowhere last night. By the time we finally got home, I was sick of traveling.”
She’s got to be kidding me. “Ten more steps to your bedroom, Trix.”
“Yeah,” she says through a long drawn-out yawn. “That seemed really far away at three a.m.”
“I’m starving.” Hatch shuffles his bare feet to me, zipping up his jeans. Even in the limited light, his scruffy longish brown hair, huge shoulders, and tan skin make him look one hundred percent biker even without his leather cut.
He glares at my hands. “What is it with you and kid food?”
Truth is where I grew up we never got kid food. I’m making up for lost time. But the worst thing a person can do in front of a guy like Hatch is expose a weakness. He already knows I use a fake name, and it’s through his connections that I got a new social and ID. That alone is too much.
I hold up my head and keep my expression blank. “What is it with you and your obvious disdain for bathing?”
Clearly not used anyone talking back to him, especially a female, he steps up close, trying to intimidate with me with his size or his stink. But he knows nothing about me and the life I lived. His worst sins are nothing compared to the things I’ve seen.
A slow grin pulls at my lips.
“What’re you laughing at, bitch?”
“Watch the name calling, Easy Rider.”
“Ugh.” Trix stumbles to us, wrapped in a throw blanket. “Can you two go one fuckin’ night without fighting?”
He turns to her. “Hey, Snow White here was just saying she’s gonna make me some damn breakfast.”
“Go make your own damn breakfast, preferably in your own damn house.”
Trix turns on the light in the foyer, and I cringe at what I see on Hatchet’s face. His eye is discolored and puffy, his lip split, and his cheek an eerie mix of purple and blue.
’Bout time that guy talked shit to the wrong person. “What happened to your face?”
“Fucking pussy got lippie.” He shrugs and crosses his arms at his chest. “Had to put him in his place.”
I shove another bite of Pop-Tart in my mouth, smiling. “You put him in his place?” I motion to his eye and cheek. “’Cause uh . . . from where I’m standing, it looks like you got your ass handed to you.” A snort of laughter rips from my throat.
Trix stands, facing him, her hand on her cocked hip. “He didn’t get lippie. You picked a fight with him.”
He glares at her. “Bullshit. He started it.”
“You’re an idiot.” Trix shakes her head. “You know that guy fights for a living, right? You’re lucky he left you breathing.” She moves into the kitchen and Hatch follows.
A fighter? Vegas is full of professional fighters—both boxers and UFL—but there are only a few I know that would hang out with the kind of crowd that invites bikers to their parties. And one of those guys I have a vested interest in.
I pop my head into the kitchen. “Who fights for a living?”
Trix awkwardly pulls a box of cold pizza from the fridge while trying to keep her body covered with the blanket. “UFL guy. He’s huge, rides a dirt bike . . .”
My heart speeds and my head gets light.
“Covered in tattoos.” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, his band plays at your bar.”
“Rex?”
They both turn toward me at the same time.
“You know the fruit-tart?” Hatch crosses the room with a look in his eye that I see frequently when I look in the mirror. He wants vengeance.
I square off with him. “Fruit-tart? He beat your ass.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“If I did, I’d never tell you. Wouldn’t want to be an accessory to your murder.”
He smiles, or at least it looks as if it’s supposed to be a smile, but the way his upper lip curls back from his teeth looks more like a snarl. “Don’t worry, Snow White. I won’t hurt your boy. I’ll leave him breathing.”
“He’s not my boy.” He’s my brother! “And don’t call me that.”
We stare off for a few seconds before Trix tugs on his arm. “Come on, Grumpy. Time for you to get home. I’m sure Sneezy and Doc are worried sick about you.”
He yanks his arm out of her hold. “I’ll find him. We’ve got some unfinished business. Had a few too many beers last night, so he got the jump.” Trix drags him down the hallway toward her room. He points at me over her head. “That shit won’t happen again.”
I almost want to laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. Rex is six feet of pure muscle. He’d render Hatch unconscious before he even realized what happened. He’d have to be an idiot to go after Rex.
Knowing all that, my stomach still churns with anxiety. I hate the idea that someone is out for him. If they only knew what he’s been through . . .?
From what I can tell he’s managed to keep his past a secret. I don’t blame him. But Rex doesn’t know everything, not the most important thing. If I can just get close enough to him to form a friendship, then I can fill him in on the part of his past he doesn’t know. The one thing that could change everything.
It’d give him someone to blame for what he’s been through—everything he endured at the hands of monsters—what his tiny body was put through and the unimaginable horrors he lived. I break out in a sweat. The walls start to close in and my skin feels too tight.
Locked away. Helpless.
I race to my room and lock the door behind me. Claustrophobia knocks against my nerves. My eyes scan the windows. Open. Always open.
I take a deep breath of the fresh air and remind myself he’s free. I’m free. I drop to all fours near my bed and swipe my hand beneath it, reaching for the box.
The rusted metal scrapes against my palms. I climb up on my bed, cross-legged, and flip back the lid.
Inside are scraps of yellowed paper covered in the frantic handwriting of a boy—a boy who endured things that horror stories are made from—evidence of an existence far worse than anything hell could threaten.
I had the power to stop it.
But I didn’t.
My eyes move over each word for what feels like the thousandth time. I memorize his handwriting, relive his story, and reignite my purpose.
I can give him what he never had.
Answers.
I stare unseeing as flashes of my nightmares play out behind my eyes: the blood, so much blood; the bright blue of his eyes imploring mine; the grunted words that I’ll never forget.
The box. Our secret.
My hands, tiny and insignificant, shook for hours after they loaded him into the ambulance and sped off. The sirens blared in my head long after they took him away. I still see it all, hear it in my nightmares.
Bile crawls up my throat and my body revolts against the images. I slam closed the box and shove it under my bed. The shadows creep in, reminding me that I’m walking the edge of my sanity.
I snag my iPod off my bedside table and pop on my ear buds. With tremors wracking my fingers, I scroll through a list of songs and hit play. It’s a bootleg recording, crackly and distorted, but it doesn’t matter. The music soothes and his voice chases away the dark.
Maybe after a few hours of sleep, I’ll go see him. He never knows I’m there, but it’s enough to set my eyes on him, remind myself that he’s alive.
Seeing him never fails to do the job, clear away the cobwebs from the life I’m forced to live, and remind me of the one I promised to redeem.