Lucy
I backed the car away from the circle of bikes surrounding the older members and the newest member. I saw Max, knew he was looking at me even before I saw him, but it was hard to look at him just then. I knew his hand was throbbing and bloody, bruised from the punches he threw at Thunder’s face and ribs. It wasn’t like I didn’t know it was all coming; I’d been in this “business” for a long time now. But the fact of the matter was, I knew some part of Max enjoyed all of this. And, worse, once upon a time, I’d enjoyed it, too.
Maybe I hadn’t craved the violence like the others, but I had craved the adrenaline of a fight and the eager, heated look that came over Max’s face whenever his fist connected with flesh. It was heated and manic and incredibly sexy. It never failed to turn me on; normally this would be the time when I went to him, wrapped my arms around him, and ground myself into his crotch. This was when I usually whispered in his ear that we needed to get the hell out of there so he could fuck me into the ground.
But not tonight. So much had changed and I couldn’t seem to come to terms with it; so even when I finally got brave and met Max’s gaze from across the pavement, I didn’t stay. I ignored the look of longing he gave me and pretended I didn’t feel that familiar urge to have him any and every way.
I pulled onto the old highway that led towards home. We made a point of having things like initiations way out there so police and civilians alike were less likely to stumble upon us. It made sense and I knew it was better this way, since a lot of these guys would fight before they let the police take them in, no matter what Max said, but it meant for a long drive home. And I had too many thoughts to be stuck alone in a car with them for the next hour.
I fiddled with the dials on the radio, hopeful I might catch something to drown out some of those thoughts, but it was useless. Until I came down off the mountain and got a little closer to more occupied civilization, I wasn’t going to get shit by way of radio stations or a signal.
“Fuck,” I said aloud to the car.
An image of Max grinning at me flashed through my mind. I tried to shove it away, but I could already hear his deep, heavy voice grating against me and touching my body like a ghost, “Pretty little mouth like yours shouldn’t say filthy things like that.”
A shiver ran through me and it took everything I had to push thoughts of Max and the things we could’ve been doing right then away. It was a true testament of will and just how shitty I was feeling that I managed it at all.
Unfortunately, with Max no longer taking up the space, another man was happy to fill it.
The Preacher. My father. Marcus Gilles. He’d only been fifty-three when he’d died and everyone said it was too young, and I had to agree.
I knew it was coming before it did, but the memory of that night still shocked me enough that I had to take a moment to swerve off to the side of the road. My breathing was heavy, labored, and for a minute, I thought I might start hyperventilating. I flipped on my hazards, just in case I blacked out from lack of oxygen and tried to force myself through the experience.
Blood. It was everywhere. Sticky and red and thicker than you would think, and darker, too. Blood—
I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and focused on my breathing. In, out. In, out. Slow and easy. Focus. Calm. My hands gripped the edges of the steering wheel until my knuckles were white and my fingers were sore, but I didn’t let up. I tried to focus on that instead, but I couldn’t block out the images as they rolled on through.
“Dad?”
I’d come home kind of late in the evening. I was still living with Mom and Dad, because I feared eliminating the space between me and Max. I needed that buffer and wasn’t ready to give it up yet, no matter how crazy I was about Max.
It wasn’t unusual or anything for me to be out this late and no one would say shit to me, because I wasn’t a little kid anymore, and besides, everyone knew who I was with. I didn’t have to tell my dad that Max and I were serious, because he already knew. Everyone did. And if anyone happened to forget that, Max was more than happy to talk to them with his fists until they did.
I’d called on my way home, but no one had answered. I’d gotten the voice mail, an old message recorder that took cassette tapes, the kind you couldn’t really find anymore nowadays, but Mom and Dad refused to get rid of it.
My message had been quick, just an update to say I was on my way so if it took me too long to get home, everyone would know something was up.
Adult or no, rules were rules. And given that my dad was club leader of the Sin Reapers, it was fair to expect me to take a few extra precautions.
When I walked in the door, I called out for Dad to let him know I’d gotten in all right. When he didn’t answer right away, I frowned. I’d thought he was out, but his bike was parked out front; he should have been home.
I headed into the kitchen to look for Mom, but she wasn’t there. She left a note saying she was out, that she had some lingering bookkeeping for the club and wouldn’t be home until later. It was the job I’d take over when she couldn’t handle it anymore.
“Dad?” I called again, but still no answer.
I was starting to get worried, nervous. He was such a light sleeper and he always waited up for Mom. It didn’t make sense, I couldn’t make sense of it—
That’s when I made it to the back garage where dad liked to tinker with things. Old project bikes or sometimes an old car. Things he might work on with Max when they were doing the bonding thing or when Dad wanted to talk to him without me overhearing.
I pressed my eyes closed desperately, but that did nothing to stop the images from flooding my mind. There was nothing I could do about that or what had happened or anything else, either. Life had thrown me a curve ball and I didn’t know what to do except back away from it helplessly.
I found Dad. He was on the floor and there was blood. It was everywhere. It pooled onto the concrete like some sort of abstract art that would cost a fortune to some critic in New York who would go on and on about how expressive it was. But it wasn’t art. It was my dad, lying face down in it, and the blood was his.
The shotgun was beside him and he had his fingers clasped around the handle and his fingers snuggled in next to the trigger.
Part of me wanted to turn the other way and walk back out of the house, to do the whole thing over and just pretend like no one was home, because it was better than the alternative, but I couldn’t.
The thought came to me even as I raged against it: Dad’s dead.
I backed away, unable to turn my eyes from the grisly sight, but needing to put space between it and myself. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cellphone. I didn’t look at it as I dialed his number. After only one ring he picked up.
“Hello? Lucy?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I tried again and this time a shuddering breath slipped between my parted lips.
“Baby, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you? I’ll fucking kill them, babe, you just tell me who it was. I’ll fucking kill them.”
He said these things instantly without even considering them or the consequences, because that was the kind of man Max always was. He was brazen and bold and maybe a little foolhardy, but he was tough enough to back it up. If he said he was going to do something, he’d do it. And when it came to me, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
In that moment, it both scared me and soothed me. Max was familiar. Max would protect me.
“Max,” I breathed, my voice coming out as barely less than a whimper. “Daddy, he—” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, but that was all Max needed. He reacted instantly.
“I’m coming over. I’ll be there in a few. You just hold tight, and, baby, you keep a gun on you and don’t open the door for anyone but me, you hear?”
I managed to get out a yes and then the line went dead. I crumpled to the floor. I stared at the body of my father for probably ten or fifteen minutes before Max got there; he must not have made it all the way home yet when I’d called. Maybe he stopped for gas or food or to talk with one of the guys. Maybe he was just waiting for me to call, willing me to, wanting to hear my voice or—
My thoughts kept running into each other as I stared ahead at the blood that was cooling, drying. I tried not to think about it, but how could I not?
Then Max was there. He cursed a lot and pulled me up, wrapping me in his strong arms. He was warm and safe; I was grateful he was there with me. He held me and stroked my hair, shushing me—I must have started to cry—until finally I calmed down a little.
He pulled away and lifted my chin up so he could look me in the eyes. The intensity there always startled me, but tonight it was welcome. That intensity meant he’d fix this; he was the only one who could fix this.
“Babe, I need you to sit in the living room, okay? I need you to stay there while I take care of this, okay?”
I nodded and let him lead me to the couch. I sat there as he made calls and people came and voices talked about what was going on, but I was numb to all of it. All I could think about was the blood.
When the flashback was over, I managed to calm my breathing down. I was shaking and my hands were sore from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, but I forced them to relax. Slowly, I took several calming breaths before finally turning off my hazard lights and pulling back out onto the old highway. I had no idea how long I’d been sitting there, but it couldn’t have been too long. If one of the other members had passed, they would have stopped to check on me.
I was grateful they hadn’t.
I started driving towards home, remembering all that came after that night. Max had been so good to me in the days that followed, so helpful. He took care of everything. He got some of the guys to…to clean up the body. He made the funeral arrangements and kept me wrapped up in his arms as much as humanly possible.
The funeral had been closed casket and I’d worn a black dress beneath the leather jacket my father had gifted me so many years ago. The others—the rest of the club—had worn black, too, and their jackets to show respect for my father and all he’d meant. I’d watched as each one of them had walked up to the casket and rapped on it twice with their knuckles, the echoing sound too deep and too loud for my ears.
I knew what it had meant. Revenge. It meant every one of those club members, our family, wouldn’t stop until they found the person responsible for the Preacher’s death and exacted a fair price. His life.
But that was the problem, because the man who was responsible was already dead, wasn’t he?
They’d found a note with the body. I hadn’t seen it because I couldn’t bring myself to get any closer to my father and face the truth of his death, but when they cleared it away, they found the note.
Tell Mary I’m sorry. She’ll understand.
I never saw the note. I never wanted to, but they showed it to my mom—she was Mary—and she cried even harder after that. For a full day, she wouldn’t even open the door for anyone. Not even me. But then she came out and when they asked—because they had to—she denied knowing what the note meant. It couldn’t mean anything, I thought, but she confirmed it and I was sure they’d gotten it all wrong.
Apparently, most of the members felt the same way. The Preacher wouldn’t have ended his own life, but, yet, he was still dead.
After the funeral, I went home with Max. My mom stayed in her bedroom and cried until her pillow must have been soaked, but I couldn’t go home and remember where my dad had been and where he’d lived. Where he’d died. It was too much for me, so I went to Max and let him comfort me after the funeral.
He spent hours comforting me. Endless hours that blended together until I was crying out in beautiful pleasure, and, in those moments of pleasure, I could forget.
I remembered it still, the way he’d handled me with care. It wasn’t Max’s way to treat women nicely, though he was never unkind to them. He just had a particular taste in the bedroom and it was usually so fast and hard that unless you were the one he was banging into, you probably thought he was trying to kill you. I usually loved that, but, on that day, I couldn’t handle the violent fucking he was prone to.
He seemed to have sensed that, because he slid off my clothes carefully and slowly, taking his time, and on each spot of skin he exposed, he placed a kiss there. Tender kisses, soft and barely even there, skittering across my body in gentle caresses. Then he’d laid me on the bed and spread my legs apart. He’d devoured me with his mouth until I cried out in ecstasy, and that wasn’t anywhere close to the end of it. When I came down from that first high, he worked me back up into a frenzy with his fingers and his tongue and his teeth. He whispered sweet nothings into my ears, words of comfort that I didn’t even understand, but could feel somewhere deep in my breast.
We spent a lot of time on the bed as he worshipped my body, his lips touching every part of me they could reach. His teeth grazed my nipples; his fingers slid against my lips; his palms massaged my tits. Then he flipped me over onto my stomach and slid his hands all over my back and my rear, his lips quickly following, until my body was on fire.
He made love to me on the bed first, spreading my legs apart and sliding his hard length inside me slower than he ever had before, even for our first time together. And when he was entirely sheathed within my body, he held me close and slid his hands over my body comfortingly. He whispered, “I love you” in my ear and I melted beneath him, but I was on fire, too. When he finally started to move inside of me, it was sweet relief that filled me.
He plunged within me until I found release again, his coming soon after. Then we moved to the kitchen. He made food while I sat on the counter, but I was naked and he wasn’t concentrating on the food. Instead, his hands were busy fondling my moist lips, once again seeing to my pleasure and my distraction.
Eventually, the food was forgotten and he chose to eat me instead, his mouth finding that sweet spot between my legs. I remember crying out and winding my fingers into his hair, holding him close to me, my thighs clenching just over his ears until I finally came.
By this time, he’d recovered and grown hard again. We made it to the couch and he laid me gently down on my stomach, entering me carefully and gently from behind. It must have taken everything he had not to slap my ass or tug on my hair, but he made a point of being so gentle with me.
By the time he was buried completely inside of me, his release ripping through him swiftly, I was tired and the hurt that threatened to throb should I poke at it was comfortably numb. I could sleep at the very least, and we finally did. Exhausted, we curled up together, my head lying on his chest, and I fell asleep without a thought in my head.
The next week, I moved in with him. I couldn’t take the memories of my dad and the constant sorrow that swallowed my mother up whole. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if she would have let me help her, if we could have grieved together, but she was too wrapped up in her own grief that she couldn’t be bothered with mine.
I didn’t hold it against her, but I needed support. Max became that, my rock, and living with him gave me something to come home to. And the sex kept the sadness at bay, at least for a little while, and that comfortably numb feeling gave me hope that things might be okay.
Except that comfortably numb feeling wouldn’t last for long, and I’d known it then, too, but the sex helped. Max helped. He made me feel safe and protected in a world I felt like I didn’t understand.
But then he became leader of the Sin Reapers, taking my father’s place, and I felt like things changed between us. Or maybe it was simply that I had changed and now the things I had once been able to deal with no longer sat well with me. It meant things between me and Max were a little rocky, and I wondered if the love that bonded us together could hold in the end.