Lynn

I dreamt of love, of being loved, of making love, of feeling love. But the soft, pleasant feeling brought by the dream only lasted until I opened my eyes. Now the bed feels cold beneath me, and I'm fighting the onslaught of half-remembered images, of memories I don't truly have anymore, because they're buried so deep in the back of my mind, I can't even call them out consciously, let alone deal with them.

But they come out on their own at times like this, times when I manage to forget the nightmare and think that maybe I have my life and my body back.

I don't.

Memories of being tied to a bed and raped by brutal men are very vivid before my eyes right now, because I dared to dream of giving my body to someone I loved. After I was rescued, they told me I was a prisoner for just over two weeks. It doesn’t sound like much time at all. But I lost myself in that time, forgot how to count time, forgot what it meant, forgot myself. Gave myself up for dead.

I'm back. I'm safe. I'm well.

I repeat the mantra over and over in my head, until I remember that I'm not in that dark room anymore, but in my comfy bedroom at home. A psychologist taught me to use the mantra years ago to try and stop my mind's flight back into the empty, black nothingness where my mind and my soul hid to protect me from the terror I went through during those two weeks. I don't know if my soul ever truly returned. It was ripped from my body on one of those horrible, painful, scary nights, and the scar where it was once attached to my body is thick and still hurts.

I'm back, my soul is back, but it just sort of bounces inside my body with no real anchor to hold it in place. It could slip out again at any time if I'm not careful.

"That's idiotic thinking, Lynn," I tell myself out loud, as I throw my covers off and get out of bed. My voice sounds stern and inpatient like my mom's, only she'd never call me an idiot, she'd use some euphemism that means the same thing. Or just let me know what she means via the tone of her voice.

I'm back. I'm safe. I'm well. I'm back. I'm safe. I'm well. I'm back. I'm safe. I'm well.

I repeat the mantra all through my shower, until those words are the only thing left in my brain, and I can start filling it again with normal, everyday things. I'm all about routine. Routine keeps me going. Routine suffocates me. But it keeps me safe. Keeps me well. Keeps me in the present.

Mom already has breakfast ready when I come downstairs. A shiny porcelain plate is waiting for me on one side of the table, two slices of perfectly browned toast on it. Next to it is a hardboiled egg in a porcelain holder that's shaped like a hand and just as shiny as the plate. Mom even put a fresh red rose from our garden into a small crystal vase at the center of the table.

Everything in my mom's kitchen sparkles and is just perfect. Everything in her home is clean and in its place. Everything except me.

I used to be perfect. Used to be a beauty queen, as pretty as a doll. I'm still pretty, but I'm not perfect anymore, and I never will be again.

"Good morning, Lynn. Did you sleep well?" she asks as I enter the kitchen, her proper greeting perpetuating the facade of perfectness some more.

I smile at her and take my seat. "Sure did, you?

She tells me she did, then starts spreading butter on her toast, getting not a single crumb on it in the process, or on her plate for that matter. I have no idea how she manages that, and maybe I should ask her to show me her trick one of these days.

My guilt over thinking all these critical things is probably making me blush right now. No one—absolutely no one—has done more for me than my mother. She's the reason I'm able to function at all after what I went through, and the reason I'm alive. Her and the man who saved me from the nightmare. Scar. I never saw him again after that night. And I never got to thank him.

"I thought I'd try that new recipe tonight, you know, the vegetable and tofu lasagna. I think it'll be perfect for watching the Rockaway Sisters marathon to," Mom says with a smile, showing her perfectly straight gleaming teeth which are almost as white as the porcelain plates we're eating off.

My mom is also always perfect in everything she does, from her perfect cooking to her perfectly curled hair and perfectly manicured hands. Growing up, I wanted to be just like her—in fact, I was just like her—but now I don't make myself pretty anymore.

We look almost exactly alike. I have her auburn-brown hair and the same big blue eyes. We also have the same nose, mouth and chin. The only difference is that I haven’t cut my auburn-brown hair in almost a year, my nails are short and I never wear makeup. I don't like drawing attention to myself. I already get too much of it, because I'll never be a plain Jane, no matter how hard I try to be. I'm tall and slender and have an hourglass figure, but that can be hidden by baggy clothes. It's attention from men that I don't like.

I wish I still could. I used to like talking to men, and I liked flirting with them. I also liked the way most of them looked at me as though they could fall in love with me in a heartbeat. Maybe I was too vain and this is my punishment. No! I was never vain, and no one deserves what happened to me. No one deserves to have memories of it. Which is why I try very hard to forget. Having a routine and a calm life helps most of the time.

I nod and crack open the shell of my egg.

"Sure, Mom, that lasagna sounds great," I tell her. "But I might be late tonight, with the fire changing direction and all. I probably won't be back before eight, but I'll make the start of the Rockaway Sisters marathon, don’t you worry."

That’s one of our favorite TV shows, and I’ve been looking forward to this marathon for weeks.

I stop cutting up my egg and grin at her, but her lips are pursed and there's disapproving shock in her eyes.

"Just once, I'd prefer it if you just stayed as far away from the fire as possible," she says. "They're saying this is the worst wildfire in the last fifty years."

"They say something like that for every fire," I say and shrug as I take a bite of my egg, ignoring the other part of what she said.

It's wildfire season in California. When we first moved here from Illinois eleven years ago that used to be a set period of time each year, but for the last couple of years, fires are popping up all the time. It's because of the drought they say. But whatever the reason, someone has to make sure as many of the animals living in the path of the fire are herded to safety as possible, at least the domesticated ones from the many ranches and farmsteads in the hills in this area. I've volunteered for that job for years, much to my mother's displeasure.

"I worry about you so much," she sighs and her words feel like a fist is crushing and twisting something soft in my chest. It's been twelve years, I'm recovered! Or as recovered as I'm ever gonna be. There’s no need for her to baby me anymore.

"I wish you'd just stay away from that ranch during fire season," she continues.

I feel very foolish over that internal tantrum I just had. Good thing I didn’t blurt any of that out.

"But I know you won't," she concludes.

"The animals need me," I say.

She's shaking her head as she lays her piece of toast back down on her plate untouched. "No, this is your father in you."

My dad was a cop. He was shot and killed by a fugitive during a routine traffic stop when I was four years old. I hardly remember him, but my mom's told me so many stories about him over the years that I kinda feel like I know him very well. He was a brave man, a man who knew what had to be done and did it, even if he did put himself in harm's way more than was necessary, as Mom puts it. But that kind of selfless bravery is not why I'm the first in line when it comes to saving animals from the fires.

The animals need me and I don't have a lot to lose. I’m grateful to have my life back, but it’s not exactly worth living, not with all my fears and bad memories and the way I can’t always control my mind from taking me back and making me relive all of them. So if I can use my life to save someone whose life is worth living, I'll do it gladly. And I always loved animals. These days, I like them more than people.

I hurry up and eat the rest of my breakfast without saying anything more, while Mom nibbles at hers. I have to stay safe for her. She wouldn't survive losing me. She'd drink herself to an early grave if anything happened to me again. But she has no reason to worry. I always stay safe, and I will return home tonight.

"I'll see you later, Mom," I say after I finish my breakfast, get up and kiss her cheek. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine, you know I will."

She smiles, but it's a faint and sour kind of smile. Then she points at a small lunchbox on the counter. "I packed your lunch. It’s rice salad and a piece of corn bread."

"Thank you, Mom," I say and grab it on my way out the door.

If I stayed in there with her any longer, the terrifying shadows that live very deep inside my brain would come out again. I love my mother, the last thing in the world I want to do is hurt her any more than she's already been hurt, but her constant worrying about me, and her taking care of me like I was still in middle school is suffocating. It's also a constant reminder of what happened to me and that I’m still not well.

I want a normal adult life. But even as I think it, I know that's not for me. I need the routine, I need Mom’s companionship and being taken care of. And I need to know my life matters to someone. Else I'll just get lost in the black nothingness that was my life for months after I was rescued, as I struggled to make sense of what was real and what just a dream.

* * *

Scar

Our MC tracked down and finished off the last remaining member of Satan's Spawn MC that we could get to a couple of days ago. And now we're officially out of the mercenary line of business and in the safer, less violent area of weapons trafficking. I don't know what to do with myself, and I have no idea how I'll fit into this new MC I’m suddenly a part of. There won't be a whole lot of people to scare and torture into submission anymore now, and that's all I've done for almost my entire adult life. It's all I'm good at doing.

Not even Tank is opposing the shift of operations anymore, and he was my last hope for things staying as they were. I wish he didn't chew so loudly as he eats his breakfast across from me. That and his exaggerated rustling with the newspaper as he turns the pages is driving me insane.

"Man, I hope this fire doesn't change direction and come by Sanctuary," he says with his mouth full, turning the paper towards me so I can read the headline.

Sanctuary, our HQ, is an old stone building deep in the forested hills of California. In all the years that I've been a member of Devil's Nightmare MC, and it’s going on twenty, only two fires ever threatened us here, and even those were more or less false alarms.

"We'll be fine," I say and focus on my own breakfast.

But Tank’s still looking at me with that annoying-as-fuck sarcastic gleam in his eyes.

"What?" I ask when it becomes clear he's trying to communicate something to me, and I'm just not getting it.

"We'll probably be fine from the fire, you're right about that," he says. "But you're worried about yourself not being fine, since you're pretty much out of a job now that the Spawns are history. But don't worry, I'm sure we'll still have need of a torturer."

Tank is our VP and my old and close personal friend besides, but he has this tendency to say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time just to be sarcastically annoying. Anything I say back right now will be the wrong thing too, so I don't say anything, just get up and leave the room.

"Was it something I said, Scar?" he yells after me, but I ignore that too.

He's not wrong, which is another reason I don't want to talk to him anymore. I guess the cause of my sour mood lately has been figured out by the brothers and Tank is just the first one confronting me about it.

I’m at a total crossroads in my life right now, suffering a total loss of identity, as new age bullshitters would put it. I suppose it's as good a name as any to put on it, but I never had any kind of need to name it before. I used to be good at drinking, brawling and fucking my way past anything, but this…this feels like a life altering situation, and I don't appreciate getting laughed at and made fun of over it.

I joined Devil's Nightmare MC when I was seventeen years old and had enough of my father's and brother's bullshit to last a lifetime. The Devils rode through our small Illinois town, stopped just long enough to be noticed, and I rode out West with them when they left. They were based in California, far enough from my hometown to suit me perfectly. I was a member before the guys who run the club now were even a blip on the horizon. This includes Tank, but also Cross, our president, and Rook, our Sarge. So, yeah, it makes sense I'd have a harder time letting go of what we were.

I wander into the garage in search of my bike. I've been toying with the idea of just taking off for a couple of days to get my head back on straight, and Tank's crap just now made me decide it's time to do it.

Ice has the same idea, it seems. He's in the garage tinkering with his brand new bike, which probably doesn't need it. His saddlebags are already packed, judging by the way they’re bulging.

He's been talking about leaving for awhile now, and I guess the time is finally here. He's also probably the only one who can come close to understanding me right now. Not that I need understanding, I just need some peace and quiet.

"So, you're not joining the MC and staying after all?" I say as I walk up to him and get a cold, kinda murderous look in return. That kinda look always heats up my blood and has my fists itching for a fight, but that's a distant reaction right now. Maybe I'm going soft in my old age.

Maybe it's for the best that we're switching away from being guns for hire. In that line of work, you go soft and you die. I've seen it happen to a couple of guys who got old before me. Not that thirty-six is old.

"Yeah, joining up’s not the plan right now," Ice says and starts polishing the handlebars of his bike, which don't need it. "I'm going home to see what's left of my father's house and his legacy there. And to pay my respects and such."

Our MC took on Satan's Spawn MC to avenge what they did to Ice's MC and to Ice himself. For six years, they kept him locked up and made him fight in cage tournaments like he was no better than a fighter dog. He was the champion for those six years, so there’s that. He also got his revenge now, but he doesn’t seem as happy about it as I expected him to be.

I still fantasize about taking revenge on my brother for the lovely scar on my face that makes people flinch and back away from me on a good day. I'd be way happier if I got that revenge, but my brother's been locked up for the past ten years and has at least another ten to go. I should've gotten my revenge before he was sent down, then I'd sleep easier at night. But I'm a patient man, and I'll be waiting for him when he gets out.

"Yeah, I get it," I mutter.

"You do?" Ice asks. "'Cause no one else seems to."

I suppose the "no one" he's referring to is Roxie, Cross' old lady and Ice's sister. Cross has been hounding him to stay and join the MC on her behalf almost everyday. Although, to be fair, Ice would be a good addition to out MC.

"Never felt much need to revisit the past myself, but I kinda see your point. Some chapters have to be closed, or something. But do you ever worry about what you'll do now?" I ask.

I'm referring to the fact that Ice liked getting his revenge on the Spawns a little too well and now that's all over. That reference is not lost on him going by the killer look he's flashing me.

It looks like he means to start shit over me mentioning it, but he just shrugs and goes back to polishing his bike.

"I got shit planned for about the next month or so, and after that who the fuck cares?" he says.

From his tone it's clear that he certainly doesn't. I suppose his sister cares, but that's their business and none of mine, so I don't say it.

I have some unfinished business in Illinois too. Maybe I'll join him. Lynn, the woman Lizard abducted and turned into a sex slave before I saved her is from the same town as Ice. She was in the back of my mind during all the Spawns killings, and avenging her was my biggest reason for taking part in almost every one of them. I didn’t necessarily think I’d ever look her up to tell her about that, but maybe I could. I haven't seen her since the night I dropped her off at the ER after rescuing her from the Spawns. I could find her and tell her she got her revenge now, since Lizard and all the motherfuckers who raped and beat her are almost all dead. All except one, but he's still on my list and I'll get him as soon as he gets out of prison.

Maybe telling her that will scare her, but I think it'll also make her happy. Getting revenge is one of those things that makes everyone happy.

"When you leaving?" I ask Ice. "I might ride with you."

He shoots me a look that tells me he's not too thrilled with the idea. "Did Cross and Roxie put you up to this? Tell them I'll be perfectly fine out there in the big bad world on my own."

"No, they didn't put me up to this. There's another person who deserved to get her revenge on the Spawns, and it's time to tell her she finally got it," I say and get a blank stare from Ice.

"The waitress Lizard abducted in your town when we were there," I explain. "Remember her?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember Lynn, who wouldn’t? She went to my school. Gorgeous piece of ass and not too stuck up over it either," he says, a slight smile playing across his face as he remembers her.

This sour taste of jealousy his words caused in my mouth isn't something I expected. Sure I liked her, sure I wanted to take her out and fuck her, and I even had vague ideas of being the only man who does that with her, but I didn't think those feelings were still so strong after all this time. I thought about her some over the years, but not too often. She was broken by the time I rescued her. Beyond repair, I figured. And there was no way to go back and check, because her hospital room was guarded by at least two cops at all times, until one day she just vanished.

"It's fucked up what Lizard did to her. Good thing I killed him," Ice says still speaking in that happily reminiscing sort of voice. Right now, I wish I'd gotten to Lizard first.

"You’re welcome to ride with me if it's to tell Lynn that piece of shit is dead," Ice adds.

"Good, glad we're on the same page," I say.

The jealousy over Ice telling Lynn he dispatched Lizard, and them taking a nice little trip down memory lane afterwards, reminiscing about their high school years, tastes very bitter, but I push it back. She's probably married by now, so Ice is the least of my problems in that area.

"But first I have to find out if she's still there," I add. “it could take a couple of days.”

He frowns, but finally shrugs and nods. “Fine, I’ll wait.”

Hawk will do some of his internet juju and find her for me. And by the time me and Ice visit her, I'll have this jealousy under control. I’m not sure where it's coming from, because even before she was abducted, I'd decided she was way too gorgeous to waste her time on an ugly, scarred and soulless killer like me.

I saved her because I knew where she was held, and because I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I just left her there. It was also because she didn't make me feel like an ugly, scarred monster, while we chatted at her diner. She made me feel like a regular young guy the way no woman before or after her ever has.

But saving her was the last good and kind thing I did. Maybe going back to that point now that I'm at this crossroads is exactly what I need. It sure seems that way the more I think about it.