Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (18 page)

It shouldn’t
have gotten me off.

I didn’t care.

For the first
time I didn’t regret stealing the kid and forcing her into the middle of the MC.

Rose wasn’t some
helpless little girl. She was as Anathema as her older brothers. As her old man.

She’d help me
restore the club, even if it meant I’d force her to betray her family.

And when I had
enough evidence to prove Keep was the one responsible for getting her
kidnapped, bloody, and nearly incinerated, he’d be tossed in the shallow grave
right next to Exorcist.

I hadn’t ridden
a bike in years.

Not since the
last time Dad forced me onto his bike. When he had one too many and told my
brothers he wanted to
take me around the block
.

They thought he needed
the fresh air and an excuse to duck out of a bad poker hand.

I knew better.

And they should
have known too.

I wished they
had known.

Dad wobbled onto
the bike and buckled my helmet for me. He rubbed my shoulder, squeezing it,
before pointing behind him and ordering me on. He warned for me to hold tight,
and wouldn’t leave the parking lot until I wrapped my hands low over his waist.
Pressed my chest into his back.

He laid the bike
down just outside the theater on Washington. Passed through a red light going
fifty when he should have been traveling twenty-five. He fell off. I wasn’t so
lucky.

The right side
of my body eventually healed. It was the one scar my brothers didn’t ignore. I
was eighteen, and, for the first time, they defended me against Dad.

And he beat me
mercilessly for it before I left the hospital.

I didn’t have
the experience or skills of the rest of the club. I sped away from the
warehouse in blind panic, away from the fire and the guns and the
favors
.
Except I didn’t realize what I had done. Thorne passed me in seconds,
overwhelming my motorcycle with the confidence of a rampaging warlord charging
down the unfortunate prey falling under his sword. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t
shout. Didn’t do anything but push his bike ahead of mine and glance in his
mirror to ensure I fell into the proper formation behind him.

I didn’t care if
I was the first to Pixie or the last, so long as I got away from Exorcist.

My arms burned where
ropes dug into my flesh. My stomach heaved with the oil soaked gag they shoved
in my mouth. My skin glistened under the streetlights. Glass. They meant to
destroy the entirety of the warehouse. My ears still rang from the gunfire. My
body bled from the pulverized light bulbs. My lungs hardened with ash, soot,
and chemicals.

I should have
died.

The only reason
I escaped, the only reason I lived, was because Exorcist wanted it.

I had no doubt
once I did the jobs they asked they’d probably kill me. Then they’d kill my
brothers.

Then Thorne.

I gripped the
handles on the bike and accelerated to the highway. We raced down the strip
that would deliver us across the bridge, to where we’d be
safe
.

Safety didn’t
exist within Anathema, only the peace-of-mind of knowing when an enemy wouldn’t
interfere in club business. No one talked about how they achieved that peace,
but everyone knew how to get it. I stared at ahead at the road. My
dress—buttercup yellow, stained with blood and fuel, scorched and ripping in
the battering wind of the open highway—didn’t belong in the formation. The
demon on their backs trapped me within the hellish underworld.

But it also
protected me.

I stared at the
scarred monster patched on Thorne’s cut. The horned demon represented fear and
distrust and every horrible promise lingering in nightmares. But this time, in
that moment, racing to a childhood home-away-from-home and seeking the security
of men hardened by prison time, violence, and a blood brotherhood, I was never
more thankful for Anathema. It’d be the only force possible to save us from
what was to come.

Thorne relaxed
our speed after the bridge. We crossed off the main roads and kept to the
lesser traveled paths as the sirens wailed across the river and helicopters circled
overhead. The prospects waited for us at Pixie’s gates, and Thorne drove us into
the secured compound. I parked the stolen bike and ripped the wires from the
ignition. It choked and died. I kicked it over to ensure it stayed dead. Thorne
took his helmet without a word. Brew shouted enough for both of us.

The bar’s door
opened. My vision burst into blinding haloes. I shrieked as a pair of arms
grabbed me around the midsection, jostling everything bruised, potentially
broken, and seeping blood.

“Keep!” The pain
dissolved the air from my lungs. “
P—Please
.”

Thorne grabbed
his shoulders and tossed my brother back. I crumbled to the ground. The pained
gasp echoed, and I whined at the horrifically rough gale in my breath. The
coughing cleared most of the smoke, but the crushing rawness of my throat would
haunt my nightmares until I grabbed a piano and ensured my pitch hadn’t been
completely destroyed.

I blinked
through tears and flinched even as a pair of gentle hands rested on my arms. A
whip of blonde hair coiled over Jocelyn’s shoulders, and she forced my chin up
to examine the cut on my forehead.

“Are you okay?”
She asked. “Jesus Christ. Were you riding Luke’s bike?”

I didn’t know
whose bike I stole. I sighed. Ex forced Luke and his crew to split before
dumping the diesel, breaking the lights, and smacking me around. I hated
everyone in Ex’s Coup, but I regretted stealing Luke’s bike.

Keep dropped to
his knees. “You look like shit.”

Lyn stared him
down. “I could say the same about you an hour ago.”

“Get inside.” Thorne
gritted his teeth and offered me his hand. Keep did the same.

I let Thorne
help me from the ground.

“What the hell
happened?” Lyn followed close. She swore as Brew pushed her from his path.

“Did they hurt
you?” Brew asked.

I glanced to the
mirror behind the bar but didn’t recognize the dirty, matted, bloody woman
staring wide-eyed. Scotch emerged from the office and cursed his Hail Mary. He
rushed to grab us drinks. He pushed whiskey toward Thorne but only offered me a
bottle of water. I would have preferred the alcohol if only to pour over my
head. At least it might have cleared the reeking stench of fuel from my skin.

Jocelyn pulled a
first-aid kit from behind the bar, but she tapped her nails against the hard
plastic.

“She needs to go
to a hospital.”

Brew pushed her
aside. “She’s fine. What the hell happened, Rose?”

Without the roar
of the bikes and the rush of the wind, the quiet erupted in my head. I flinched
as Brew stomped to face me.

“Someone jumped
me after the show.” I swallowed over my aching throat. “He threatened me. I
tried to get away.”

“I told you.”
Brew pointed at Keep. “She needs to carry a gun.”

“I don’t want a
gun.”

 Brew ignored me.
“What did Exorcist do?” His words weren’t questions. He demanded his answer. Thorne
knocked back a shot of whiskey and waved a hand to calm him down. No dice. “Did
he say anything?  What he want with you?”

I shook my head.
A burst of glass glittered out of my curls. My eyes itched. That was probably
bad. As were the cuts spanning my body. The bitterness of fuel in my mouth. The
nausea eating away at my stomach. The concussion. The agonizing breaths. Now
that I sat still, breathed, relaxed, the injuries ruptured through my body,
undulled by my panic and fear.

Why didn’t Brew
care?

“Rose.” He
stared me down. “What happened?”

The truth
poisoned me as much as the diesel. I shook my head. Exorcist played me for a
rat. Someone who would betray the club.

Except I had to
do it. The meet-up. The exchange. The money and the drugs and the gun to my
head that forced me to deal with the monsters who only ever trusted my father.

I had to stay
quiet. Ex would try to kill them anyway. At least hiding my forced job would
keep them alive until I figured out what the hell I could do to stop Ex from
securing all the money and all the influence and all the goods he needed to run
the city and destroy Anathema.

“Nothing. They
wanted to lure you to the warehouse. To try to kill you.”

Brew didn’t
believe me. He frowned, just like Dad. The same temper, same frustrated
mannerisms. His jaw twitched.

“I told you
going to sing was a bad fucking idea.” He stole the whiskey from Thorne. He
took a swig and slammed the bottle onto the counter. It shattered. Lyn groaned
and jumped before the drink spilled over her corset. Thorne threw back the last
drops of what remained in his tumbler.

“You had to
fucking fight us.” Brew pitched a rag at the mess. “Every
fucking
thing
we say. Take the money. Get the guitar. Stay in Pixie. Don’t sing. Every goddamned
thing. Jesus Christ, I don’t know how Dad got you to fucking shut up and behave,
but I wish he taught me how to make you obey your fucking family.”

I stiffened. I
doubted my brother would have mimicked Dad’s preferred punishment. Lyn and Thorne
studied the scene, their gazes meeting for the briefest of moments. My cheeks
flared.

“Are you...
blaming
me for this?”

Brew held his
arms out. “You tell me. You think long and hard about what we told you to do,
and what would have happened if you listened.”

“Like I had a
choice. You
voted
on me, remember?  You dragged me here.”

Keep rubbed the
inside of his elbow. I ignored the spreading bruise from whatever vein he missed.

“For your own
good, Bud,” Keep said. “We only want you to be safe.”

“You can’t keep
me locked in a bar forever.”

I looked to
Scotch and Gold for help. They ducked away. Lyn crossed her arms and smiled. At
least one show of support. Thorne stared only at my brothers. At Keep. His
gun-metal eyes darkened like he already pulled a trigger. My stomach flipped. His
silence frightened me more than Brew’s shouting.

“I’ll lock you
wherever I want.” Brew didn’t just threaten. Not this time. “You’re my sister.”

“And you’re
supposed to be my brother.”

“What’s that
mean?”

“Act like it! 
Give me a hug. Tell me you’re glad I’m safe.”

“You would have
been safe if you listened to me in the first place.”

I sucked in a
breath if only to stave off the tears. It didn’t help. The air crowded my
aching ribs, and I winced. It gave Brew more courage.

“I didn’t do
anything wrong,” I said.

“You wandered
off after the show.”

“To get
paid
.”

“I told you to
wait for us.”

“How was I
supposed to know Ex had guys waiting?”

“Did you even
try to fight?  Did you even think about what would happen if Ex got a hold of
you?” Brew ran out of ways to blame me. He pointed a finger toward my head. “I
fucking told you never to hotwire a bike!”

Like it was fair
to chastise me for things that happened five years in the past. I pointed back.

“You said never
to hotwire
your
bike.”

Lyn, Scotch, and
Gold laughed. Brew tensed as I turned away from him.

“You listen to
me when I’m talking to you.”

He grabbed my arm.
The adrenaline surging through my body snapped the fragile hold on my sanity. I
didn’t hesitate. I slapped Brew across the cheek. Hard. Quick. And with enough
force to leave a vibrant red streak over his jaw.

Keep jumped
between us, but I was smacked around enough in the past hours. I expected Brew
to do it too. Just like Exorcist. Just like Dad. Just like every other
testosterone-fueled, drug-addled, violent criminal who used me for their agenda
or entertainment or disgusting purposes.