Long Way Home. Katie McGarry
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I need him alive. If he cooperates, they’ll let him live. It’s obvious they have a message for Chevy to give and I’m just the person they’re using to control him.
The guy to the left lunges at Chevy. He raises his arm to fight, leaving an opening, and I watch as Fiend keeps the gun trained on Chevy, but aims it lower, to Chevy’s leg. Maybe Fiend’s going to injure Chevy, ruining his chances of walking, playing football, and if that doesn’t bring him to submission, Fiend will then torture me to make Chevy break.
I’m stronger than this. Bigger than this. If this is how it’s going to be, I’ll go down fighting. I’ll be the wild and crazy girl my father loved. My throat burns at the thought of him. At the thought of leaving behind my mother, my brother. Not sure how the two of them will exist without me there to push them along.
The club will take care of them. The club might never let them learn how to survive on their own, how to be their own person, so my mother and brother will never thrive, but they’ll eat, they’ll sleep and I hope to God the club will learn their lesson from what happens to me and Chevy and they’ll protect the people I love the most.
Chevy’s throwing punches and they’re throwing punches back. He’s losing, he’s bleeding and he grunts in pain. Chevy hits a man so hard that he falls limp to the ground, but then two other guys tackle him and Chevy’s head hits the concrete. His head rolls forward with the impact and there is red streaming from his skull.
The blood drains from my face, but I push my feet forward, toward Fiend. Hoping somehow I’m faster. Hoping somehow I can turn the tables.
Fiend’s eyes widen as he realizes I’m heading for him, and he turns the gun—in my direction. Chevy screams my name and right when my eyes close, as I understand I’m not going to be fast enough, there’s a loud bang and I suck in a breath.
Then oddly I let out that breath in the silence. My heart beats in my ears. Again and again and again and I inhale, the air feeling cold in my lungs. I reopen my eyes and look down at my body. Expecting to see blood, waiting for the pain, but there’s nothing.
“What the hell is going on?” a raspy voice demands. An older man with gray hair, a real-life Mack truck with legs, barrels into the room. He heads toward another new man with a scar on his face who has Fiend pushed up against the wall. His hands around Fiend’s throat like he’s willing to crush the life out of my enemy.
The gun is out of Fiend’s hand and the man with the scar offers it to the older man.
The old man points the gun in Fiend’s direction like it’s a finger and not a loaded weapon. “Did you just shoot a gun at her? Are you insane? She’s Frat’s girl.”
My feet become strangely planted while my head floats as if it’s curiously light. As I turn my head to find Chevy, the entire room spins. Is the enemy of my enemy my friend?
“Let him go,” the old man says.
I throw my arm out, searching for a wall to stay upright and instead discover a warm hand. A solid arm around my waist and then there are beautiful dark eyes. “I got you.”
My hand goes to Chevy’s face and I gingerly touch his eye that’s swelling, the bruises forming on his face, the blood flowing near the corner of his lip. “I’m sorry.”
This is my fault. Maybe we gave up too easy at the car. Maybe we should have run into the woods. Maybe I should have yelled at Chevy when he stopped his motorcycle to help. I should have pushed him away then. I should have known that I’m cursed and that I’m only capable of hurting everyone I love.
“Get him out of here,” says the old man.
The guy with the scar lets Fiend go and the two men who were fighting Chevy grab Fiend and drag him away. I blink several times and lean into Chevy’s body as my mind has fractured.
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Chevy, but he only shakes his head. His fingers tap twice to my side and I straighten. Two fingers tapping. It’s a childhood code. He’s telling me we’re in danger, and considering the past few hours, it scares the hell out of me that we’ve somehow fallen into a deeper hole.
The old man hands the gun back to the guy with a scar on his face, then scans me and Chevy as if he’s perplexed. His blue eyes tell me he sees all, knows all—a god to many in his world. “I’m going to apologize, but I know it won’t sound like much. I’m—”
“Emily’s grandfather,” Chevy cuts him off. “You’re the president of the Riot.”
Realization causes me to curl my fingers into Chevy’s shirt. This is the man whose daughter, Meg, left him to be with Eli when she fell in love with Eli over eighteen years ago. The man who has tortured the Terror since the day Meg left. Then when Eli’s life in the club proved too much for Meg, she left Eli for good as well, taking their daughter, Emily, with her. This past summer, Emily and Eli reconnected, and Emily and my best friend Oz fell in love. Those newly cemented relationships burn the Riot up and they’re holding a grudge.
The old man cocks his head. “I am. The name is Skull and I know who both of you are. There’s been a gross misunderstanding, and I only learned that you had been picked up by Fiend about thirty minutes ago. Came straight here when I found out. I had no idea about the conditions you were taken under or how you were being held. Again, my apologies.”
I don’t believe him and obviously neither does Chevy. “Then let us go home.”
“We will,” he says. “But why don’t we get you upstairs first. Let you clean yourselves up, get you some food and then me and you will call Eli together. How’s that sound?”
Sounds like heaven, but by the way Chevy and I grasp each other, we’re both aware that we’re mere steps away from descending into hell.
MY ENTIRE BODY THROBS, but I ignore it as I watch Violet enter the bathroom. She’s slow going in. Shuffling her feet. Most of it in reluctance to face what’s waiting for her in there, also could be because they kicked the hell out of her last night by the road in order to make her kneel. She has a limp and I can’t help but wonder if they did damage to her knee.
I don’t think she notices. I don’t think she feels any of the pain from the bruises on her body. Too much in shock. Too damn headstrong. What the hell was she thinking gunning for a man ready to shoot her? I rub the back of my head, feeling my own head wound. I know what she was thinking. She was trying to protect me, trying to take on the world on her own...again.
Violet’s knee gives, she trips and I shift to the balls of my feet to catch her, but she remains unaware, recovers and keeps moving. Not sure if I’m grateful Violet’s numb to the pain or if that scares the hell out of me more. If we survive this, how are either of us going to snap back mentally?
Violet looks behind the bathroom door, then hobbles to the bathtub and peeks behind the light blue curtain. We’re upstairs now, but there’s no window in this bathroom. Still no escape.
She glances at me to let me know that, at least in the bathroom, she’ll be safe.
In the basement, Violet dozed in my arms, did that thing where she dreams but stays somewhat conscious. Could tell by the way she jerked and murmured. Even with the seminap, the circles under her eyes are black against her pale skin and the bruises are overpronounced.
“You can take a shower if you want.” The president of the Riot, Skull, is by my side, acting like we’re out-of-town guests. “Towels are under the sink. You’re safe now.”
“Take your time,” I say, meaning if there’s a lock on the door to use it, shatter the glass of the mirror and use it as a weapon and hide in the bathroom until help hopefully arrives.
“I’m not taking a shower.” Violet holds eye contact with me. “Just using the bathroom.”