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Just picturing her face fills me with a longing I tried so hard to erase as I searched for release inside the whores I fucked. She never went away, and I felt as if I betrayed her every single fucking time, but I needed to get her out of my system.
It was impossible.
I volunteered for every mission and every trip just to distance my mind from her, and I even went undercover with the mafia just to eradicate her from my memory.
None of it worked, and when Ryder insisted I return home to see my folks, I thought he was an interfering bastard. Now I’m not so sure that was the real reason for my visit at all.
I type out a text to the man himself to search for my own set of answers.
Jonny
Find out what you can about Reverend Peters. He has buried four wives, which is either extremely unfortunate or extremely careless.
I throw down my cell and am grateful for the cold beer Mr. Gaston has provided despite the fact alcohol is strictly limited to the dens of the men in this town.
It’s always been the same here. The men rule and the women accept it. Men drink, do business and have their freedom. Women have none of the above. Now I understand what real life involves it makes me even madder and the longer I spend around these people the likelier I am to snap.
Technology hasn’t caught up with Heaven and they live like puritans and all because of the church. It’s almost a cult, and I wonder why the authorities never stepped in. It’s a mystery that has the Twisted Reapers’ name all over it, which once again raises the question why I was persuaded to come here at all.
Two hours later, I receive a text from Ryder.
Ryder
I’ve put Brewer and Lucy on it. Tread carefully and if you need backup, we require a day’s warning, or I can send a crew now.
Jonny
A day!
I type back with a smile and get the response I wanted by return.
Ryder
I’m not God, Sinner. Even I need to arrange a flight to the middle of god-damned nowhere.
Sinner. It makes me smile because when they learned of my mom’s parting words to me, the name kind of stuck and they call me it more for their own amusement than a reason. I am Sinner of The Twisted Reapers MC, and I’m a bad-assed motherfucker who gives zero shits. At least that’s what I tell everyone, but in unguarded moments like this, I am only fooling myself. I give too many shits and they all involve one tiny woman who grabbed my heart and ran away with it.
Tomorrow, I will see her again and despite what Purity thinks, Iwillbe seeing her. There will be none of this locked door shit because nothing on this earth will stop me from seeing my woman, whether she agrees with that title or not.
* * *
After the mostfrustrating twenty-four hours of my life, I am holed up out of sight in the bushes surrounding Reverend Peter’s home. I got here early and settled down for a reconnaissance mission that must be a success.
I observe the reverend going about his business, followed closely by the dour old witch Miss. Hughes. The way she scurries around after him tells me everything I need to know. She loves him. Idolizes him even and for a dried-up old spinster like her, it must be painful watching him take wife number five, knowing she is never in the running.
Nobody visits the Peter’s home and I expect it’s because technically he’s still in mourning. I stare with anger as he steps onto the porch, a tall thin figure dressed in a cheap black suit that hangs off him as if it’s repulsed to even touch him. His thinning hair is combed over the bald spot on his head, and his shifty eyes glance around furtively as he taps his foot on the wooden boards. He is holding a bible in his right hand and his black gloves in the other and the pallor of his skin makes his sunken eyes appear quite monstrous.
Reverend Peters is a fucking joke and I long to end his life with one well-aimed bullet from my gun.
I could do it. Ishoulddo it and save us all a whole lot of misery. I wouldn’t be prosecuted. I’ve killed more prominent men than him, but it needs to be a direct order from my president, rather than an act of malice on my behalf.
Perhaps that will be my next text. To seek permission to send the bastard to meet his dead wives, although I’m guessing they have discovered where Heaven really is, and the bad reverend’s destination will be a far hotter one.
He glances at his wristwatch and as the door opens, I note his trusted servant step beside him in a floor length dress with a cape around her shoulders. She is wearing a felt hat and I want to laugh out loud because what century do these fucking people live in?
This is their life; their world and modern living never made it this far. They work hard on the land providing a meager existence and I wonder why they don’t chance their luck anywhere else.
Once again, I think back on my own childhood and realize the people are brainwashed into believing this is what life offers. It’s only when someone steps outside and takes a chance, they see it’s definitely not the case. They never come back because why would they? Until now, of course. Until a Reaper came to town.
