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“Jesus Christ. It would be easier to just hand myself into the cops.” Rogue snatches the photos back off Maddy and flicks through them again.
“I ain’t never seen the men. I ain’t never been to the bar. Now if you’d all let me get back to work, I got a fuel injection system on a Honda that ain’t gonna fix itself.” I step out of her path as she storms out.
Maddy and Jessie are both staring at me when I turn around. I shrug back at them to disguise the fact that I want to chase after her, smash her into the wall of my cabin and fuck the stubbornness out of her. Instead, I head out back to cool off, onto my deck that overlooks the lake, and light myself a smoke.
There’s a fucking trail… This shit is a lot more complicated than we hoped and Skid doesn’t need anything else to stress over.
With any luck, Rogue working at the garage all day will enable me to get some thinking done and put some kinda plan in place.
I still got the dust that’s left of Eddie’s bones to get rid of, so when I’m sure Jessie and his old lady have let themselves out, I grab my keys and head straight down the club to my basement. I grab the sealed plastic bag from my safe and leave the compound, without bothering to look over at the garage. I’m still pissed at Rogue for being so fuckin’ awkward.
How the hell are we supposed to help her if she refuses to cooperate?
Rogue knows who those men are, it’s written all over her face, and for some reason, she feels the need to lie to us about it. That puts her and the club at risk.
The girl thinks she’s fucking invincible.
I’m not thinking straight while I’m riding, and I surprise myself when I realize which direction I’m heading in. It isn’t often I make a trip back to my past.
The small town where I used to live never changes, and the low rumble of my bike turns the heads of everyone I pass as I head through the main street. I don’t have to worry about being recognized. No one here would recognize me now. I’m not the same boy that left here all those years ago.
I take a left at the old gas station, then after a few more yards, another left down the long track that leads to the house where I grew up.
The place looked so much grander when I was younger. So perfect. Now the paint on the cladding is faded and chipped, and tall weeds grow up the guttering and poke through the roof tiles.
My foot creaks on the porch step, and the stench of rotting wood makes my lips curl into a snarl. I remember sitting on the porch swing and waiting for dad to come home. The swing’s broken now, the chain on one side seized by rust and causing it to hang unevenly. I should feel the urge to fix it, but this place is beyond repair to me.
Bad memories can’t be cleaned up. No one has control over them.
My hand reaches for the handle of the front door, and just like every other time I've come back here, something stops me.
I don’t need to be reminded of how alike we were, I see the resemblance every day when I look in the mirror. I hear his voice inside my head and feel his sins on my hands.
His thoughts are forever polluting mine, there’s no escaping from him, and being here isn’t gonna help that.
Backing away, my foot lands heavy on one of the decaying steps and I stumble when it snaps beneath me. I waste no more time and get back on my bike, kicking up the dust on the long narrow track that leads me back to the road.
Before I leave town, I stop by the chapel. I look out of place here now, but when I was a boy, me and my parents would come here every Sunday. We had a car, but Father preferred for us to walk. He liked to parade us through town, to show off his biddable wife, and well-mannered son. His perfect family.
I push through the chapel doors with Eddie Clark's bone dust burning a hole in my pocket and as I step toward the altar, my head turns to the pew where we used to sit. I picture her there wearing the baby blue dress that rests just below her knee, and her matching jacket. Her smile so beautiful, no one would have ever guessed it was fake.
Age 8
The water scalds my skin, and the bleach stings my eyes but I don’t cry. If I show Mama that I’m hurting it’ll only make her more upset.
“That’s enough, he’s clean, let him get out.” She’s begging Father now, and I hate the satisfaction it brings him. He’s feeding on her weakness, sucking it out of her like a leech and I wish she’d stop giving him more power.
“I told you he wasn’t to play with the Hopewell boys, Anita, the family are unholy and have no hygiene standards.”
“I didn’t know he was playing with them, I would have told him not to if I’d have known. He was just being a child, Peter. Please, he’s suffered enough.”
“You allow our boy to roam the streets, not knowing where he is?” He looks furious but I have to focus on breathing. I can feel my skin starting to blister and as badly as I want to scream, I know it won’t do any good, it will just make him madder and then he’ll hurt Mama too.
“Scrub him clean, Anita, wash the sins away from him. Who knows what he’s touched while he was with them, or the thoughts they might have contaminated his mind with.”
Mama mouths me a sorry as she grabs a bar of soap and starts to rub it over my skin, the bleach and hot water make it super-sensitive and each of her delicate strokes feels like a talon ripping through my skin.
“Not like that, Anita. Harder.” Father snatches the soap out of her hand and scrubs it against my back. This time, I fail to stop the painful yelp from crawling out my throat.
