Chapter Six

Keeping my brother alive for the last two months has been harder than I thought it would be. I hadn't planned on it, in all honesty, but I haven't been able to actually kill him. It's not because I feel guilty or anything, because he hasn't exactly been enjoying himself while chained by his hands and feet to a metal table in the basement.

Some would say what I've been doing is worse than murder. I like to call it Karma. And I'm not finished yet. Each slice across one of Jake's precious tattoos is actually quite cathartic for me.

Watching the thin red line of blood spill over the fresh new wound.

Listening to the pained moans as he tries desperately to stay silent.

Tasting the bitterness of retaliation and the sweetness of revenge as my brother realizes he's truly done for.

There is no getting out of this for him.

Plus side: I won't get arrested for murder because I'm "dead".

Down side: the fulfillment and satisfaction I should be getting from this whole thing is dampened because I went and broke my own heart in the process.

Taking a step back from Jake, I admire my handiwork for today and grab the pure alcohol solution from the rickety shelving unit to the right of the metal bed. I've been cleaning the wounds so they don't get infected and give him sepsis, but it's just as unpleasant for him as the actual wound-making.

"Bissssh!"

"Oh, how original. A man calling a woman a bitch. Aren't you clever?" My laugh is as fake as any devotion I ever had for the Toxic Rebels.

"You p-pay forthss." Sounding out his words over the last few days seems to have become a struggle for him. Which is normal, considering he's being allowed the bare minimum of food and water to keep his body from shutting down completely, but with the torture on top of that, he won't last much longer.

The second stage of my plan begins any day now. As soon as the next race night is announced and those location texts are sent… I just hope the cops did their job and all the Rebels are behind bars right now because I need the win.

"I think you'll find that you're the one paying for this, big brother. Every bruise, every wound inflicted on me from you and your club has a price. I played my part, I obeyed like the good little girl I once was, and do you know the funny thing?" Picking up the plastic cup of week-old water, I step closer to Jake, his no-longer-bright blue eyes glaring daggers at me. "I learned a few things from y'all. You made me this way. You gave me the strength to torture you like a fucking psychopath. Aren't you proud, big brother?"

Jake growls in response, finding the energy to jerk his body as I lift my arm to hold his mouth open for the water.

"Nottt your brotherrr, bisssh." His rough words are spoken slowly, and they make me pause with the plastic cup almost to his face.

"I wish that were true. It'd make more sense than my own blood treating me like fucking shit after practically ignoring me my whole childhood." I had stupidly thought that my brother offering to take care of me when Dad died and Mom got sick would mean a wonderful new relationship. I was wrong.

I don't even want to give Jake the water I'm holding now. Other than calling me names, he's been a useless source of information for the last two months, but telling me he's not my brother causes my simmering anger to bubble. Fuck knows why. It just does.

The cuts on his cheeks crack open as he attempts to grin, then his weak-ass laugh turns into a cough that only seems to hurt him more.

"M-om cheeeeted." More coughing. "N-nottt Dad." His dry laugh turns into a full-on choking fit and I pour the water in my hand onto his face.

What the fuck?

Hot tears prick at my eyelids, but I won't let Jake hurt me anymore. The whole point of this is for me to hurt him now. My breathing is shallow and I continue to stare at him until his cough dies down and he glares at me, a wicked grin on his cracked lips.

"H-he wsssss weeeak. Like yooo—" A quick cut from the corner of his mouth up to his ear stops his vile words. The sight is satisfying, but I cut too deep. Shit.

I need time to process what Jake said. What does he mean by not Dad? Was Dad not my dad, not his dad? Or is he just trying to get to me?

Fuck.

The landline ringing upstairs gets my attention and the volcano of anger erupting inside my trembling body begins to settle briefly. There's only one person with the number for this cabin, and that's because he owns it.

Leaving a writhing, bleeding Jake on the cold, hard table, I head up the basement stairs and into the small kitchen, picking up the landline phone from its dock after removing my plastic gloves.

"Hey, Spence."

"I have good news." His smooth tone is comforting, and I could never in a million years pay him back for what he's done for me.

"Shoot."

"Poor choice in wording there, Babe." We both chuckle, because, yeah, shooting is how we got here in the first place. "He's free, came out yesterday. I saw ‘em all riding through town and, man, I can see why you fell for a biker." He sighs, probably daydreaming about bagging his own biker one day.

"Life would be so much easier if I hadn't. But thanks, Spence. I appreciate the update. You gonna stop volunteering at the jail now?" Talking on the phone with Spencer once a day is my reprieve from the basement, so I'm not quick to finish with the call.

"I might give it another week or two, but Steve's not sure I should stay."

"How is Steve?" Steve's job at the mortuary made my plan a hell of a lot easier than I'd anticipated to begin with, and I'm selfishly worried that messing with him will cause me problems.

"He's good. A bit distant, but I won't push him. More bodies have gone missing from the morgue since you and Jake, and it's all a bit of a mess at work for him at the moment."

"Do I need to have words with him to make sure he's treating you right?" I chuckle.

Spence told me, flat out, he thinks I'm a badass capable of anything. And while he's not entirely wrong—especially considering the last couple of months—I'm still just a twenty-one-year-old girl trying to figure my shit out.

"I'll let you know, Babe."

"Okay. First, though, I might need some help." I've just remembered how badly Jake was bleeding out when I left him.

"Is it finally time for the shovel?" I love that he's as callous as me about this whole thing. After I told him what happened that night in the Rebels' trailer, his indecision about helping me vanished. Spencer is the kind of best friend everyone needs, ready with a shovel to bury the enemy's body.

"Yeah, I think so. He was bleeding pretty badly when you called. And I've seen those videos with the inflatable unicorn costume as a disguise in this kind of situation… don't do that." I laugh, and Spence feigns insult with a sharp inhale.

"As if I would? Okay, I thought about it, but I'll just wear some old clothes." His chuckle warms my insides. It's been four days since I saw him and Aleko, and I'm craving human contact that isn't my dying, possibly already dead brother—if the lack of cries is anything to go by. That, or he's passed out. "Be there in an hour."

"See you soon."

Forty-five minutes since my phone call with Spence, and I haven't dared go back downstairs because I have this gut feeling that it's really over. And it wasn't nearly as satisfying as I'd hoped.

I've been pacing the small kitchen, trying to make a damn decision about what to put in my sandwich, like it's the most important thing in the world. What I really want to do is find Aleko, make him forgive me for not telling him what was going on, make him take me back and solve all my problems. But my dad raised me to solve my own problems… if he's even my dad at all. Either way, he did raise me, taught me to respect myself, to ride, to be strong in the face of my fear. Which is the only way I've gotten through the last five or so years under my brother's rule.

Peanut butter and jelly. Classic. I grab the ingredients I need, shaking myself off before allowing my emotions to get the better of me, and make my sandwich. A few minutes later, the kitchen is spotless again and I have my food in hand as I make my way back down into the basement.

Yup. Jake's dead. His eyes are wide open, glassed over and staring at nothing, his body is limp, and the giant diaper he's wearing is overflowing with shit. Fucking great. That's been the worst part about all of this. Because I know that if I'd let him stew in his own crap for this long, he'd have been long gone. The cooking utensils from the kitchen have come in handy, saving me from actually touching anything. Ugh. The thought alone makes me shudder.

The main thing on my mind now is that I'm going to have to tell Mom that her son is really dead, and not fake dead. Not that she knows if either of us is alive or dead right now. Before my "death" I told Maggie, mom's nurse at the psych ward, about my friend Spencer, said that I'd be going away for a while and he would be checking in on her—so that when I "died" he wasn't a complete stranger to them. The last time he spoke to Maggie, he found out that the staff hadn't informed Mom about the tragic shooting of her children. They're not sure how she'll cope with the information, and considering she's there in the first place because her husband died, I get it.

The strange thing is, though, Mom's noticed my absence. According to Maggie, she even asked for me by name two weeks ago. I didn't think she'd be lucid enough to realize, and I'm more convinced by the day that Jake and his cronies were giving her something.

"Honey, I'm ho—ugh!" Spence's loud greeting is quickly cut off by gagging noises, followed by his footsteps coming down the wooden staircase. "Shit, Mac, this place fucking reeks." He's holding his light-blue T-shirt up and over his nose, showing his distaste as well as vocalizing it.

Now that I really think about it, it does stink in here. I guess feces and a dead body will do that to a place. I've been totally nose-blind to it, and I shrug, pushing the last of my sandwich into my mouth and chewing. I used cherry jam because it reminds me of what else I destroyed.

"Were you really down here eating a fucking sandwich and staring at your dead brother?" He's not judging, there's amusement in his eyes that perfectly match his T-shirt.

The statement should definitely bother me more. But it doesn't. What does, is the fact that I thought doing this was worth ruining what I had with Aleko. I could have done so many things differently. If I'd have just taken the money for the street race winner for myself instead of handing it over. But no… I needed this.

It's sick, it's twisted, but I don't think I could have lived with myself just doing nothing… not after that night. Living around the Toxic Rebels as I became an adult made me think this is okay, but deep down, I know I'm messed up. I don't particularly care, but I know it's not normal. Maybe that's why I let Aleko go so easily? Because I know I'm not the good girl who needs saving like he thinks I am.

"Yeah. Peanut butter and jelly. I can make you one before we start, if you want?" I grin, pushing aside all thoughts and feelings that make me sad because I have shit to do.

"Ha. No." Spencer shakes his head in disbelief, and I imagine a smirk grazing his lips as his eyes crinkle at the corners. "We're going to need to fumigate this place when he's gone. Get rid of the stench. I brought hazmat suits for us."

"You, Spencer Holt, are the bestest best friend a girl could ever ask for, you know that?" He really does think of everything.

"I do know that. Now hurry your juicy ass up and let's get this body out of my basement." He throws me the carrier bag that was dangling from his bent elbow as he's still holding his T-shirt up to his nose.

Said juicy ass begins vibrating before I can unwrap the plastic suit to put on over my clothes, and I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans.

I read the text, once, twice, and excitement bubbles up inside me, mixed with a little anticipation for how I'll be received—okay, a lot—and I fist pump the air.

"That the street race text you've been waiting for?"

"It is. It's on tonight! I need to get ready!" I begin racing up the stairs, Spencer close behind me.

"Do they know who you are yet? Will you even be allowed to race?"

"I hope so." I quickly unzip my jeans and take them off before heading toward the duffel by the front door and pulling out my all-black race suit. I slide my legs into it, followed by my arms, thankful I have a thin tank-top on because it's hotter than the devil's asshole this evening, but I won't race without my safety gear.

I don't want to die… and the irony of that is always going to be amusing.

I'm also hoping to do more than race. I'll see Aleko tonight, and he's going to call me out for the top spot. When he realizes who I am, I'm praying to Aphrodite that he forgives yet another secret because, yes…

I'm Cain.