Chapter 14

(Night)

A Weathered Place of Hate

For the longest time, Night stood gazing down into his aunt’s coffin, watching for breathing or the barest twitch, heart hammering harder with every moment that passed. Even in death she was sneering, that pinched frown on her pale, waxy face was as terrifying as when they were children and forced to spend long summer weeks in her presence. Tufts of cotton dotted the fields beyond the cemetery, clinging to broken pods from the last harvest. Occasionally the wind tore one free and sent it dancing over headstones in a display that might have been beautiful, if every memory of the woman they were putting into the ground wasn’t an ugly one.

His eyes sought out the twisted mass of burn scars running down his cousin Bobby’s neck and halfway up the back of his head from the grits she’d thrown on him when he was a child. Of course, she’d claimed he’d run underfoot and caused the accident and his grandfather had believed his daughter’s words over those of the grandson he’d never wished to be responsible for.

An unwanted burden, like Night, Haze and several of their other cousins who’d been taken in and raised by family members when their parents had wound up jailed or abandoning them to go on the run. Forget that the whole fucked up robbery plan had been his grandfather’s in the first place, he’d still resented having to feed and clothe a bunch of useless nuisances…at least until he’d devised a way to make it extremely profitable for him.

The rules were simple enough. Never pull a heist in their town. Never pull one in the light of day. Never carry identification. Never give your real name. And never, ever lead them back home, no matter how far out of the way you had to go to evade them.

There were backroads they’d come to know better than their own bedrooms. Gullies, deer paths, which creek beds would be dry during what times of year so they could walk on the rocks without leaving tracks. They’d used dirt bikes as frequently as they’d driven cars. Risking broken bones and jail sentences to stay on what little of a good side their grandfather had.

As for the witch, she didn’t have one, or at least, none that they’d ever found. Sharp tongued, cold, and borderline sadistic, he remembered the way she’d laugh when one of them was crying, smack them across the face and belittle them, telling them to toughen up or suffer the consequences.

They hadn’t, not really. Some of them buried it better than most, others got damned good at faking it until she was certain she’d stripped them of all consciousness and caring. One, she’d truly been successful with.

Night avoided the intense gaze of his oldest brother’s cold gray eyes. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, cigarette cherry bright as he took a drag. He looked like all the photos Night had ever seen of their grandfather in his younger years, right down to the belligerent frown and the hate-filled glower.

It was eerie, looking from Creed to their grandfather, who stood just as straight back and imposing as ever, despite every long black hair on his head having turned a brilliantly shocking white. Almost as if he could sense Night staring at him, he turned his head, shrewd gaze peering into Night’s eyes, leaving him trapped and unable to look away. No, that wasn’t true. He knew better than to look away, that it would be seen as a sign of weakness, something he’d have to answer for before he made it out of here.

He didn’t blink, he barely breathed, and forget the long, relieved exhale he wanted to let out when his grandfather looked away, he knew Creed was still watching him, staring at his black leather kutte and the patches on it like they were a puzzle he needed to solve.

He shouldn’t have asked if he could keep the colors on. What he should have done was begged one of his club brothers to come with him, only, the moment he thought the words, two faces came to mind: Saint’s and Sinn’s. A stiff wind swirled the nearby leaves into a tornado of motion and raised goosebumps along his arms as Saint’s words ran through his head.

Get back here safe and in one piece so we can make this official. All of it, understood?

It was a promise, one he held tight to even as he fought to keep thoughts of the men whose lives he wanted to be a permanent part of, from distracting him so much he got called out over it. Saint’s words rolled through his mind again, and he hoped they were able to carry him through the rest of his day. The full length of the state, from opposite corners even, sat between him and the Joker’s clubhouse. It might as well have been an eternity as his grandfather threw the first handful of dirt on the coffin like he was aggravated with the whole affair.

He probably was. Having to plan all this, summon everyone home, and pay the undertaker’s bill no doubt had the old bastard in the foulest of moods, which was one of the other reasons Night hadn’t asked anyone to make the trip with him. The third went back to the rules he’d grown up with. He’d learned the first time he’d tried to invite a friend over to play that never lead anyone back here also meant never bring anyone home who wasn’t already a member of their family.

Not coming hadn’t been an option either. He’d been honest when he’d said he needed to see for himself that she was worm food, but he’d left out the part about fearing the repercussions if he failed to show up. How to explain that he could face down a knife wielding bastard with little concern for the outcome but was scared shitless of a wizened old man with a limp?

Maybe it was because it was harder to slip the mask of arrogance and indifference back on now that he’d discovered what a true family was, and how he didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t with them. He could ask questions, he could be curious and not mocked for not knowing, and he could be silent, and no one would press him into conversation just so they could wind him up and get him to lose his temper.

Head games. His family was infamous for them. Which meant he’d better get his shit in order before they rode back to the house, because that was where he’d really have to watch himself and the answers he gave to whatever questions they threw at him.

Each handful of dirt seemed to hit harder than the one before, until it sounded like they were hurling stones at the coffin. Then it was his turn, and he took one last look, just to be certain she wasn’t going to rise up like a harpy and take to the sky on a three headed broom. Night let the dirt slip from his fingers as he turned away, heading for the god damned limousine his grandfather had insisted they all ride in. He hated leaving his baby back at the house, guts tied in a knot of cold anxiousness at the thought that it wouldn’t be there when he got back.

Then what?

Could he even go back to the Jokers without his ride, and even if they did accept him, would it cost him his prospects rocker?

He wasn’t like Bellamy. He didn’t have a previous patch to show that he knew what it was to belong to something. He’d been lucky enough to happen along when one of Olof’s old ladies had been stuck on the side of the road, shaky, throwing up, and clinging to the open door of her vehicle with two puking little kids and a car full of groceries under the hot summer sun. Food poisoning. It had been a no brainer to help her into the passenger’s seat of her vehicle and drive them to the clubhouse under her direction, her gun shakily pointed at his side the entire time.

He got it though, and there were no hard feelings. Alone and sick the way she was, with her little ones to protect and him a perfect stranger, she’d had no way of knowing that he was an honorable man. Olof had been grateful enough to let him hang around after they’d gone back for his bike, something else that had earned him points with the rest of the club. That he’d left his pride and joy on the side of the road to ensure that she and her kids got to someplace safe had earned him a small measure of respect. Slowly he’d gone from hanger-on to prospect, doing whatever was needed of him and pitching in at several of the various industries they ran.

All legit.

It was a good feeling to earn honest money, to not have to steal, cheat, lie, forge, deceive, stomp, or threaten what he wanted out of somebody. Having a sense of place and purpose was a whole new feeling for him, and the knowledge the older members of the club constantly shared with the younger was an invaluable piece of his personal evolution. Slowly, he came to realize that he wasn’t an idiot. That he was capable of learning. That he just needed to find his niche and be allowed to explore his own brand of creativity, like recipes he secretly loved tinkering with, and he’d do just fine. Dalton was steadily teaching him that, and what a grandfather should have been like, rather than the one whose gaze was fixated upon him the moment he sat down.

“I suppose you think you’ll be hopping on that machine of yours and taking off again,” his grandfather said, his stare so intense it took every shred of Night’s control not to squirm. His guts roiled, bubbling, and he found himself with a different problem: trying to hold in a massive fart as they headed down the road, bouncing over the rocky, pothole pocked asphalt towards the house he’d hoped never to enter again.

“That was the plan,” Night admitted.

“Not anymore.”

He shouldn’t have been blindsided by that, and yet, dread sent a chill down his spine and that fart got harder to contain without grimacing. He waited in silence for his grandfather to say more to him, but all he did was turn his attention towards Haze and their cousin Bobby as they climbed into the back of the limo beside him.

“Don’t you two be getting any dumbass ideas about taking off either, not that any of your vehicles will be capable of going anywhere until I decide to give back the parts that have been stripped off them. Consider that my little insurance policy to ensure you guys get the job done right.”

“What job!” Bobby snapped, inches away from a meltdown until their grandfather stared him down.

“You’ll find out at the house like the rest of ‘em.”

And that was that. No more conversation, just silence and cotton fields rolling past, the monotony broken only by the occasional herd of swine and the fart he let rip when he couldn’t hold it in anymore. The look of disgust his grandfather gave him was expected, while Bobby tried, and failed to keep from snickering, which earned him an equally disgusted look. Haze just rolled his eyes at them and stared out the window he was wedged against by one of their larger cousins. No one looked comfortable, some from lack of space, others the potential situation they were driving into. Night had a sinking suspicion that the shitstorm his grandfather was about to unleash wouldn’t have a happy ending for him. He was the one man with the power to snatch away the legit life Night yearned to return to and the brotherhood he’d come to embrace, leaving him with little besides a 6 x 8 cell to look forward to.