Chapter 17

(Night)

Never Tuck Tail and Run

Battered.

That was the only description Night had for how he felt as he trudged from his battered bike to the clubhouse door, without his kutte, his back and shoulders aching more with every step he took. He’d been humiliated before, but never like this, never…. He hadn’t just embarrassed himself, he’d embarrassed the club, and when they found out his kutte was hanging upside down in his uncle’s den, he didn’t know what they were gonna do. To him, first, then the house when they choked the location out of him. Not that anyone would have to squeeze very hard. He wanted it back, even knowing they would never allow him to wear it again.

He had to tell them though. Not coming back would have been the coward’s way of handling things, so before he could brand himself a chicken, tuck tail and flee, he pushed the door open, the scent of sweet cannabis drifting out alongside the closing bars of an old school Megadeth song. He inhaled what he hoped wouldn’t be his last breath, words like pry it from my cold, dead fingers running through his head, wondering if he should have made sure he was good and dead and not simply faking it when his uncle left him dangling from the rafters of the shed.

Shivering at the memory, he pulled his jacket tighter around him and tried to keep his shoulders hunched so they wouldn’t see his face. In hindsight it was stupid and drew more attention to him, not less.

The song died like someone had abruptly hit the power button on the device, but the conversations lingered, slowly trailing off one by one as others turned their attention towards him.

“Why the fuck aren’t you wearing your kutte!”

Mark barked the words, but Saint reached him first, his iron grip on Night’s shoulder turning him so abruptly Night staggered and groaned as those hard fingertips dug into the torn flesh beneath his jacket and shirt.

“I….” Night stammered, tongue feeling too thick to form the words.

Saint must have sensed something was wrong with him and let go of his shoulder to cup him beneath the chin and raise his eyes so Saint could peer into them.

“Who laid hands on you?” Saint asked, his tone far gentler than his brother’s, but then, Mark was the president, that kutte was the only thing he’d be thinking about, while Saint was halfway interested in him, or at least, halfway interested in fucking his ass at least once before they cast him out into the street.

“He asked you a question,” Mark barked.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Saint the pair of them blocked out the bulk of the light in the room. He was proud of himself for not flinching, even with the remnants of yesterday’s beating still bright in his mind.

“Was a family thing,” Night blurted. “My uncle was pissed and when he gets riled up some of my cousins aren’t far behind.”

Maybe he was imagining it, but suddenly, the pair looked less menacing and Saint, no, he wasn’t imagining the mixed look of pissed off and caring that swirled in Saint’s eyes.

“Does your uncle have your kutte?” Mark asked point-blank.

“I….it’s hanging upside down in his den, or at least, that’s what my brother, Haze, told me he’d done with it when he came out to the shed to cut me down.”

“Cut you….” Saint’s words trailed off as he cast a quick glance at his brother.

Night wished he could communicate with his siblings without words or hand signals but there had never been that kind of closeness between them.

Mark stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out the kind of piercing whistle that made outsiders alternately duck and look up at the sky, searching for incoming munitions.

“You guys pack this mess up and take it to the rec room,” Mark instructed. “I want to see at least three different ideas spelled out before the end of the night, so don’t you fucks get distracted playing pool in there.”

Chair legs scrapped across the floor as people jumped to do as he said. All the while Saint stared at Night, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle along his cheek, a little to the left of a particularly spectacular bruise. He was pretty sure it was a sneaker that had made that one. Saint was scowling though, which left Night tense and waiting to hear the fate the pair would bestow upon him. Then Saint looked away, his eyes seeking someone among the members gathered. Night just hoped it wasn’t the Sargent-at-arms with orders to put him out of his misery. He decided to chance it and look, following the line of Saint’s gaze to see Sinn standing in the doorway between the bar and the makeshift garage.

“Sinn…with me, please.”

He wouldn’t have thought he could feel tenser, but those words made the back of his neck ache from how tight the muscles were coiled, only….

“Breathe.”

Night tore his gaze off Saint to see Mark watching him, his look gentle and compassionate which made it easy to do as he said and inhale deeply while his scattered thoughts struggled to pull themselves together into something cohesive. They’d want to hear everything, and he owed them that.

“Take a seat at the bar,” Mark instructed, prompting Night to move. He was shocked when Sinn took the chair next to his, rather than across like Saint and Mark did. Mark produced four old-fashioned glasses from beneath the bar and Saint added ice. The bottle he produced next was nothing Night recognized. Must have been part of his private stock then.

Damn it burned.

Throat. Nose hairs, it was like the alcohol crept into every orifice as it slithered towards his gullet where it yanked at his soul until every inch of him was enflamed. He hoped it was blood loss that had him feeling lightheaded seconds after it settled in his stomach, not some crazy high octane more suited for running an engine then consumption.

“I swear they do that just so your brain melts and you give up all your secrets,” Sinn murmured, his voice like Tennessee whiskey, smooth with a hint of smoke. His arm was pressed against Night’s, shoulder to wrist in an almost seamless line. There was something comforting about that, and the pleasant feeling that chased away the burn, oozing through him as it helped relax some of the tension.

“I’ve had enough of secrets,” Night murmured, sipping his refill slowly now that the first wave of haziness was beginning to tug at him.

“Good,” Saint said. “Because we don’t like secrets that involve one of our brothers getting hurt.”

“But I’m only a….” Night protested and was immediately interrupted.

“You were the moment we let you keep coming back,” Mark told him. “Prospecting is tradition, it’s a test of your will and determination, but that doesn’t mean you have to wait for a vote to be a brother. Now, talk to us and tell us what the fuck this is all about.”

“A…a job.”

“Okay, that sounds like a good enough starting point,” Saint prompted. “Keep going.”

“That’s not what I went home for. I was done with that life. I wanted to be done with them, but…not going back would lead to them looking for me, and that wasn’t something I wanted to bring to your doors.”

“I wondered if there was something more than proof of death that had you so motivated to go back there, especially with how rattled you were when you told me you had to go.”

“I couldn’t say no.”

“I can appreciate that,” Saint admitted. “What I can’t is you not telling me about that part when you told me about the rest.”

“Wasn’t your problem, was mine and I….”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Mark said. “Before you say something I’m sick of hearing, especially from you young guys. “Whoever put the idea in your heads that having a problem and needing to talk to someone about it equates to being a problem, needs to be sent to me for some corrective therapy. Yes. You need to know how to handle shit when it pops off, whether you are alone or not, but you also need to know when you are in over your head and ask someone to throw you a lifeline.”

“Yes, sir…I, I’d hoped there wouldn’t be a problem, but I should have known nothing about going home would be easy.”

“Why?” Mark asked swirling the ice and liquid in the bottom of his glass.

“My folks and some of my other relatives have been in and out of prison most of my life,” Night muttered. “Mostly robberies and home invasions, some stolen vehicles and stick-up jobs. Shit like that. A few of my cousins, and my brothers and I were raised by our grandfather and aunt, who um, didn’t exactly appreciate getting stuck with us. Gramps used to say that if it wasn’t for dealing with the god damned cops, he wouldn’t have minded being in lock up if it meant he didn’t have to deal with the likes of us.”

“And was he a part of the criminal enterprise or just stuck with the fallout?” Saint asked.

“Most times it was one of his plans going sideways that landed our kinfolk behind bars,” Night admitted. “Not that he’d ever admit that there was anything wrong with his scheme. He always insisted that someone executing the idea had fouled the whole thing up.”

“So, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that legit work wasn’t something you grew up knowing much about.”

“Pretty much.”

“So the job that earned you that beating?”

“Three dollar stores, three different towns, right before their evening drops,” Night admitted.

“What went wrong?”

“My cousin lost his shit with one of the managers and for some reason, that was my fault because I was partnered up with him and couldn’t keep it from happening.”

“Cops get him?”

“Nope, but he’s gonna be laying low for a while.”

“And let me guess, you’re supposed to be doing the same rather than being back here with us.”

“Yeah. But fuck that! The only reason I did the fuckin’ job was ‘cause they fucked with my bike and my cousin’s truck and wouldn’t give us the pieces back until it was done.”

Saint’s eyes darkened to an almost coal black, the deep cerulean blue swallowed by all his fury. The only reason it didn’t make Night twitch was because that anger wasn’t directed at him.

“When shit went south, they wanted me to stick around. I said no and was given the following choice: I could have my parts in exchange for my kutte. I said fuck that too, which was when my uncle and I got into it. While we were rolling around, a couple of my cousins jumped in and I went from winning to losing in the span of a few kicks.”

“And your cousin and brother? Where were they?”

“With their crew, trying to make sure no one trailed them back. By the time they arrived there was nothing my brother could do but cut me loose while my cousin Bobby rolled my bike into the back of his truck. They tossed me in the back with it and we got the fuck out of there. I fixed my bike the best I could about three hours south of home and we parted ways. They’re done with them, the same as I am. I know losing my kutte means I’ve lost my chance to prospect but I couldn’t not come back here and own up to losing my patch.”

“First off, you did right,” Saint said. “Second, no one said shit about you being a prospect anymore, and we won’t, that’s not how it works. It looks to me like you did everything in your power to hang on to it, short of getting yourself killed. Now personally, I’d have been pissed if you’d landed yourself in a grave trying to hang on to a piece of cloth and leather.”

“Bu…” Night started to protest.

“You are worth a hell of a lot more, especially to me!” Saint thundered drowning out Night’s words with the slap of his hand hitting the bar.

“What he’s trying to say is that he’s been waiting for you to get your ass back here so he could stake his claim on you, the way he did on me,” Sinn whispered, the press of him against Night side growing heavier again, but he didn’t dare glance Sinn’s way. “I was too, in case you were wondering.”

Now Night did look over, staring into Sinn’s beautiful, but near sightless eyes. “Wait…seriously?”

“There’s something about you,” Sinn admitted. “Like the way you give me shit when I’m getting down on myself and the stories you told when we were struggling to fall asleep each night on the road. I love that you can tell ‘em off the top of your head and make us laugh or think, or both, depending. I’ve been curious about you since we first started flirting with this thing between us and now that you’re home I get to see if there is anything there beyond the curiosity, or if you’re gonna leave me bored once I start really getting to know you.”

Speechless, Night downed the last of his drink, savoring the burn and hoping it would calm the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirling through him.

“Is your face the worst of the damage?” Mark asked.

“Not even close, sir,” Night replied, making sure the honorarium softened the sarcasm in his tone.

“Then let’s see all of it so we know what we’re dealing with here.”

Night slid off the stool, unable to trust himself with words as he unzipped his leather jacket and tried to shrug it off, his face twisting up in discomfort when something pulled.

“Here, let me help,” Sinn offered, his hand sliding over the back of Night’s to carefully take hold of his sleeve and give it a gentle tug. All Night had to do was turn and let Sinn ease the jacket off him, but a growl and a muttered curse from behind him clued him into the fact that his blood must have seeped through the bandages his brother had carefully wound around his wounds.

When Night reached for the hem of his shirt, Saint barked out an order.

“Hold it right there!” he snapped. “Sinn, take it off him.”

“Yes, sir,” Sinn replied, moving to do just that. Light and shadows, while he knew that and tones of gray were all Sinn could see, it still surprised Night a little that he could differentiate certain things so clearly and easily. He eased Night’s shirt up gently, working first one arm, then the other out of the sleeves, slowly revealing the bandages.

“Son of a bitch.”

Night couldn’t tell which of the brothers said it, or maybe it was that their words entwined at some point, if the echo at the end was any indication. Then Saint was there, his hand on Night’s arm, his furious eyes roving over Night’s torso. That must have meant it was Mark with the cold switchblade gently cutting the strips of gauze away from his skin.

“What made these?” Mark asked tersely as the cool air hit Night’s torn and bleeding skin.

“Horsewhip,” Night said softly while Sinn’s fingers danced an unbroken pattern up and down his arm.

“I’ll put in a call to Doc B,” Saint said.

Night heard the pulse of a number autodialing, but really needed to sit down. Again, Sinn surprised him, or maybe he was better in tune with the subtle twitching of exhausted muscles than the other two, because Sinn was the one who led Night to the couch along the side wall.

“Lay down and relax,” Sinn said, pressing lightly on Night’s shoulder until he complied and lowered himself face down on the soft leather cushions. At least things stopped spinning then, and he could focus again. He had the best view too, of Sinn’s side profile as the man made himself comfortable on the floor beside the couch, then turned to look directly at him. “You’re trembling.”

“Riding back was a bitch and I figured I’d only be here long enough to tell them I lost my patch, then back out on the asphalt I’d be.”

“Yeah, I was right about the place you’re from, it’s just like home,” Sinn admitted, keeping his voice low as his fingers slid into Night’s hair and he gently caressed the strands. “It’s not like that here. They know the difference between fear and respect, and they don’t expect the impossible, which you continuing to try to fight through what was happening to you surely would have been. How were you hung up?”

“By the wrists, toes touching the ground but just barely, at least, until I collapsed and dangled, then I just tried to play dead until they got bored with hitting me.”

Hands that didn’t belong to Sinn ran lightly over the tops of his shoulders, like they were feeling to see if anything was dislocated.

“Sore but undamaged,” Night muttered.

“Doc will be the judge of that,” Saint said as he sat on the floor beside Sinn, their hands never leaving his body.

He wished it was under completely different circumstances. Ones that involved him sated and basking in their praise. Sinn reminded him of the fierce angels in a church’s stained-glass window, while Saint was rugged handsomeness, with that silver-streaked black hair of his hanging in long fringes around his face. Sinn tied it back for him before every ride and ran his fingers through it when he rode behind him, the same as he did when he rode behind Night, something he’d quickly come to love.

“Why didn’t you call when you realized you were in trouble?” Saint asked.

“I didn’t think it would be so bad,” Night admitted. “I figured I’d just do what I was told and get the hell out of there.”

“Family doesn’t force you to do things you are uncomfortable with,” Saint said, giving Sinn as fierce a look as the one he gave Night. “I’m going to make it my mission to teach you both that, even if it means blistering your asses until you catch a clue.”

Saint’s words sent a shiver through him, not out of fear, but because Night knew that when Saint put a mark on him, he wouldn’t be doing it out of anger, but out of love.