Twisted Tuesday: Web of Lies...When your enemy is family.

 

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. Sometimes the wind tore them free and sent them 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 fingers sought out the rough skin running from his shoulder to the middle of his chest, the ugly, twisted mass of burn scars 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 several of his 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 had been simple enough. Never in their town. Never 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 names. Gullies, deer paths, and which creek beds would be dry at what times of year so they could walk on the rocks without leaving tracks. They used dirt bikes as frequently as they drove cars. Risking broken bones and jail sentences to stay on what little of a good side their grandpa had.

As for the witch, she didn’t have one, or at least, none that they’d ever found. Sharp-tongued, cold, 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 older 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 sneer and the hate-filled glittering gaze.

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 vest 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, one face came to mind. Saint’s. A stiff wind swirled the nearby leaves into a tornado of motion and raised goose bumps along his arms as Saint’s words rant through his head.

Get back here safe and in one piece and we just might explore what it is you’re after.

He hadn’t promised. But it might be as close as he could get to the man whose lap he wanted to sit in, then he’d take that and let the promise of a possibility 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 and the grounds on which he had a cabin to call home. It might as well have been an eternity in that moment as his grandfather threw the first handful of dirt down 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 undertakes bill no doubt had the old bastard in the foulest of moods, which was the other reason he hadn’t wanted to ask anyone to make the trip with him. Though having a buffer between him and the rest of his family would have been preferable to facing them alone.

Not coming hadn’t been an option either. He’d been honest when he’d said he needed to know that she was really poised to be rotting beneath the ground, but he’d left out the part about fearing the repercussions if he’d failed to show up. How to explain that he could face down the biggest bastard with a bike chain wrapped around his fist, ready to take his head off, but was scared shitless of being here among his family.

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 made fun of for not knowing already, 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 goddamned 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 nervousness 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 also 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 side 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 earned him some 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. Busting someone’s head open and breaking the guy’s jaw, nose, and hand after they’d been taking part in an assault on a club member had earned him more. Slowly he’d gone from hanger-on to prospect, doing whatever his club brothers and sisters needed as part of any one 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. To have a sense of place and purpose was a whole new feeling for him, and the knowledge the older members of the club were constantly sharing with the younger was an invaluable piece of his personal evolution. Slowly, he was coming to realize that he wasn’t an idiot. That he was capable of learning. He just needed to have his hands on things and think about them a little bit differently from everyone else 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, stare so intense it took everything in him not to squirm. His guts roiled, bubbled 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.”

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They took what meant most to him, but they underestimated what he and his club would go through to retrieve the man he loved.

Going legit didn’t mean going soft. Unfortunately, no one informed the rest of the world of that. Factions within their MC had been pushing buttons for months, wanting to pull the club back into ventures they were better off staying out of. Betrayals had been brought to light and swiftly dealt with. Treaties had been forged that were proving to be particularly lucrative. Business was good. They were even learning the ins and outs of diversifying. It wasn’t as profitable as their previously less-than-legal pursuits, but it kept the cops off their backs, for the most part, and bodies in the clubhouse rather than behind bars.

So then why was Sinn not at his side where the man belonged?

Well, that’s exactly what they were burning up the road trying to discover.

Along the way, loyalties might be tested, lines would certainly be drawn, and blood was sure to be shed, once they discovered who was behind the mysterious disappearance of the man he’d unwaveringly been drawn to.

And if a certain prospect should happen to prove unbelievably desirable in ways that had nothing to do with the road, well than that was just a bonus to Saint’s way of thinking. He was a man who thrived on pleasure and debauchery. What better place to find both than in the arms of men named Night and Sinn?