Page 74 of Enemy
I glare at him. “What is it, Rooster?”
“I just wanted to say that I know you weren’t all that happy about me stealing the Butchers’ van, and there might be a vote on my membership soon, so if there’s something I can do—”
“Not the right time, Roost, Jesus Christ,” I growl, kicking off the covers. Thankfully, all the pussies scattered when the coffee spilled onto the comforter. “And you got that right, I am still pissed off over that,” I say, rolling out of bed, still in the clothes I wore last night, in my boots, and with gongs echoing in my head every time I move.
Rooster puts the plate on my table and shifts back with his hands up. “Okay, so when you feel better, maybe we can talk about it. Just let me know what you need, man.”
IneedClyde in my bed, but he can’t get me that, now can he? I wave him off and stare at the food before taking hold of a dry piece of toast. Two of the cats are peeking over the edge of the table, interested in what’s on offer. I don’t stop them when they approach the plates. It’s not like I have the stomach for anything but bread. I’m surprised to notice there are two pills resting on the edge of the tray, alongside a glass of water, so I stuff them in my mouth, hoping it’s Tylenol, or some other thing that can help me with my hangover.
I’m assuming Rooster’smomwouldn’t give me speed for breakfast.
The change in my behavior has already been noticed, and I need to act normal if I’m to avoid answering uncomfortable questions. So shower it is, and then I need to show myself around the settlement, no matter how little I want to interact with anyone while sober.
I make another attempt to call Clyde, but when that brings me no closure, I shed my clothes and head to the bathroom. The icy water makes me shiver, but in time, I get usedto its temperature. The rivulets sliding over my skull and rolling down my sweaty skin feel good, refreshing, but as I rest my forehead against the wall, my one night at Clyde’s place comes right back, and I see myself on my knees, swallowing his cock, and him holding on to my shoulders.
The memory stabs through me, soon turning into a dull ache that has me questioning whether I should have ever approached him for sex in the first place. Back in the hospital, he visited my room to silence me, I’m certain of it, but things settled down after that, and our dying wishes could have been forgotten. But no, I decided to go after the guy whose brother I tortured and killed, like some fucking psycho.
What the hell was I thinking?
I probably wasn’t. The possibility ofhavinghim was too tantalizing. The long hair, the strong, tattooed body, the ice-blue eyes, and cocky smirks… And now I’m in over my head, it’s no longer about getting to nail his dimpled ass, and I’ve got no idea how to handle my feelings.
I’ve never gotten like this about any of the few women I’ve slept with, so I assumed that’s who I am. Easygoing and horny, aloof and in it for an orgasm.
Now look at me. An absolute fucking wreck because a guy won’t like me back.
I knock my head against the tiles with a groan, but I don’t get to wallow in self-pity much longer, because the ringing of my phone pulls me out. Deep down, I know it’s not Clyde, but I still run to pick up the call as if my life depends on it.
It’s not him, of course, but one never rejects calls from club brothers so I pick up.
I don’t know why I expected this day to keep floating like a drunken whale, but I have a role in the settlement—as well as the club—and I can’t neglect it just because I’msad. Problem is, I feel like shit, and I cannot be the enforcer everyone needs me to be if I end up falling over on the way to discipline a thief.
My mind made up, I grab the pot of artificial flowers standing on one of the shelves and remove the small packet of coke from the secret compartment inside it. I might have been overindulging a bit since the fiasco with Clyde, but who doesn’t sometimes? The world won’t stop simply because I want it to.
I shove old dishes to the middle of the table and eyeball the dust before dividing it into two lines. The rest of it goes right back into the fake plant, so that none of the cats get any stupid ideas, but then I’m breathing in the powdered rush, and the sting in my nosemakes me jerk back so fast I nearly fall over on my ass. It hasn’t kicked in yet, but it should by the time I’m ready to face the music in the caves.
I keep heading for the door, only to realize I’ve forgotten something, but once I have my gun, my favorite knife, keys, mints, and a bottle of cold water, I leave behind my home and head down the hill. I know people have been talking behind my back, and likely coming up with the weirdest explanations for the shift in my mood. The best I can do is act as if nothing happened, so everyone moves on. I don’t need pity. I don’t need pats on the back, or encouraging words.
My whole relationship with Clyde happened in the dark, as far away from normal life as we could get, and whatever happens, I will deal with it the same way. On my own.
A whistle comes from a bench I’m passing, and its sharp, high-pitched sound is like a nail hammered deep in my skull. I suck in air to scold whoever’s disturbing my last moments of peace, but when I raise my head, I see Isaac watching me from behind a tattoo magazine. He’s been growing a mustache that looks quite attractive on him, and combined with a white tank top, it makes him resemble the men drawn by Tom of Finland. Which is something I can’t share with him, of course, because what straight guy would know anything about that?
“Uh… what?” I ask, not in the mood for politeness of any kind.
“Don’t know what you’ve done to Rooster, but that boy was running from your house as if there was a fox after him.”
I roll my eyes. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Because why hide that truth? The other secrets I have already weigh too much.
“I heard he’s been drooling to get a patch once he turns eighteen, maybe that will mean room for a new prospect?” He raises his eyebrows.
Isaac’s been with us for a few years, but this must be the first time I hear him expressing interest in joining the motorcycle club. It’s reasonable that he took his time observing us all instead of trying to jump in as soon as he started living here. I trust the guy with Smokey, and there is no higher recommendation than that.
“Might be,” I tell him, then dive my hand into the packet of roasted nuts lying at his side. He doesn’t stop me, and I continue my walk toward the middle of our settlement with the crunchy treat spreading savory saltiness over my tongue. At least the toast settled my stomach enough that I no longer feel sick.
On my way, people greet me with waves and nods, but I ignore any attempts at longer conversations, even when Sad Billy offers me an unexpected smile. God knows whathemight want.
I eventually enter the ravine, and while the shouts I’m hearing must be coming from inside the cave, they’re loud enough for me to hear them at a distance. Annoyance throbs in my temples, because I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to deal with any shit, even though this is important club business. At least the coke is already kicking in, and its electric charges make my steps springier.
“What the fuck is that noise?” I shout, entering into the shadow of the rocks and then past the entrance, into the very first chamber. Stalactites and stalagmites—or dragon teeth, as I used to call them before I got to spend way more time in caves than I ever thought I would—grow out of the rock on both sides of the passage, leading me into the twilight.
