Prologue
Everything hurts.
My fingers flex in the carpet and every muscle screams in protest as I push up on to my knees.
God I hurt.
I can’t catch my breath. Panting, each breath sends pain shooting through my ribs. Trembling, I drag my hand across my face and swipe at my eyes, wiping away a sticky substance. My head pounds and I wince against the harsh light that’s stabbing into my eyes. Joints creak and muscles ache as I crawl to the nearest wall and claw myself up, crying out in agony from the effort. The wall is cool against my forehead, a soothing balm to the fiery pain lancing through my body. In. Out. In. Out. I attempt to slow my panting and still my racing heart. As my body stills, I raise my head and a mark on the wall draws my attention.
The walls in here aren’t red... Are they?
Shaking, I slap at the hair sticking to my face, pain radiates across my scalp and my palms come away damp.
Why am I wet?
I stare in bewilderment at the glistening dark crimson coating my fingers. Swaying, I struggle to clear the fog clouding my thoughts and I take in my surroundings. Bedroom, I’m in the bedroom; but it feels foreign and detached. Nothing makes sense; why can’t I remember how I got here? The thoughts just keep slipping away before I can get ahold of them. The lamp laying on its side on the nightstand confuses me.
Ouch, that bulb is bright.
The sickly-sweet stink of amber and musk assaults my senses, causing the pounding in my skull to deepen. Fighting the confusion, one thought breaks through the haze. It’s silent. Why is it so quiet? I can’t remember the last time it was this quiet…
Oh god… Evan!
My breathing increases and my mind races as panic creeps up my spine. Stumbling down the hall to the nursery, I rush to the crib and look inside. A choked sob escapes when I see a small bundle of fleece in the far corner. Evan is curled up on his side, his favorite turtle Lovie clutched in his tiny fist against his cheek. He isn’t moving but I can see the soft rise and fall of his little chest as he sleeps. There are streaks on his plump, rosy cheeks from the dried tears. He must have cried himself to sleep. Without waking him, I check my baby over, making sure he’s okay before letting myself sink to the floor. Curling into myself, silent sobs wrack through me before I manage to draw a stuttering breath.
Oh shit, that hurts. I need to stop doing that.
As the events of the evening start coming back to me, I choke off the tears. There isn’t time for wallowing in self-pity. I don’t have a choice anymore.
I have to leave. I have to disappear.
Chapter 1
Sawyer
Who the fuck is knocking on my god damn door!? The last thing I need today is someone trying to make me join the land of the living. Not gonna fucking happen. I don’t want to open my eyes; I just want to sleep the entire fucking day away. The knocking stops and I try to sink back into the sweet, QUIET, slumber. Then whoever it is starts another round on my door. I let out a groan as I roll over to my stomach, slapping the pillow on my head.
The knocking turns to pounding and I chuck the pillow at the door out of reflex. This is why I don’t stay at the compound and exactly why I have my own place away from everyone. None of these fuckers can get up in my business when I’m at my place. The asshole on the other side of the door keeps up the pounding and starts shouting my name. I managed to croak out “fuck off” around the cotton and sleep filling my throat. The pounding stops. Maybe I scared the prick away… SLAM, SLAM, SLAM. Jesus, that prick is gonna break the fuckin’ door.
He starts shouting again, “SAWYER, WAKE. THE. FUCK. UP.”
That’s it. I’m putting a bullet between his eyes.
Reaching toward my nightstand for my gun there is a loud crack as the jamb gives way and the door smashes against the wall. The blanket is ripped off me and cast aside.
Fuck, this again?
“Get yer arse up Sawyer. No way in hell are ye rotting away in here today. Ye’ve two minutes to get yer arse to the common room; and put some fuckin’ pants on this time. In three minutes, I’m coming back in here with me pail if ye’re not!” Gage, the damn Judas, demands before he slaps my ass and leaves the room, slamming the busted door behind him.
“Mother-Fucking Fuckhead Asshole,” I grumble, rolling up to sit on the edge of the bed. Facing the light of day was not on my to-do list today, but knowing Gage, he’ll hold to his threat and come back with that damn ice bucket. “Bog-trodding paddy fucking bitch…”
Stumbling to the bathroom, careening off the door frame, I manage to prop myself over the toilet to empty out. Sliding my hand along the wall I look for my strewn about clothes. Wrestling with my shirt I realize it’s inside out, “God fucking dammit.” Once I’m mildly presentable, I trudge out of my room and down the hall to the common room of the Forsaken Sons compound.
The compound is a renovated railroad roundhouse. One end of the building has a massive common room occupying part of the space with a couple couches, a pool table, and an appropriately (obscenely) large TV hanging on one wall. Along the far wall of the common room is a long bar, dozens of bottles in front of an honest to god western saloon mirror along the back and stools lining the front. There are tables and chairs scattered around the room made from wood barrels, empty wire spools, oil drums, and other assorted “manly” materials. Most of the Brothers live here at the compound, double bunking in the barracks back the way I just came since most of us fuckers don’t have families to tie us down. You can throw an empty can, spit some chew or flick a cig in any direction and hit one of us dumbasses in the head. Being around people is something I need almost everyday, keeps me moving along, but today is the one day in a year when it’s a fucking curse.
I don’t want to see anyone today. I don’t want to do anything. It’s the one day that I want to pass unmarked, uneventful, and if I had my way, un-fucking-conscious. I make my way through the common room toward a stool at the end of the bar, slumping onto it, pointing down at the bar top with a finger. Kiki, the resident bartender, reaches into the well for a Grain Belt but I wave her off, “Naw Keek, going hard,” I grumble.
“It’s ten in the morning Sawyer,” she says, shooting me a look.
“Do I judge you for your fuckin’ life choices little girl?”
“Jesus, who the fuck pissed in your cornflakes?” she asks, setting a generous pour of amber liquid in front of me, neat of course. She knows what I want. With a withering look at her I throw back the bourbon, slamming the glass down on the bar top and motioning for another.
“Well, aren’t you just a ray of fuckin’ sunshine. Pour your own damn drinks ya sodden heap of grump,” she snaps, setting the bottle in front of me as she saunters off down the bar. Even in my fuzzy, hungover, pissy mindset I can’t help but watch her ass and admire; boy does she know how to walk. Wait, I wanna be mad at the world today; oh yeah, the bottle. I pour another glass for myself and shoot it down, letting the burn of the bourbon numb the ache building in my chest.
Two years, it’s been two fucking years; still feels like just yesterday. I still see those last moments every time I close my eyes; I feel that day running ice cold through my veins. Maybe one day I’ll be able to sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing, checking every dark place in the room while straining to hear any noises. That morning, in that shithole apartment in New Jersey... I fucking hate New Jersey. I tried to hold it together after, to move on, but there’s no moving on from something so profound it knocks your world off its axis and rips your heart from your chest, and declares the day ‘the worst of my life.’ So, I ran from that shit, from that evil place, and those evil things. I pulled the chicken shit move and ran; l ran from the pain, from the heartache, from the accountability to anyone and everyone, including myself. I packed my shit, left my patch and a note for my prez, left my club and disappeared into the wind. I got on my bike and just rode west like a goddamn cowboy trying to find his sunset. I didn’t know where I was going, I just kept hearing my high school English teacher, “Go West, Young Man.” Sound advice for an old bat. I knew I needed to put Jersey in my rear view and never look back. I spent six months on the road, always feeling like the past was catching up, like I could never really outrun everything. I probably should have realized sooner that I was running from my own damn demons.