Devil on Your Back (2 page)

"I'M GOING
to have to let you go."

I grimace as the words echo through my head time and time again. The story of my life.
Let you go.
Isn't that what everyone does in the end? Lets me go? My last drop of whiskey swirls in a neat whirlpool around the inside of the glass in my grasp. I should drink it—down the fucker like the poison it is, but I’m too fucking frugal.

Too fucking broke.

“You gonna nurse that all night?”

I lift my gaze to the hipster behind the bar. After a second or two of deciding where exactly he stands amongst the blur of black and grey, I give him a wry smile and respond.

“You gonna sponsor my next round?”

“Whatever, old man. I’ve got people who’ve got money to spend, so if you ain’t going to drink up, move on.” He continues assembling the required bottles for whatever concoction he’s creating.

The last sip of alcohol slides down my throat with a welcome burn, and I slam the glass down on the bar. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t falter in his movements as he prepares drinks for the noisy bunch over my shoulder.

I turn, and lean both elbows on the bar as I take the rowdy fuckers in. Young, tattooed to the eyeballs, and full of misplaced testosterone. Exactly what I used to be.

And they’re the only ones here apart from me.

Some clientele, buddy.

A couple of pretty young things make their way around the group of men. A blonde sits on the lap of a young, inebriated guy whose hands have a mind of their own. Her smile is fake and her laugh strained. Her eyes betray her, but nobody notices. Nobody cares.

Fuck, even I don’t care.

Her life—her loss.

“What you starin’ at, old boy?” The obvious leader of the pack stands, and puffs his chest out like a fucking rooster.

Easy on.

“Nothin’ worth my time, kid.”

“Wise-ass, hey?”

“As natural as they come.” I give the little upstart a wink, and he strides around the table toward me.

The hipster behind the bar sighs. “Fuck me.”

Not that he needs to worry. I’ll have this over in no time. Young punk, thinking he has anything on me. Youth these days—honestly.

I push off the bar, and take a much less steady step than I’d hoped toward him. The floor shifts beneath my feet, and I shoot a foot backward to steady myself. The heel of my steel-capped work boot catches in the feet of a bar stool, and I’m forced to swing my blurry vision around to try and work out what the fuck I need to do to stay upright.

I swear it shouldn’t be this hard to do.

Two more of the group stand, and proceed to back the first guy up—young Blue-Balls with the grabby hands included. I give up trying to count how many people remain at the table when the faces all blend into one flesh-colored stripe.

“Why have I never seen you in here before, anyway?” The instigator stands before me, arms crossed, chin raised.

Taking my time, I walk a crooked circle around him. I make a show of reading the name on the back of his cut and stopping to squint at the badge on the front.

King. Vice President. Fallen Saints.

“I’m pretty sure”—I do an exaggerated sweep of the joint, almost falling on my ass—“that this is a public bar. Excuse me for not signing in.” I wave my hand in a writing motion.

His nostrils flare, but he holds the staunch show pretty darn well for a young fella. “How about you take your pensioner card and step out. Get a cab back to the nursing joint, granddad.”

Granddad? That’s all he’s got?

“You had your eyes checked lately, boy?”

“Why’s that?” He plays into my line with a grin.

“Because last time I checked, people in their late forties didn’t have pensioner cards.”

“Whatever,” he snarls. “You’re a darn sight fuckin’ older than me.”

“And yet, you still can’t work out who your elders are—you know, the people you’re supposed to pay respect to. Where is it, huh? Where’s the respect, kid?”

“You have a death wish?” He frowns, and cocks his head to the side. “Because you sure as fuck don’t know when to shut up.”

“Habit kind of forms when you usually have the last word.”

The kid scoffs, and looks at his monkeys for appraisal. They laugh along with him like the good little henchmen they are. “You’re fuckin’ pissed, dude. You couldn’t beat your knuckles against a brick wall if you tried.”

“Want to bet?

His eyes flick to the empty glass on the bar, and back to my face. “You win, I shout you for the rest of the night. I win, you fuck off.”

“Deal.” I spit in my palm and offer it to him.

He slaps his hand in mine without hesitation, and shakes it with vigor. Every part of me hums, not only from the alcohol but from the anticipation of the fight. It’s been a while since I’ve found someone to go a few rounds with. The pain is overdue and exactly what I’m searching for.

“Come on then, boy.”

I turn to lead him outside, and find myself reeling from a fist to the side of the face.

Dirty little fuck.

I shake it off, and straighten to face him. A smile splits his face in two; his monkeys nod and grin in approval.

“Take it we aren’t doing this like gentlemen then?”

He opens his mouth to give me some smart-ass response, but I shut it with a quick uppercut.

Teach you, you bastard.

A collective ‘wooo’ comes from his table. All drinks are down, and the remaining five are watching with interest as our exchange unfolds.

The leader swings, connects, and I relish the pain as my head snaps around. My bearings on gravity become a jumbled mess of color.  I feel like a fuckin’ Rubik’s cube in the hands of some world record breaker—left, right, over, under. I just hope it stops soon so I can keep this fight up a bit longer.

We throw fists in quick succession for what feels like an eternity. Blood spills, he spits a tooth, and the hipster behind the bar wanders over to shut the front doors.

Turns out nothing sobers a man up like a few rounds with an opponent. Knuckles on flesh, blood on the ground, copper on my taste buds.
Heaven
.

My breath staggers; a swift knee to the ribs will do that to a person. The unforgiving tile floor bites at my flesh, and I wonder in this moment of clarity if I even have any blood left to shed. Most people in my position would be terrified, crying for a break.

But not me.

I’ve been searching for this end, this fitting punishment for my crimes, for an age. And finally, finally I’ve found it. As King continues to bend and break my body in ways I never knew possible, I welcome the concept of death by brawl.

I tried years ago to end my pathetic existence and failed. Since then, pulling the pin on my life has seemed like the quitter’s way out, and I don’t fancy going like a coward. But in a fight? What better way to meet your end than at the hands of another man, doing what men do best?

The stark ugliness of the human race has never looked so beautiful.

I give up blocking his blows, and spread my arms wide. His fists collide with me, but each strike comes slower than the last.

Don’t give up now.

“Quit it!” some female yells from not too far away, giving my opponent the excuse he needed to lay off.

I curse at whoever they are, angered that once again I’m so close, yet so far away still from finding a suitable exit from this shitty world.

The guy backs up, and I lift a mangled hand to my face to tentatively feel out the swollen eye, and split lip I’m sporting. My breathing comes in short, painful pulls. Broken rib? Punctured lung? Whatever it is, it’s not enough to kill me and that’s what grates the most.

“Fair game, dude,” the kid pants.

“I’m . . . still . . . alive.” I stagger words through my vain attempt at finding air.

With a great deal of effort and a shit-load of luck, I manage to find my balance again. My pal Jack and his cousin Johnny have done a fine number on me tonight, happily taking my last dollars and turning them into a less-than-memorable night. I curse the brewers who made those faulty bottles and pledge to try harder next time.

I’ve been drinking every night for more months than I can count now, trying my best to find the level that causes my liver to pack it in whilst steadily working my way through the meager savings I’d set aside in the hope I would some day find Alice. I built that bank account up in case he ever needed his old man. But the lonely years and radio silence have done nothing other than confirm he’s doing fine without his father.

The blonde thing moves past Blue-Balls, shirking his grabby hands, and steps up to our friend, King. “I think the man’s had enough, don’t you?”

So, she was the one who put a stop to it?

“Fuck off, Ramona,” King snaps.

She turns and walks away like the dutiful club whore she is.

Fuckin’ bikers.
Their cocky we-own-everything attitude grates on me. Strike me dead if I ever consider buying a bike.

The kid straightens out and arches his back, grimacing as he pops out the kinks. “How about a drink then, old man?”

“Fucking parched.”

He laughs, and walks over to give me a hearty slap on the back. I almost puke after the exertion I’ve just displayed on an empty, alcohol-lined stomach.

King lifts his fingers to the hipster, and gestures for two more. The guy looks at his watch and then at the kid, before shaking his head and pulling out fresh glasses.

I amble across to a stool, and slump my ass down before I pass out. The kid already looks as fresh as a daisy.
Fucking babies and their fast recoveries.
Sweat beads on my temples, and I dab the blood that still runs down my face with the hem of my T-shirt.

“You fight pretty well for a senior citizen.” King passes my glass over.

I raise a finger to his face. “The old man jokes were cute for the ladies to start with, but you try it again and this will be our half-time refresher.”

“Sure.” The kid lifts his hands in the air. “Didn’t realize it was such a sensitive subject.”

“Fuckin’ kids,” I mumble, and lift the glass to my lips.

“Correct me if I got this wrong, but you look like you needed to blow off that steam. What gives?”

“We’re not ‘besties’, okay?” I keep my gaze fixed to the reflection of a tired man in the mirror behind the bottles. “I’m not about to paint your nails, and we don’t fuckin’ swap stories.”

“Fair enough.” He spins, and waves the second girl over. “Suzie, love. I think our guest needs cheering up. Or to blow his load at least.” He chuckles. “You’re more wound than a jack-in-the-box.”

“Shows, huh?”

The girl slips between us, and moves to place her skinny ass on my leg. I jam my thigh under the lip of the bar and block her with an elbow. I’ve met stray dogs with less disease.

Seeing my efforts, King grabs her about the waist and pulls her to his side. “Let’s get something clear here. You looked like you needed to blow off some steam, and hey, I understand that. But you refuse what I offer you—you insult me. And I don’t appreciate insults.”

“And I don’t appreciate some fuckin’ kindergarten kid thinking he has some kind of onus over me. I’m fuckin’ twice your age, you shit.”

“Act like it.” His eyes bore into mine, and I wilt.

Because he’s right.

And I’ve heard this all before.

I throw back the drink before me and signal the hipster for another round. If the drinks are on my new friend here, I may as well make the most of it. Tossing back the second one, I burp past the urge to vomit and order another.

Come on, Jack. How about helping a man out? Make tonight the night it ends.

A high-pitched din disturbs my subconscious and I rouse from a deep sleep into a state of confusion. The noise sends my heart into a frenzy and my head pounds with the sudden rush of blood. Panic engulfs me, urging me to get as far as possible from the noise and yet, I lie stiff as a statue. My brain wars with my senses, arguing that their perception of the threat about me isn’t valid, but my heart insists the danger is very real.

The fog clears, and I blink awake to a ceiling that
is not
my own. I let my eyes slam closed again at the onslaught of whirling nausea, and try in vain to remember where I am.

I have no idea.

The shrill tone grows closer, and the penny drops. It’s whistling. The noise is whistling. A deep sense of relief washes over me as I relax into the familiar tune.

I know that song.

The whistling continues, growing closer and then farther away. My eyes remain heavy, and my body feels as if it’s sinking in mud. All I can make out about where I am is that I’m in a foreign bed. Where? Who knows. But I don’t know anyone who would be whistling, let alone in my apartment—not that I’ll have one for much longer.

Oh, yeah.

The dire situation I’m in comes flooding back in a rush of words, sounds and images. I can’t keep paying for anywhere to live because I’m bankrupt. I don’t have a job because I kept on turning up drunk. I don’t have anyone in my life because I betrayed them all; I let them all down.

Fleetwood Mac.

I knew that tune was familiar. A laugh erupts from my belly but sticks in my dry-as-fuck throat. The pressure builds, and my eyes fly open as I start to hack up one lung-buster of a cough.

“Shit,” the female whistler mutters.

I register nothing but a blur of blonde, the smell of roses, and the gentlest fucking hands I’ve felt in a long time as she pushes a pillow behind my head.

The source of the tune leans over me to reach for something, and I’m graced with the most perfect, full, round tits in my face.

I’ve fucking died and gone to heaven. Jesus does still love me . . .

She pulls back, and cupping her free hand behind my head, holds a glass of water to my lips and urges me to sip.

The woman smiles as I drink. My gaze is fixed to the cute way her lips turn up at the corner. She has one of those joker smiles, the kind where her mouth permanently looks as if she’s smirking. But paired with her amazing blue eyes, it’s adorable.

The water flows down my scratchy throat and I let my eyes shut for a second. Her hand slips from behind my head and I open my eyes again, eager not to lose sight of her. She places the glass on the side table, and crosses the room to a cloth and spray bottle that sit on a low chest of drawers.

“I’ll go let the others know you’re awake.” Sweet baby Jesus, the woman’s voice—husky, yet smooth.

I watch her go, amazed that with a single interaction my mystery woman has given me a goal, something to make me want to get out of bed each day.

I have to know more about her.

• • • • •

“THEY WANTED
to leave you there,” Blue-Balls says, sitting on the foot of my bed. “But I’ve been in that state. I could see the look in your eye when he started into you—it hadn’t left before you passed out.”

The guy has been talking non-stop for what feels like an eternity, but all I can do is watch the door for that golden-haired angel. I could ask this guy who she is, but that would insinuate I want to interact with him, and that’s about as far from the truth as I can get.

All I want is to be left alone—at least, alone with her.

A decade on my own and a lack of any close company has left me bitter. Bitter and ready to end it all. To escape, and leave the hurt and despair behind.

Waking up realizing people gave enough of a fuck about me to stop my self-destruction has left me rejuvenated, willing to give it one last shot. And waking up with her literally in my face has left me hornier than a fuckin’ schoolboy at a Hooters bar.

“I’m not gonna bullshit you,” the young guy continues. “Bein’ here, you’re going to have to earn your keep. You have a room, food, all the care you need, but it all comes at a price. Nothin’ in this world is free.”

Well what do you know? The kid likes to state the obvious.

“We’ll have to get you a sponsor—I can’t do that yet, still on probation myself. Fuck, I had to chew my uncle’s ear off to get you here; my uncle is the Sergeant at Arms, so you’re in luck.” He chuckles. “Can you stand?” he asks, moving off the bed.

I roll my face in his direction and stare at him.

“Can you get up?” he asks again, as though the first instruction was too much for an old boy like me to comprehend.

My side hurts like a bastard, and my head pounds like a fat ladies’ running race. Screwing my face up, I roll to my left side, and shove my legs out of the bed.

The kid holds a hand out to help me up, but I lift mine, asking him to wait. My vision is swimming still and I feel as if any sudden movement will cause me to hurl.

“I know you’re probably dog tired,”—still with the obvious—“but Pres has to head out soon, so I need to get you downstairs and introduced before Church.”

Church? Bikers are religious fuckers? Who would have thought? I ponder which congregation lets these rough assholes into their pews as I shuffle to the drawers. Currently, I’m in no more than the week-old boxers I had on when I picked that fuckin’ fight. A set of clean threads would be nice, given I can’t see my own anywhere in this barren room. And by barren, I mean near on vacant. Aside from the bed, the side table and the drawers I’m leaning on, there’s nothing in here but two mismatched assholes, speaking different languages for all I understand of what he’s been saying

“You after some clothes?”

I slap my hand to my face. This kid is going to kill me.

I nod.

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll, um, go check with Sonya.”

He leaves the room, oblivious to me throwing my hands in the air behind him and pulling an exasperated face at his retreating back. The kid can’t be one of their best—no wonder he was happily chewing the fat with me. That said, the dumbass would probably show me the exit if I started walking around hunting it out.

I flop on the end of the bed and await some clothes. Where could I go if I left anyway? No home, nobody to stay with. It’s sad, but I’m completely content to remain where I am. At least there’s a bed here.

A few minutes later, the kid returns with the blonde angel directly behind him. “Sonya here will help you find some stuff that’ll fit.”

Her eyes roam my mostly naked state, and I grin.
Nice.

The kid turns to face her, and her gaze snaps back to reality as he addresses her. “Take him down to the common room when you’re done, okay?”

“Sure thing, Callum.” She gives him an adoring pat on the cheek and smiles.

He scarpers, leaving her standing in the doorway, and me perched on the edge of the bed, contemplating how soon is too soon to make a move. I mean, really, I was trying to die at the hands of her biker buddies not so long ago.

“You’ve got to take it easy on him,” she says. “Callum is still on probation. He worked damn hard to earn that respect, but he’s still young—has a lot to learn.”

Right. So all you have to do around here to get respect is some shit that
almost
gets you in the slammer, given their ‘probation’ references.

“There’s a box of leftover stuff down in the basement. What size are you?”

I look down at myself and shrug. Once upon a time I was a solid wall of muscle, and once upon a time I had enough dosh to shop for clothes. Now, I’m half the size I was, although still in relative good shape thanks to plenty of manual labor, and I haven’t bought clothes in years.

Angel Sonya sighs, and places her delicate hands on her full hips. “Can you give me a starting point?”

“I guess about an extra large?”

“You guess?”

“It’s been a while,” I say.

She sighs, that I-can’t-be-fucked-with-this type, and rubs a hand over her face. “I need to have you presentable.” Her eyes roam the room as she thinks something over. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” she mumbles, and leaves the room.

While I wait, I amble over to the window and take a look outside to try and gather my bearings. The level of the sun tells me it’s mid-afternoon, but that’s about where my intuition ends. None of the buildings around here look familiar—just a bunch of semi-industrial style, concrete slab constructions. I can’t see any parkland, a freeway—nothing sizeable that might hint where we are. I may as well be in hell for all I know about the area.

But still, I’ll happily hang around if it means seeing her again.

“There’s a handful of T-shirts here—one should fit—and a few pairs of jeans.”

I spin around, unaware I had company again, and watch the way her hair swings into her face as she places the items down on the bed. She doesn’t just toss them on the sheet; she literally lays them out like a mother would a child.

“The only thing I couldn’t find was clean underwear, and given my guess is you wouldn’t want anything pre-worn by this rowdy bunch, my only offer is to wash what you have,”—she gestures to my groin—“while you go commando.”

The woman’s telling me to get my boxers off? I have to say it’s kind of arousing. Although, not at the best of times, given that that kind of exertion would have me vomiting whatever was left in my stomach.

Not sexy at all . . .

“Sounds fair enough.” My thumbs hook in the waistband and ply them off my hips.

“Whoa!” she shrieks, bringing her hand up. “Hold on, there.”

“What’s the matter?” I ask with a smirk. “Never seen boy bits before?”

She frowns at my teasing, and turns her back to me. “Go. Toss them over here when you’re done so I know it’s safe.” Her finger points to the floor to her left.

I drop the gear, throw it over, and walk butt-naked around the bed to assess my choices. Picking up a pair of slightly faded black jeans, I tug them up my legs and am pleasantly surprised at how well they fit.

“So, church?” I probe. “What’s the deal with that?”

“I’m not sure; us women aren’t privy to what goes on in meetings.”

I button the denim and peruse the T-shirts—black, Metallica, or Harley Davidson. I go for black. “Why do they have to go to church to do that?”

She looks over her shoulder, and smirks. “Not
church,
church. They don’t go visit the priest or anything.” She smiles and giggles.

“What other church do you know of?” I say, with my eyebrow raised.

Her hair billows off her shoulders as she flops down on the bed. There’s no hiding the way her blue eyes trail my body as I tug the shirt on. “It’s another name for a committee meeting, basically. The officers get together and they vote on stuff. Normally, it’s held every fortnight, but then, you know, you showed up.”

“Not exactly by choice.” I wince as I tug the fabric over my ribs. “Last I remember I was drinking on your boy King’s tab.”

“They did a real number on you.” She stands and lifts her hand to my face. “This’ll take a while to go down.” Her soft fingers trail over my swollen cheek. “It’ll be interesting to see how you look without the bruising.” Her eyes dart to mine, the sincerity of her words seemingly taking her by surprise.

“Devastating.” I wink, and she turns her head to hide a smile.

“Anyway. You ready? Apex doesn’t like waiting.”

“I guess so.”

• • • • •

FIFTEEN MINUTES
later, and an unkempt bunch files out of a meeting room off to the side of the so-called common room. I sit at the bar, which runs along one side, and wait for whoever Apex is to hunt me out.

A large guy with a gut that needs its own parking permit remains in the doorway, staring me down.

“You the new guy?” he barks.

“Who’s askin’?”

He curls his lip in a snarl. “Get your ass over here.” The guy moves to an adjacent door from the one everybody exited and disappears inside.

I meander over, unwilling to look too much like I jumped on command, and enter.