Knight (47 page)

“Let’s say we get this guitar for you…fuck, let’s say we get you
three
guitars.” Keep’s stare pinned me to the seat. “Will you go back to college?”

The jukebox sang sharper than ever, though no one else noticed. A broken speaker and a tweaked wire added a half-step to Hendrix. I frowned. The conversation went easier in my head, even if I had to imagine it for two weeks before I fostered the courage to call my brothers.

“I’m trying,” I said. “But school’s expensive, and you guys won’t let me apply to any colleges outside the city.”

“How far you gotta go for a good education?” Keep swore. “Any degree is better than no degree. Even from Cherrywood Valley College. You got me?”

“But you didn’t even finish high school.”

“Didn’t need to. You did. And you’re going back to college.”

“How?  Dad’s legal bills ate up the fund. I can’t afford to do it by myself, not without getting these auditions and finding a decent job.”

“We’ll pay for it,” Brew said. “You get your ass in school, make friends with some sorority, and smile pretty in the choir. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Now I remembered why I had avoided my brothers for the better part of a year.

The familiar twisting in my stomach accompanied most of the times my family told me
not to worry
. I knew not to ask dad where we got the new TV. Not to ask Brew why he had a new patch designating him as going
above the call of duty
.

And, most importantly, I never,
ever
asked how my family earned their money.

My voice lowered. “I can’t explain to the bursar’s office why I’m paying for my education in cash. Non-sequential bills? Think about it. I need to apply for student aid, get fifty thousand dollars in debt, and pay it off when I’m old and gray.”

“Nope.” Keep shook his head. “Dad doesn’t want any debt. He wants nothing to his name.”

I spoke too fast. “Yeah, but Dad’s gone.”

Brew frowned. “Not for long.”

“Twenty years.” I knew better than to sound relieved around my brothers. “No one will offer him parole. Not for a while.”

“That’s why we’re doing it my way,” Brew said. “And that’s why you’re gonna listen to me. Do as I say.”

My stomach twisted. The jukebox skipped again. My fingers itched to make music in the silence. A chord or riff or
anything
that would distract me from making yet another mistake.

“You know what?” I brushed the curls from my face, hiding my warming cheeks. “Forget it. I’m sorry I called you here. I don’t need your help. It was stupid to even ask.”

I stood, but Keep tapped his finger on the table. “We ain’t done here.”

Part of me wanted to ignore him, tie my apron around my waist, and get back to my job serving the thoroughly intimidated and obscenely curious diner patrons.

It was nothing but false bravado.

Everywhere else in the world, family came first. Brothers protected sisters, sisters loved brothers, and fathers weren’t in jail for murder. In my life? The club came first, fathers were commended as heroes, and sisters learned to be very careful when disobeying brothers.

“Five minutes ago, our money was good enough to buy you a guitar,” Keep said. The harsh bite to his voice softened as I slid into my chair. “Now you’re gonna pout about it for school.”

“I can pay you back for the guitar,” I said. “But I won’t be in your debt for that much money.”

“You’re our baby sister. I don’t care if you’re one-year-old or twenty-one years old. We’re gonna keep an eye on you.” Keep held my gaze. “This ain’t a loan. Not for the guitar, not for college. We love you. Got that?”

I nodded. Brew leaned over the table, cupped my cheeks, and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“Love ya, Bud.”

I pushed them away, blushing pink and hiding my freckles. I slipped them a smile. Despite the mud-crusted, metal-toed boots, the dust-coated jeans, and the leather jacket armoring their muscular bodies, my brothers were too affectionate for the biker stereotype.

Then again, who’d be crazy enough to tease them?

Few people recognized the emblems on their jackets, but most were smart and didn’t ask. Both my brothers wore a new patch on their vests. I pointed to their chests.

“Those are new,” I said. “Secretary?”

Keep smiled. “I have to keep order at my bar anyway. It made sense.”

Brew waited for my assessment of his patch. The silence lingered a bit too long.

“And Sergeant At Arms?” I didn’t know what to say. “That’s how Dad got started.”

Brew nodded. “Been a few changes at the club lately. Since the split.”

“I know. The paper had articles about...the incidents.” A polite way to phrase
bloody, awful street-war
. I feared those stories, but I worried even more about the day I’d read the front page only to find the news of my brothers’ murders. “Sometimes a few police officers stop in to get some coffee. They mention Anathema.”

My brothers didn’t like that. I stopped them before they got worked up.

“I’d call if anything happened. They don’t know I’m related to you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Brew touched the knife strapped to his belt. I don’t think he realized he did it. “You keep your head down. They get desperate enough, they’ll go after family. The cops, the Feds, ATF. They’d eat you up like your pancake special, especially with Dad in prison.”

Keep didn’t answer. He clenched his fist, but his fingers still shook.

And he pretended like nobody noticed.

“
Tristan
.” I’d never demand he take off his jacket, but I didn’t dare pull up his sleeve to see the track marks. “You
promised
. You said you quit!”

I stood and busied myself at the counter before they forced me back to the table. The coffee pot warmed a full carafe. I dumped it out and made a fresh batch with double the grounds. I could make the coffee super potent, but nothing I cooked would ease the demon lurking inside my brother. The mug slammed onto the counter, but my eyes still burned with tears. Tantrums never solved anything. They only earned a smack. Open-palmed from Dad, if I was lucky.

Brew and Keep moved to the counter. Neither said a word. There was nothing to say.

Anathema. I grew up in the club, watched my father groom my brothers for entry, lost all three to prison in its name, and waited for the violence to finally consume them.

I hated it.

I hated what the brotherhood stood for, I hated how it ruled my family’s lives, and I hated the type of men it made them become. Most of all, I hated the demon—the grinning monster bound within the club’s crest, and the one living inside each of the members.

Tristan was fifteen and Brice seventeen when I was born, but they already earned their handles. Tristan became
Innkeeper
as he willingly maintained the clubhouse. In another life, he might have been an accountant. Not like he ever had that choice. Dad made both of his sons in his image. They were patched men.

Proud members of the Anathema MC who worshiped the scarred demon.

But Keep had a demon of his own, and the club provided him all the vice the monster desired. I thought nothing broke my heart more than seeing my brother suffering through withdrawal in a prison cell. A rite of passage for the men in the MC.

God, was I wrong. I pushed the coffee toward Keep and distracted myself by wrapping silverware.

“How did you let this happen?” I didn’t dare look at Brew, not while I scolded him. “You guys are supposed to watch out for each other.”

“Rose,” Keep said. “It’s nothing.”

“Please don’t lie to me.” I dropped a spoon.

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

I huffed as a fork tumbled from my hands and joined the spoon on the floor.

Keep snorted. “So are you.”

“I’m
mad
.”

“Stop.” Keep rubbed his face, extending his hand over his shaved head. “Get me a piece of pie with the coffee. I’ll be fine.”

Fine
.

That was what Mom always said too.

She was fine.

Fine until she finally OD’d in the living room while Dad, Keep, and Brew were on a run in San Jose. A fourteen-year-old shouldn’t be allowed to sign releases for the coroner.

I sighed, as defiant as I could get with Keep. With either of them.

Brew promised he’d watch out for Keep. Nothing could be done about the addiction though. The club must have known, but it wasn’t like they’d help either. They’d stuff Keep into darkness as long as it didn’t impact the club. Just another reason to hate that life.

I tapped at the broken carousel bearing the coconut cream pie. Was my life so much better? Struggling to make ends meet from measly tips? Practicing songs in my acoustically-friendly bathroom night after night until my throat ached and the neighbors pounded on the walls?

Without college, and with a name like Darnell shadowing my every move, I ran out of options that didn’t include a Harley. I couldn’t even afford to fix my own guitar. For as much as I craved a job where people wore suits instead of aprons, a world where I served pie was safer than the one where my brothers were served warrants.

Once I got my break, once my YouTube channel earned a couple thousand hits, I’d never worry again. All I needed was one more gig in a cafe or private party or fundraiser, and I’d meet the right people. Get noticed by the ones who mattered. Everyone started somewhere.

But the daughter of Paul “Blade” Darnell started in a different place from the rest of the world.

I dropped two plates heaped with pie in front of my brothers. I never handled silence well, and the quiet wore me out quicker than my eight hour shift.

I debated humming. I shrugged instead.

“I’ll get some whipped cream,” I said.

Keep shoveled the pie into his mouth without waiting. “Thanks, Bud.”

He sounded just like Dad, and I wished he’d stop using the nickname. I slipped into the kitchen. Suzy, the other waitress, gossiped into her phone and ignored me. My boss, unfortunately, didn’t have her sense.

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve slurred.

Drunk. Fantastic. I imagined he was only in the restaurant to grab some money from the cash register before heading to the bar.

“Get those guys out of here.”

I clutched the two containers of whipped cream as if that were the great crime occurring within the diner. But an extra heap of sugar on their desserts wasn’t the disaster. I didn’t want anyone to realize the two leather-clad men covered in ink and MC patches were my brothers.

“As soon as I can,” I promised. “It’s not a problem.”

“Not a problem?” Steve shouldn’t have followed me out into the diner. He spoke too loudly, and the bit of middle-aged pudge and receding hairline wouldn’t protect him. “Those two douche bags are
gang
members. Who the hell knows what they’ll do. If they rob this place, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

“They won’t rob us.”

“I’m not giving them one dime in protection money.”

The diner didn’t warrant any protection money. A fire would probably improve the land value. I pushed Steve into the kitchen.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“You better.”

I presented the whipped cream to my brothers with a smile. Keep and Brew scowled.

“He always talk to you like that?” Keep asked.

I thought decades of bike engines would dull their hearing. No such luck. “He’s just tipsy.”

“No one disrespects my little sister.”

“It’s nothing.” I shook the can, but Keep had finished most of his pie. Brew always did have the most patience in the family. I buried his slice in whipped cream and handed the can to Keep. “Forget about it. Please. I’d like to still have a job here tomorrow.”

Brew elbowed Keep. “How much you got on you?”

“Enough.”

Brew pulled his wallet and pushed a handful of twenties toward me. Keep took the last bite of his pie and did the same, though a few hundreds tucked inside his pile.

My stomach wound tight. “I don’t need that much.”

“Take it,” Brew said.

“Seriously, I won’t be able to pay you for a while.”

I flipped through some of the money and handed it back.

Mistake.

“Look.” Keep dropped the fork and his smile. “You want a guitar? Fine. You want to stuff the rest of that money under your mattress and sleep like some goddamned depression era princess, whatever. But you don’t tell us what we do with our money.”

Brew took a bite. “You need tires on your car. And, knowing you, I’m betting an oil change and tune-up too.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

Brew scowled. “If you were
fine
, you wouldn’t need our help for your fucking guitar. You’d have money saved up. A reason to keep playing these gigs.”

“Brew—”

“Take the money. Get whatever you need for your music, but don’t forget to drop back into the real world once in a while.”

Sometimes I wished my brother would just smack me. At least a bruise would heal.

“You win.” It was the smartest thing I said all night. “Thank you.”

I didn’t count the money before stuffing it into my pocket. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough, and the cash exchange wasn’t as discreet as my brothers intended. Steve scoffed from the kitchen, stumbling out to the counter. He waved a finger in my face.

“What the hell is this?” He bumped into the coffee pot and spilled most of the container. “I thought you were going to get rid of them. Don’t tell me you’re their goddamned whore now?”

The hair rose on my neck. “Steve, go back to the kitchen. Please.”

“The fuck did you say?” Keep nudged Brew. “You hear what I heard?”

Brew’s eyes narrowed on Steve. “I hope I heard wrong.”

“I think he called Rose a
whore
.”

The alcohol on Steve’s breath reeked. He poked at my chest with a knobby finger.

Another mistake.

“This ain’t no whore house. You turning tricks for these dickheads? Should have offered me some first. I should fire your ass.”

Keep and Brew stood. I pushed at Steve.

“Please, leave,” I said. “I’ll close the diner tonight. Just go home.”