Page 21

CHAPTER

TWENTY

CONAN

I’m sitting backward in a hardback chair, sharpening my knife, while Risk and Hemi do their torture/interrogation thing. It’s a sight to see, no joke about it.

This is what they excel in, Marcum and I are no slouch in that department either, but for now, I’m enjoying the show. My turn will come, but I want them nice and afraid before I bring out the tools of my trade.

The more, the merrier.

Chainsaws, scalpels, pliers, tweezers, welding equipment—I’ve invested in them all. Some are more for show than action, the sound of the chain rotating through the saw is enough to get most grown men talking.

We waited for the drugs to wear off, it didn’t seem to affect them in the same manner as they did Demi, which has me wondering if they had gotten ahold of something stronger and longer lasting than what we did.

Wish I knew what they gave her so I could shove it down their throats, but all four of them have been tight-lipped—so far.

We’ll change that, but it may take some time because they’re all afraid to speak. Can’t say as I blame them considering the more we know, the more we’ll make them hurt.

Seeing as my goddess can’t recall the entirety of the night, I bet it was pretty brutal. Two of these damn pussies even have wives at home, there was no reason for them to cruelly violate her in the manner they did. I mean, they took vows, for fuck’s sake!

“Does your wife know how abusive you are, David?” Hemi asks, punching David in the kidneys with a set of brass knuckles slid over his dominant hand. “Do you drug and rape her too?”

David doesn’t react or open his mouth, instead, he stares into an abyss only he can see, his eyes completely emotionless.

“Maybe she needs a real man to fuck her. What do you say, David? Should I pay her a visit?” Hemi asks, tormenting him.

That is what it finally takes to get a rise out of him. He spreads his lips open, gurgles up a loogie and spits the slimy mucus at Hemi.

“We’ve got a live one,” I joke, as Hemi shuffles backward, and I continue to steadily swipe my knife across the whetstone.

Midas claps his hands together, laughing as he tosses a rag to Hemi so he can wipe his face, “Guess he doesn’t want his wife to know what she’s been missing.”

David’s irate look swivels my way and I raise my eyebrows at him.

What’s he gonna do? Stare me to death?

I wish him luck because meaner men have tried.

And failed.

Seeing as he’s a pipsqueak in comparison to the ones who came before him, I’m not intimidated by his venom in the least.

“Y’all see that!” I exclaim, whistling. “David’s trying to scare me.”

“He thinks his puny muscles are a match for you?” Marcum cackles. “Maybe we should let him loose and prove to him who the bigger man is.”

“I’m down!” I clamor, my voice full of excitement, carrying through the bomb shelter we use. It's buried beneath the clubhouse and completely hidden from prying eyes.

We save this designated section of the bunker for exclusive occasions and specific events, such as interrogations and torture sessions of this caliber—particularly, when we want to take our time with our more peculiar guests.

Even though we don’t have any neighbors in the proximity, we don’t want their shouts and pleas to be overheard. There are times the popo do drive by's in front of our property, and it wouldn’t be beneficial for the club for them to stomp into the clubhouse with guns drawn.

But it is a hell of an adrenaline rush when they do.

The first week we established ourselves here, there was a raid. It was glorious because they didn’t find jack shit.

We don’t do drugs, we don’t sell or trade in skin, and we don’t run guns.

Don’t underestimate us though, we aren’t the Cleavers by any stretch of the imagination, we aren’t mass murderers and dealers of any sort, either, but we also aren’t ones who’ll back down from a fight.

We’re men who love a good brawl.

I’m not saying we’ll make it a fair one, we’ll pull out all of our tricks, even if it means we have to burn towns down around us.

But the older we got, the less thrilling the nomadic life became. Faceless fucks, nameless motels, greasy diner food—it eventually lost its luster.

We just want to run our security business and be left alone.

I guess we made more of an impact on the local law enforcers than we anticipated we would when we decided to settle here in this humid as fuck state of Texas.

Sometimes, I wonder if this Lone Star state is the gateway to hell, it is so motherfucking hot and boggy.

We knew we’d raise a few eyebrows when we rode into this backwoods town and bought some real estate, but we didn’t think we’d get the welcome we did.

Internally, I roll my eyes at myself, because now, I’m bored enough with this wearisome session that I’m contemplating my life—this is a problem because I can’t stand getting stuck in my ‘feels’ unless I’m with my girl so she can distract me or have a pint-sized glass of tequila in hand to drown those memories with.

“Listen,” I drawl, and when my brothers stop and turn my way, I continue, “they aren’t going to talk, and if we’re being real, we don’t need them to. We’re somewhat positive that Demi isn’t their only victim. I say we move on and rid the world of these assholes.”

Kodiak, on the same page as me, nods his head. “They’ve put a stain on society enough as it is, it’s time to stop playing, end them, and burn their corpses.”

The four start wiggling around, trying to get loose of their bindings as they adamantly argue against our plan. We drown them out because no matter what they have to say in defense of what they’ve done, there isn’t an excuse good enough to make us change our minds.

Plus, they fucked up when they hurt one of ours.

That’s what signed their death warrant in the Deviant Knights’ eyes.

I do feel sorry for the women who came either before or after Demi, only they aren’t what matters to me, not that I don’t give a shit about what they went through, but I have had to sit night after night with Demi, rocking her in my arms after she wakes from a nightmare featuring her attack.

She’s the one I have a front row seat for as she struggles to let that night go as she remembers she’s no longer stuck in that night terror. Her psyche was fractured by what they did to her, and to me, that grievous act against her in itself is unforgivable.

“I’m all talked out,” Risk states. “I could use a little downtime.”

I smirk because his meaning of ‘downtime’ is different from the standard viewpoint and definition. There’s something about torturing someone that calms him—like it does for most of us. None of us had a stellar childhood so we take our woes out with our fists.

We’ve been lax in that department since we put down some roots and stopped living off the land. We’ve worked damn hard to become respectable and fit in with the masses.

I don’t think it’s working for us, we aren’t used to being in stasis.

We were a mobile club while living the nomad life, and since we are at a standstill, we’re bored and it’s made some of us angsty.

“Everyone, get your tools and pick a man. Don’t be stingy, we have four to choose from,” Kodiak announces.

I get a hop in my step as I head toward the storage closet, which isn’t really a traditional one, it’s an entire room filled with our tools of the trade.

We each have claimed a section for ourselves.

My excitement has me singing a good-humored tune as I go through my shelves and each one of my drawers. “The stars at night are big and bright.”

The guys clap five times, and sing the chorus, “Deep in the heart of Texas.”

Kodiak chuckles before saying, “Alright, men. We aren’t trying out for America’s Got Talent , but I can appreciate your enthusiasm and harmonization. With that being said, keep your heads in the game.”

“Yes, pres,” we all drone in unison, used to being scolded by him as if we are his children and not his brothers.

“Kodiak, one day I’m gonna pull that stick out of your ass,” I tease, kidding around with him. I can’t let the opportunity pass by without giving him a hard time.

“Conan,” he counters, “one day, I’m gonna shove my foot up your ass and make you taste your own shit.”

“It can be my hors d'oeuvre before I make shit cakes to shove them down your throat,” I declare.

“The fuck is that, houres de voure?” Hemi asks, butchering the words.

“It’s a fancy word rich folks use for appetizer,” Kodiak answers.

When all heads turn in his direction, he asks, “What? I know things.” When we still look at him skeptically, he realizes we don’t believe a single word coming out of his mouth so he tacks on, “Fine, I know what it means because Luna put it in one of her books.”

“You read your wife's sexmance books?” Risk asks, mirth blazing in his eyes.

“What can I say, there are instances that she asks me if a scene is realistic so I read it and give her my opinion,” he says, defending himself.

“Do y’all act these things out to see if they’re realistic?” I ask, taunting him.

He turns around so fast that he nearly loses his balance before shooting me a warning look and pointing his finger at me. “That’s none of your business, Conan.”

“Oh, fuck! Y’all do, don’t you?” I ask, my volume coming out higher than necessary.

When my brother hangs his head, Regulator chuckles and tells us, “Hell yeah, they do.”

Then Midas mumbles, “Lucky bastard. Think she can hook me up with one of her writer friends? I wouldn’t mind being a test subject.”

“This discussion is closed,” Kodiak grits out. “Gather your gear, it’s showtime.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” I say, saluting him. He ignores me and continues marching away, his tool belt loaded down with some of his favorite carpentry tools.

I quickly grab my zip bag and load it down, then follow his path, the remainder of my brothers directly behind me.

It’s showtime!