Page 6

Tarynn

B y the early light of day, I realize just how much everything looks like a clusterfuck. Whoever said that shining light on a situation would provide illumination, clearly has never just about ripped a man’s face clean off after asking him for a favor, then spent the entire night dreading that he might actually make good on a wild proposition.

I couldn’t sleep, no matter how much melatonin I took, or how far I got down my ambient music playlist. When the sunrise streaked across the sky, I threw back my twisted covers and paced my room, silent as a ghost, packing the few things that I considered to be truly mine.

Around five-thirty, with a backpack and two duffel bags filled, the panic sets in so badly that I have to drop down to the edge of my bed, lean forward with my head in my hands, and breathe deeply and evenly to avoid a full scale panic attack. I’ve never had one before, but my churning stomach, sweat slicked skin, racing pulse, and closed throat all are warnings that I might be about to experience my first.

What kind of nonsense was I talking last night? The bike lessons are one thing. How did I get from there to basically letting Crow talk me into moving out? I have nowhere lined up. It’s just after the middle of June. Hart isn’t a huge city by any stretch of the imagination and it’s not like there are rentals galore. Sure, college might be out, but it’s also not like people flock here to go to the small community schools, vacating when the year is over. It’s the other way around. People from Hart head off for big cities like Seattle. They’re coming back now, although I can’t say they’d be taking rentals and not staying with family. Maybe? God, like I’d know.

I don’t know why my brain vacated my body last night. Apparently, it went clean on hiatus. Not only should Crow not show up here because I have no place to go if I leave, but he doesn’t need help. I can carry out my whole life thus far with me. Everything else in this house belongs to my parents. There’s no way I’m going to take something that I didn’t earn or wasn’t given as a gift. The irony in defying them to be independent by still relying on them that way would chew me up inside.

The best thing to do would be to try and contact Crow, but I don’t know how to do that. I don’t have his number. I could call his clubhouse. He may or may not be there. I have no idea how that works. Does he live there, or does he have a home somewhere in Hart? What about the other bikers? Would anyone be there at this hour?

Only if they haven’t gone to bed yet.

I huff at the thought. It’s probably true, but it’s not like they’d list the darned number if I looked it up online. Or would they?

I could call Patti for it, but she’s very likely still in bed, especially after I delayed her last night. She has staff who open the diner in the mornings during the week. She doesn’t head in until after her kids are off to school, but even so, she works late. She might appear to be superhuman, but I know she’s not. I don’t feel right about calling her and wrecking her day of solitude.

Clusterfuck number two.

I have to figure out a way to get out of going to church. It would be so much easier if Crow could just show up—if he’s going to show at all—while my parents are out and I’m here. It might be the coward’s way, but I could write them a note and leave it behind.

Chicken shit, sure, but it isn’t like they’d listen to anything I would have to say anyway. They’d be too stunned and too angry. They’ve tried to mold me and shape me into the perfect daughter. They don’t want to accept that I’d ever want more than the prescribed path.

Stuffing my bags into my small closet, I make sure they’re well out of sight. My room doesn’t appear to be changed. For the most part, it isn’t. Unless my mom opened my closet or went through my drawers, she wouldn’t notice anything missing. I usually have my laptop set up on my desk. It’s packed away in my backpack.

I keep my room perfectly clean. My twin bed is made up with military precision, the purple bedspread pulled tight. My dresser is always spotless, and the little desk is generally empty, save for my laptop or a book. I have one bookcase at the far end of the room. It doesn’t match the set, but my parents ordered it in white for continuity’s sake. I packed only a single book, a large, ornate tome of Dickens with a green leatherbound cover, embossed in gold, that I purchased four years ago. It’s the only book in the house that is what my father would term unchristian.

I’m wearing a pair of leggings and a lightweight sweater with a tank top underneath, but almost all my other clothes are packed.

As soon as I hear my mom in the kitchen, getting ready for the oatmeal, orange juice, egg and toast routine breakfast, I get set to put on the performance of a lifetime.

I creep into the kitchen and sit down at the table. My mom notices me a minute later, when she turns around from her spot beside the sink where she’s pulverizing oranges on one of those handheld juicers.

“Hey.” I don’t have to feign my scratchy throat or the nerves churning my stomach into a nasty mess. It feels like I could literally throw up at any second. “I’m not feeling well this morning.”

Mom’s eyes narrow as she gives me a near scathing once over. “It’s that job. It keeps you up all hours of the night, wearing your immune system down. No doubt you’ve caught some vile bug from having to be around all those people .”

I try to appear contrite, bowing my head to hide the rage she’s ignited in the pit of me.

“This is what comes of disobeying your father.”

“Mmm.”

“Better get back into bed, then. Your father has a busy week, and I don’t want him getting whatever sickness you’ve brought home.”

Thanks for the care and compassion. Thanks for asking if I’m okay, or for just once, giving me a hug or doing anything remotely motherly. I feel so freaking wanted and cherished.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

The whole thing is fake, but my mom’s reaction still stings. It hurts worse when I head for the hallway to go back to my room and see her already getting out a bottle of disinfectant from under the sink to spray down my chair, wiping furiously at the table.

I climb into bed and curl into a tight little ball, trying to focus on nothing more than my breathing before I have the breakdown of a century.

I hear my dad get up and listen to the hushed tones of my parents discussing me.

In order to calm myself, I start composing the letter that I’m going to leave behind for them when I walk out of here. I’ll wait until Sunday school starts, just to be sure that they aren’t going to come back home because they’ve forgotten something.

I go through, line by line. It’s best to be concise. Sounding defensive would only be perceived as a weakness. I have to make it clear that there is no way they can change my mind about this. There’s no point in getting emotional on paper, on in reality. It won’t do any good.

The morning wears on and the closer my parents come to walking out the door, the more it feels like a cage has been sprung free and I’m going to be released from a trap.

It’s so close. So. Freaking. Close.

And then, the doorbell rings.

I practically fly out bed, rushing to the window, but my room faces the backyard, not the front. I can’t go charging out of here or my parents will know that I’m not really sick. It could be anyone out there. People don’t often drop by on a Sunday morning because they know that my dad will be at the church, but it could definitely be one of his parishioners or even a neighbor.

It’s not.

My stomach drops down to my feet, and my heart pretty much leaves my body when my mom’s voice tears through the house as a high pitched screech. “Who on earth are those men and what do they want with us? Bill! Do something!”

It’s not funny, but I have to press my knuckles to my mouth to keep from laughing hysterically.

Okay, maybe it is pretty ironic that my mom can handle the sorts of people who come to food banks and homeless shelters, but she can’t deal with a little bit of leather? My dad has done inner city ministry work before, which involved brushing shoulders with some pretty rough people—gang members included.

I have no illusions that if Crow is out there with the help he was talking about bringing, they’re all wearing their club vests with all their patches, leaving little doubt as to who they are.

I race over to my closet and snatch out my backpack and the two duffel bags. They’re small, more like overnight or gym bags, and fit on each shoulder after I heft my backpack onto my back.

I should have done more than write that letter in my head.

I nearly gag from the nerves as I round the hallway and rush into the living room.

My parents are still debating with each other about what they should do.

“How are we supposed to get them to leave?” My mom moans. “They’re nothing but common thugs. Why on earth are they here?”

“They might be thugs, but if they’ve come to speak with me, I can’t turn them away. I don’t have time to do that this close to church.” My dad’s annoyance is painted over every word. “They’ll have to come back later.”

“Bill!” Mom gasps. “You can’t mean that! These are godless people.”

“Exactly why it’s important that they hear the word of the Lord.”

Ugh, now he’s going to get all sanctimonious? I’d like to point out that he can’t have it both ways, but it’s hardly the time. No time would be the right time for that.

I clear my throat. My parents spin around at the same time. My mom’s eyes widen at the sight of me with my bags. She does an instant calculation that amounts to me being packed and leaving with the burly men on the doorstep.

My dad crosses his arms, his brows crashing down over his eyes. He looks stern and strict, completely foreboding. “What’s going on, Tarynn Mary Anne?”

Oof. Not the dreaded full name drop.

“I’m moving out.” My voice manages to come out without shaking, but it’s too quiet. “Now.”

“What?” Mom gasps. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain everything later.” I edge towards the door. “I just can’t do this anymore. I’m an adult now and I want to have my own place and make my own choices. I don’t expect you to understand. I know you’ll be angry, and you have every right to those feelings. I’m not taking anything that I haven’t paid for myself. I’m leaving the car and my phone, since you’re the one who pays for the contract. I know you won’t support me in this and I’m not asking you to.”

“How can you do this?” Mom wails, dropping down to her knees and clutching her chest like I’ve just thrust a knife straight into the center of it.

My dad’s hand shoots out and grasps my wrist, curling his fingers around like an iron manacle. “You’re our daughter. You’re not going to walk out of this house with no explanation, and certainly not with those criminals out there. You will not disrespect us like this.”

Our front door is one of those fancy ones where it’s mostly steel, except for a round glass window. There are two panels of frosted glass on either side that run the whole length of the door.

I’m not sure how much someone can see from the outside, but clearly, it’s enough.

A huge black boot comes crashing through the glass insert on the right, kicking upwards to clear most of it out, followed by an arm. A hand twists the deadbolt from the outside and the door bursts inward.

Crow stands there, looking ominous and awe inspiring, a dark god of judgment, something the underworld has dredged up and belched out. Charon himself, but he’s here to ferry me to safety.

It makes my heart thud in a completely inappropriate way that he eyes up my dad like he’s about to make a snack of him.

Grave and Decay are at his back. They’re big, surly, and imposing in their black t-shirts, stained jeans, and leather vests. Theirs don’t have as many patches on the front as Crow’s does.

Their leader is an unholy menace, breathing like a crazed bull about to charge straight into my dad. Crow’s dark eyes are fixed firmly on the fingers wrapped around my wrist.

“You might want to let her go before my friend dislocates your face,” Grave suggests cheerfully, like he hopes that my dad chooses not to obey and reaps the consequences.

“I don’t know who you are,” my dad growls, sounding nowhere near like these tough men. He’s like a playground bully who’s finally met someone twice his size and knows he can’t pick on the little kids anymore. He’s only putting on an act of being brave. “But Tarynn is my daughter. She’s not going anywhere.”

“Anywhere with us, or anywhere at all?” The other brother asks, like the clarification matters.

Maybe it does.

My dad’s grip tightens on my wrist, and he actually shakes me. The duffel bag goes flying off my right shoulder, the other ramming straight into him as he jolts me back and forth. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re not going to—”

Crow moves so fast that I barely register what happens. One second, my dad has hold of my arm, the next, he’s flying through the air and landing hard against the wall right by the stupid console table that my mom is always endlessly dusting.

Crow’s hand, bloody from the broken glass, wraps around my dad’s throat. My mom screams, but she’s frozen in place, just like I am. I should grab my bags and race out the door. I know the second I’m free, Crow and the brothers will follow.

I don’t truly know why he’s here. We’re not anything to each other past a couple grilled cheese and inadvisable promises.

His face looks terrible this morning. I note a line of fresh, neat black stitches, but they’re still jagged because the cut was. He’s going to have a scar layered on top of the one that was already there. I don’t think he slept either. His eyes are bloodshot and practically ringed in purple. His jaw is swollen above and below the new stitches, which causes his lips to look slightly crooked. Right now, they’re peeled back from his teeth. He’s every inch a savage animal.

“You’re going to do more than just let her go,” he hisses into my dad’s face. “You’re going to let her walk out of here and you’re not going to bother her again. If I so much as hear that you’ve uttered one word against her or that you’ve tried to drag her back here or prohibit her from achieving her dreams, I will break you.”

Oh my fucking god, what?

Mom doesn’t faint, but she’s completely bloodless. I don’t actually know how she’s even still upright, albeit on her knees. My dad doesn’t look much better. Crow isn’t cutting off his air or he’d be red, and right now he’s a sickly gray.

Crow shakes him the way he shook me, then casts him off. He whirls, grabs my bags that landed on the floor, and puts his arm around my shoulders.

“Is this everything?”

I can’t ignore the violent shiver that wrenches me at his touch. His skin is like an inferno under his clothing. He feels fevered, which spikes a completely different sort of worry in me.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Half of me wants to cheer and dance the second I walk out that door, but the other half wants to weep.

I don’t look back.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come back here now, and that hurts my heart. It’s more than nerves shredding me apart now, but I have to push them away. I can’t break down right now on the front lawn. I won’t.

Crow steers me out to the street, and it becomes clear, when I see the jacked up pickup truck, why I didn’t hear a bike rumble up.

One of the brothers gets behind the wheel, the other in the passenger seat. It’s a four door truck, which leaves the back for us.

Crow helps me in and shuts my door. I don’t have time to process the heat of him, my own avenging dark angel, leaving me. I’m rapidly numbing out, probably going to real shock, which is a legit trauma response.

The other door opens, my bags are set neatly into the middle. Crow takes the other spot. The truck doesn’t peel away like it would from the scene of a crime. It’s almost obscene how slowly and calmly, it rejoins traffic.

I don’t know here we’re going.

I don’t know what the next few hours hold for me.

I steal a glance at Crow, as if I might find answers there, but he looks all wrong. Still wild. Eyes dilated, blazing, and unfocused. He’s breathing like he’s on the homestretch of a marathon.

We haven’t made it two minutes down the road before he punches the headrest in front of him so hard that I nearly tear out of my skin.

“Pull over,” he commands, frenzied. “Now!”