Page 1 of Tortured Souls
SKYLAR
Some girls prefer makeup, shopping trips, getting their nails done, and spending the day at the salon—you know, the usual stereotypical girly-girl things. Nothing wrong with that, of course. I sometimes even wish I wasthatgirl. However, my interests are more… unique, you could say. You see, I crave the sound of a dying person’s last breath—the silence that follows is peaceful. Or the hardening of someone’s blood against my skin. The way it stiffens and pulls against my skin before tiny cracks begin to form, leaving spider-like lines across the once vibrant color as it turns more crimson. I love watching the souls of thosewho hurt me evaporate from their eyes as I plunge my favorite curved knife into their hearts. Yeah, that’s what I call a good time.
It’s therapeutic, if I’m being honest. The men who’ve been assigned to marry me, dying at my feet before they can ruin me in their own psychotic ways. It’s all my father’s fault, really. I suppose they should be thanking him for their own untimely demise. Dad’s going to be pissed, I know it. This will be the third of his suitors to die a mysterious death. Of course, it couldn’t have been his little girl. Oh no, she’s definitely not capable of taking another’s life. She’s too stupid to do something like that. Or so he thinks.
Whatever this man’s name is, has finally stopped screaming long enough for me to hear my own thoughts again. He’s much weaker than the other two, and that is unfortunate. It’s only made my session with him far too short. This one was too easy to apprehend. There was little to no fight in him while I tied him to the old rickety chair that’s sitting in the middle of the basement. I like it down here—no one ever disturbs me, and this whole room is soundproof, which is perfect for me to do whatever I please to whomever I please.
“What’s your name again? Jimmy, James, Johnny, no—Jeffrey?” I ask, circling the dying man who’s now drooped over in the wooden chair. His breathing is choppy. I imagine the stab to his ribs is quickly killing him from tension pneumothorax. A term I learned from an episode ofGrey’s Anatomy. He’s struggling to breathe as the outside and inside pressure of his chest fight against one another.
“Come on, what’s your name?” I ask, tapping my knife against his shoulder, becoming impatient. He coughs a few times; the sound of his breath resembles someone trying to breathe through a straw. That must really suck. I imagine this is how the two women he kidnapped off the street, sexuallyassaulted, and brutally murdered felt before they took their last breaths. That’s right, this piece of scum is one of the worst, most vile men in Northern California. The fact that my father was trying to marry me off to this man is appalling all on its own. I guess my father saw this as a way to get his foot in the door of the political circle he so desperately wants to be a part of. He deserves this. Every bit of pain he’s currently feeling, he deserves it—and so much more.
“Jameson,” he’s finally able to say through his wet coughs. Standing in front of him, I point the tip of my knife beneath his chin and raise his head so we’re face-to-face. His eyes are so swollen he can barely see out of them. I had a moment where I put my boxing skills to use and went to town on his face. I’m pretty proud I haven’t lost the power in my punches. Thank you, eight years of boxing and mixed martial arts.
His mouth is hanging open as a steady stream of blood collects on his lap. He lets his neck fall back, hitting the back of the chair he’s sitting in. There’s no more fight left in him, not that there was any fight in him to begin with. I take a step closer to him, so I’m standing between his legs. A crunch beneath my boot has me examining where the sound came from.
“Oh shit, look at that, Jameson. I must have missed this one.” Kneeling down, I pick up one of his teeth I’d pulled out with my pliers. “Looks like you have one more to swallow.” He whimpers, his face squishing up as he starts crying once again. I squeeze his cheeks together and drop his tooth into the back of his throat, helping close his mouth as I praise him for swallowing the last one.
“Good boy. Now you will die with all your teeth, after all.” I watch as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he makes more grunting noises. I step back from him and go to my table set up against the wall where I keep my tools for thesefun little sessions and pick up a rag. Wiping the blood from my knife, I turn back to Jameson one last time.
“Before you die, I want you to know there’s a man in hell waiting for you by the name of Seven. He’s my brother, and I can promise you the pair of you will have a wonderful time together.” My twin brother was murdered two years ago. A random act of violence took away the only person in this world who genuinely loved me. A nice afternoon lunch for our birthday turned into a drive-by that wasn’t even meant for us. My brother was hit by a rogue bullet, and I’ll never forget the sound of his body hitting the pavement in front of me.
As I finish cleaning my tools with my rag, the door to the basement swings open, and I freeze.
“Sky? Sky, are you down there?” one of my father’s men bellows down the stairs to me. I silently pray he doesn’t come down here. He can’t see the now very dead Jameson or me, but if he comes down here, I’m fucked. I give Jameson one last look and chuckle to myself at his slumped over form. I guess the last tooth was his grand finale before the grim reaper took pity on him. Can someone die from ingesting their own teeth? I guess so.
“Skylar?” Diego yells again, before the sound of heavy boot steps start descending the stairwell. Fuck, I’m screwed. Before he can see me, I head for the small half door that’s in the corner of the basement that leads to the backyard. Making quick work of the handle, I push the small square door open and squeeze my body through the narrow gap.
“Sky, your father wan—What the fuck!” Diego yells. My guess is he’s found Jameson. Whoops. I close the hatch behind me and quickly sprint up the small dirt stairs and throw my body against the wooden door as it slams to the earth with a thud. Without looking around for more of my father’s men, I take off towardsthe woods. It’s the middle of the night, so darkness has blanked the world already, giving me a fighting chance to escape this hell.
“Skylar! Get back here!” Diego yells at me. Like hell I’ll stop running now. Plus, the moment my father figures out it was me killing off all my potential husbands, the punishment for me will be just as bad as Jameson’s. No, I will continue running. To where exactly? Well, I haven’t figured that part out just yet. I thought I’d have more time, but fuck it, life is never fair, and we are delt the hand we’re delt. Golden Heights pops into my head as if someone had whispered it in my ear.
I run as fast as I can until the distant sounds of my name being yelled fade into a whisper and then complete silence. I won’t stop. I run until the neon lights of the bus station appear, six miles from my father’s house. Boarding the bus to wherever it’s set to travel, I take the secluded seat in the far back of the bus. I don’t even see where the bus is traveling to—I’ll take anywhere but here. Looking at the sign up front, I see the town Golden Heights highlighted as the destination. How convenient.
While I know I’m not off the hook or in the safe zone just yet, I know repercussions for what I’ve done are inevitable. All I can do is extend the time of my sentencing. My father will find me, there’s no doubt. He always gets what he wants in the end. He loves nothing more than his club, even more so than his own children. We are all just pawns in the grand scheme of things.
He will come for me, this I know. However, what he doesn’t know is that I’ll be ready. I’ll be more than ready. I promise on my dying breath that I won’t go down without a fight. Daddy’s little girl died two years ago alongside Seven. Now, all I see is red. Which is my favorite color.
SAXON
Why I agreed to come out tonight is beyond me. I’m fucking tired and my head is pounding from the constant bass thumping against my skull. The club is busy, as it is every night, but the sea of drunken college students fumbling around looking for their next fuck is annoying me more than usual. While I didn’t want to come out tonight, I also didn’t want my sister and the rest of the girls to be alone without anyone to keep an eye on them. Yes, my sister is an adult, but she’s also my responsibility. Even before my father was murdered, I’ve always kept a close watch on her. Call it the big brother effect, but throw in the fact thatshe’s involved in one of the biggest motorcycle clubs in the entire state, a.k.a. my club, that just puts an even bigger target on her head.
It’s exhausting at times. My brain often feels like someone’s taken an egg beater and scrambled it for so long you could crack open my skull like an egg. Brain matter and sludge would pool out, leaving me empty. My shoulders are heavy. Heavy with so much responsibility, I silently wish someone would just take me out, let my mind and body finally rest. Then again, how selfish of me to think that way. So many people need me—my sister, Saint, the boys, the girls, the club. This whole fucking town sits in the palm of my hand where I have to make sure everything I do is for the benefit of others.
I’ll do this job until the day I die, and no one will ever see the pressure that’s been building since my father died. No, I’m not a weak man. Weak men aren’t the president of the Kings’ Aces. Weak men don’t falter or whine about how much shit they have to deal with. They do their job, protect those that need protecting, and move the fuck on. I’m no different. My grandfather started this club, and while my father was taken too soon, he left his legacy to me. I will never disappoint him. I will never do anything to jeopardize this club, but some days I’m just… tired.
Like right now, I’m fucking exhausted. The dim lights of the club make it hard to notice the dark circles beneath my eyes. I bet I could close my eyes right now and pass the fuck out in this booth. Even with the music blaring at max volume, I think I’d sleep peacefully.
I take a long sip of my beer as I watch the dance floor where my sister moves to the beat with her friends without a care in the fucking world. I’m glad. Seeing my little sister happy is one of the reasons I carry on. She needs me at my best and deservesthe fucking world. She doesn’t need to see me drown in the chaos that is my head. I’m all she has. She’s all I have.
Finn, Brooks, and Owen are bickering beside the bar about who would win a quarter-mile race with their bike, while Saint lounges beside me doing what he does best—watching. He’s a guard dog when it comes to protecting our crew, especially the girls, and for that I’m grateful. If it weren’t for him, I for sure would have crumbled by now.
“Fuck man, I’m ready to call it a night whenever you are,” Saint groans, his tone indicating he’s as annoyed with this place as I am. I’ve been nursing my beer long enough and have no desire to be in a crowd tonight, so I nod in agreement.
“Right, let’s round up the girls. If they give you shit, just tell them they can all come back to the house, and I’ll order them food. That always works.”
He chuckles, standing up and making his way over to Sage and the girls. I down the rest of my beer, slamming the bottle down on the table and standing up to stretch my arms above my head. As I maneuver out of the booth, I’m suddenly nudged forward. Before I can grab the sorry fucker who bumped into me, a familiar voice apologizes.
“I’m so sorry, Sax, excuse me. This floor is a mad house.” I turn to see Van, the owner of the club. Raising my hand, I wave him off.