The Night Horde SoCal: Shadow And Soul Part 2

He was sure he didn't deserve that. He knew he was loved-by Bibi and Hoosier, by his brothers, by his son. He held that knowledge, and the love he felt for all of them, close. But most people, even those who loved him, kept a shade of wariness in their eyes, too. That, he knew he deserved. He had trouble controlling himself when he got emotional. He'd only ever really hurt one person he cared about, physically at least: Tucker's mom. And by the time he'd hurt her, they hadn't cared about each other at all. But still, he'd almost killed her.

It didn't matter that she'd known she was pushing all his bright-red b.u.t.tons over and over; it didn't matter that she'd done it to f.u.c.k him up, that she'd hated him so much by then that she'd been willing to take the weight of his fists just so she could bring him down. He'd beaten her almost to death, and that was the biggest reason that he was sitting on the floor in Bibi and Hoosier's 'Jack and Jill' bathroom, basically babysitting his own son.

The people who loved him knew what he was capable of. So their love was tinged with caution.

Tucker was the only person in his life who'd ever looked at him with open trust.

No. Not true. One other. But not for a very long time. And he hadn't deserved that trust at all.

He would deserve his son's trust. Whatever he had to do, he would be strong and steady, calm and controlled with his boy. He would eat his gun before he'd hurt Tucker-or allow anyone else to, ever again.

And that was why he would hurt Tucker's mother again-and this time on purpose-if she ever crossed his path again. She'd disappeared right after DCFS took Tucker from her, and that was the one smart move that c.u.n.t had ever made.

After he washed Tucker, and himself, up, Demon let him play in the bath while he went back into the bedroom and changed the crib bedding. He gathered up the soiled pajamas and bedclothes and made a little bundle on the bathroom floor. He'd get them in the wash once Tucker was back in bed.

The lavender oil was supposed to be soothing, and Tucker was indeed calm and happy as Demon drained the tub and wrapped him up in a towel, but he was wide awake. It was the middle of the night, and Demon was opening at the bike shop in the morning. Since the club had gone outlaw again, he was doing long shifts at Virtuoso Cycles, picking up repair and maintenance jobs his brothers didn't have time for.

They were doing all they could to help him keep his nose clean. Though he'd loved the outlaw life, and he'd needed the release that kind of work had given him, he'd been frantic and furious when the club had voted to go back to it. That life had to be behind him. Now he had to focus on his kid. He had to stay out of the fray. He could not get arrested again, and he absolutely could not do time again.

They all understood, so now he was all but managing the bike shop. And making about half the bank his brothers were. But it was worth it, if it meant he could finally get custody and get DCFS out of their f.u.c.king lives.

Once he had Tucker in a clean diaper and pajamas, he carried him out to the kitchen. "You want some milk, Motor Man?" Warm milk seemed to make Tucker sleepy. At almost three in the morning, Demon wasn't averse to a little trickery.

Tucker nodded, and Demon got to work, taking down a small saucepan from the rack hanging over Bibi's island and pouring a little whole milk into it, all while Tucker rested on his hip. He'd come to understand why women always seemed to jut a hip out when they held a child. They were making a ledge. Demon's hips didn't work that way, so he kept his arm under his son's little bottom, and Tucker held on with his legs and arms.

When Demon turned the gas flame on under the saucepan, Tucker tensed, his blue eyes wide. "No, Tuck! Hot! Hot!" he said, his little voice emphatic. He shook a hand as if he'd just touched a hot thing and then blew hard on his fingers, his cheeks puffing out.

Demon smiled and caught those fingers in his hand and brought them to his lips for a kiss. "That's right. The stove is hot, huh? Only big people can touch it." A couple of weeks ago, Tucker had touched his fingertips to a pot on the stove. Bibi had been about a second too slow to stop him. He'd ended up with blisters on the tips of three fingers, and Demon had been terrified that Rex, or Miss Kathy, or somebody would use that as a reason to take him from Bibi and Hoosier. Rex had asked about it, but n.o.body had made it into a deal. Kids got hurt sometimes.

And Demon felt better that even a fantastic mom like Bibi could screw up once in awhile.

As he poured warmed milk into one of Tucker's sippy cups, he noticed a tented piece of paper on the counter-from the magnetic pad Bibi kept on the side of the fridge for her grocery list. On it, she'd written, Had to go out. Might be away until breakfast. If so, will call. No worries, though. Love you, B.

Demon set the paper back down and finished preparing Tucker's milk. That was a little weird, Bibi going out in the middle of the night, but not entirely unheard of. She was involved in every little thing everywhere. She was probably helping somebody out. He chuckled. Maybe she was delivering a baby or something. With Bibi, it could be just about anything.

That thought, though, made him pause as he was handing the cup to Tucker. How pregnant was Riley? Like seven months or something, he thought. Not so far gone that Bart had stayed back from the run most of the club was on right now. d.a.m.n, Demon hoped it wasn't that.

Tucker grunted in frustration, his hand extended. "Mook!"

"Sorry, bud. Here ya go. Let's watch some TV. You want Cars?"

He shook his head. "Mins!"

Despicable Me it was. He carried his son into the family room and settled onto Bibi and Hoosier's ultra-comfortable sectional sofa. They had a big television installed over the fireplace and an elaborate home theater system that filled a built-in bookcase at one side. He got the movie going and settled back, with his son reclining against his chest, sucking lazily at his cup of warm milk. Demon pulled a throw off the back of the sectional and covered them both with it. He turned off the lamp on the table behind them.

They were alone in the house. The erratic glow of the television was the only light in the room. His son lay quietly on his lap, one hand holding his cup to his mouth, the other plucking absently at the leg of Demon's sweatpants. He smelled of lavender and baby shampoo. They both did.

Moments like this were the only times Demon ever knew genuine peace.

Tucker was sound asleep, his half-finished milk forgotten, less than half an hour into the movie, but Demon was in no hurry to put him back to bed. He liked this movie; it was funny and pretty cute. Way better than some of the other movies Tucker liked-and some of the TV shows made him want to tear his eyeb.a.l.l.s out.

But it was more than just enjoying a movie he'd seen about a hundred million times. He was warm and happy, snugged up with his son. Sure, he'd be wiped out for work, but he could just close his eyes right where he was and get a couple more hours of sleep.

He was drowsing off when he heard the grind and squeak of the automatic garage door going up. Bibi was home. The door into the garage was in the family room, so Demon stayed put, knowing he'd be one of the first things Bibi saw when she came in.

It took longer than he expected for the door to open-long enough that he was working out the logistics of laying Tucker down on the sofa without waking him so he could go out and make sure she didn't need help. But then the door opened, and Bibi came through.

She flipped the switch near the door, and the can lights over the fireplace came on, brightening up the room a little. Then she saw him and stopped in the doorway, her hand still on the k.n.o.b, and just stared at him.

He lifted his hand in a little wave and smiled. His voice low, he said, "Shh. Tucker had a rough spell. He's okay now, though."

Still, Bibi just stood where she was, saying nothing-and that was not like her at all. She even pulled the door back toward her, almost as if she were thinking about reversing course.

"You need help with something, Mama?" he asked, keeping his voice low and steady.

Bibi sighed and then squared her shoulders, like she was about to face a firing squad or something. "No, baby. I brought a friend home, Deme."

"Okay..." He was curious, but more about Bibi acting strangely than anything else. The thought flickered briefly that maybe Beeb was bringing home a boy toy while Hoosier was off on the run, but he shooed that nutso notion away.

She opened the door all the way and then stepped into the room.

A woman stepped in behind her, looking even more reluctant than Bibi had been. He thought it was a woman, though maybe just a girl. She was pet.i.te, not more than five-two or five-three, wearing baggy sweatpants and a baggier hoodie, and those f.u.c.king ugly Eskimo boots lots of chicks used to wear. She had dark hair, caught up in some kind of disheveled knot on the back of her head.

He hadn't seen her face, because she was staring at those b.u.t.t-ugly boots.

And then she looked up. It took maybe three-quarters of one second for Demon to really see her, those f.u.c.king gorgeous eyes that had, long ago, looked up at him with perfect trust. By the time that first second was complete, his world had collapsed around him.

"Hi, Michael," she said. That beautiful, sweet voice cracked over his name. Oh, f.u.c.k. Oh, f.u.c.k. Oh, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k.

Forgetting that his son was sleeping on his lap, Demon jumped up, remembering just in time to catch Tucker before he dropped him right on the floor. f.u.c.k!

Tucker woke and began to cry. "No, Pa!" he wailed as Demon tried to turn him and settle him on his shoulder. "No!"

Bibi finally moved again and came to them. "I'll take him, honey. I'll rock him back to sleep. Okay?"

Tucker turned at Bibi's touch and held his arms out to her. Still staring at Faith-f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, Faith was standing right there-Demon let his son go, and Bibi carried him, still crying, out of the room and down the hall.

And then Demon was alone in a room with Faith Fordham.

Sweet Jesus f.u.c.k. He didn't know what to do.

Maybe she didn't, either. She hadn't moved. The garage door was even still open.

"Your son is beautiful."

She spoke hesitantly, shyly, and her voice broke again. f.u.c.k, that hurt his heart so bad. Ten years had pa.s.sed, but that span of time meant nothing. Nothing. He felt just as raw and broken as he'd been that night they'd ripped the Los Angeles patch off his kutte and taken his home away. The only home he'd ever had.

How could that be? How could a decade just disappear? How could all that time not make things softer, easier to bear?

She closed the door and took a step toward him-and he took one backward. If she came close, if she touched him, if he touched her, time would truly reverse. He could feel it. They'd end up back where they were the last time he'd laid eyes on her-him strung up in the shop and her screaming at her father to stop, to please stop, just stop.

Faith's mother holding her shoulders and making her see. Demon trying not to lose sight of her, knowing it was the end of them.

The whole club watching it all go down.

"Michael." She took another step. He backed up again-and his calves. .h.i.t the other side of the sectional. He was f.u.c.king trapped. Unless he turned tail and ran, he was trapped.

And she kept coming, closing the distance between them. Ten feet, ten years.

That was how it had always been between them-him trying to back away, knowing they were wrong, and her not letting him, knowing that he wanted what she did, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist.

But she'd been just a kid. He'd been a man. It didn't matter whether they were five years apart in age or fifty. She'd been a kid, the daughter of one of his brothers. It had been on him to do the right thing, and he hadn't.

She stood right in front of him now, her expression tortured and afraid, mirroring what he felt in his own heart. Then she put her hands on his chest, and he realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. He felt completely naked, exposed and bare. Her touch felt as intense as if she had lifted his very nerves in her hands, and his c.o.c.k filled out immediately, so hard it ached. He knew it was obvious, tenting his sweatpants absurdly, but her eyes had not left his, and they still weren't touching anywhere but her hands on his chest.

"Michael."

He couldn't remember if she'd said anything more than that one word since she'd walked in-which was one more word than he'd said. There were no words he could say.

He'd been given the name Demon while he was still a Prospect, before he and Faith had crossed the point of no return, but she'd never called him anything but Michael. Since he'd last seen her, the only people who really ever called him Michael were legal types-lawyers and caseworkers and cops. He'd grown to cringe when he heard it, because it always meant some bureaucrat had his fist deep up Demon's a.s.s.

When she said it, though-that was home. Oh, f.u.c.k.

Her hands moved, sliding softly down and around his waist, leaving his nerves thrumming in a path behind her touch.

He needed to get away. His heart was pounding so hard his vision vibrated, and the thoughts in his head were shrieking and clamoring in an indecipherable mob. He'd been right-at her touch, everything was back. Ten years were just gone. He felt exactly as he had then-confused and sorry, in pain and in love.

Losing f.u.c.king everything.

Wrong. All of it was so f.u.c.king wrong. He needed to get clear.

Instead, he grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her.

She opened to him immediately, molding her body to his, clutching him close so that his erection was pressed tightly to her belly. She whimpered, and the sound surrounded his heart and squeezed. He groaned and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the floor-she was so light, so little, and she felt exactly as he remembered, exactly right. His tongue explored her mouth, finding it perfectly familiar. G.o.d. G.o.d.

He tasted salt on their tongues.

She was crying.

So was he.

He set her back on the floor and pushed her away, and then he did what he should have done before. He turned tail and ran.

Without looking back, he went down the hall to Tucker's room. Bibi was just walking out.

She gave him a sharp look and then lifted her hand to his face and wiped his wet check. "Oh, baby," she whispered. "Oh, darlin'."

Words had not yet returned to him, so he simply looked down at her.

"He's sleepin', baby. You should get some sleep, too." She slid her hand around to the back of his neck and pulled his head down. He didn't fight her. She kissed his cheek. "I love you, Deme. Whatever happens, it'll be okay. We'll stick it out together."

He stood straight up. That wasn't how it had worked out last time. But still he said nothing.

With a rea.s.suring pat on his bare arm, Bibi headed back toward the family room. Demon went into his son's room and closed the door. Then he locked it. He locked the door to the bathroom, too.

For a long time, he stood at the side of the crib, watching his son peacefully sleeping. He tried to make himself remember that peace he'd been feeling, watching an animated movie, snug under a blanket with his little boy. But all his mind wanted to remember was Faith. He shouldn't have kissed her. That kiss felt like another point of no return. Why the f.u.c.k couldn't he control himself better? Why the f.u.c.k was it always wrong urges that got the reins in their teeth? Why the f.u.c.k did he feel everything-everything-so f.u.c.king hard?

After a while, feeling finally the sleepiness that matched his utter, desolate exhaustion, he sat on the floor and grabbed Tucker's big stuffed dog. Using that as a pillow, he curled up at the side of the crib and tried to sleep, lost in the memory of the first time his lips had touched hers.

memory Michael walked out into the hot sunshine of an L.A. spring afternoon. No, he was Demon now. He needed to learn to think of himself that way, though he wasn't sure how he felt about it as a name. He guessed it sounded pretty bada.s.s, though it really came from being made fun of. n.o.body but club needed to know that part, though.

Could be worse-the other Prospect, who'd only been wearing a kutte for a few weeks, was already being called 'c.r.a.pper,' because he'd gotten trapped in a port-a-potty. That would be way worse.

Demon was pretty sure that guy was going to wash out, though. He was a lot older, in his thirties, probably, and he b.i.t.c.hed a lot about the work Prospects had to do. Demon knew to just shut up and do it, whatever it was.

He'd dug a big grave in the woods a couple of nights ago and dumped three reeking, half-decomposed bodies into it. No idea who they'd been or why they'd gotten dead. He hadn't asked. Hoosier had said dig, so he'd dug.

He'd been prospecting for just over three months, and it had been the three best months of his f.u.c.king sad excuse for a life. For the first time in his whole life, he had a home-a place where he could really sleep at night, without being on guard for bad s.h.i.t of one kind or another to go down on him. A place where, when he got up in the morning, people smiled and said 'hey' and fed him breakfast. Sure, he also had to bury bodies or unclog vile toilets or whatever job the patches could think up for him, but he could see that they liked him, too. He felt their affection for him. They let him in on the jokes.

And when he'd gone mental on that a.s.shole at the party a couple of weeks ago, they'd fixed it up for him and started calling him Demon, laughing at the way his face had gone fire-engine red.

So yeah, Demon was an okay name.

But right now, he was f.u.c.ked. Hoosier was in a terror of a mood about something, and Demon knew he was looking for a reason to f.u.c.k somebody up. Now he was standing in the middle of the lot with a shopping list of parts for Hoosier's pet restoration project. Big parts. Not just nuts and bolts. But the club van and the flatbed were both gone. Demon had only his little bobber. He had no idea how the f.u.c.k he was supposed to manage to bring these parts back from the salvage yard. Or why Hoosier was even trusting him with a job like this. It felt like it was preloaded for a f.u.c.kup.

Maybe he could rent a U-Haul? No way. He was tapped out. Plus, he didn't think they would rent to a twenty-one-year-old, even if he'd had the scratch.

So he just stood there, the cheerful sun beating down on his head. The gorgeous day was mocking him.

"You get stuck on a wad of gum or something?"

He knew the voice coming up behind him, and he got a hit of adrenaline. Faith-Blue's daughter. He thought about her way too f.u.c.king much, and no matter how hard he tried to avoid her, he kept finding himself crossing paths with her. She was sweet and sarcastic, and so pretty-long, dark hair; big, beautiful eyes in a color that seemed different every time he saw them. She was small and slim, with pretty little t.i.ts...f.u.c.k. f.u.c.king stop it!

She was a patch's daughter. She was the f.u.c.king SAA's daughter. She was sixteen years old. He was trapped between needing to stay the f.u.c.k away and needing to be nice to her. And wanting her a crazy amount of want.

He'd never really wanted anybody before. s.e.x was not a thing he'd thought much about until recently. In fact, it was a thing he'd tried not to think about. Usually when he thought about it, he didn't think happy thoughts.

He'd gone into the system when he was two years old, and he'd never had a private-home placement for more than a few weeks. By the time he was seven, he had such a long list of letters attached to his file no family would come near him.

ODD-Oppositional Defiant Disorder. ADHD-Attention Deficit-Hyperactivity Disorder. OCD-Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. BPD-Borderline Personality Disorder. Bi-polar Disorder. Chronic Depression. He'd been diagnosed at some point with all of those things. He had no idea if he actually had them all-or if he even had any of them.

But n.o.body wanted a kid like that.

He hadn't known that at the time, of course. He'd found all that out when he'd aged out and seen his file. At the time, he'd just been a kid n.o.body wanted. So he'd grown up in group homes. And juvie-a few years there, too.