Page 1 of Biker's Enemy

One

QUIN NASH

My best friend has no idea how bad things have been since she left Kansas. I’m a different person than the one Juliette left behind. I weighed myself the day she left, and now I’m so much heavier than that – 200 lbs – pretty heavy for a woman my height. It doesn’t feel like I gained an extra fifty in the time she left, but I have objective proof that I did.

It’s not like I can help it. Well, I could. But it’s the only pleasure available to me in captivity. So I eat. I gain weight. And I text my best friend who is off on her wild adventure like everything is just fine…

Because it has to be. Because that’s what I have to pretend for me to survive under these conditions. I tried escaping. But you don’t understand what it’s like to live with not one but two people who feed off each others’ darkness, watch them feed off of each other to destroy another person, and then leave that person behind to destroy you. My life started off crazy with the fact that two white Christians adopted me and then later, my older brother. But they had me first, technically.

My adoptive parents, Marie and Klaus Nash met on a mission trip to New Orleans after the big hurricane in 2004. They were older – much older – and when they died last year, they left me in the custody of my older brother. They adopted Eugene after they adopted me, but he’s still three years older and he’s always been… strange.

You would have to understand my parents to understand why they chose him of all people. I can hear him from my bedroom as I lie in bed, one hand lazily moving blue Takis from the bag to my mouth. I don’t dare let him know I’m awake yet. I can hear Eugene’s heavy grunting as he does his “workout” downstairs.

For the first three months after he came home when they passed, I thought he was serious about going back into the Army until I found the dishonorable discharge documents that mean he’s out on his ass with no healthcare or benefits, just the money our racist, German parents left us in their will.

Shit. Silence follows the heavy grunting as Eugene shuts the television off. I don’t know how he knows I’m awake. Maybe he just senses it, maybe it’s because he just knows me too well.

“QUIN! GET DOWN HERE!”

I’m nineteen, right? I shouldn’t have to listen to him. I don’t have to listen to anyone. I know I locked my bedroom door, so against my better judgment, I defy Eugene’s command and throw my blankets over my head. I would much rather scroll on Instagram than have another fight.

I should just leave. Except Eugene has a shotgun leaned up against the outside of my door and a rifle in his bedroom. Guns cover every last inch of this house and he has made good on his threats to use them. There are still two holes in the front door from where he “warned me” with a .22.

“QUIN GET YOUR FAT ASS UP,” he yells. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope he gets bored instead of coming upstairs. I have been Eugene’s punching bag since I was ten years old and he was thirteen. I never asked for a brother and I definitely never asked for one like him.

When I hear his footsteps coming up the stairs, I can’t help but hop out of bed and rush to the door. I’ve gained so much weight the past few months that it takes everything in me to get to the door.

He won’t let me leave the house. He hasn’t let me since they died.

When I call the cops, who do you think they believe?

He mutters angrily to himself as he walks upstairs. I think he’s hearing voices. I think something happened in the Army that started them, but I don’t know what it is. I’m not a damn psychologist. All I know is that I’m stuck with this man until I convince him to set me free or find another way out.

My palms sweat as he approaches the door and the bubbles in my stomach flutter around until they clog my throat. He knocks on the door.

“I can see your feet under the door.”

“I’m unwinding, Eugene.”

“From what?”

I can see his feet under the door too and judging by the gentle rattling, he’s trying the handle and he doesn’t want me to know.

“Just leave me alone.”

“I want to see you, Quin.”

No.

“We hung out yesterday, Eugene. I’m tired. Maybe if I could get some sunlight–”

He interrupts my request by slamming his hand against the door. Hard.

“Goddamn it, you bitch!”

I can’t help myself. I flinch and back away from the door. He scares me, but he has limits. Somewhere beneath the demon that took over my adoptive brother’s mind, I imagine there are limits. There have to be.

“Relax, Eugene,” I respond. “I’m just saying–”

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