Page 15 of Patching Over

“Got some club business to take care of, Rayleigh. Get some rest and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you for the pizza,” I drowsily murmur, sleep already trying to claim me.

“Anything for you, Sprite.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Brick

Sighing, I glance down at the papers in front of me. Hawg printed everything he could find on Rayleigh’s parents, then the brothers managed to stake out their residence to get current pictures of them. I didn’t bother waking Rayleigh up to look at them because Hawg managed to get into the DMV database and print off copies of their driver’s licenses confirming we had the right fuckers.

Deadfuckers. Well, they will be as soon as Phoenix, Voodoo, Shadow, Grim, and Rael return. Until then, we’ll work on a plan to take out all three individuals. Right now, I’m happy my grandfather turned what was supposed to be a wine cellar into our interrogation room. Some might say it’s a torture room, but we get a lot of information from the assholes who end up there, so perhaps it’s a bit of both.

I’ve still got a few hours before church and know with everything coming up, there’s no way I’ll sleep. With another deep sigh, I pull the first sheet off my inbox then set about getting some work done. Two hours later, when my alarm goesoff, I shut down my laptop, quickly file the stuff I worked on, straighten the rest of my desk, then head out of my office with one goal in mind.

Fix breakfast for Rayleigh.

After pouring myself a much-needed cup of coffee, I quickly scramble some eggs then make some toast. A large glass of orange juice completes her meal, which I carefully carry to my room. Walking in, I see the bed is empty but notice the bathroom door is closed. Setting the tray on my dresser, I make my way to the couch then sit down before finding the local news.

With everything we do, it’s important to keep up with what’s happening around town. While thebusinessesare legit, we have some dealings that are definitely outside of the law. I don’t want to miss something critical happening like a rash of drug overdoses, or kids missing, then find the club on the law’s radar. Better to know and be prepared with alibis.

The bathroom door opens and she walks out, looking more rested than yesterday. “Hey.” Her voice is soft, almost shy sounding, as she moves toward me. Seeing the tray, she asks, “Is this for me?”

“Wanted to make sure you ate before I headed into Church. Also, while you’re eating, I’m going to shop for you.”

“How can you do that?” she questions, bringing the tray over to the coffee table. “Do you want some of this?”

“I’m good, sweetheart. As to how I’ll do that, I’m going to order online and have it shipped here.”

Her brows raise as she slowly sips her juice. “I won’t claim to understand. Guess it’s something else I need to learn about. Oh, I do have a question. When do I start working?”

“As soon as we deal with Enoch. I’m not as worried about your parents even though we’ll be handling them as well because they don’t live as close as he does. Can you tell me what it was like for you growing up?”

I suspect I’m going to hate whatever she chooses to disclose, but need to know so we can plan the appropriate punishment. I need to remember, however, she’s still somewhat fragile. I don’t think the abuse she’s endured has totally broken her, but I don't want to trigger something traumatic with my questions.

She sighs, puts her juice down, then curls into the corner of the couch until she’s hugging her knees to her chest in a protective gesture, one I instinctively know she’s used often. I feel like a complete jackass making her relive any painful memories, but the more I know, the more I can make them hurt. Well, me and my brothers, that is. Because they’re going to feel every fucking ounce of fear and pain she has. Them, and that motherfucker, Enoch, who thought he could take her to the brink of death without suffering any repercussions.

“I don’t remember a lot from when I was a little girl which could be a good thing since what I do remember is the stuff made of nightmares. Are you sure you want to hear this, Brick?” The look she gives me is pleading; her cheeks are flushed as though she’s ashamed, only she’s got no reason to feel that way. Their abusive behavior is not her burden to carry.

“Rayleigh, there’s no reason to be embarrassed. You aren’t responsible for the actions of others, you’re only culpable for whatyoudo and say. I promise, unless it impacts or affects the club in some way, I won’t share what you tell me.”

Nodding, she deflates and starts talking. “The first time I realized my parents disliked me, I think I was about four or five. They were still asleep when I woke up, and I was hungry, so I tried to fix myself something to eat. Only, I spilled the milk because it was too heavy for me to lift, then knocked the bowl over which made the cereal fly everywhere. I was picking it up when my mother came into the kitchen, saw the mess, and went into a rage. She picked me up, shook me while she screamed in my face, then she tossed me through the air. I hit my head onthe counter and split it open, which made her yell even more because blood was now spurting everywhere. When my father came in to see what all the fussing was about, he told her they had to get me seen at the hospital because the cut was too deep to heal on its own. She was so angry at me, but got dressed and took me to get stitches. All the way there, she told me I was to say I was climbing up on a chair and it was unbalanced, it then tipped over, and I fell off if anyone asked me how it happened.”

“That wasn’t your only visit to the hospital, I’m assuming,” I rumble out. She shakes her head as a lone tear slowly rolls down her face.

“No, I’m pretty sure the hospital has quite a thick file on me by now. Both legs have been broken, twice. My arms were broken so severely I had to have emergency surgery to fix them. They’ve dislocated both of my shoulders, hit me so forcefully that I ended up passing out, cut me with knives, and beat me endlessly, even for infractions that weren’t mine. When they’d go out, they’d lock me in the hall closet, not even giving me enough courtesy to turn on the lights; now, I hate the dark, then they had the gall to get mad when I’d soil myself. Once they started drinking and became addicted to hardcore drugs, they didn’t always remember to feed me, so there were many times I went days without eating.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ! Andno onenoticed anything wrong? How in the hell is that even possible?” I realize as a biker I tend to handle those who cross me or my club harshly, but she was just a little girl;whydidn’t anyone stand up for her?

Instead of shrinking further back into the couch from my irate outburst, I see a small smile cross her face, which makes me ask, “Why aren’t you upset?”

“I am, but you have no idea how long I wished someone would stand up for me. Even though it’s just you getting angryover something that happened in the past, it means something to me is all. Do you want to know more?”

As much as I wish I could say no, I merely nod instead, steeling myself for whatever she’s about to tell me.

Her face reddens again, and she shifts her eyes so she’s not looking directly at me. “I’m kind of hesitant to tell you this next part,” she confesses, her tone nearly a whisper. Her voice is so low right now I can barely hear her. Taking a deep breath, I watch her straighten her shoulders before she forces herself to look at me. “I’m sure you know that at a certain age, all girls get their periods. My mother never told me it would happen or even how to be prepared for it. I woke up one morning, covered in blood from the waist down and in a lot of pain from the cramping. Crying, I went to find her to tell her I thought I was dying, and she laughed at me. Then, when she realized I was a complete mess, she stormed into my bedroom to see my bedding pretty much destroyed. She started punching me in my stomach, which already hurt, calling me horrible names as she vented her anger on me. Once she was finished, she stripped the bed and wrapped the bloody sheets around me then told me to clean up my mess.”

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