Page 231 of The Tempted

Chapter Fifteen

I gave you one of my scars.

Her words a soft whisper taunting my thoughts like a demon beckoning my conscience. The moment Anthony implied there was a possibility that Reina was playing me, I became a prisoner trapped in my warped mind.

I long ago decided there was no God, not for me. There was no mystical maker of Heaven and Earth. There was justmymaker, the one that held all the control. My maker is my mind and it fights the rest of me for control. Perhaps your brain is supposed to control the rest of your body, it signals everything else inside of you but when your brain is working against you, sending all the wrong signals, fucking with your existence, it becomes your enemy.

I know that my head is my worst enemy. No drug lord, or rival club, not even a cock-sucking mobster like Jimmy Gold, could compare. It’s my mind that tortures me, it’s my mind that reaps victory over me, it’s my mind I will never conquer. I can go to war with the toughest motherfuckers and bring them to their knees, I can take their lives but I’ll always be the loser because the demons inside my head will always have the last word. It’s those same demons that rob whatever goodness wanders into my life.

I’m living my life stuck on pause. My meds are the pause button. They keep me running, allow me to still be a player, but I’m stuck. I’ll always be stuck. And when I start to think I can be more than idle, that I can live again, my maker hits rewind, dragging me down the black hole where I question everything. Looking for the bad, forgetting all about the goodness that others get. It pulls me back to the day I punched holes in the walls searching for bugs. My mind crucifies me to the day I lost my son, when my mind became my maker.

My maker summoned me last night, brought me to his purgatory and locked me up with the demons that danced around shouting doubts and accusations at me. Infiltrating thoughts of Reina, my sunshine, being nothing but a fucking hail storm.

I stared at the table that centered the sanctuary where the Satan’s Knights congregated over church, my fingers closing tightly around the baseball bat I held in my hands. My knuckles turning white from my grip on the bat.

I was devastated when I found him, I lay down and wrapped my arms around him, never wanting to let go. I held on until I felt the heat.

I lifted the bat over my head and brought it down against the freshly restored table, the wood splintering against my calloused hands. I closed my eyes, pictured the memory she painted for me and for a second I was transported into her world—a tiny part of her world that she held on tightly to. She had found enough trust in a poor slob like me to share it. She gave me her truth and all I’ve given her is my dick and a shitload of lies.

Purgatory.

Maybe Hell.

Satan was beckoning, dragging me down.

Let me go, I pleaded with my maker.

Release me.

I swung the bat again. Danny’s face clouding my vision, Reina’s voice in one ear, Bianci’s in the other.

I could hear the sirens from a distance and the firemen calling out for survivors. I hadn’t had a chance to process that Danny was essentially a stranger to me, he was still the man I loved and he was gone. I couldn’t leave him.

Her voice smooth as silk as her words whispered against my ear, reminding me that Reina was a woman who laid down her life for the man she loved.

You need to find out if she’s involved in this shit before we go any further.

Anthony’s voice retaliated against Reina’s.

In the distance I heard a familiar voice scream out, and it took a moment for me to acknowledge I was the one screaming. My screams echoed against the walls and I struggled to follow the muffled sound.

Let me repent, I pleaded to my maker.

I slammed the bat against the table over and over again, my voice becoming more pronounced through the fog. Reina’s voice faded away, Anthony’s did too, and I was left with my own cries, clear as the light of day, begging for mercy.

“Release me and let me repent,” I cried, as I dropped the bat and fell into the chair at the head of the table. I covered my face with my hands and rocked forward, gasping for air.

“Jack…” Blackie cautioned, startling me. I lifted my head from my hands and stared at him with remorse. “Brother, what’re you doing?” he threaded carefully, bending down to pick up the bat and place it on the table.

“Wishing for sunshine,” I answered simply.

I lifted my gaze to the table, leaned forward and ran my hands along the freshly splintered wood—a result of my own hand. I stared at the gash I put into the table I fought so hard to hold on to. Damaged it was just like the man that sat at the head of it. We were both ruined.

“I’ll get one of the guys to sand it down,” he offered.

Of course, he would, it’s what he did, time after time. I had no doubt he’d have this mess cleaned up, making it like it never happened and I’d go back to living life on pause, waiting for the darkness to come. It’ll come. It always does.

I gripped the edge of the table, using it for leverage as I stood on my wobbly legs, holding on until I could control my balance. I turned toward Blackie and spotted Bianci standing in the doorway, concern and shock painting his features.

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