Page 5 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

When the door opens again, the air grows heavy around me, and I don’t need to open my eyes to see who’s there.

“Fuckin’ cunt,” he hisses. “Have you any fuckin’ idea how much trouble you caused me? Jeez, why you insisted on coming here, I don’t know.” As he kicks a chair, I don’t explain I had no choice in the matter. He’ll blame me in any event. “Cops want to talk to you. I told them you were attacked by a person unknown. That’s all you fuckin’ tell them, you got me?”

“I got you, Duke.” I know how this goes.

“Hmm. Well, once you’ve seen them, I’ll break you out of here and take you home.”

“I might need to stay in. I’m… I’m hurt pretty badly.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care how bad you’re hurt. Your place is with me.” He moves forward and leans over the bed, letting me feel his warm whisky-tinged breath on my cheeks. “You do whatever you have to do, Sapphire. Tell them you want to discharge yourself. Hell, refuse treatment. I don’t care how you do it, but you’re coming home. I want you back tomorrow, you feel me? You can lie around in this bed feeling sorry for yourself for twenty-four hours. Then I’m bringing you home.”

Chapter Three

Niran

Present day

Arriving back at the clubhouse just in time to catch the end of Grumbler’s band’s set, I stand a few steps inside the doorway and grin. As they finish on a crescendo that has hands clapping and boots stomping, I shake my head.Who would have known the old man would have it in him?But hell, his vocals are good, and as for the way he plays that guitar? He’s as good as any rock star I’ve seen. The whole band is excellent. If they went professional, they could probably make a killing.

But they won’t. Content to say their time has passed, they’re happy just playing a couple of times a month at the clubhouse, belting out favourites we all enjoy.

As usual, Grumbler jumps off the makeshift stage and stops first to kiss the fuck out of his old lady, Mary, who grins and returns his affection wholeheartedly. When he finishes, the PDA that has had Alicia, his adopted daughter pretending to wretch, he pauses only to run his hand over Mary’s extended belly, the one carrying their surprise child, before heading my way. I grin at him, musing, Grumbler’s the epitome of the old saying,there’s life in the old dog yet.

Stepping forward with a hand extended, I meet him halfway. “Sounded good tonight, Brother.”

His thumb locks with mine. Pulling me in, he slaps my back, and a little hoarsely, turns to the bar and demands a beer from Connor. Then glancing at me again, he asks, “Were you in time to catch much?”

Grimacing in regret, again I shake my head. “Just the end. That job was a fuckin’ bitch.” I’d stayed late at the auto-shop to ensure a rush job was completed for the customer to pick up in the morning.

He grins. “Guess you didn’t notice our fuckup, then.”

I suppress the desire to roll my eyes. I doubt any fuckup was worthy of note, and probably only noticeable to the musicians themselves.

A movement to the side catches my eye. “Fagan, my man.” Stretching my hand out to the drummer, he takes it in his. “On form as always.”

At Grumbler’s beckoning, the other two members of the band wander up, as anxious as he to wet their throats. It’s no hardship for me to greet Jon Boy and Kurt as well. The three are only too welcome at the club, where no one actually cares if they fuck up anything. Their music enlivens the clubhouse, and the only payment they’ll take is beer and snacks.

I wait on the sidelines while Grumbler dissects the set with his bandmates, tuning out completely when they start to discuss C minor sevenths and shit like that. I might appreciate music but haven’t the first clue how to play it. As for singing? Let’s just say, people would pay not to hear my voice.

Instead of listening to the conversation that’s going way over my head, I examine the changes in Grumbler. Less than a year back, he was staring sixty in the face, his only companion and interest his motorcycle. Now, while he’s added a year to his age, you’d easily take him for someone years younger. He’s been given a whole a new lease on life and looks the better for it. It seems like in a flash, he’d resurrected his music hobby he thought abandoned, gained a wife, a stepdaughter, and currently has a kid on the way. Shows even old farts like him shouldn’t give up on life.

I’ve got him beat in years, of course. I’m thirty-seven to his fifty-eight, but otherwise there are many similarities between us. A few years back, I thought I was made for life, a solid Marine rising through the ranks until a stateside accident took my leg. Lost, feeling washed up and abandoned, with no future to look forward to, I was adrift until I’d stumbled on the club’s beach ride out. Finding the Satan’s Devils had saved my life. Where would I be without them? I can’t even imagine. I wasn’t cut out for civilian life.

Not that joining the Devils was easy. Prospecting was hard, but my background as a Marine meant I could take all of their shit. It hadn’t been the first time I’d gone through hazing. It had been worth every moment and I’d never looked back. Now I’ve been a patched member for getting on two years, and I fucking love it. Society might have turned its back on a vet having no further use for him, but the Devils made up for all that.

“See you in the week, bros.” Grumbler’s finishing up with the band. “Practice on Wednesday? Yeah, hell. I’m up for that.”

“See you, Niran.” Fagan mock-salutes as he walks past.

“Bye, man.” I exchange a chin lift with Jon Boy, a man totally misnamed as he’s in the same age bracket as Grumbler.

“Keep it shiny side up.” Kurt gives a sharp nod as he follows the others.

Outside, their van will be waiting, already packed with all their shit. Well, what are prospects for if not to do the grunt work? I think having resident roadies is one of the reasons they enjoy playing here.

“So, Grumbler,” I begin once I have his undivided attention. “How’s it all hanging? How’s Mary doing?”

Before he answers, Grumbler casts a look over his shoulder as though to check for himself. “She’s in good shape. But,” he taps his forehead, “I’m scared she worries too much. She says she’s being realistic, while I’d prefer her to just relax.”

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