Page 78 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” My hands, hell, my whole body is shaking. In front, there are a few bikes parked neatly in a row, not many, but enough to invoke bad memories.There’s a door.My eyes are glued to it. In my head, it morphs into that fateful entrance into the Crazy Wolves’ clubhouse. My palms sweat, my stomach roils, and my whole body shrieksflightas adrenaline floods through it.

She regards me with a concerned look, and says reassuringly, “It will be fine. Anyway, you’re here now. Might as well come in and meet everybody.” Her eyes scan the parking lot outside the clubhouse. “Well, whoever’s here that is.” As if realising I need further cajoling, she adds, “If you don’t like it, you can leave. All I’m asking is that you give us a chance.”

Having noticed the small number of bikes myself, unless the Satan’s Devils MC has only a few members and from the names Patsy had told me, there’s certainly more, the rest are probably out doing the legit jobs Patsy had spoken about.Or running drugs, guns or women.But at least I won’t be faced with the whole club at once. That though, does nothing to slow my racing heart. Flashbacks, one after another, keep returning to me. My mind stuck in the past keeps me rooted to the seat of my car.

When Duke had at last invited me to the clubhouse, I’d been excited to see where he spent his time and to meet his friends. What a fool I’d been, so naïve. I’d never expected anything like I’d walked into. That doorway ahead is so reminiscent, I could be entering hell once again.

“Come on, Saffie. You’ll get a warm welcome, I promise you.”

A warm welcome was what I’d hoped for when I’d first walked into the Crazy Wolves’ clubhouse. I suppose that was what I’d got. They’d been like a pack of lions being brought fresh meat. I would never have gotten within a hundred miles of that clubhouse if I’d had an inkling of what to expect, but Duke had deliberately deceived me.

Patsy reaches out her hand, and I take it, allowing her to pull me from the car. I bounce on my tiptoes, my keys firmly grasped in my hand. The only thing stopping me from making a run for it is the vain hope that Patsy’s right. Here I could find support and people who’d help me move forward. People like her and Mary.

And Niran.Heaven help me, but I want to see him again.

Urging me forward, Patsy walks me through the parked bikes, then, once at the building, leans around me, and taking a firm grip on the handle and pressing it downward, she pushes the door open.

Unlike when I entered the lair of the Crazy Wolves, I don’t need to wait for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. The inside is bright, flooded with sunlight. Nothing is hidden from my eyes.

There’s a child.There were no kids in the Crazy Wolves’ clubhouse. Not that I doubt the members sired them or thought their fathers purposefully kept them away from the depravity. It was more that the men there wouldn’t have given a damn whether they had offspring or cared what became of them. My eyes widening, I watch as the little girl runs too quickly for her stubby legs to carry her, and crashes into a table. Her scream is heartwrenching.

Oh no. Kid, be quiet, I scream internally, covering my mouth with my hand as a big burly biker, with overalls shrugged down on his hips, rushes over to her, his face set and tight. Terrified on her behalf, I suck air into my lungs and hold it.

“You got a boo boo, kid?” The rough biker’s now holding her, and the expression I thought was anger, I now interpret as concern. After he’s run his hands over her, dispassionately akin to a medical way, not anything sexual or predatory, he pronounces, “I think you’ll live. That was a naughty table to hurt you, wasn’t it?” Leaning over, his fist hits the offending object, and he growls, “Bad table.”

A pretty, curvaceous, but short Black woman rushes over to her, and tries to take what I presume is her daughter from the biker. But he swings the kid up in his arms, holding her out of her reach.Give her back,I internally scream.

“Momma doesn’t understand, does she, kid?” the biker, says, looking like he’s fighting to keep his face straight. “That table has it in for all of us. I’ve bumped into it myself more than once after a few too many drinks.”

Though she looks too young to understand half of what he’s said, and hopefully nothing at all about the effect alcohol has, the little girl cups her hands around his face and plants a sloppy kiss right on his lips. Then she leans backward and kicks, in the way children do having absolute confidence that the adult won’t let them fall. Interpreting her desires, the biker carefully puts her on her feet, steadying her until she gets her balance.

“Bad table.” The toddler copies her saviour, doling out a punishment of her own on the innocent tabletop. Her screams have now abated, and when her actions cause chuckles to burst out around her, she giggles and joins in.

“Hey, little monster. You done causing damage?” Another biker leans down, making sure himself that she’s now upright and steady.

“Da-Da.” The child stamps her foot and tries to get out of the grasp of who I gather is her father.

Another, who’s already got an older boy climbing all over him, casually stretches out a hand, makes a beckoning gesture, and calls out, “Come over here, kid. Let your mom and dad have some peace for a bit.”

The interaction between the bikers and the children is a real eye-opener, and not a chilling one. I feel something loosen inside me. It had been around the same time of day when I’d entered the clubhouse of the Crazy Wolves, and the air had been rampant with sex and depravity. Here, it’s totally different.

Maybe it’s going to be alright.

A roar of bikes approaching the clubhouse reaches my ears, and my heart starts racing again.I knew there would be more to come.

“Come on,” Patsy encourages. “I’ll introduce you.”

“Ah…” My voice comes out as a squeak as I half turn, assessing my chances of escape.

But before I can move, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and looking back see a large and familiar man moving toward me.

He looks as good as he ever did, if not even better. He’s got an air of self-confidence on his home turf that was missing in my apartment. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt which hugs his impressive muscles, and his cut, that piece of leather which I so detest, settles on his shoulders as if it was always meant to be there.

I’ve not put on makeup and know my eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot. Though I’m beyond crying all the time, tears still come daily at times when I least expect them. I’ve lost weight, and my clothes hang off me.

As he nears me, I see his jaw tighten. Then his judgemental expression disappears to be replaced by a welcoming smile.

“It’s good to see you, Saffie,” Niran states. He waves to indicate another man over to join him and slings his arm over his shoulders. “This here is Grumbler. He’s Mary’s old man.”

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