Page 15 of Inflame Me
“Yep, but we only call him Pops around here.” Princess turns to Pops and winks.
“Seems like you got yourself in a mess here, Tanner.” She sits quietly at Pops’ words. “It seems to come with a lot of the women who enter the Ravage family these days.” The last part, he practically growls. “Get Tanner a paper and pen. I need you to write down the address to the man you killed and the address of your apartment.”
“Why my apartment?” she asks, taking the paper from Princess who got it off the nightstand.
“It’s where you cleaned up. Blood.”
I really hope we don’t have to torch the apartment building. That would be way too conspicuous with the flames the mother’s house, too.
“I …” she starts then shakes her head and writes on the paper, handing it back to Princess when she is done, who gives it to Pops.
“All right. You stay here with your mom, and we’ll be back.” Pops turns. “Tell your ol’ ladies bye; we’ve got shit to do.” He then walks out of the room.
I don’t have nor want an ol’ lady. Fuck that shit. I don’t want some woman barking at me this way or that. No fucking way. Regardless, something compels me to turn and look at Tanner. As I do, her face flushes as she sucks in a slight breath. At least I know I affect her. I’ll fuck her, daughter or not. I need to let her heal first, though.
I lift my chin to her and leave the room.
GUNNING THE THROTTLE, I fly with my brothers up the interstate, feeling the coolness of the night around me. It’s still pretty dark, but the sun will be rising soon.
I never feel as free as I do when I’m riding. I’ve been riding legally since I was eighteen and, illegally, a lot earlier. I started fixing up my first Harley when I was sixteen. I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing and no money. I was just a trumped-up street kid who found a scrap of a bike and wanted to fix it up.
I had nothing, but I wanted for nothing at the same time. I stole food from local grocery stores or at restaurants. For shelter, I would find an abandoned house or take cover under the viaduct by the interstate. If I got sick, I went to the free clinic. I made do.
What I didn’t have were parents. I never had a father, don’t know who in the fuck he was. My mother, if you can call her that, was into so many drugs she couldn’t stand half the time. Her favorite pass time was smacking me upside the head and telling me what a disappointment I was to her. Got a couple of scars to prove that because she got inventive at times and found things around our shack of a house to use instead of her hand. I was better out there. Sure, it was no roses and sunshine bullshit. It was hard, lethal, and the best fucking education a guy like me could have.
At fourteen, I knew shit about the streets. I was a puny, wimpy-ass kid named Denny Lorant who knew it would be better out there on my own than with a mother who bounced us around from place to place because she had nothing. I tried cleaning her ass up even with the shit she gave me, I did. Nothing worked with her, so I got out.
I fought a lot, got beat down a lot. I had a shit load of bones broken in my body, but with each one, I learned. I sucked in every bit of information I could and grew, not just in size, but in brains. Then, as I got older, I became the one who gave the beat downs. I was the one others feared, and I fucking loved it. It’s how I got the name Rhys, because I rise above all. Some chick I knew back then came up with the spelling, and it just stuck.
When I started fixing up my first Harley, I was a flat-out sixteen-year-old punk, and I’m surprised shit happened the way it did. I consider myself one of the lucky ones. Not knowing what the fuck I was doing and only hanging around with guys who worked on cars, I started going to local garages and asking them for their help in exchange for my work in their shop, cleaning whatever the hell they wanted me to. I had the fucking door slammed in my face too many times to count.
When I came to Banner Automotive, I figured the same thing would happen: door, slam. To my surprise, it didn’t. Pops introduced me to Bam who was a wiz at fixing shit. Then I was introduced to the Ravage MC, and the rest is history.
I never had a moment when I envisioned my future. Fuck no. I was lucky to survive a night out there on the streets, sleeping with one eye open all the fucking time. I never thought I would have any sort of family, but that one stop at sixteen opened my world to Ravage.
We follow Pops through a back alley and stop our bikes, killing the engines. The house is about three blocks down the way. The houses are lined up, stacked too fucking close to one another. Everyone in this fucking area will hear our bikes, so we need to play this shit cool.
It’s about five a.m. on a Thursday morning; therefore, I’m sure most of these assholes will be getting up soon to head to work, which means nothing can look out of place.
“Rhys.” I lift my chin to Pops, acknowledging his words. “You and Tug walk to the house and scope shit out. Come back and give us info. Then we plan.” I nod as does Tug. “We’re heading over to the park we passed in town. Tuck your bikes under the brush then get back to us.”
We follow Pops’s instructions to the T and head down the alley.
I pull a smoke out of my pocket and light it up. Nerves? What the fuck are those? I lost that shit when I went out on the streets. Fear? Nope, not there, either. This is actually fucking fun.
“This one,” Tug says, pointing to the tan house with green shutters. The entire place looks like theBrady Bunch—totally family-oriented.
I clip the end of my smoke with my fingers and put the butt in my pocket. No evidence gets left behind, nothing. I then slip on my black leather gloves, watching Tug do the same, and pull out my Glock from the back of my pants. We left our rags locked on the bikes, not wanting anything identifying. This is nowhere close to being a friendly meeting.
We creep up to the back door. Dried blood is covering the handle. Fuck. These women know shit for hiding stuff. My thoughts flick to Tanner. No, there is no fucking way she knows this life. She’s just too … fucking everything. I shake my head, focusing on my task.
Looking into the window, I see blood-coated footprints all over the entryway. At least they were smart enough to go out the back. Turning the handle, it opens freely, so they didn’t even bother to lock the fucking door. I bite back my curse as I turn the handle and step inside the door with Tug at my back. It’s been a good twelve hours, so the stench of death assaults my nostrils. Good. The fucker deserved to die.
I step around the small alcove in the kitchen where the dead motherfucker is lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He’s a fat motherfucker. What the hell did they feed him? Well respected cop, my fucking ass. More like paid mint for all the fucking food in town. Asshole.
Blood is caked throughout the entire room. I can see by the marks exactly where Tanner and Mearna were in the room. We do a quick search of the house and find no one there, and it looks like no one else has been in the space. I do find his cell, but he doesn’t have any missed calls, so hopefully no one is looking for his ass yet.
I pick up my own cell, punching in Pops’ number. “Clear. Gone. Need anything?”
