Page 126 of Property of Necro
Needing to be with Necro, I trail them through the underground tunnels and out a different exit than I’ve been before. Rot and Coffin greet us at the end and drape a t-shirt over Necro’s eyes before they lead us to a blacked-out SUV. The seats are folded down, and they slide Necro in with ease. Coffin climbs in beside him and crouches so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. Creature is already behind the wheel.
“I’ll see you soon, Sweet Cheeks,” Coffin says as he holds his brother’s bloody hand.
“Be safe.” I blow them a kiss just before Rot, and another brother slam the tailgate shut.
I turn to Rot as they speed down the hill, kicking up dirt and gravel in their wake. “Are they taking him to a hospital?”
Breathing like he just ran a marathon, he slings an arm around my shoulder. “We’re following ‘em, Red. I gotta get you dressed first.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question. Are they taking him to a hospital?” I press as we ascend the front steps and make our way to Rot’s bedroom, where he throws me a pair of black sweats and a fresh shirt. I slip them on, and despite them being far too big, they’re cozy. I don’t hate the baggy pants as much as I do all the tight stuff I wore when I was back with the sisters.
He lobs me a pair of balled-up socks, and I slip those on, too.
“Fuck. We don’t have any shoes for you,” he growls, slamming a drawer shut.
“That’s what happens when you’re drugged. You don’t get to pack a bag.” If they’d have shown up like normal people and asked me to return, I could have packed my belongings and brought them with me. Then again, I might not have come as easily.
“We’ll go shopping this week,” Rot whispers more to himself than me as he hot-foots to the bathroom and returns with a washcloth that he offers to me.
“Thanks.” I accept the gift and wipe what I can of Necro and the dead man’s blood from my body. “Why do we need to go shopping? All I wear are t-shirts anyhow.”
“You still need shoes and regular clothes whenever we leave. We should’ve thought about that before. Beenprepared and shit.” Rot stomps his foot. “Fuck. We’re takin’ the bike, but it’s not safe without proper shoes.”
Balling up the washcloth, I return it to the sink in the bathroom. “Why do we have to take the bike?” I ask, pausing in the doorway.
“It’s the only ride I have.” Rot shrugs on his black leather jacket and his cut and jogs from the room, yelling, “Who’s got the smallest feet ‘round here?!”
I’m sitting on the edge of his bed when he returns minutes later, huffing and puffing. He wipes sweat off his forehead and combs his fingers through his hair, which does nothing to fix the mess. It only makes it worse, yet it’s somehow still attractive.
“We gotta stop at Dredd’s on the way outta town. Mama said he’s got a pair of women’s boots in the garage that should fit you for now. We’ll get you a pair soon enough. I promise,” he explains, checking his pockets for his phone, keys, and all the things he needs for our trip.
“It’s okay,” I soothe. It’s not like we planned this.
Rot shakes his head in grumbly defiance. “It’s not, Red. We should have been prepared.”
“It’s just shoes.”
“But it’s not just shoes. You don’t have leathers or a helmet. We’re a motorcycle club for fuck’s sake.”
“You don’t ride with women, though, right?”
Rot saunters over to his nightstand and swipes his Chapstick from the top. He applies it liberally before returning it to its exact spot. “I don’t. I haven’t. Coffin does, sometimes. Before he… ya know…” He gestures with the wave of his hand.
Dismembers them.
I get it.
“Does he not have anything?” I ask.
If he rode with women, regardless of their demise, he might have something left over.
“No. He doesn’t care about their safety. But you can wear his helmet. I’ll grab it from his closet. It’ll be too big, but it’ll work for now. Until…”
“I get one of my own,” I fill in for him.
“Yeah. All that!” he hollers, running through the bathroom to Coffin’s room and back again in record time. He shoves the black, skull-and-coffin-painted bucket helmet at me, grabs my hand, and drags me, tripping after him through the church, out the front doors, and over to his bike. It is one of the Mad Maxx-looking contraptions with nothing more than a square pad behind his, that could barely fit a toddler, let alone a grown woman. But we gotta do what we gotta do.
Rot shoves the helmet hanging from the handlebars onto his head and mounts the motorcycle. I do my best to strap mine tightly under my chin, so it doesn’t fall off. He offers me his hand, and I slip on behind him. Wrapping my arms around his middle, he settles my feet on the safety pegs made of iron pipe. “Don’t let go and don’t move your feet.”
