Page 39 of War's Witch
He hums, closing his eyes while remembering that night.
“You dog, you. I swear, I get more pussy working at Rugged Ink than I ever did in any other studio.” Victor high-fives our friend, then they talk about women.
They may sleep with a lot of women, but one thing they donot do is mistreat any of them. Each and every woman they sleep with knows the deal. One and done.
That used to be me; I would join in, bantering back and forth about the men I slept with, but since War, no man has interested me. He is the only man I have had sex with since Halloween, and it is like my body will not respond to anyone else.
I am not sure whether he is coming back or not, since he did not leave a note or wake me up saying he was leaving. It hurt— him not being there— but I get that men like War are used to fucking and running.
I just thought he was different.
Chapter
Eighteen
WAR
The cold beer is a welcome feeling to my dry throat.
I am sitting in the Rugged Skulls MC clubhouse with Racer and Target, going over the reason I’ve stayed away from my girl for the last four days.
Four days ago, I was wrapped up in Cleo. Then my past reared its ugly head, coming back to taunt me, making threats. The ghosts I thought I’d left on the road have decided to make it known that they want me to pay.
Cleo doesn’t deserve this shit in her life, so I thought staying away, trying to deal with it myself would be the best thing. Fuck me, I was wrong.
My knuckles are white around the bottle I clutch, as I stare at the two men across from me.
“So let me get this straight. While on the road, you got involved in a fight that had nothing to do with you, and now the fuckers you beat want to hurt Cleo. Our Cleo,” Target says,his voice even, but I can see the anger swirling around in his eyes.
He thinks highly of my girl, I know that much. From the day at the tattoo studio, I could tell they were close friends.
“Yeah, that about sums it up. Listen, they were beating on a kid half their size; it was three against one. Of fucking course I would jump in to help, and I think from what I know about this club, most of you would have done the same.”
“Fuck yeah, we would have, but we also have a fucking club at our back. You are a nomad, War. You help the club with whatever is needed, not make trouble when you have no backup,” Target replies.
“I wouldn’t need backup,” is called out.
“Yeah, but you are fucking psychotic, brother.”
“You say the sweetest things, baby,” is replied.
I do not bother looking behind me; I keep my gaze steady on Racer, who is looking at me, assessing.
I know about brotherhood. I was a part of it until Lilian. Even though I was a nomad, I know that they still had my back.
It’s a strange thing, the way loyalty lingers, even when the road pulls you away from home and the patches on your cut.
Brotherhood isn’t about the colors on your back or the clubhouse you drink in.
Now, as Racer studies me with that same look—the one that says he’s weighing risk and allegiance—I wonder if any of us ever truly ride alone.
“How did they know who you are? Did they track you here?”
“It was raining and I rushed into the diner, forgetting to take my colors off. They clocked the patch after the fight, and made threats. I never thought they would follow through,or fucking find me. This happened right before Halloween last year, when I was in Bozeman.”
“Did you see any colors or markings on them?”
“No. They were dressed like every fucker on the street. The kid was in jeans and hoodie, no logos or anything.”
