Page 2 of Dancin' with Demons

I tried like hell to find her. For six fuckin’ months, I followed every lead the Geek Squad gave me. That’s our brothers that run all the tech shit. Both graduated from MIT, smart as fuck. Hardwire and Circuit, as we call ‘em. They hacked every system includin’ the bus station we figured she might have left out of. But Raylynn wasn’t stupid. She used cash and didn’t leave me so much as a crumb to fuckin’ follow. The only thing we confirmed was that shortly after she left the hospital, she cleared her checkin’ and savin’s accounts out at the bank. Everythin’ after that was just stabs in the dark, tryin’ to think like her and see if we could figure out where she would’ve gone.

I stopped lookin’, but I ain’t kiddin’ when I say that if they got a lead on her today, I’d go fuckin’ runnin’. Three years ain’t changed shit. I still fuckin’ want Raylynn more than I want anythin’.

Turnin’ around, I wash my hair and body and shut the water off. After dryin’, I throw on a pair of sweats and one of my tank-top undershirts. Just as I flop on the bed, there’s a loud, forceful knock on my door. Grumblin’, I heave myself out of bed, unlock the door and throw it open, ready to cuss out whoever’s there.

I stop short at Lacey standin’ in the way, hands on her hips, glarin’ at me. “Catacomb said get your ass to Church if you aren’t already too drunk to walk.”

“Lacey,” I say in a low voice, “don’t give me your fuckin’ ‘tude.”

She rolls her eyes and gives me the finger. “I’ll stop givin’ you a ‘tude when you go back to bein’ the guy I respected instead of this fuckin’ asshole you pretend to be.” Before I can snap at her, she turns on her heel and heads back down the hallway. “Hurry the fuck up, my cousin doesn’t need to fuckin’ wait on you anymore!”

Growlin’ as her figure disappears into the common room, I lean back, snag my keys off the table, lock the door, and shut it after steppin’ into the hallway. Shovin’ my keys in my pocket, my bare feet slap against the floor. Me goin’ into Church like this ain’t nothin’ new. Catacomb’s had me come in there shirtless in my boxers before. That happens when you wake me from a dead sleep for emergency shit. Movin’ through the common room, one of the new prospects is standin’ outside the door to Church with a basket.

“No phone, kid,” I say, and he nods as I move past him, pushin’ the door to Church open. Inside, the room is lit by bright white lights that run the length of the ceilin’ in six rows. In the center of the room is a large round conference table with one chair on the fair side. The rest of the chairs are in a semi-circle around the other sides of the table, all facin’ that main chair. That’s where Catacomb sits, with a gavel in front of him and the same scowl from when he picked me up tonight. It’s after three now, and I figured he would’ve let his ol’ lady fuck his mood into a better place.

“Sit down, Ren,” he says sternly.

Takin’ a deep breath, I move to the empty chair at the beginnin’ of the left side, the one closest to Catacomb. Freeway, our Road Captain, is next to me, and Archangel, my Vice President, is across from me. The rest of the club is already seated, and my gut drops. Whatever this is, it ain’t gonna better my mood any.

“If this is about last night, Cat, I—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, glarin’ at me before turnin’ his attention to Hardwire on the other side of the table. “Read it.”

Hardwire clears his throat. “March 2017, one arrest for assault. May 2017, two arrests for assault and destruction of property. June 2017, two arrests, both for assault. July 2017, five arrests for two assaults, two counts of disorderly conduct, and one count of resistin’ arrest. September 2017—”

“I get it, Prez,” I snap. “I’ve been fuckin’ up for a long while now.”

Catacomb sits forward and leans his forearms on the table. “Fuckin’ up is an understatement, and I’ve had enough. Exactly three years ago today, you had one thing on your record. A simple possession from when you were eighteen. Now, you have thirty fuckin’ charges, and the only reason you’re not sittin’ in a fuckin’ cell is that the District Attorney is on our fuckin’ payroll. Ever since Raylynn left, you’ve gone to shit, brother.”

“We’re not talkin’ about her,” I say with a slight growl.

“Yes, we fuckin’ are,” he yells, slammin’ his hand on the table. “Christ, Renegade, we’re your brothers, and we’re not stupid. The only reason we’ve put up with this bullshit all this time is because we knew you fuckin’ wanted that woman the moment we found her. Not a man here couldn’t tell that it broke you when she ran, but enough is enough. I ain’t gonna sit here and let you keep throwin’ your life down the drain just because we can’t find her.”

I shake my head, grindin’ my teeth together. “I said, we ain’t talkin’ about her.”

“Why the fuck not!” Catacomb turns toward me and slaps his hand on the table in front of me. “You better tell me somethin’ because I don’t know if I can spend another fuckin’ day bailin’ you out of jail and watchin’ you drink yourself into an early fuckin’ grave.”

“Because I don’t know what the fuck to say, Cat,” I finally scream back. Instantly his face softens as his eyes widen, and I sigh, runnin’ my hand through my hair. “I don’t know what to fuckin’ say. Three years and everythin’ about her fuckin’ haunts me. I still want to find her as much today as I did the day she ran, and I can’t fuckin’ get past it, okay?”

The room is quiet for a few minutes until Catacomb clears his throat. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, brother. You’re gonna go back a bag, two weeks' worth of shit, and meet me at the truck in thirty. We’re gonna head out to the vacation house and figure shit out. When we come back, you’re gonna go back to the guy that used to help run this club, and we’ll figure shit out where Raylynn is concerned.”

I lift my head and meet his hard, gray eyes with a nod. “Aight, man.”

“Good,” he says, sittin’ back in his chair. “Arch, handle shit while we’re gone. Everyone else, do what you do, and let’s not have any issues until we get back. Y’all should be able to behave for two weeks.”

As soon as Catacomb dismisses everyone, I head right for my room. I ain’t tryin’ to pack a lot, so I grab my oversized duffel bag and fill it with enough clothes for two weeks plus a bottle of Jack, my phone charger, and my toothbrush and shit. Zippin’ it, I shrug on a long-sleeved t-shirt and grab my tennis shoes out of the closet. We ain’t takin’ the bikes, so I don’t worry about it. The last thing I pack is my cut. We can’t wear ‘em at the vacation house because it’s in Nags Head, North Carolina, and that’s territory for the Emerald Isle MC. Catacomb’s father made an agreement with ‘em long before I ever joined this club when he first bought the property. Our club can come and go as we please as long as we don’t wear our cuts and don’t start no shit. As far as I know, Catacomb knows their Enforcer, and the agreement still stands.

I make sure to shut my lights off and lock my door before headin’ out to Catacomb’s truck, but the moment I open the door and make it around the buildin’, I groan. Catacomb is standin’ next to his truck with his ol’ lady, Sandra, and next to ‘em is Trickster. Three years ago, he was just a prospect, but he proved himself and got patched in shortly after the shit with Raylynn. I like the kid, but his personality really came out when he got that patch, and his smart-ass antics and shit pluck my last nerve sometimes. Today ain’t a day I feel like dealin’ with him.

“Cat,” I say with an air of warnin’.

My prez has the balls to laugh. “Deal with it. You’re ridin’ with Trickster, and you ain’t allowed to kill him on the ride. We should be at the house by eight thirty, maybe nine at the latest. Five hours ain’t that bad of a drive.”

“It is ridin’ with him,” I grumble, and Trickster repays me by clappin’ me on the shoulder.

“It’s gonna be great, Renegade. We can talk feelin’s, listen to some Celine Dion, really bond, man.”

“I swear to god, kid, I’ll kill you,” I say through gritted teeth.

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