Page 3 of Dancin' with Demons

The little fucker laughs and slaps me on the back as he moves around his truck to the driver’s side. I give Catacomb one more dirty look before yankin’ open the passenger door and slidin’ in. As soon as Trickster starts the truck, the radio blares at full volume, and I’ll be fuckin’ damned if it ain’t Celine Dion playin’ through the fuckin’ speakers. I slam my head into the headrest several times and groan.

“Come on, this is a classic,” Trickster yells over the music as he backs out and beltsMy Heart Will Go Onalong with the radio.

If this is the next five hours of my life, I might off myself since Catacomb banned me from killin’ the kid. Thankfully, after the song ends, he at least turns the shit down a little bit. Hittin’ the highway, I rest my head back, close my eyes, and let myself drown in my thoughts. Logically, I know the best thing for me to do is give up on ever findin’ Raylynn. If she wanted to explain or whatever, she’d have come back or called— somethin’ in the last three years. It didn’t dawn on me until Catacomb said that today was the exact day she left me three years ago. Maybe that’s why the last few days have been worse than normal. I guess subconsciously, I knew the date was comin’ up. Sighin’, exhaustion hits me, and I start dozin’, but not before memories of her push their way through my head, ensurin’ that sleep is gonna be flooded with nightmares, and she’s gonna be the star of every one of ‘em.

“Get up, lazy. We’re here.” Trickster slaps my chest and startles me awake.

“Motherfucker,” I mumble, usin’ the heels of my hands to rub my eyes. Openin’ ‘em, it’s bright as fuck, and the sun is blazin’ away. Thankfully, there’s one nice breeze blowin’ through the air. Shovin’ the car door open, I lean the seat forward and grab my bag from behind it, slingin’ the strap over my shoulder before slammin’ the door shut. Catacomb and Sandra stop next to me as I turn to face ‘em. “I ain’t promisin’ I won’t kill him over the next two weeks.”

“Awe,” Sandra coos with sarcasm, “rough ride, Ren?”

I playfully glare at her. “If I have to hear him sin’ one more Celine Dion song, I promise you both, I’ll rip his fuckin’ tongue from his mouth and throw it in the ocean.”

My president and his ol’ lady crack up laughin’. As much as I try not to chuckle, I do anyway. Despite my bein’ an asshole, Catacomb and Sandra were my first family here. Everyone else I know, my entire family, is in Hawai’i, and I don’t get to visit ‘em often. Hell, it’s already been five years since the last time I was home for anythin’, and that was for my grandfather’s funeral.

“You takin’ the in-law suite,” Catacomb asks as he pulls two sets of keys from his pocket.

Grabbin’ the smaller set from his left hand, I almost beeline for the detached buildin’ next to the main house. Now, the main house can fit everyone. It’s a four-story beach house with twelve bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, and every luxury a person can ask for. The in-law suite shares a yard but only has three bedrooms, four baths, and is a rancher. The entire property backs right up to the Nags Head beach, though, so I ain’t complainin’. I just don’t want to have the three of ‘em breathin’ down my neck every second, so if this trip is to get my head right, that means givin’ me some fuckin’ privacy, too.

Their voices fade as they head into the main house, and I unlock the front door to the suite and step inside. It’s been a while since anyone’s been here, and the air inside is stale as fuck. Droppin’ my bag on the couch, I open every window in the house. The salty breeze is more than welcome as I grab my bag again and head to the master bedroom. It’s a large open room that faces the back of the house. Double French doors open onto a private patio area that has a fire pit in the center and is enclosed with a four-foot high wrought iron gate. Inside the room is an ordinate silver dresser with nightstands and lamps that match. There’s also a desk and office chair, a big screen television mounted on the wall, and in the center of the back wall is a raised kin’-sized bed with sand-colored sheets and a light blue, down feather comforter.

Tossin’ my bag on the bed, I unzip it and grab the bottle of Jack. Unscrewin’ the top, I take a large swin’ and enjoy the burn in my throat before settin’ it on the nightstand. I try to keep my mind clear as I unpack my bag, put my clothes and shit in the dresser, and hang my cut in the closet. Just as I come back from puttin’ my shit in the bathroom, there’s a knock on the bedroom door. A second later, it opens, and Sandra pokes her head inside.

“Hey, hon,” she says in a sweet tone. “You doin’ okay?”

She’s one of the only people I can’t take my mood out on because Sandra ain’t been nothin’ but good to this club since the first time she met Catacomb. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Mind if I come in for a second?”

I shake my head, and she opens the door, steps into the room, and looks around before comin’ over to sit on the edge of the bed. I sigh and roll my eyes. “Whatever it is, just say it. I kinda figured I wouldn’t get away without you rippin’ me a new one, too.”

Sandra chuckles. “I think I’ve ripped you a new one enough over the last few years. Renegade, we’re not tryin’ to make things worse for you, and I can’t imagine what you feel right now or what you’ve felt since Raylynn left. But Cat and I care about you. You’re family to us, and even though he’s angry, all he wants is to help. So, while we’re here, can you just try to let us in, even if it’s just a little bit.”

I swallow the lump in my throat before holdin’ my arm out so she’ll hug me. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

Sandra squeezes my midsection before steppin’ back and headin’ for the door. “Get some sleep. You need to be up and ready for dinner by six.”

She shuts the door behind her, and I huff as I grab the bottle of Jack and bring it to my lips, throwin’ my head back as I turn and sit on the side of the bed. After pluggin’ my charger and phone in, I hit the bottle a few more times before lyin’ back on the bed and closin’ my eyes. I don’t know what the fuck my president is plannin’ to try while we’re here, but I can’t admit to him or anyone else just how bad my fuckin’ soul hurts. I just want to get drunk and numb the pain that hits me every time I think about Raylynn, and I think about her every second of the fuckin’ day. To say I live in constant fuckin’ pain is an understatement.

Losin’ Raylynn caused an eternal loop that feels like my soul is bein’ sent through a fuckin’ wood chipper— and as much as it hurts, I don’t want to move on, not if that means forgettin’ her.

Chapter 2

Raylynn

Someone touches the rope binding my legs, and pain shoots through my limbs up to my hip, causing me to scream against the gag again.

"Stop, stop," the deep voice says again. "Don't touch her yet." The knot holding the blindfold pulls as it's untied and yanked off. I keep my eyes closed, and a second later, the gag in my mouth is removed too. A calloused hand softly touches my jawline, and I flinch from the contact, whimpering. "Shh, I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Open your eyes, little love, and look at me, okay?"

Slowly, I open my eyes. Everything is blurry, and I blink a few times before things come into focus. Eye-level with me is a pair of deep brown eyes, and dark eyebrows pulled together in what looks like concern. "Thank you." It comes out hoarse and scratchy.

The man shifts his eyes to look over me and holds his hand up over my body. A second later, he messes with something I can’t see and then holds a water bottle up in front of my eyes. "Here." He holds the bottle to my lips and tips it enough that I get a small stream of water into my mouth. It's cool and refreshing and might be the best damn thing I've tasted in forever.

Bolting upright, sweat covers my body, making my clothes stick to me. Sucking in a shuttering breath, I close my eyes again for a moment and bring my fingers up to my jaw. Three years later, I swear, I can still feel Renegade’s touch at times. The biggest regret of my life is running out on him that day.

I can’t change it, though. I made that decision and have stuck by it and suffered the consequences. Glancing at the other end of the couch, my daughter is snuggled into her pillow behind my legs with her blankie gripped tightly in her little hand. She’s the only good thing to come out of an entire lifetime of shit. How she was conceived . . . that was the worst six months of my life.

My best friend Lacey and I were both in college together. I had a condo near campus, and she lived about twenty minutes away with her cousin. He’s the president of the Smoky Mountain Regulators motorcycle club in Gatlinburg. Girls started disappearing in the area, and everyone was worried. One night after work, I went home, and someone followed me. I woke up in a cell in a leaky basement, and that’s where I stayed for six months, being raped and tortured by a different motorcycle club. Lacey was taken about five months later and ended up in that cell with me.

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