Feel My Pain (Curse Bound 1)

Zane’s voice came out of nowhere, just as they reached the farthest point of the motel building and stood in front of Roach’s door. “I’ve seen the clubhouse.”

It sounded faint, somewhere between a question and plain old stating of facts, but Roach still swallowed around the rock forming in his throat.

“Yeah, there’s not much left.”

Roach was not only lucky to have survived the fire, but in a twisted way, the fact that the place had burned down to a crisp, left the police without any evidence of him being involved in the murder of the man in the cellar.

Were he a believer, he’d have taken it as a sign from a higher power, and maybe that was why he didn’t try his luck with other biker clubs. That part of his life was over, and he woke up to the relief of it every fucking day.

“Do you have another one, or…” Zane cleared his throat and took a step back, pulling his guitar case close. It was different from the soft black fabric one he’d carried two years back. Made of hard plastic, its burgundy surface featured numerous stickers, town symbols, and many, many scattered drawings of rockabilly-style flames.

“Nah, that’s a closed chapter. I ended up in the club because of family. I’m good on my own, with just my bike for company. I could take you for a ride someday,” he added as if Zane had any reason to stay. But before he said no, Roach could entertain that fantasy and imagine that he was somehow irresistible to Zane, even if just for a few hours.

He opened the door and headed straight for the bedside lamp to avoid turning on the main light. The place was small, and he knew it by heart. Bed, chair, small table, all old and unremarkable, with the floor space filled with stacked cardboard boxes. One wall was cocoa brown—the one by the headboard, while the others had a dirty cream shade. The carpeting was thin, with spots that might rip soon, but it was easy to ignore without daylight. Surrounded by the clutter of his few possessions, Roach was ready to bare everything he stood for, and the sound of the lock sent a shiver up his legs.

“What about your family?” Zane asked.

Roach had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Culver would give him shit tomorrow about leaving the bar on a busy night, but he might only have this one chance with Zane, so he’d have been stupid not to take it. He pulled out his flask, instantly nervous about the question but had the decency to offer the first sip to his guest. When Zane shook his head, rejecting the bourbon, Roach emptied the thing in three large gulps and placed the empty container on the bedside table.

“They’re all dead. No need to talk about grim shit. Just you and me now.” Roach turned to Zane and stepped closer to his wet dream. Zane backed away in the very same moment, tempting lips crooked and just out of reach, a brown bracelet made up of several leather straps flashing as he pushed his hair back. He had another on his other wrist, but that one was black and chunky, with just a couple of metal studs for decoration.

“How do you know grim shit doesn’t turn me on?” he asked, pacing along a row of boxes containing what Roach had chosen to keep from Hulk’s and Ajax’s belongings.

Roach had moved into the motel right after the fire, and two years later, he was still stuck in limbo. But that was preferable to burying bodies in the forest, so he saw no point in leaving.

Roach closed his fingers on air instead of Zane’s wrist. “Does it? Was I not grim enough for you last time?”

Roach frowned at his own words. No. Too bitter. Too needy.

“Try me. When I saw the building I wondered if someone died in the fire. Was actually surprised to see you,” Zane mused, pushing his fingers into his dense hair and shaking it gently, as if he wanted to scent the ugly little room with the sandalwood and citrus aroma he carried with him.

“I wasn't there. I left after…you know.”

Only on the loneliest nights, when he questioned the point of living altogether did he miss any of his club brothers. And never his actual family. Without the club, his existence lacked structure, but he chose to go on in defiance of its rules.

He never forgot the beautiful man he’d let down that night, but fate was giving him the opportunity to make up for it. He stalked behind Zane, itching to touch him already, yet afraid of mis-stepping and losing his chance.

“But you still have your gun, right?” Zane asked, once again evading Roach’s touch, his eyelids lowering over bright eyes that shone so on the background of the dusky skin around them. Yet another amazing natural feature Zane possessed to pull men in.