Devil (Savage MC--Tennessee 1)

Grieving a woman who didn’t bother to say goodbye.

Okay, she did say goodbye, I just didn’t realize it at the time. I sure as hell didn’t think she would walk away that easily.

“He’s fucked up over a woman,” Fury smirks, taking a pull on his beer.

“When in the hell did I miss that? I don’t remember you bringing a woman around here.”

“I—” I start but stop when Fury answers for me—again.

“He didn’t. Hah, that’s the best part of the story. He wouldn’t dare bring this woman to the club, man.”

“Why in the fuck not?” Diesel growls. “The club is part of who you are, Devil. Shit, you’ve been in this life as long as I have. We were born into it.”

“He—”

“Will you fucking shut up, Fury?” I growl, draining my bottle. I aim it toward the trash can which is probably twenty feet away. It goes too far to the left and crashes on the floor. Seems to be a symbol of my life right now. “Last time I checked I could talk for myself,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my face.

“I liked you better when you were a cocky motherfucker,” Fury grumbles, walking off.

“Join the crowd,” I say with a sigh, liking myself better back then too.

“Speak,” Diesel commands, sitting down on the sofa beside me and taking the spot Fury left. I manage to hold in a curse. The last thing I want to do is talk to Diesel about women. I think he’s pretty much sour on women in general and who in the hell could blame him?

“I let my dick lead me where I didn’t belong,” I answer, my voice hoarse as images of Torrent smiling and laughing come to mind.

“Women. The downfall of every fucking man since the beginning of time,” Diesel answers, his voice sounding way too tired.

“This wasn’t her fault really,” I respond, feeling the perverse need to take up for Torrent—to defend her to one of the men who mean the most to me.

“Why’s that?”

“She was off limits. I knew that. I still had to try.”

“Fuck, dude. I never figured you for the type to do that.”

“Do what?”

“To mess around with another man’s old woman.”

“She’s not. Not really. Fuck, it’s one of those gray areas.”

“Gray areas?” The asshole laughs at me, and I can’t say as I blame him.

“She wasn’t really married.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Damn it. I’m serious. She wasn’t married, or hell even claimed—not really.” I rub my hand over my face, scratching my jaw. “At least not to a real person,” I mutter.

“Say what?”

“I said, she wasn’t married to a real person. Torrent… she’s not what you’re thinking.”

“What is she? Christ, is she one of those people who marry Barbie dolls?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask Diesel, wondering if he’s drunk. I didn’t smell it on him that bad, but I’m kind of hammered myself, so who knows.

“She is… well she was… pledged, kind of…”

“Pledged? Did we go back in time to poodle skirts and fucking promise rings? What in the hell does pledged mean?”

“She’s a nun.”

“Get out of town,” he says, his voice full of disbelief.

“Let it go,” I growl.

“Shit man, you aim high, don’t you?”

“Fuck you,” I mumble.

“You got to get her out of your head.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” I answer, holding up my liquor bottle and shaking it at him.

“What if I send you on an errand?”

“Why?”

“Skull is calling in another marker. Wants us to check on his boy.”

“What did Sunshine do now?”

“You willing to go see him?” Diesel asks and I frown. If I leave, there’s no chance of seeing Torrent again, but hell, there’s no sign of her and even if I did… she’s not mine.

She’s never going to be mine.

If the last month has made anything clear, it’s that.

“Yeah. Screw it. I’ll head out in the morning.”TorrentI look around the small room, for the one hundredth millionth time. Nothing has changed. It’s still nothing but a 4’ x 6’ box—if that. The floor I’m sitting on is rough lumber. I try not to move a lot, because if I do so I’ve learned I get splinters and in places I truly don’t want them. There’s a little light filtering in from the top of the box. It’s coming in through the hole between the jagged wooden planks.

I moan as I move, my body sore from staying in basically the same position for a month and other things. When I first came to, after being unconscious, I panicked. Anyone would have, but it was worse for me because I’m afraid of small enclosed places. So when I say I panicked, I mean I freaked-the-fuck-out. So much so that they opened the top of my “crate” and when I lunged at them, they beat me back down—first with fists and then with a crowbar. I’m pretty sure I have a broken arm. I know my eye is swollen shut and infected—if the burning sensation I feel is anything to go by. It hurts to breathe so I’m not entirely sure what shape my ribs are in.