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“You sure? Go to the clubhouse, it’s closer.”
“Yeah. Good idea. I can make it.” He could. There was no one with him. He was good. Just make it into the yard. Park the truck. Get to his room and lie down. His head was pounding. It felt like his brain was coming apart. He had made it home a day early, so that was a good thing. “I can make it no problem,” he reiterated, trying to pour confidence into his voice.
Blue and red cut through the gray veil of fog in the rear-view mirror, and he cursed silently as he looked down at the speedometer. Shit. Speeding. He could have sworn he’d slowed down. Hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember now. He was sweating bullets.
“Gotta go, Master, you’re breaking up anyway.” He needed to concentrate. He dropped the connection before Master could protest.
They had run what was supposed to be an easy assignment, trailing a couple of “Ghosts” that Code, their computer genius had uncovered. Find out where the two were going, which motorcycle clubs they were targeting next. Easy, right? Torpedo Ink wanted to know who they were.
The “Ghosts” turned out to be businessmen who had been preying on weaker members of the various outlaw motorcycle clubs, specifically those members who gambled, getting them in deep and then making certain that they gave up information on the clubs running drugs, guns or trafficking in return for getting out of debt. The Ghosts wanted cuts into those particular businesses.
When the clubs reacted negatively, they had the presidents’ old lady kidnapped, raped and tortured until the club complied or she was returned dead and another woman was taken. The Ghosts had a particularly vicious group of hitmen doing their dirty work for them.
Player’s club, Torpedo Ink, had rescued two women belonging to separate MC clubs from the hitmen the Ghosts kept on retainer. In both cases, Torpedo Ink had been hired secretly so no one associated them with the rescues. The larger clubs didn’t want it known that they had gone outside their club looking for help. Torpedo Ink didn’t want it known that they had helped. They were a small club and they wanted to stay under the radar, from law enforcement, other clubs and definitely the Ghosts.
The Ghosts kept themselves out of the line of fire, hiring hitmen to do their dirty work and infiltrate the clubs for them. That’s why they called themselves Ghosts. They believed no one could ever trace them. They didn’t know about men like Code who were that good with computers and could track just about anyone.
Player took his foot off the gas and eased the truck to the side of the road, watching the sheriff pull in behind him. He was two lousy miles from the Caspar turnoff and the clubhouse. Two miles. In his present state it was dangerous to have any interaction with any other human being. That had been the reason he’d separated himself from Master. Being safe. Making certain everyone was safe. Now this, all because he wasn’t paying attention. He knew better.
He hit the back of his head against the seat twice in recrimination and fished his license out of his wallet. Transporter and Mechanic, fellow members of the Torpedo Ink club, always kept the vehicles in the best of shape, the paperwork up-to-date and in the glove compartments. He had no doubt everything was in order, but he was so tired he wasn’t certain if the truck was clean of any weapons. He just couldn’t remember if he’d given everything to Master or if he’d kept guns with him.
He was exhausted, seventy-two hours without sleep, and he’d used his psychic gift for far too long, something he knew better than to do. It not only drained him and took a huge toll physically and mentally on him, but if he used it for too long, it began to spill over into his reality. That was the main reason he had pushed so hard to make it back to his home. He needed to be where he was surrounded by familiar things and he could replenish his strength and allow his fractured brain time to recover.
He’d always kept that side effect from his fellow Torpedo Ink members. They thought he would get a migraine and Alice’s Adventures Wonderland characters would appear. It would be funny and they would all get a laugh. They had no idea how truly serious and fucked up that reality could get, or how it could really morph into something far, far more dangerous.
He buzzed down his window and shut off the truck as the deputy walked up to his vehicle. He recognized him right away. Jackson Deveau was a good cop, but one difficult, if not impossible, to misdirect. Just his luck. Player’s head was pounding so bad his stomach began to twist into knots. He glanced around the truck hoping like hell everything was in place and there were no weapons in sight. He had a carry permit, but it was best to not make any waves—especially with Jackson.
“Player,” Jackson greeted as he took the license, his dark eyes moving over Player’s face, seeing too much like he always did. “You all right?”
It was never good to try to deceive Jackson if you didn’t have to. The members of Torpedo Ink suspected he was a human lie detector. He just seemed to be too good at figuring everything out.
“Feel like shit. Was trying to get home and didn’t realize I was speeding until I saw your lights. Sorry man.” He resisted rubbing his pounding temples. “Do you need the registration and insurance? The truck is registered to Torpedo Ink and the insurance is up-to-date. Czar’s going to kick my ass for this.”
Jackson handed him back his license. “I have to see the papers, Player.”
Player reached over and opened the glove compartment, noting that Jackson’s gaze followed the movement, one hand out of sight, probably near his weapon. Jackson didn’t take chances, not even with the people he knew and actually liked. It was always difficult to tell with Jackson whether or not Torpedo Ink was included with those he liked. The cop’s expression gave very little away.
Player handed over the registration and insurance and gave in to rubbing his temples. He didn’t want to look too long at Jackson or the fog that was drifting in off the ocean. He’d been creating illusions longer than he should have been and now those edges were blurring with reality. More than once, when he was tired, his mind had played tricks on him and he couldn’t separate reality from the worlds he created. People had gotten hurt. Several had died. He didn’t take chances. He worked on that all the time, and he knew when he needed to shut it down, which was more than twenty-four hours ago.
“Thought you always ran with a partner.” Jackson said it casually as he carefully inspected the paperwork.
Player cursed silently. His heart was beating too fast. Behind the sheriff, a large caterpillar floated in the air, smoking a giant blue-green hookah. Big rings of smoke curled around the truck. Around Jackson. Player began to count in his head. Numbers. Repeating them over and over. The caterpillar began to puff in time to his counting, the smoke coming out in the shapes of his numbers at first and then those rings began to morph into letters of the alphabet.
“Master picked up a passenger in New Mexico. I got sick and couldn’t wait for them, so I hit it for home.”
Little beads of sweat trickled down his face. There was no stopping it. The smoke letters tilted first one way and then the other, rocking as if in tune to music. He realized he was tapping a beat on the steering wheel as he often did, in keeping with counting in his head.
“Really sorry about speeding, Jackson, must have started inchin’ up on the gas when I got closer to the turnoff without realizing it.”
The letters drifted by Jackson’s head. Spelling words. Death to the guards. Off with his head. Player closed his eyes, but the vision stayed in his mind, refusing to leave, the fog becoming smoke swirling around the truck and closing off the road so even when he opened his eyes, it was difficult to see anything but the smoking caterpillar, Jackson, the wall of gray and those taunting letters that grew in length and width, filling the sky above the sheriff as if condemning him.
Player forced air through his lungs as the smoke from the hookah began to swirl in time to his tapping fingers, the fog rings dropping like nooses around sheriff’s neck. Abruptly, he forced his hands away from the steering wheel. He used music to soothe his brain but it was all
part of the fracturing now. He had to get out of there before he hurt Jackson.
“I don’t think a few miles over the speed limit is worth Czar kicking the crap out of you. I think we can let it slide this time.” Jackson handed back the registration and insurance, watching with his cool, dark eyes as Player put the papers back in the glove compartment. “Make it home safe.”
“Will do. Thanks for the break. Nasty weather tonight. You be safe as well.”
Player didn’t wait for Jackson to get back to his SUV, nor did he look to see if the caterpillar had disappeared. He started the truck and eased it back onto the highway, concentrating on getting back up to speed, wanting to make those two miles as quickly as he could without further mishap. He just had to get to the clubhouse and into his room without any further contact with anyone.
The fog kept curling into shapes, hearts and diamonds, spades and clovers. They floated against the backdrop of the gray wall. The road wrinkled and moved, but he drove doggedly on, knowing the way, forcing his mind to work in spite of the images that had been familiar to him since his childhood.
He turned off the highway and drove toward the ocean, where the fog rose up like a large fountain off the churning waves, spouting into cyclones that danced toward the bluffs. Player tore his gaze from the waves and drove straight to the clubhouse, counting over and over to one hundred in his mind to keep his brain occupied so it wouldn’t build stories or shape those cyclones into anything monstrous in the foggy weather.
He drove through the open gates into the parking lot and to his dismay, the lot was filled with Harleys, trucks and a few random cars. His heart sank. Music blasted out of the clubhouse. Two fires roared in the pits on the side overlooking the ocean where men and women danced and partied in the fog. He could make out their eerie shapes gyrating even as their laughter was muffled by the heavy mist.
A fucking party. He was a day early and the club was having a party. He’d forgotten it was on the schedule to meet with another club whose members had come, like them, from one of the four Sorbacov training schools in Russia. The club, calling themselves Rampage, wanted to join Torpedo Ink.
Player didn’t dare be around anyone in his present state. He was too worn out, his brain fractured, the migraine too severe. He needed time to heal. To rest. A party with lots of people attending was the last place he needed to be. He forced his brain to keep counting, refusing to look at the grayish figures looking like silhouettes in the fog.
He pulled the keys out of the ignition and sat there for a moment, trying to clear his mind, eyes closed tight, breathing deep, counting in his head in the hopes that just by being in a familiar place, surrounded by his brothers, he would be okay. He opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly.
At once he saw the ocean, waves crashing against the bluffs—white foam rising in the air. The beat in his head became lobsters clacking claws together as they danced in the spinning cyclones rushing toward the bluffs where the eerie shapes in the fog danced with that same beat. The lobsters called to the sea creatures to rise up, as they did, their forms growing in those whirling columns of mist as the beat accelerated, the drumming going faster and faster to match the crazy gyrating twisters dancing over the wild waves.
The dancers around the firepit moved with the beat, just as out of control, turning toward the turbulent sea and the wall of fog and strange unnerving cyclones heading for the bluffs. One dancer stumbled backward, nearly falling into the firepit. Several men grabbed for her, pulling her to safety as she screamed and laughed hysterically.
Player saw three men turn to look toward the truck. One sprinted toward him. He let out his breath and closed his eyes. He just had to get into the clubhouse and away from everyone. Maestro, one of his brothers, took the keys from him, and wrapped his arm around him. “You should have called ahead. Recognized your Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland calling card.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “How bad is it?”
“My fucking head is about to explode.” Player dared to open his eyes, trying to squint, seeing Maestro through the shimmering fog with the strange backdrop of lobsters riding spinning waterspouts in the ocean over his shoulder.
Maestro was a big man with wide shoulders, vivid gray eyes that could look like liquid silver when he became intense. His hair was dark, streaked with silver and like Player, he wore it longer. He appeared to be very gentle and soft-spoken but that hid a very dominant personality. Right now, he urged Player out of the truck and into the curling fog where his free hand held the truck keys—but the keys were already morphing into a pocket watch. For a moment, a White Rabbit appeared behind Maestro, looking over his shoulder at the watch and shaking his head, those long ears flopping as he did so. His nose wrinkled, and worry gathered in his eyes. Then the rabbit began to morph into someone else altogether and Player’s breath hitched. He hastily concentrated on the watch.
The watch was intricate. Made of gold. He would never forget that particular watch. He fixated on it. He remembered every detail of it. The way it worked so precisely. The elaborate transparent design. The two covers. The golden chain and swivel fob. As he looked at it lying in Maestro’s hand it grew in size so he could see the images imprinted in the cover. He could hear the seventeen ruby jewels working to ensure perfect precision. He had to stop. He couldn’t look at that watch or think about it.
“My head hurts like a mother, Maestro, I’ve got to close my eyes. Get me inside, will you?” He tried to keep his voice as even as possible, tried to convey that he was really shaky from a migraine, not that his brain was fractured and that any minute he could royally fuck everyone up.
“Sure, Player,” Maestro said. “Keep your head down. I’ll get you inside. The place is packed,” he warned. “A lot of noise.”
Player squeezed his eyes closed tight. He couldn’t afford to make the pocket watch part of this scenario. He was already skating too close to being out of control. “Can’t look at anyone,” he admitted—and it was a hard admission. He didn’t like any of his brothers to know how truly fucked up he was. “Get me to a bathroom. Need a shower to clear my head. I’ll go to bed and be fine. Throat’s sore. Need water and some Tylenol.”
“I’ll get you there and bring some water and Tylenol to the bathroom. Let’s go.”
Player stayed right in step with him, his eyes on the ground. The cement he’d helped pour moved, narrowing, rippling under their feet. Once he took his gaze from the sidewalk but then he saw the monstrous pocket watch and heard the ticking in time to the lobsters’ clacking and he preferred the strange dipping and wheeling pathway. He just kept pace with Maestro, trusting his brother, not the images in his head.
The common room was overflowing with partiers. Player tried not to look at them as he and Maestro waded through the half-drunk dancers as they gyrated around one another and the bodies pressed close. He did his best not to inhale as they hurried across the room toward the door that led to the back rooms. He couldn’t take in the scent of sex. Several girls were going down on men and two were already on their hands and knees calling out for more. He jerked his gaze from the sight, counting over and over in his head. Drinks were on tables, filled to the brim and they rose in the air and tipped liquid onto the floor and the backs of men and women as Player and Maestro rushed toward the back.
“Shit brother,” Maestro hissed, as laughter erupted all around them. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland strikes again.”
Player’s stomach lurched. He had deliberately cultivated his fellow club members to see the humor in the crazy things that happened when his “migraines” occurred after he went too far using his psychic talent. He couldn’t fault them when they laughed or made light of it. They had no idea how dangerous he was or how much he truly despised the mere mention of that story and every damn memory it dredged up. None of it good.
As they made their way through those dancing or fucking, he knew it was impossible to tell if the drinks were knocked off as dancers pressed too close to the ta
bles allowing the newcomers to wind their way through. Maestro pulled open the door to the back rooms.
The moment Maestro opened the door, Player could hear women moaning. A few of his brothers were using the rooms and doors had been left open, something not all that uncommon during a party. The smell of sex was heavy in the confined space of the hall. As they passed an open door, a woman’s voice called out, begging for the queen’s maids to join them for sex. Her partner answered her, “What the hell are you going on about? What queen? What maids?”
Maestro kicked the door closed as they hurried past. “We never should have shown you that old Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland porn, Player,” he said, laughter in his voice. “You gotta stop thinking about that movie.”
Player could have told him it had nothing whatsoever to do with thinking and everything to do with smells, association, and with his fucked-up fragmented brain playing tricks. Every open door they passed, Maestro slammed closed with his boot until they were all but sprinting down the rippling floor to the bathroom at the very end of the hallway.
This particular bathroom was considered off-limits during parties to outsiders, and the brothers kept to the rule. Lana and Alena, their sisters, both fully patched members of Torpedo Ink, used that room exclusively, although now they shared it with some of the other members’ wives. Maestro yanked open the door and practically shoved Player inside.
“I’ll be right back with a bottle of water and Tylenol,” Maestro promised and closed the door, leaving Player alone.
The scent of fresh lavender immediately washed the smell of sex away, giving Player a bit of a reprieve. He let himself take a deep breath, inhaling the lavender, taking the scent into his lungs, hoping to chase some of his terrible tension away. Perched on the sink and continuously breathing deeply, he texted Master to tell him he made it home safely while he waited for Maestro to return.
Maestro was fast, handing him the water and pills. He also brought him a clean pair of jeans and shirt. “You need me to wait and get you back to your room?”