
# ULTRA BLUE

L. M. du Preez
Copyright 2017, L. M. du Preez

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ASIN: B071RMQ9C2

ISBN-13: 978-1545091975

ISBN-10: 1545091978

Cover Image: OpenClipart-Vectors, Pixabay

.First Edition. 2017.

Novels by L. M. du Preez:

Dette Chambers' Death Journal

Ultra Blue

Co-Authored by L. M. du Preez

The Synth Series: Severed

The Synth Series: Divided

Don't Open the Door: A Horror Anthology

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www.LMduPreez.com

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Ultra Blue

An alternate universe.

Author's Note
For all the young women and men who don't have anyone to support them and remind them that they're strong.

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# 1

My mother was obsessed with Sleeping Beauty. It's the only thing about her I remember, the only thing about her I know. She named me Aurora, but her involvement in my life, even in something as small as a name, failed to last. No one calls me by my real name, instead they call me by middle name: Sidonie. It's not quite as special, not quite as royal, but I've answered to it ever since I was four.

I know I'm pretty. I do. I know I'm beautiful. I don't think it's a bad thing to admit, but many would disagree. We live in a world where outer beauty is always accepted, highly regarded and deadly impressionable, but it's a slippery little secret that's silenced. I'm judged both positively and negatively because of my beauty. I'm also remembered because of it.

I've learned that other girls don't like hearing me say that I'm beautiful. In fact, they hate it. I don't know the true reason why, but I believe it's because us girls aren't supposed to know we're beautiful--that is, not until someone else reveals it and provides us with the physical supremacy. We're not allowed to take the power on our own, we have to wait to be given it. And even then we shouldn't think we're actually beautiful.

But I know it. I've always known it.

I don't mean to come across as conceited, simply factual. Since the age of eleven, I've witnessed how boys watch me. Even men ... Especially men. I felt my gym teacher's salacious stare on me when I ran and stretched, when I was sweaty and breathless. I could see his throbbing thoughts, his illegal wishes and frowned-upon fantasies. And I could see the subtle swelling in his loose shorts as he'd watch me touch my toes. I'd purposely untie my pony and let my long hair fall to the floor. Upside down, between my spread legs, we'd meet eyes and I'd smile. He'd stroke his goatee and grin.

I liked toying with him and playing with the power. I was sixteen and technically untouchable, but that didn't stop his gawking and excessive help to ensure I had correct form. I let him touch my arms and legs, my waist and hips, because it was nothing but a game to me, and I was winning. I controlled him, I held the power, and I shaped his feelings and influenced his thoughts. I made his day better if I brushed against him, knowing I would be on his mind when class was over, knowing it made him happy in a deranged way. But I also made his day worse if I didn't smile at him, knowing he would question his appearance and actions, knowing it tortured him.

I learned to use my beauty as a tool, as a form of manipulation, and it astounded me how often it worked. I always got a good mark if the class had a male teacher, because even a decent male teacher is a wolf--he'd still stare, he'd still yearn--and I used it to my advantage. I'm not ashamed of it, and I don't wish my success was based on the homework that I constantly handed in late or the tests on which I drew heart doodles, because school doesn't teach you about the real world, school doesn't teach you about loneliness or abandonment, or what to do when the people who are meant to protect you end up destroying you. And school doesn't teach you about love.

I've learned more in this past year than in the previous seventeen.

I could've had sex with my gym teacher--it's not as though he was ugly, it's not as though he wasn't willing--but I use beauty as a tool, not sex. There's been only one time, just one, when I used sex as a tool, and it was because I didn't want to die.

I was a virgin throughout my high school years--I'm speaking on a technicality wherein virginity is given and not taken, but I've never shared that important detail with anyone. If I wanted to have sex with any student or teacher in high school, I would've, I could've, but I didn't. Call me a romantic, call me a delusional, silly girl, but I'm not interested in sex, I'm interested in love, and I didn't find anything resembling love in my school years. It wasn't until I graduated, until I left the fishbowl and ventured into the blue, that I discovered for what I had been aimlessly searching. I was a mermaid who'd been confined to a tank with ordinary fish, not realizing there were others like me, others who weren't basic or average--others who held palpable, persuasive power.

Now that I look back I can see why I never fooled around with the pitiful males from my school. Despite my beauty queen appearance I never wanted a jock, a pseudo Hercules that is nothing more than a little boy with shoulder pads, and that much hasn't changed. I wanted a man who was strong and tough--and not from playing a stupid game, but from dealing with the harsh realities of life. I wanted a man who could save me and protect me and fight the fire-breathing dragon so we could live happily ever after. I wanted a man with power.

Seven months ago I found that man.

My mother loved Sleeping Beauty and named me Aurora. I like to believe she named me after something she loved because, even though it wasn't enough, she loved me.

None of it really matters though. It's in the past and I've chosen to live in the moment. Life is vicious and volatile, and I accept it. I don't try to control it. And because I've learned to ride with it, my life is blossoming. For the first time I'm happy, and it's all because of him.

The thunderous engines perk my ears. I stand from my dazed daydream and walk to the front window. Leather and tattoos fill my sight as the crew rolls in on their motorcycles. At the head of the pack, as usual, is Virgil--my Virgil. I call him by his full name, not his shortened one--Virg--or his lengthened nickname--The Virgin Taker--because its meaning no longer applies.

Old habits, however, die hard with the crew. They think it's funny, they think it's a fetish, and they think he's earned the title with the amount of virginities he's taken. I'm certain they believe that's why Virgil took an intense interest in me--he thought he was taking my virginity, the first man to go where no other had ventured before, an untainted and untouched region both mentally and physically--and in some ways it was true, and in other ways it was not. Yes, I remained a virgin during my high school years, wherein virginity is given not taken, but technically Virgil was not my first.

He doesn't know that. He must never know that.

It would be detrimental to our relationship if he found out. He's gone years and years unattached, fulfilling his fetish and his needs, and continuing on alone. But then he met me. He took my virginity and he let me stay. It's a true testament to my beauty that it changed a hard, stubborn man of thirty-eight years. Out of all the years and all the women, none of them could do what I've done.

Virgil and Sidonie. I doodle it in swirly, cursive letters and seal it with a heart each time my fingers find a pen and a piece of paper.

Virgil and Sidonie. It has such a beautiful ring to it; it's such a perfect coupling of names.

Virgil and Sidonie forever. A breathy giggle flows from my lips as I repeat it in my head, watching him step from his bike and light a cigarette. The rare autumn sun shines down on him, glistening off his smooth hair and absorbing into the leather vest that he wears every day. Whenever he strips to shower I fold his jeans and hold the vest against my chest, insatiably smelling its scent while it's still warm. It's an intoxicating mix of cigarettes and rain and ... something indescribable. I think it's power--something that doesn't have a specific scent yet oozes from the pores of those who possess it. No one would argue with my logic because the crew witnesses on a daily basis the supremacy that Virgil wields. He demands respect and he gets it.

I love him, I love him, I love him.

Virgil flicks the cigarette stub into the gravel and chuckles at something, blowing the last puff of clouds from his lungs. He's in a good mood today. I smile again, lightly touching the glass as I watch him walk to the front door. It swings open and his heavy riding boots thud on the hardwood. I skip to him on the balls of my feet, feeling light and dreamy as he lifts me from the ground and spins me tightly against him. When my feet touch the floor he kisses me hard, unyielding to the crowd of men watching us.

"How was the ride?" I ask, finger-combing my hair so it falls to the side.

"Bittersweet. Probably our last long one for a while."

The endless autumn rain will start any day now. Despite the seasonal routine of grey clouds and damp depression, fall is always a sad surprise. And as the sun fades and the days become shorter, the rebellious rides become few and far between. It's a disappointing time for the entire crew, but it's a part of our roots and a part of living in Vancouver.

"Can't complain too much," Lucas comments. "We've had a decent summer." He looks at me. "Hey, Sid."

"Hey, Bug," I greet, lowering my heavy lashes. I feel silly calling him by his crew name, but it feels inappropriate to call him by his real name, especially around Virgil. I knew Luke before the nickname, the title and the patches, and I've witnessed the growth of his dark hair, the bulking of his arms and the hardening in his expression. He dropped out of our high school in the beginning of my eleventh year and his twelfth. The summer changed him. There were rumours of his whereabouts, his mischievous and violent involvement, but no one knew how real the rumours were. Turns out the rumours paled in comparison.

Luke was a prospect for the Black Wings M. C. Vancouver--their pet, their recruit, their go-for--for almost two years, displaying his dedication and loyalty to the club, the members and the business. He was deemed worthy and valuable, and his Prospect patches were replaced by the iconic Black Moth. But Lucas wore the Black Moth insignia before they were officially stitched upon his clothes; an ink black moth was stitched upon his skin, covering his throat and displaying his life-long commitment. The tattoo is meant to be ominous, but I think it's kind of beautiful. Its wings move when he swallows and the rare times when he laughs.

I owe Lucas my eternal gratitude for it was he who introduced me to Virgil.

"I'm not ready for the rain," Virgil grunts. He leans in closer, grabbing my hips and pressing his fingers into my skin. "What do you say, Sid? Should we leave here and join one of the Cali chapters?"

"Leave?" I toy.

"Sun all year round, riding morning, noon and night," he whispers, his smoky lips brushing against mine. "You in a bikini and those little jean shorts."

I firmly press into the moth buckle on his belt. By this point the crew has dispersed throughout the clubhouse and we're alone. "What about your crew?" I whisper, lightly tickled by his beard.

He takes my arms and wraps them around his neck. "You're all I need."

I love it when he says that. "But they need you," I whisper in his ear. "They're nothing without you." He loves it when I say that. An ego-boosted grin creases the skin around his eyes. I tell him this not only to see that smile, but because I honestly believe it's true. The crew's success is solely thanks to Virgil's genius and brutality. He complains about the rain, but it forces him to focus, to maintain diligence to detail and keep his attention on the business rather than riding. It could be argued that the endless rain is the secret key to their success.

"You wanna go for a ride?"

My eyes light up. "Yes." The answer is always yes.

He pulls me into the chilly dusk and passes me a helmet as he starts the bike. It roars in my ears and I bite my lip, barely containing my excitement. I slide onto the bike, wrapping my legs around his and pressing my breasts against his muscular back. He revs and my body shakes, vibrating my bones and my heart and my soul.

And then we're off and we're flying.

I feel happiest when I'm riding on the back of Virgil's motorcycle. Nothing matters and nothing can touch us. Most of the time, I don't even look to where we're driving; I close my eyes and nuzzle my cheek against his leather shoulder, letting the cold wind whip past me and his warm body melt against me. Today isn't any different.

I'll never forget my first ride with him and the feeling it gave me. I'll never forget because I can't forget, and I can't forget because I still experience it every single time I ride. The explosive, emotional rush has never faded and I don't believe it ever will. We are free, we are invincible, we are untouchable, and it makes me weep with joy. Tears stream down my cheeks as I squeeze my eyes and arms tighter.

My mother treasured Sleeping Beauty. Princess Aurora was precious, a fragile flower that left the ugly real world and slipped into a dream with endless adventure. I always wondered what Aurora dreamed during her slumber, but I now believe it to be what I'm experiencing. I feel like I'm finally living up to the dream and to the iconic beauty imbedded in the name.

The first time I saw Virgil I fell into a deep sleep, spellbound like the princess my mother wanted me to be. I've been dreaming ever since and I hope to never wake.

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# 2

We slow to a stop and I open my eyes to the dying light. I have no clue how long or to where we've been riding, but as I separate my tear-moistened lashes I find the fluorescent glow of a gas station. Virgil turns off the engine, kicks out the stand and parks off to the side.

"Baby, get me a pack of smokes," he says.

I gracefully swing my leg and step off the bike, surefooted, natural, displaying I've done this a thousand times before. He hands me a fifty and I take it from his fingers--but before I can leave, he pinches my chin and lifts my face to meet his eyes.

"You're so pretty when you cry."

I smile as he pulls me to his lips. My nose brushes against his beard and I breathe deeply, taking in the musky, masculine scent from the sun-soaked day. I softly pull away, still smiling, still teary, and head to the doors. I look back, wanting to see his strong stance on the bike, but he's hidden just beyond the corner.

I stand in line, keeping my eyes low, crumpling the bill in my right hand and wiping my smudged mascara with my left. Eventually I edge closer to the front and meet the eyes of the young clerk. He's probably the same age as me. "Hey."

"Hey, how can I help you?"

He's cute. "Export A Full."

"Sure."

I look down at the counter, trying to avoid his lingering stare.

"Anything else?"

If I weren't in love with Virgil, I would use this opportunity to play and flirt and toy; to use my power to make him blush and think he's got a chance ... But I am in love, so all I give the teenage clerk is the fifty-dollar bill and a smile. "No, thanks."

The guy grins, blushing from such a weak display of interest and affection--he would've been so easy to tease--and I suddenly feel the sting of never straying from Virgil's strict stranglehold. Sometimes it wraps around my throat and suffocates me completely, sometimes it makes me feel weak and powerless, but I know it'll pass, I know I'll breathe again once I get back on the bike and Virgil kisses me.

I pick up the familiar green pack of cigarettes and flash the clerk another smile as I wait for the change. But as he reaches for my palm, our smiles fall. The distinctive and arguably worst sound in the world echoes outside.

One--two--three gunshots.

I drop the pack and leave the counter.

"Wait! Stop! Don't go out there!" the clerk yells, begs, but I don't listen. I crash through the doors and gasp as I turn the corner. Virgil's gun is out and his eyes are wild.

"Get on!" he growls, revving the engine.

I obey fully, unquestionably. And no sooner do my hands grip his shoulders, we're off.

My long hair billows behind me.

My heart throbs in my throat.

My thighs tighten around him.

This time I don't close my eyes. I stare back at the chaos and discover two men: one lifeless on the ground, the other one pointing a gun at us.

"He's shooting!" I yell, trying to warn Virgil. But in a moment, in a few wind-filled blinks of my frightened eyes, we're too far and too fast to be threatened--once again untouchable, once again invincible--and I release a trembling sigh of relief. I press my shaking body against him, wanting to be held and reassured that everything is going to be alright. But I'm not finding what I need.

I know I'm safe with him, I know he'll protect me, but it's hard to be confident when his breaths are ragged beneath my clutching grasp. It scares me to think he's lost his temper--he's a terrifying force to be reckoned with when he's angry--but it scares me even more to think he's lost his nerve. It takes a lot to rattle the black core within Virgil, but the unsteady huff of his chest makes me think the unprecedented has happened.

Our speed climbs higher and higher as we weave through traffic, not pausing or slowing for a moment, not even when we hit the long, tree-hidden road to the clubhouse. The night appears darker and the air feels heavier in the evergreen coverage, and I struggle to breathe. I spread my sharp nails across his chest, concentrating on my shallow gasps, as we zoom deeper into the darkness. I wish he would touch my hands--a light grazing of his fingertips is all I ask ... just something.

Our speed slows as we enter the gates and pull up to the isolated house. He cuts the engine, jerks from my grip and gets off. The silence rings in my ears. Before I'm properly off the bike he kicks out the stand, like he doesn't even see me, like I'm not even there, and makes me gracelessly stumble. Shivering from the cold and the violence and his reaction, I stare at him with stinging eyes. "Virgil?"

"What?" he snaps.

"... Are--"

"What?" he repeats when I don't speak fast enough.

"Are you hurt?"

He doesn't answer.

"Is everything okay?"

He releases an aggravated sigh as he walks past me.

"Virgil," I call.

He ignores me.

"Virgil, don't shut me out."

He stops halfway up the stairs and turns. His expression is sharp and cold, but it's his emerald green glare that slices my flesh with fear. "What did you say?"

"I just--you can tell me--you don't have to shut me out," I softly repeat.

His glare sharpens. "I can tell you what?"

I gulp down the stabbing lump in my throat. "Whatever you want, wh--whatever's on your mind."

"Where are my smokes?" he demands.

My eyes widen. "Your--I--"

"Where the fuck's my money?"

"I--I left it--the gunshots--I ran--"

"Unbelievable. I asked you to do one fucking thing!" He storms inside and slams the door.

The trees rustle around me as my stunned silence finally breaks into a cry. Tears fall as I drop to my knees.

I should've kept my mouth shut.

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# 3

I crouch on the stone steps with my face buried in my hands. I can't stop the tears so I let them drain until I'm dry. Life is vicious and volatile, and tonight was the perfect example.

I didn't recognize the men at the convenience store, partly because it happened so quickly, partly because I don't get involved in the politics of the business, and I expect it to stay that way. I'm here for Virgil and Virgil only.

Even though my dedication is focused on Virgil, tonight wasn't my first time seeing a dead body--it wasn't even my second time--but it ceases to churn my stomach any less violently. I don't believe I'll ever get used to seeing the lifeless shell of a person, but perhaps that could change. Virgil isn't fazed in the slightest, and even the newest and youngest member, Lucas, isn't bothered. Maybe one day I'll grow the protective lens that coats the crew's vision.

That is, if I'm still around. That is, if Virgil still wants me.

A rush of tears bursts forth again and I loudly sniff. I don't know what I would do without him. I hear the front door open, but I don't look back. I'm too full of shame.

"Sid? Oh, Sid, what happened?" Fleur's rough fairy voice chimes.

I'm relieved it's her. Sweet, slutty Fleur; the flower everyone has smelled. She's not beautiful, but she possesses an intense wildness that makes her attractive. It's no mystery why she's sat on the backseat of more than half the crew's motorcycles, although for the past three months she's filled the back of Luke's only.

"He's angry with me."

"What did you do?" she asks, brushing against my leg as she sits down.

I shake my head, too embarrassed and upset to explain, especially to her. Fleur is an experienced club girl, an expert at twenty, knowing how to remain perfectly silent and seductive.

She lights a half-smoked blunt and deeply inhales. "Here," she offers.

I take a short drag and pass it back.

"Well," she continues, "I'm sure he's already forgotten about it with what's going on inside."

"Are they having a meeting?"

"Yeah. Virgil's furious--but I doubt it's about you," she reassures and takes another deep drag.

"I think I know what it's about."

"Oh yeah?"

"We stopped at the gas station on the by-pass. I was inside buying him smokes when the shooting started."

Fleur's stoned eyes widen. "Shooting? What happened?"

"Virgil shot a guy."

"What?"

"Yeah, it was crazy. I ran out and got on the bike, and as we were riding away another guy was firing at us," I mumble. I know I can trust Fleur with club confessions, but discussing the event makes me feel sick rather than relieved from getting it off my chest.

"What the hell," she mutters.

"Yeah."

"Was it S-10?"

"I don't know--it happened so fast--I didn't get a good enough look."

"Who instigated?"

"I don't know."

"Shit." Her lungs expand with fret-filled smoke. "I bet it was S-10. Those fuckers need to be exterminated."

Guilt cloaks me as I realize I'm putting my fight with Virgil above the club's emergency. I press my fingertips into my scalp, troubled by my selfish emotions and reactions. "S-10 ... Are they really that bad?"

"Bug thinks so."

"What did he say about them?"

She shrugs. "Nothing specific, just that they're causing problems. They're trying to build their rep, except they're coming off as dumb, unorganized--shoot-first-ask-questions-later sort of thing."

I frown. The fact that slutty Fleur knows more about the club's concerns than I do, lover of the President, makes me feel inferior. I want to change the subject. I pinch the blunt from her neon pink fingertips and take another weak toke. "So, what's the deal, are you and Bug together?" I don't use Luke's real name around Fleur either; I doubt she'd appreciate me calling her man by a name she doesn't even use.

She smirks, easily distracted by the mention of him. "Not officially."

"Do you want it to be official?"

She tries to hide a spreading smile. "I don't know. It would be nice, I guess, but I'm trying not to label it--labels get messy, they peel and fade. It is what it is, and I'm going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts."

Life is vicious and volatile and you have to enjoy what you can while it's there.

"You guys make a cute couple," I eventually say. It's the truth--they're a tattooed Ken and habitually high Barbie--but my voice cracks with sadness as I think of Virgil's angry glare. I should've kept my mouth shut. And I should've grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the counter. I mean, how difficult would it have been to just take them and run? How difficult would it have been to not push and question him?

"Sid," she sighs, "whatever happened with Virgil couldn't have been that bad. You guys will sort it out. Every couple fights, it's just a little more intense with these guys. You know that."

I do know that. Despite it all, I need to remember that tonight could've ended much worse; if Virgil wasn't so quick with his gun, he might've been the one dead on the ground. "You're right," I conclude. "... And I'm happy for you and Bug."

"Thanks," she responds, diminishing the blunt to nothing but ash. "It's nice to have someone."

We sit outside for another fifteen minutes or so, mostly silent, mostly star gazing, while Fleur smokes a cigarette and I think about how I'm going to make it up to Virgil, before heading in.

The meeting room door remains closed and its soundproof walls keep us clueless to their discussions and decisions. Sometimes Fleur and I have been abandoned for hours as we wait for our men, and I can't imagine this meeting to be short.

Fleur cracks two beers and passes me a bottle as we stand at the kitchen bar. "So ..." she begins, taking a swig, "you went to school with Bug, right?"

"Yeah." The crew, including Virgil, knows we went to school together, and it's true, but they don't know we were neighbours for a couple of years too.

"Were you guys friends?"

I shrug, like I always do, displaying indifference. "Not really."

"Oh." She swigs again. "Did you two date?"

I know she's really asking if we ever fucked. She's probably been thinking about it ever since she started to grow real feelings for him. As a girl, especially a crew girl, she should know better than to ask such hurtful questions. "No."

"Really?"

"We didn't even talk in school." It's true, we didn't talk in school ... but we did talk.

Her shoulders relax, like she's been holding her breath, and smiles for a moment before her slightly red eyes crease with confusion. "But didn't Bug introduce you to Virgil?"

"Um, I guess, yeah, unofficially."

"What do you mean?"

I take a sip of the beer, choosing my words. "Uh, I bumped into Bug at a bar. I recognized him, so I went to say hi, to see if he remembered me, and he happened to be with Virgil."

"And? Did he remember you?"

I take another sip of beer. "Not really. He was a grade higher, plus it'd been, like, two years since we saw each other."

"Oh." She rapidly blinks, reading me. "So, was it love at first sight?"

"What?"

"With Virgil. Did you know he was the man for you?"

"Oh," I gulp, "yes. Instantly."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Shit, I wish I could be that sure about something. I've never been sure about anything in my life."

"It's easy to be sure with Virgil. There's something about him."

She chuckles. "Yeah, there's something alright."

I try to smile, but I'm too upset.

The meeting doors suddenly slam open, and I jolt and almost knock over my beer. The guys emerge and I immediately find Virgil. I expect to see the cruel expression I witnessed earlier, but discover a playful grin instead. He's not grinning at me though, he's simply mirroring the lively expressions of the other members. The crew exits the room, hooting and hollering, seeming ready to party, and Fleur and I glance at each other, surprised. She lets out an excited howl and joins the excitement as someone turns on music.

She leaves me all alone at the kitchen bar, and so does Virgil. My eyes skitter across the room, following him as he chums with the guys and lights a cigarette. I secretly stare at him, trying to decipher if his suddenly carefree demeanor is an act. It doesn't look like one ...

Perhaps I was worried for nothing.

Yes, Virgil shot a guy, but maybe it didn't mean anything.

Perhaps I was overreacting.

Yes, and that's why he got angry at my dramatic, selfish reaction.

I drain my beer and grab another just for something to do, something to appear busy and not alone. The crew always sees us kissing and touching, and I feel like our audience is going to be disappointed or, worse, start doubting our relationship. I begin to wilt. They can't question our love. I want to apologize, but I don't dare approach him; Virgil wouldn't hesitate to yell at me in front of everyone, and I could not handle such disgrace. That type of humiliation would destroy and strip me of my beauty and power, taking away everything I hold highly, everything I have to offer.

Just as my eyes begin to sting with tears, Virgil approaches. My heart flutters, partly panicked, partly thrilled, and I lower my tear-clumped lashes. He steps closer, slowly pulls the beer from my hand and takes a sip. I can feel his emerald stare on my skin.

"You've been crying."

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and shrug.

"Sid, you know I like it when you cry."

I frown and meet his studying stare. He grins, creasing the skin around his eyes, and I can't help but smirk.

"Is that why you're doing it? Hmm? You want to make me happy?"

My smile widens.

"No, don't do that. I want tears, Sid. You know I like tears."

"You're so sick," I playfully whisper.

A gasp whistles between his teeth. "Sid ... you know I like it even more when you talk dirty."

I giggle, girly and shy, but most of all happy. Things are going to be okay.

"Say it again."

I side-smirk. "Why?"

"You know why."

I giggle again.

"Say it."

"... No," I tease.

He steps closer. "I said say it."

I playfully bat my lashes and bite my lip before giving in. "You're sick."

"Again," he demands.

I shake my head.

His grin fades. "Again."

I gulp. His eyes are intense. "You're sick."

Virgil grabs my waist and pulls me against him, but this time it's not only his belt buckle that's hard. "Again."

I can smell his smoky skin. "You're sick," I repeat, lower, slower.

"Again."

"You're. Sick."

And then he kisses me, firmly, hungrily, not caring who's crowded around or watching. We slam into the fridge and he grabs my breasts, scratching my neck with his beard as he kisses my throat. My eyes wander for a moment--just a moment, nothing more, nothing significant--but in that moment I lock eyes with Luke. He's across the room, leaning on the back of the couch, draining his beer as Fleur dances against him. His hard stare penetrates me and I look away. I look away because I can't handle it. I look away because I shouldn't be looking at Luke.

I look away because I know he won't.

I grab Virgil's calloused hands, push away from the fridge and lead him to one of the bedrooms. I shut the door, unbuckle his pants and, for the second time this evening, I drop to my knees.

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# 4

The party died just before six, as the moon was setting and the sun was rising.

After re-solidifying our relationship for half an hour, my knees were sore and my lipstick was smudged across my face, but we returned to the crew and the alcohol. Virgil was playful and lively after I swallowed his satisfaction, and I stayed by his side all night--softly laughing, listening, drinking and, most importantly, keeping my mouth shut. I was good. He caressed my back and my thighs as he joked and yelled with his deep, husky voice, making me forget our troubles.

Virgil and Sidonie forever.

The crew eventually scattered, passing out or continuing the fun in a bedroom, but not one of them left the house. There are enough rooms to sleep twelve, but there's only one master bedroom, and Virgil always gets it because he's the master and everyone knows it.

When he stumbled to bed he had that intoxicated, aroused look in his eye--part beast, part zombie--and my apprehension soared. But not even a moment after lying down, he started to snore. I sighed a breath of relief and closed the door.

It's not that I don't enjoy having sex, it's that I enjoy not having sex more. Virgil and I have had sex, but not nearly as many times as I've given him head. If I'd have to reveal a number, it's likely ten to one ... and it'll remain that way. Virgil has never complained about receiving too much oral sex, and he's never asked me why we don't have much of any other kind, but sometimes he gets that insatiable gleam in his eye where it's clear he doesn't want my mouth ... he wants more, he wants it all. When that happens, I ensure I'm on top.

Sex, even consensual sex, is all about power and control, and when you're being penetrated--when someone is poking and prodding and stabbing you--you don't have much. At least, it doesn't feel that way. Though it hurts my jaw and I hate the taste of his protein-impregnated cum, I'm in control of how fast, how hard and how deep.

I'm attracted to a man with power and I'm in awe of the power that Virgil wields, but in the bedroom it terrifies me. And even more terrifying in the bedroom is Virgil when he's drunk. He's disagreeable, sloppy and incapable of listening. He prefers to do me from behind, pulling my hair as he roughly humps, like I'm a galloping horse leading him to orgasm.

But neither my flesh nor my mouth were needed tonight.

I had only three beers after our private love session, much less than anyone else, especially Virgil, but now I wish I hadn't been excessively wary of his sexual intentions. I should've known they'd fall through and drank more to help me sleep through his incessant snores. But here I am, wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

Whenever I can't sleep I feel like a fraud and a failure to my name.

I sit up and swing my legs from under the covers, irritated. Despite the small amount of alcohol I consumed, my stomach churns with frothy bubbles. I creep across the bedroom, close the door behind me and head downstairs. The house is dead quiet, making it hard to believe there are ten men and a dozen women sleeping off their sins.

As I waft, silent and feathery, down the dim hallway, I notice the meeting room door is open a crack. I stop, surprised. The only time I ever see it open is when the crew walks in or out. I step closer, suspicious. My fingers press against the door and I peek inside. It's dark and empty and smells of stale smoke. No longer suspicious, only curious, I push the door open a little more. I've never been inside before--I'm not allowed; no one but members--and a rush of adrenaline tingles up my spine as I step into the forbidden space.

My eyes ignore the dark and the shadows as they eagerly soak in the details. A large black table catches my attention first. Its glossy coat reflects the soft sunlight peeking through the shutters and accentuates the Black Wings' insignia that adorns the vest and sleeves and tattoos of its members: a beautifully detailed moth with two switchblades crossed behind. Beneath it is the club motto: Swarm the light, burn for the dark.

I stand before the head chair, realizing Virgil must sit here, all eyes on him, all ears perked and listening to his opinions and decisions. I can practically feel the power emanate from the leather.

Lost in my swirling thoughts and intrigues, the warning comes late, the warning that someone is in the room, the warning that someone is standing directly behind me. A large hand wraps around my mouth.

"Don't scream."

My panicked moan is muffled.

"I said don't scream. It's me."

Tensed, I quickly nod and he releases me. I spin around and find Lucas standing in the darkness. "You scared me," I whisper, slightly relieved but not any less calm.

"What are you doing in here?"

I gulp, realizing I've been caught breaking a big rule. "I--the--the door was left open--"

"You know better than that, Sid."

Do I? Today I'm not so sure. "What are you doing up so early?" I ask, changing the subject. He and Fleur were the first to head to bed, but that was only three hours ago.

"Couldn't sleep."

I cross my arms. "Me neither."

There's a thick, uncomfortable silence between us and I suddenly wonder if he's going to tell Virgil that I was in here. Even if the black shutters weren't blocking out most of the light, Lucas's face is impossible to read. I don't know his intentions. I never have. The silence continues as he stares at me and, like always, I turn away.

"We should leave," he announces.

I don't argue. Luke locks the door with a key and puts it in his pocket. My heart drums as I quietly walk away, but as I head to the kitchen I glance back to discover that he isn't returning to the bedroom and Fleur, he's following me. His hazel eyes catch the sunlight as we move closer to the windows. Is he spying on me? Checking on what I'm getting up to next?

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

I nod, uncomfortable.

He opens the fridge, pulls out a leftover pizza and two beers. "We'll sit out back," he says.

I nod again, even more uncomfortable. Luke and I are alone. We're never alone. I doubt Virgil and Fleur would be pleased by this situation, and I consider heading back to the bedroom. But the thought of lying there, listening to Virgil's wheezing snores, and staring at the ceiling, awake, failing to be beautiful and asleep, makes me cringe. I glance at Luke again ... This time the moth on his throat pulls my focus, and I watch as its body moves as he swallows. It really is beautiful.

We meet the brisk morning air and the tall trees and the dewy grass, all of them glistening, all of them wanting to warm in the rising autumn rays. They won't though. Their time is fading. The warmth is dying, and soon the flowers and the leaves will too. I'm going to miss the summer sun.

Luke leads the way, walking us across the cold blades to a table near the barbeque pit. There's no concern of waking anyone this far from the house, and it makes me wonder why he's led me all the way out here. "Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to tell Virgil?"

He slows to meet my pace. "No."

I'm grateful, but I don't understand; he has every right to tell Virgil, and tough love is the tendency in which situations are handled for everyone, no exceptions. "Why not?"

"I don't want you to get in trouble."

"... You don't have to do that for me."

"I want to."

I smile, but he doesn't smile back. He never smiles.

We sit at the table and begin to eat. "So, how are you?" he asks after a few mouthfuls.

How are you? It's a simple question with a complicated answer. I don't know why he's asking. "I'm fine."

He frowns. "Really?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just, with what happened at the gas station ..."

"Oh." I shrug, void of a different answer. "Yeah, I'm fine, I guess."

He stares at me, then lowers his eyes and takes a bite.

"I'm just happy Virgil wasn't injured," I continue.

"You didn't see what happened, did you?"

A pang of guilt shimmies through me; I was wishing I could flirt with the cute clerk while Virgil was facing trouble. "No. I ran out the store when I heard the shots."

"Did you see the guy?"

"Not really. It happened so fast."

"It was S-10."

"I don't know."

"I'm not asking, I'm telling you it was S-10."

"Oh." So Fleur was right.

"Do you know what that means?"

My eyes crease, uncertain how to respond.

"Virgil doesn't tell you much, does he?"

"Not as much as you tell Fleur," I answer, keeping my tone flat, knowing I'm pushing a boundary.

He pauses, studying me, then sips his beer. "I tell Fleur information that will keep her safe, warnings for her to stay far from S-10 members because they're violent and thoughtless."

His explanation stings me. I clear my throat. "I'm sure if there were any real concern, Virgil would tell me."

"You could've been killed tonight."

The thought never crossed my mind, but I suppose it could be true. "... I'm fine."

"For now."

"I can handle it."

"Sid, you have no idea ..." He shakes his head as his voice fades.

I straighten my slouch. "I can handle whatever Virgil can handle, and that's anything and everything."

"Sid--"

"We can handle it."

"He killed one of their top members."

My breath hitches. I'm not accustomed to hearing dirty business details, but I know that's about as bad as it can get. Virgil shot a guy and, despite the party and his carefree demeanor, it did matter. "Have you told Fleur?"

He pauses. "No."

It shouldn't have been my immediate response, but for some reason it came out. "Oh."

"But I will. You needed to know first."

"Well," I fumble over my words, my thoughts, "what's going to happen?"

"Revenge. They're going to come after him and whoever gets in their way."

The cool morning air raises the hair on my arms. "But that's not fair. He was in trouble. He had to shoot."

"Did he?"

My eyes narrow as my fear is cast aside by defense. "He's not stupid, Luke."

"I didn't say he was stupid."

"You're implying he shot that member and put the club in danger on purpose."

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"Then don't assume and don't accuse."

"I didn't--I didn't mean to." The moth jumps as he swallows hard. "I'm just concerned."

"The club will be fine. You guys are strong, you're warriors."

"It's not the club I'm concerned about, it's you."

My shoulders stiffen with discomfort. I don't want him to be concerned about me. It reminds me of the past, of a time when Luke's concern saved me from something I want to forget. Usually I can bury it deep down in a dark place, but sometimes Luke acts as a flame, illuminating the ugly memory that shouldn't be seen. "Well, don't be. I'm not weak."

"I don't think you're--"

"Virgil will protect me," I continue, cutting him off, looking down at the grains in the wood table.

"Sid--"

"He could've easily left me at the station, you know, but he didn't."

"I wasn't saying--"

I can't stop. "He waited for me and almost got himself killed."

"Sid--"

"He's obviously not worried about what happened because he knows his strength. And he's confident that he can protect himself and me."

"I'm not saying that you're weak or that Virgil can't protect you," he exclaims, roughly pushing back his long hair.

I look up at him, surprised and silenced by the force in his voice.

He sighs. "I'm just--I'm trying to say he's not the only one who can protect you."

My expression sours. I'm insulted on behalf of Virgil. "Yes, he is."

"No, he's not. I--"

"Virgil is the only one I need," I say, cutting him off.

His expression hardens. "Fine."

I get up and storm off, leaving Bug with the feeble sun and the dying earth. Then I head into the house, back to Virgil's shattering snores, and slip a sleeping pill in my mouth.

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# 5

The three following days continue as though nothing out of the ordinary happened--as though Virgil didn't kill a high-ranking S-10 member, as though we never argued, as though S-10 isn't plotting their revenge.

If anything, the crew is soaring higher, rebellious and confident after the party. Virgil's quick and ruthless actions are celebrated and act as a reminder that S-10 can do their worst, their absolute best and bloodiest, and it will be laughable. They tried to kill the President and lost one of their own. They're no match against the Black Wings, they're no match against Virgil, and they never will be. The Black Wings is an army that has lived through wars whereas S-10 is nothing more than a bunch of drugged, tantrum-stricken children with guns.

Take away an S-10's gun and the threat shrinks.

Take away a Black Wings' gun and the threat surges.

I don't feel afraid, although the peculiar morning with Lucas hasn't left my mind. Even though Virgil hasn't said anything about that night or S-10--no information, no warning--I have been more aware of my surroundings when leaving the impenetrable clubhouse. S-10 members are difficult to identify; they don't ride motorcycles or adorn their clothing with leather vests and large patches. As far as I know, their only trademark is a red snake that marks the back of their jackets. And though I've been searching, I've yet to find a sign. I figure I'll call Virgil if I see a member, but so far I haven't been able to help.

I say help but I'm uncertain if that's what I would be doing. If I do see a member and call Virgil, what would happen? Would he yell at me for getting involved in club business? Would he question how and why I know they're on bad terms with S-10? Or would he blaze to my location, enraged with vengeance, and kill the faceless member, solidifying the Black Wings' reputation and ending the battle before it even begins? Most importantly, would he be pleased with me? Something tells me he wouldn't, despite my helpful intention.

Maybe I should call Lucas if I see a member ...

I shake my head, feeling like that's a betrayal to Virgil. Besides, Luke and I aren't exactly on speaking terms--not that we ever were, but it's even worse now.

I suppose I'll worry about it if and when I actually see an S-10 member, and I doubt I'll see one today. The likelihood of seeing a member at the nail salon is small, especially in a forgotten mini-mall many towns over, although, as I'm daydreaming and worrying, my attention continues to wander out the front window.

I've visited Cassy's Nails since the age of sixteen, using this unglamorous salon as a sanctuary and a hiding place from my aunt's boyfriend. I wanted claws, sharp and strong, in case he ever came into my bedroom, but by that point Neil was too terrified to touch me. My hard, gelled points were never used as a weapon, though I've continued to get them ever since.

"What color?" she asks me. The nail technicians are always different--another reason why I like this place: I remain a stranger. There's nothing but insignificant chatter or, like today, no chatter at all.

"Black."

"Don't you want something lighter? We've got lots of pink and--"

"No." Virgil likes me to have black nails. He says it looks dangerous and sexy.

"Alright. Black it is."

I glance out the front window again. The parking lot is practically deserted, leaving me with nothing to focus on other than my unravelling thoughts.

I saw Fleur a few times at the clubhouse, but I didn't speak to her. I didn't want to. I regret talking to her after my fight with Virgil--I always regret talking to her--because she acts like she knows what she's talking about, like just because she's been around longer than I have she has the right to give me advice, like she can compare her shallow relationship with Bug to my complex relationship with Virgil. But she knows nothing.

A car pulls into the lot and parks, but no one exits. I stare at it, grateful for the trivial distraction. Not ten seconds later a cab pulls into the lot and stops next to the car. As the passenger emerges, my body jolts with surprise.

"Oh!" the technician tuts. "You've smudged it. You can't move."

"Sorry," I murmur as she cleans the paint off my cuticle.

I struggle not to squirm as I strain my neck, double and triple checking that it is in fact Lucas who stepped out of the cab--though my double and triple checking is pointless; Luke's appearance is too unique to mistake: long, brown hair, intensely pale eyes and, most identifiable of all, the dark tattoo on his neck. It's him alright, however he's not wearing his B. W. vest. He glances to his left and right, opens the parked car door and ducks inside. The engine starts, then the car reverses and pulls onto the road.

"All done," the woman says, but the car is long gone.

I'm stunned, I'm confused. Luke got into a random car in a random parking lot and he wasn't wearing his vest. Out of the few details I know about the club, wearing the vest while conducting business is required; it's a form of branding and intimidation, and they don't take the rule lightly.

What did I just witness?

I'm afraid to even think it.

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# 6

I stare into my heavily accentuated eyes for only a moment before looking away. I reapply my frosty lip gloss, rake a brush through my hair, watching as the strands spring back to their heat-manipulated waves, and spritz Virgil's favorite perfume across my cleavage. It smells sweet and smoky, like a bouquet of roses tossed onto a wood fire. He loves it so much he won't let me wear anything else.

I look into the mirror again and find Virgil's relaxed body on the bed behind me. He chuckles at something playing on the television and I smile. The simple fact that I'm able to love someone this much, that I've found someone to love this much, is a blessing. And to know I'm loved in return, that he loves me so much that he would put his life in danger, makes me the luckiest girl in the world. I shift my body on the stool and face Virgil.

"How did I get so lucky?" I ask him, but he doesn't hear my affectionate question over the television audience.

Sometimes I wish we didn't have to leave his house. Sure, it's smaller and less luxurious than the clubhouse, but there's no crowd, no random sluts walking the halls in a member's baggy t-shirt, and no room in which I'm restricted to enter. The memory of that morning suddenly floods forth again ... Bug has kept his word; he hasn't told Virgil of my foolish curiosity. Yet. I don't know if he'll keep his word. I don't know Luke's intentions. I never have.

It's been four days since he caught me in the forbidden meeting room, four days since our brief, broken breakfast, four days since I spoke to him. But it's been only one day since I saw him. I haven't mentioned the vest-less sighting to anyone, not to Virgil, not even to Fleur. I'm not withholding information ... I'm not holding anything. The bottom line, the final line, the only line I must never cross, is that club business is none of my business; I'm not a member, I will never be a member and it would be wise to remember that. What Bug was up to yesterday is between him, the man in the car and the Black Wings, regardless of what I stumble upon or accidentally witness.

It's exactly like the shooting at the gas station: it doesn't involve me so why should I know more? Why should it be explained? Fleur doesn't go around asking the guys questions--not that she needs to; it seems Luke tells her enough to extinguish any burning curiosity. But he shouldn't. She doesn't need to know. She's not a member either.

I thought about telling Virgil about seeing Lucas without his vest, but after another restless night of staring at the dark ceiling, contemplating, I began questioning how it would make me look. It would come across as tattling--tattling about something I shouldn't know. And if I can so easily make assumptions, involve myself in forbidden areas of this world and open my mouth so flagrantly, then what's to stop me from doing it again? Tightly sewn lips are worth more than anything.

The few secrets I occasionally share with Fleur hold no value in regard to the club, but now that I know of the open communication between her and Bug, I'll limit what I tell her. I huff, irritated and embarrassed, knowing she must have told Bug about the little argument I had with Virgil the other night. I hate Fleur.

There's no denying it, the argument was my fault. I swear, upholding the code of seduction and silence required by these dangerous men comes naturally to me, I was simply shaken by the shooting. I've never been one to speak up or out, snitch or express, even when I could've, guiltlessly and rightfully so, and probably should've. But I didn't, because even at fifteen I understood that nothing good comes from tattling. If I had snitched on my aunt's boyfriend, it would've been a complicated mess and I would've had to move. I didn't want to move again, I didn't want to be placed back in the system with a foster family, and I didn't want to start over and be someone new. Each time I moved and began a new school and lived in a different neighbourhood it was harder to introduce myself, for I didn't know who it was that I was introducing. I never had the chance to develop roots. So at fifteen, when I finally got the chance to find my footing on the hard ground of East Vancouver, I decided nothing would make me leave. Not even Neil.

The six months before the incident were the hardest. There were a lot of innuendoes, a lot of touching and a lot of uncomfortable fear. My breasts were fully developed, my period had disrupted my life for two years and my height deceived strangers into thinking I was older. I've dealt with stares and I've been aware, sometimes wary, since age eleven, but at that stage I had never dealt with such aggressive, audacious lust. Neil never made his disgraceful desire a secret, except to my aunt.

Sheila had stepped forward, finally, and agreed to take me in on a trial basis. I was in my newest home with my newest guardians, washing dishes in the kitchen with a queasiness in my gut when it started. Sheila had gone upstairs to shower and Neil--plain-looking, socially-placid Neil--stood behind me, against me, smelling my hair, and whispering in my ear about how he was going to think of me when he fucked my aunt.

I stared at the butcher knife partially hidden by bubbles in the sink, thinking and believing I could kill him, believing and wanting to kill him. Unfortunately, that delusion quickly dissolved as his unfair male strength became apparent. I've always cursed the designer who decided that the sex with the weapon should also be the sex with the unmatchable physical strength. The grip in which he imprisoned my wrists was terrifying and incapacitating. Immediately I knew I would never win, even with a knife or a bat, or whatever object I could find to fight back. Immediately I knew I would never win no matter how hard I tried.

Not only was Neil strong, he was also crafty with his seduction. My aunt had no idea what was going on and I'm certain she remains ignorant to the wolf in sheep's clothing that she lies next to every night. In fact, I think she's married to that wolf now. I resent her obliviousness, her fucking blind stupidity, but I pity her more. However, the weekend she left to attend her cousin's funeral I hated her. I hated her. And I still hate her. A hate that severe doesn't fade, even after all these years. I asked if I could go with her--it's our family after all--but she said no, she said I had no reason to attend since I'd never met him ... Now that I think of it, maybe she did know that her boyfriend wanted to fuck me. Maybe she was jealous. Maybe she wanted to punish me. For what other reason would she leave me alone with him? Did she not find it peculiar and suspicious that he refused to attend the funeral of her family member, making a lame excuse of having extra work for an upcoming presentation?

She left me alone with him for three days.

This is the only instance in which my beauty betrayed me and made me powerless. This is the only occasion I had to use sex as a tool--a tool to not have my throat sliced open at four o'clock on a Friday afternoon.

Naively I thought I could avoid Neil before he got home from work--grab a backpack with a few items so I could sleep over at Kelly's, a girl I barely knew but was my only friend at the new school--but he was waiting for me. It was our first chance to be completely alone and he wasn't going to waste it.

It was a week before my sixteenth birthday and, while Neil pinned me down in the kitchen, where it all began, he explained how this was my real present. I struggled and I kicked, I pushed and I screamed, but it was useless. And when he reached for the knife and clenched it in his fist--the knife with which I'd fantasized killing him--I went limp. The fight was over because I didn't want to die. As he ripped his way inside I watched his deceivingly handsome face turn red with exertion. But soon tears welled in my eyes and his sadistic expression blurred, leaving me blind to everything but the pain. It swelled around the edges of my vision, black and red throbbing clouds, with a magical twinkling of little white stars.

And then Neil stopped.

And the pain slightly lessened as his weapon shrank and withdrew. I thought it was over, and in a way it was, but it wasn't because he had finished. It was over because of the elusive boy at school with the fresh tattoo on his neck, it was because of the mysterious neighbour who came and went at all hours of the night with parents who were too drunk to care, it was because of Luke. I wiped my eyes and covered my exposed legs as Neil stiffly raised his hands. Luke was holding a gun to Neil's temple. He'd heard me scream--he'd been in the right place at the right time--as he was leaving his house and walking past our kitchen window.

"Get away from her," Luke spat. He was still scrawny at seventeen, but there was such rage and defiance in his eyes that he didn't need to have the intimidating build he has now.

"Now, Lucas, I don't know what you think you're doing, but you're making a very big mistake," Neil stuttered, struggling to have authority over the gun-wielding teen.

Luke looked at me. "Are you okay?" he asked, and I weakly nodded.

"Lucas, think about what you're doing. You're going to be in a lot of trouble!"

"Don't fucking tempt me," he threatened, tilting Neil's head with the gun.

"You--you wouldn't dare."

He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked Neil's head back. "Do you see this?" he yelled, tapping the gun at the iconic black moth on his neck. "Do you know what this fucking means?"

Neil shook his head despite the fact that he knew. Everyone knew.

"If you touch her again, we'll feed you to the pigs."

It was clear and simple, but Neil refused to understand. "You--you don't expect me to believe you're actually a member."

Luke's expression was murderous. "Should I get them to convince you?" he threatened.

Neil's skin paled even more as he shook his head, almost whimpering with fear. Luke wasn't a member yet, only a promising prospect, but it didn't matter. He held palpable, persuasive power.

Lucas helped me up and we left and--

Virgil loudly laughs, shattering the horrid memory. I blink my stinging eyes and realize I've been sitting on the stool, entranced and ignored. I gently shoo the frog in my throat and look down at my sharp nails. I hate revisiting that day, but the concerning breakfast with Bug has resurfaced the incident. He's not the only one who can protect you: an unwelcomed reminder of how he's saved me before and could save me again. I should be more grateful, more thankful--and deep down I am--but on the surface it makes me feel feeble. Useless. Weak.

Virgil picks up the remote and starts flicking through the channels. "Baby, what do you want to do tonight?" I ask, using the opportunity to get his attention between shows.

"I've gotta go to the club."

"Oh, I didn't know." I pause, disappointed. "What about after? I could cook us a late dinner."

"I'm going out with the boys," he says and slowly sits up. "What time is it?"

"Eight forty-five," I answer with a pout.

"Shit, we should get going," he murmurs as he stands and runs his ringed fingers through his hair.

At least he said we. "I wish we didn't have to," I yearn, holding up his smoky leather vest.

"We're just meeting there. Zilla's bitching about leaving his lighter in the clubroom, so I've gotta open it for him."

I frown, confused. "Why do you have to open it?"

He slips on the leather vest. "What?"

"Why can't someone else open the clubroom so you can spend more time with me?" I question, playful.

He adjusts his collar and grabs his wallet from the nightstand. "Because I'm the only one with a key."

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# 7

Our short drive to the clubhouse was filled with Black Sabbath and silence. I no longer believe I hold insignificant information, but what am I supposed to do? Tell Virgil I found Bug with a key while I was sneaking around the clubroom? It may matter more that a non-member crossed the threshold than it does that another member has a key. Virgil would be furious that I disobeyed him.

I suppose I could lie, I could tell him I saw Bug exit the room, I could tell him I didn't enter it at all. But what if he asks me why I waited four days to tell him?

Nothing good comes from snitching.

I can only hope that Bug keeps his word and keeps our secret.

We pull up to the clubhouse and park in the crowd of flashy cars and shiny bikes. Virgil gets out, lights a cigarette and grabs his crotch as he walks ahead of me. The moon peeks through the clouds for a moment, and I look around as the pale light illuminates the wet road and the droplets clinging to the windows. The night should appear magical, sparkling, instead it looks harsh and eerie. I rub my arms as I follow Virgil's smoke clouds into the house.

Boisterous bellows meet my ears and, though I know I would never hear him laugh loudly like the others, my ears perk for a sign of Luke. I don't hear him, but when I walk into the main room our eyes find each other. As usual, I'm the one to break the connection.

"Zil," Virgil yells, "let's go get your damn lighter, you silly son of a bitch!" he beckons, grabbing the back of Zilla's neck as they walk off to the locked meeting room.

My eyes find Lucas again, but he's no longer staring at me, he's watching Virgil instead. Fleur carries two beers from the kitchen and passes one to Bug. She presses her body against him and smiles. She looks so happy, so in love, and I feel like an intruder as I continue to stare. A disturbed frown creases my face, but I can't look away. Fleur: what a complete and utter whore.

"You okay, girly?" a gruff voice asks.

I soften my expression as I meet the bloated, alcohol-abused face of Bowie. He's a few years older than Virgil--around forty-five, around a hundred pounds heavier too--and has the self-appointed authority to talk to me when Virgil's not around. It's not that I'm not allowed to talk to the other members, or vice versa, it's just that Virgil prefers to be present when it happens. He understands the power of my beauty, he knows how it affects people--how it affects men--and he needs to be there to protect me. His reasoning makes sense and I respect it, however it's one of the main reasons why Luke and I rarely talk, let alone have a private breakfast together. And it's one of the main reasons why it'll be difficult to speak with him again.

Although ... I may get a chance tonight if we all go to a bar; we could sneak off when Virgil gets really drunk. I'm not entirely sure what I'll ask Luke or how I'll approach the topic of the keys, but I think it's necessary to find out how powerful this secret is.

"I'm fine," I reply.

"You look like you've got a lot on your mind," Bowie continues. His concerned comment isn't sincere, it's just chatter.

"Really? No one's ever said that to me before."

He stares at me, stunned, then loudly laughs. My answer is meant to be taken as a joke, but it's not far from the truth. No one expects comedy or quirkiness, opinion or intelligence, when I open my mouth, not even myself.

"Well, you're in luck then, girly. I've got the perfect cure for a troubled mind." He chuckles and ushers me to the kitchen with a clammy hand on my lower back. His unwarranted touch surprises me, betraying my placid expression, and gains the attention of Bug and Fleur. They follow us to the kitchen and Fleur giggles, raising her half-drained beer.

"Happy birthday, Bowie!" she happily cheers.

"Yeah, happy birthday, Bow," Bug says and takes a sip.

My focus returns to Bowie's glassy gaze. Virgil didn't tell me they were celebrating tonight. "Happy birthday," I softly repeat with a small smile.

"What are your guys' plans?" Fleur questions, looking with longing at Bug. His eyes flicker to me, but I look away.

"I'm the birthday boy," Bowie snickers, "and I'll be damned if I don't get a fucking lap dance on my fucking birthday!"

"I guess that means you guys are going to a strip club," Fleur says. Despite her carefree grin, I sense her disappointment and dread.

"If that's what the birthday boy wants," Bug mumbles and sips his beer.

It hits me then that Fleur and I aren't invited. No girls allowed--not unless you're wrapping your naked body around a pole--which means I won't get a moment alone with Luke.

Virgil howls as he walks over. "This mother fucker's old!" he shouts and puts his arm around Bowie.

Everyone hollers and laughs, everyone except for Bug and me. I catch myself and force a light giggle, but Luke remains serious as usual.

"What are we gonna do to this old ass?"

Bowie laughs, practically bursting with excitement. "Do your worst!"

"How about we start with a toast," Virgil replies and everyone raises their drink. "To a great man and an even greater brother to this crew. Your birthday last year was one hell of a party, for those who can remember it, and I'm sure tonight won't disappoint. Happy birthday, brother!"

The crew cheers and our bottles clank together again. My dread and disappointment suddenly match Fleur's as I notice the bubbling energy emanating from Virgil. He has a wild gleam in his green eyes; mischievous and itchy. They're not going to stick around the clubhouse for much longer. I really wish I could've stayed at Virgil's. Now I'll have to spend the night with Fleur and sleep alone in the master bedroom.

"Baby, could I talk to you real quick?" I ask, faking a flirtatious smile.

Virgil hesitates before accepting, and I gently lead him down the hallway, ensuring to appear playful not only to him but to our incessant audience. Once we have privacy, I turn to face him.

"What is it? We're about to leave," he demands when I don't immediately explain.

"Virgil, do I have to stay here?"

He frowns. "As opposed to where?"

"Your place."

"I thought you'd want some company," he gruffly replies, referring to Fleur.

I lightly shrug. "Could I stay at your place?"

Virgil groans, instantly frustrated. "I don't give a fuck if you and Fleur are fighting, you're staying here."

"It's not that. I want to spend the night with you."

"Jesus. Can I have one night without you? Can I have an inch of fucking space? Is that too much to ask?"

My eyes sting from his harsh words. "I'm sorry," I reply. "I'm sorry."

"I don't have time for this." He turns and walks away.

"Virgil," I call, but he's too furious to hear any more. I don't follow him.

"Drink up!" he announces. "We're leaving!"

There's rustling and eagerness as I lean against the wall and stare at the floor. How did this happen again? How did we get into another argument? I didn't think I overstepped my mark, but then again I've never asked to stay at his house without him there. I know he's private about his space, but I didn't see harm in inquiring.

I should've kept my mouth shut. When will I learn? It's not that difficult.

The crew storms past me, buzzed and buzzing, giving me civil goodbyes as I curl my pink lips into an easy-going smile. Virgil doesn't say another word. He doesn't even look at me. I watch him walk into the harsh and eerie night, realizing I won't see him until the sun rises, realizing I'm all alone ... And that's when I feel a large hand on my shoulder. Surprised, I lightly jolt and turn, expecting to meet the intoxicated stare of Bowie. But it's not him.

It's Lucas.

His hand leaves my shoulder and tucks a strand of hair behind my left ear. He stares into my eyes for a moment, like he wants to tell me something, then walks out the door and slams it shut.

I glance up and down the hallway, searching for witnesses, but I'm alone. I've dealt with the odd shoulder pat or back touch, like Bowie's earlier guiding hand to the kitchen, but Luke has never touched me at all, let alone like that. I can't imagine Virgil's reaction if he saw it.

I stagger back to the kitchen and find Fleur in front of the open fridge. She slams the door, another beer in hand, and huffs as she notices me. "This is fucking bullshit!" she complains.

I tense up. Maybe she saw the oddly intimate caress--

"We have to stay here while they go to a fucking strip club?" she interrupts my paranoia.

I relax a little--very little--and nod.

"Why can't we go? It's not like we haven't seen tits before."

"I guess we'd kill the mood," I quietly reply.

"Good! I don't want some glitter-soaked toonie-whore grinding her ass on Bug. You're damn right I'd kill the mood!"

I know I decided to stop revealing my relationship details to Fleur, but something in me wants to calm her and make her feel better--maybe it's guilt from the delicate moment I just shared with Luke. "At least you didn't get into a fight with him right before he went to a strip club."

Her thin eyebrows rise with recognition. "Oh no, Sid," she says.

"Yeah."

"What happened this time?"

Something about her reply irks me. "This time?" I repeat.

"Yeah, what happened this time?"

"You make it sound like it's a regular thing."

She frowns. "It is a regular thing."

"No, it's not," I indignantly shoot back.

"Yeah, it is."

"Why are you saying that? We rarely fight."

She scoffs, angering me. "You guys are always fighting!"

"No, we're not!"

She pauses. "Sid, I'm not saying this to just piss you off. It's the truth."

"We rarely fight," I repeat, less confident.

"I'm just saying it like it is. Every time I see you there's something wrong." She shrugs and sips her beer as though she's not responsible for her ugly words however truthful they may be. She sighs. "Look, I don't mean to be harsh. It's just been a rough few days. I don't sleep well when Bug's gone. And just my luck, he gets back and there's a fucking party."

The topic of Bug usually perks my ears, but this time it jolts my entire body. "He just got back? Back from where?"

She pulls zig-zags from the kitchen drawer and a weathered Altoids tin from her purse. "He did a border run," she says, her attention suddenly preoccupied.

"A border run?"

She moistens the paper with her tongue. "Yeah, you know, he did business with the Seattle chapter. He always has to do it."

"He does?"

"Yeah," she replies, like it's common knowledge. Fuck, I hate her.

"Why?" I continue to question.

"Because the border guys don't give him shit--he doesn't have a criminal record. And his passport has an old photo without his neck tattoo." She seals the roach and scoffs. "He has to wear a turtle neck when he crosses. He looks like such an idiot." The lighter scratches, creating a large, hypnotic flame, followed by a couple of strong puffs and the pungent scent. "You want?"

"No." I want to stay focused and find out more. I open the fridge, putting a space between my eager questions, and grab a beer. "So, how many sleepless nights have you had?"

"Um," she counts on her fingers, "Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. May as well count tonight too."

I crack the beer and take a long gulp to hide my discovery. Everyone, including Fleur, thinks he was in Seattle, yet I saw him yesterday morning in East Vancouver.

"I swear I've smoked more weed in these last four days than in the past four months," she grumbles.

"Actually, do you mind?" I ask, reaching forward.

"No, here," she says and passes it. "It's the only thing that helps me sleep."

"I think I'm going to need help tonight too."

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# 8

Fleur and I finished smoking and she headed to bed. Fleur was exhausted and needed an early night, and I was fine with it because, even though she unknowingly revealed a mess of secrets, I didn't want to talk to her anymore.

After she said goodnight, I poured a double shot of whiskey and downed it. A drop escaped from the corner of my mouth and rolled down my chin as I swallowed and coughed. If that had happened in front of the crew or Virgil, I would've been mortified, but it didn't matter that my swig was sloppy because the crew wasn't there and Virgil wasn't there. No one was there.

I leave on all the lights as I walk to the master bedroom, pausing at the clubroom with glooming guilt. I quickly check the handle--locked--and stare at the black-stained doors before continuing on my way. My chest feels heavy and compressed, like my body is showing signs of blame, already knowing what I'm going to tell Virgil--what I have to tell Virgil.

I'm suddenly having trouble climbing the stairs. My leg shakes as each step gets heavier, like I'm lifting it from the depths of wet sand. I'm sinking from the idea of revealing the information about Bug. I'm sinking from the idea of getting him in trouble. I'm sinking from the idea of keeping it from Virgil.

I've sunk before. Deep. Really deep. But never this fast.

There are weights on my ankles now, dragging me down with each step and each thought and each swallow. If I stopped climbing, would the sand suffocate me? If I released my hand from the staircase railing and fell back, would the sand embrace me?

Sometimes I think it would be easier to allow the sand to slowly smother me. It would start at my feet, in between my toes, and move up, grain by grain, filling every crease and curve until I couldn't move, until I couldn't struggle. It would compress my chest and creep up my throat, squeezing so I couldn't even scream. It would cover my mouth and slip between my lips, gritted between my teeth, dry against my tongue, and swallow down into my stomach. It would pour into my ears--no sound--and block my eyes--no sight--filling and filling and filling. The image is vivid in my mind. Almost there now. Almost done now. It would mix in my hair and stick to my scalp, covering the top of my head, hiding me, until there's not a trace, until I'm completely gone, until there's nothing but sand.

I enter the dark bedroom and kick off my heels. Somehow I made it up the stairs and escaped the heavy sand. But I didn't escape the troubling decision. I switch on the table light and fall back on the bed, exhaling until it feels like my lungs are going to implode. It burns. It burns and it hurts. But I refuse to take a breath just yet. I escaped the sand too easily. I lie deadly still, eyes closed, lips firmly pressed together, welcoming the pain until I can no longer handle it.

I gasp for air.

I don't want to rat--especially on Lucas--but what other option has he given me? Why does he hold keys that don't belong to him? Why is he in places that he's not supposed to be? Why is he not wearing his vest?

I need to do it, I need to tell Virgil. What kind of girlfriend would I be, what kind of great love would I be, if I kept this from him? It would be disgraceful and disloyal--two things of which Aurora would never be accused. The name is a part of me, it's in my blood, and I'm grateful to have a reminder of what type of person I should strive to be.

I'll tell Virgil tomorrow, face to face. Hopefully he'll be pleased. Hopefully he won't see it as meddling.

I curl my legs under the top blanket and pull my hair over my shoulder. I didn't bring any pajamas or make-up remover--I didn't know I had to--but I've slept with my make-up on many times before, aware that I need to remain on my back to prevent smudging. I relax my lids, keeping my false lashes attached and the thick coverage of frosty pink lipstick intact, imagining that I look like Aurora in all her glory.

My enjoyment doesn't last long though; I'm exhausted. And as I rapidly drift far away, the uninvited memory of Luke touching my hair and looking into my eyes plays in my dreams.

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# 9

The cab pulls into Virgil's driveway and I hand the driver cash that I took from the kitchen drawer. No one would notice such a small amount missing. I head to the front door and knock three times.

I wait, wondering if I'm still too early or if Virgil is awake. I awoke at around seven, but waited until noon before leaving the clubhouse. I kept busy by cleaning--anything and everything to keep from sinking: dishes, dusting, vacuuming and polishing. I couldn't help but touch the doorknob of the meeting room each and every time I passed it, disappointed and troubled each and every time I discovered it was locked.

Fleur woke up late and moseyed around in an oversized t-shirt, most likely Bug's, and watched television. She looked like one of the faceless whores who shamefully skulk around after a party. She didn't contribute to my list of self-appointed chores. She never does. She tried to talk to me a few times, but after popping her daily OxyContin she fell quiet and numb. I doubt she even noticed me leave.

Twelve-fifteen and still no answer. I knock again, louder, more insistent. This time I hear a faint stirring from within and patiently wait. Eventually the door unlocks and opens. I expect to greet Virgil's sleepy, hungover face, but the door swings wide and he coughs as he walks to the kitchen. I step inside and close the door, following his heavy footsteps along the hallway.

"Virgil, baby," I softly call as he pours coffee into a mug. "How are you?"

He clears his throat and turns to face me.

"Oh my god," I whisper in shock, rushing to him. His left eye is bruised and his cheek is covered with dried blood. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

"Just a little brawl." He shrugs and sips his coffee.

"Have you put ice on it?"

"Nah, it's fine."

Virgil: always the tough guy. I grab a dishcloth and a few cubes from the freezer. "Baby, please," I insist, inspecting the cut before placing the compress against it. It doesn't look too bad. I doubt he cleaned it, but I don't want to disturb the scab.

Virgil's cheeks pinch with a smirk as his green eyes glisten. He grabs my waist and pulls me closer. "You take care of me, don't you?"

I smile and shrug. "I try."

And then he kisses me and all my troubles melt away. These are the moments that I love, these are the moments that make everything better.

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

"Not yet," he answers, heading to the couch.

"I'm going to make you an omelette." I smile. "Keep that ice on your eye."

He sits and turns on the television as I get out a frying pan and turn on the stove. This feels nice. Virgil doesn't seem angry with me at all--not for last night and not for showing up here unannounced. He had some space, a fun night out with the boys--judging by his eye, maybe a little too much fun--and now things are back to normal. I'm glad he's in a good mood, it'll take the edge off the serious information I have to present.

As I mindlessly flip the eggs, Luke's warm touch replays in my mind, over and over, as it did when I was falling asleep. I firmly shoo it away and stop my conscious mind from wandering again. I serve Virgil his breakfast, refill his coffee and sit next to him on the couch. "So, did Bowie have fun?"

"You could say that," Virgil answers with a sly grin.

"That's good. And the crew--everyone had a good time?"

"Yup."

For a second I consider if this is the moment to bring up Bug, but I hesitate. "I'm going clean up," I announce. Virgil nods, preoccupied with a football game. I figure he needs time to relax, or at least finish his breakfast.

I clean the mess I created as well as the pre-existing. My mind moves with the damp cloth as I wipe away coffee stains and crumbs from the counters, thoroughly, methodically. Cleaning has always served as a calming practice, allowing my thoughts to unwind without spiralling to places I've condemned. When I'm done in the kitchen I gather the dirty dishtowels and soiled socks that Virgil routinely kicks off in the hallway, and head upstairs.

Virgil's bedroom is a disaster; he must've been obnoxiously drunk. His clothes lay scattered across the floor, the lampshade is tipped, the bedding is balled, and the fitted sheet has come off the mattress. It smells like stale cigarettes and alcohol but not vomit, which means I don't have to grab a bucket of soapy water.

I start to pull off the sheets when I see remnants of white powder on the side table. I creep over and stare at it, thinking, considering, before I glance back to check if Virgil has followed me upstairs. But he hasn't. I'm alone. There isn't much left, but that doesn't stop me from pressing my finger along the mirror and collecting a sparse coating. I stare at it, faintly remembering a time when I coated my finger with icing sugar while a friend's mom baked. I glide it across my gums then press my tongue under my long nail, pausing a moment, recalling the warmth from the oven and the buttery smell of fresh cookies.

I dump the dirty sheets near the door and start picking up Virgil's clothes. As usual, I press his leather vest against my beating heart, inhaling the residue of skin and sweat, before carefully folding it on the dresser. His plaid shirt reeks of sour beer, so I throw it in the laundry pile and grab his jeans, figuring they need a good wash as well. I check his pockets for cigarettes and papery receipts, but all I find is a lighter. I place it on the dresser next to his vest, about to chuck the pants on the pile, when something delicate and small and neon peeks from the back pocket. Before I fully comprehend what I'm doing or where I'm going, I'm bolting down the stairs, darting down the hallway and standing before Virgil with a panty dangling from my finger.

He's about to complain that I'm blocking his view, when he looks up and recognizes the lingerie. He clears his throat and grabs the squashed pack of smokes. "What are you doing?"

"Why was this in your pocket?" I ask, not moving, not breathing.

"I don't know. Because you put it there?"

"This isn't mine."

He pulls out a cigarette. "It looks like one of those dental floss things you wear."

"It's not mine!"

"Okay fine, it's not yours. Move, you're blocking the game."

I shouldn't say anymore. I shouldn't. "Why do you have another woman's underwear in your pocket?"

"Fuck," he grumbles, throwing the lighter on the coffee table. "Why do you think? I was at a strip club last night."

Shut up, Sid, just stop talking. "Did you--did you cheat on me last night?"

Virgil scoffs. "I'm trying to watch the game."

"I don't care! Don't avoid the question! Did you cheat on me last night?"

He stands and grips my wrists, yanking them down to my sides. His green eyes narrow with fury as he looms over me. "Who do you think you're talking to? Don't raise your voice to me. Do you hear me?"

I remain silent as I recognize the pain.

"Never accuse me, Sid."

I nod.

After a silent moment of his penetrating glare, he roughly releases my arms and forces me to catch my step.

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

He takes a drag from the cigarette with which he could've easily burned me and shrugs. "A stripper must've put them in my pocket. I didn't know."

I hold the strangled skin on my wrists and collect my crazed accusations. "I'm sorry," I repeat and return to my chores.

I am sorry--sorry that I vented, sorry that I taunted Virgil's temper, sorry that I found the grimy lace thong. Most of all, I'm sorry that I don't believe him. The vexed subject of Virgil's fidelity has tormented me since the start of our relationship. I know of his sexually sordid past, I know he's fucked filthy Fleur, and I know he remains flirtatious. We're similar in the sense that he's not to blame for the attention he receives. He's wild and handsome and powerful, and that's irresistible to most, even if they don't understand what's attracting them. But that shouldn't matter. Virgil has made it very clear that I'm to remain untouched and untainted, to remain virginal and pure, like I was when we first met--like how he thinks I was when we first met--and the rules should apply to him as well. I've never cheated on Virgil, but I'm afraid I can't say the same for him--or if I did say it, I couldn't believe it.

I've never had proof to fuel the plaguing suspicion until now.

I tuck the neon thong into my pocket.

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# 10

I didn't tell Virgil about Bug. I didn't say anything more to him and he didn't say anything more to me. I finished tidying, put new sheets on the bed, placed the wet laundry in the dryer and left. That was it, that was all.

My reasons for remaining silent were a mixture of many, not just one, and during my cleaning I decided I want to talk to Lucas before I talk to Virgil. I no longer believe it's betrayal or disloyalty. If anyone should feel betrayed, it should be me.

The cab pulls up to the clubhouse I left only a few hours ago. I don't know where Luke lives and I don't have his number, so staying at the clubhouse in the chance of bumping into him is my best and only plan. I'm not sure what I'm going to say to him, as usual. I can only hope we get a rare chance to be alone.

Fucking Fleur. I'm sure she'll be hanging around.

My fingers graze the lacy lump in my pocket. I just want to know the truth. I don't think that's too much to ask. If my mouth and body are being filled with something that's filling others, I have a right to know.

I open the gate as the cab slowly rolls away. I glance back to see the driver's eyes widen with curiosity--he knows exactly to whom this house belongs. I proudly flick my hair as I step across the notorious threshold of a place where most will never venture, a place where most will never be allowed, and shut the gate.

Although, my pride dampens slightly as I feel the beginning of rain. I quicken my steps to avoid getting wet, and skip up the entrance stairs. I turn the handle and push, but I'm stopped. The door is locked. I frown and fumble in my purse for the keys. The house is usually left unlocked if members or girls are here, so I guess that means no one is home, I guess that means I'm alone again. I head to the kitchen and turn on the kettle, in need of caffeine but too lazy to make anything but instant.

"What are you doing here?" a voice asks from behind me.

I spring around, almost dropping the mug I was grabbing from the cupboard, and find Lucas at the edge of the kitchen. "Jesus, you scared me."

He doesn't respond.

I compose myself, realizing the uncanny luck I've stumbled upon--like it's meant to be. "I thought no one else was here."

"Fleur said you were at Virgil's."

"I was ... Is Fleur here?"

"She left."

"She left?"

"She'll be back later."

"Where is she?"

"Getting her hair done, or something."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"So, it's just us here?" The kettle rumbles and clicks.

"Are you making coffee?"

"Yeah." I glance at him again. "Do you want?"

"Please."

I pull out another mug and dump a heaped teaspoon of brown grinds in it. "Where is everyone?"

"I don't know."

I give the coffees a quick stir. "Virgil's face is pretty bad. Did you see the fight?"

"Yeah," he replies. "The other guy looked worse."

"What else happened last night?" I nonchalantly push as I bring the coffees to the table.

He shrugs and gazes out the window. "The usual."

The barbeque pit sits in the distance and I silently remind myself to remain patient and unemotional, unlike the last time we were alone. "What's the usual?"

He meets my curious eyes and frowns. "Nothing good, nothing you'd want to know," he grumbles and takes a sip.

I lower my eyes. "Maybe I do ... Maybe I want to know what Virgil gets up to when I'm not around."

His frown deepens. "And what? You think I'm going to tell you?"

"Luke ..."

"Forget it."

"You guys go out together all the time. You see what really goes on. I'm just looking for the truth."

"Then you should ask Virgil."

"He would never tell me, you know that."

"That's not my problem," he concludes and stands from the table.

"Luke--"

"No."

"Please--"

"No." He starts to walk away.

"What if I make it your problem?" I blurt out.

He stops and frowns again. "What did you say?"

I didn't have a plan of how I was going to deliver my information, but it wasn't like this. Now I can only hope that my threat has legs. "If you tell me what I want to know about Virgil, I won't tell him what I know about you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I saw you in East Van," I announce, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.

"So?"

"I saw you on Friday morning when everyone seems to think you were in Seattle."

"I was in Seattle," he replies.

Is he really going to lie to my face? My voice is no longer shaky. "No, you got out of a cab and into a black car. And you weren't wearing your vest."

He shrugs. "You're mistaken."

"I know what I saw."

"I don't know what to tell you, Sid, other than you're wrong."

I can't believe I'm defending something I witnessed with my very eyes. "I don't care if you think I'm wrong. I care only what Virgil thinks."

He folds his thick forearms across his chest. "Go ahead and tell him. See what he has to say about you involving yourself in club business."

Luke's threat is subtle but menacingly clear. He thinks he has the upper hand ... But I have one more piece of information. "Yeah, maybe I'll do that. Maybe I'll also mention that you have a key to the clubroom."

He pauses. "So what? All members have keys."

My heart drums fast and hard. "That's not what Virgil told me. In fact, he told me he's the only one with a key."

"I--" he stumbles, "I had Virgil's key that night because he asked me to do something."

A rush of adrenaline courses through me. I know he's lying. I know I've caught him. I know it has to be really big in order to shake his stoic expression. The power in my information is making me slightly dizzy, good dizzy, like when I catch a guy staring at me and I stare right back, pushing into the depths of his perverted pupils, challenging him to do what he's imagining, only to watch him crumble and look away and blush. I smooth my hair, pulling it over my shoulder, and run my sharp nails through the strands. "Oh really?"

He silently glares at me.

"So if I mention this to Virgil, he won't be surprised to hear it?"

He hesitates. "You don't know what you're doing."

"Does it matter? All I need to do is tell Virgil what I know."

"What you think you know--"

"I know what I saw!" I explode. "I know you're lying!"

"Then I'll tell him first!" he yells back. "I'll come clean and tell him I was working on an arrangement to make the club more money. And all you were doing was keeping secrets--keeping secrets from your boyfriend and the President."

My eyes widen. "Don't try to turn this on me! Who do you think he'll believe?"

"Yeah, who, Sid? A member--a brother--or the spoiled slut who sucks his dick? Think about it before you go around blackmailing people."

He's not backing down. In fact, he's broken from my imprisoning grip and entrapped me in his. "Well," I take a shaky breath, "I guess we'll see which betrayal is worse in his eyes," I announce and walk past him.

"Where are you going?"

"Virgil's." I pick up my purse from the bench in the entrance and reach for the door handle.

"Sid," Luke calls, "... Wait."

"Why?" Our eyes meet, but I look away.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I told you, I want to know about Virgil, I want to know if he's true to me," I say, losing the hostility in my tone.

He frowns. "So, you won't tell Virgil anything if I tell you what he did last night?"

"Not just last night, every night you guys have gone out. What you've seen, what he's said and if he's cheated on me."

"You really want to know?"

"I'm here for Virgil, and I need to know that he's here for me."

He runs his hand down his mouth and chin. "Isn't it easier to remain blind?"

My apprehension and curiosity curdle to form a sickness in my gut. His question basically confirms my suspicions. But I'm not satisfied; I want to know details. I pull out the soiled ball of lace. "I found this in his pocket. He said he didn't know how it got there, but I don't believe him. I just want to know if this is the first time or if there have been others."

Lucas shakes his head. "I don't want to tell you."

"You have to."

"It's going to hurt you."

I shrug. "I have a right to know."

"What are you going to do? Confront him? Leave him?"

"I don't know," I honestly state, "but if you don't tell me, I'll tell Virgil about you." It's a reminder that I'm not some wounded animal--I still hold the power.

"I get it." He roughly sighs. "Yeah, okay, Virgil left the strip club with some chick."

I was expecting to hear this, yet it still hits me, it still stings, it still aches. "Was she a stripper?"

"Does it matter?"

I gulp down the nausea. "And the other times?"

"Sid."

"Tell me."

He groans and averts my unblinking stare. "Yes," he says. "Every time. All the time. It's never been just you."

My knees weaken, and I sit fast and hard on the bench.

He carefully sits next to me. "You're not that surprised ... are you?" he asks.

"Why shouldn't I be surprised?"

He leans his elbows on his knees and loosely entwines his fingers. "Because it's Virgil. He's the President and he does what he wants."

"So being an outlaw excuses him from all the rules? He gets a free pass to screw anyone and everyone?"

"... I don't know what you want me to say."

I hesitate for a split second then remember I can ask him whatever the hell I want. "Do you cheat on Fleur?"

He stands up. "That's none of your business."

"I want to know."

"You said you wanted to know about Virgil and I told you."

"Yeah, and now I want to know about you."

"That's not part of our agreement."

"It is now."

"I don't want to play this game."

I stand up. "You should've thought of that before you started sneaking behind my boyfriend's back."

His jaw pulses. "Your boyfriend treats you like shit."

"My boyfriend is the President of the Black Wings."

He pauses. "Yes, okay? I've cheated on her."

I gulp. "A lot?"

"No."

"How many times?"

He sighs, aggravated. "I don't know."

"Does everyone cheat?" I mumble rhetorically.

"You don't."

I frown at his comment. I don't believe it was meant to be cruel or insulting, but I take offense to the idea that I'm transparent. "How would you know?"

"It's just a guess."

I take a couple steps towards him and look into his pale hazel eyes. He seems surprised by my closeness, but he doesn't question it and he doesn't retreat. I tilt my chin and, before he can argue, before he can consider what's happening, before he can refuse it, I press my mouth against his. His lips are soft, very soft--and then they're gone.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

I realize he pulled away from me. "I don't know." I step back. "I don't know," I thoughtlessly repeat.

Luke steps closer and reaches for my arm, but the front door opens and we both freeze.

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# 11

Two muscular members step through the doorway. Luke's arms stiffly fall and I quickly wipe my lip line, ensuring my gloss isn't smudged from the kiss.

"Good, you're here. I was just about to call you," Zilla says to Bug.

I lower my eyes, instantly paranoid that they witnessed the forbidden closeness between Luke and me. I replay the last few moments in my head, concentrating on the timing of the kiss and the opening of the door, concluding that Luke didn't even touch my hand. I'm sure they saw nothing.

"Why? What's going on?" Bug asks.

"Ven just had a run in with a couple S-10s."

I feel awkward hearing details, so I dip my chin and turn away.

"Is he alright?"

"Yeah, fine, just pissed. They took off, but he ..." His words fade as I walk from the room and head upstairs. I want to figure out what I want to retain from learning the truth about Virgil and what I want to forget. I close the door to the master bedroom and sit at the mirror, mindlessly picking up the brush and running it through my hair.

Luke's reaction to my impetuous kiss only added insult to injury. I don't even know why I did it. Except for that year in high school I never thought of Lucas on a romantic, sexual level. You could say my fiery crush was snuffed out when he witnessed Neil pulling out of me. It showed me in such a powerless, vulnerable state ... It was in that moment that I realized Luke would never be able to look at me in that way, he would never be able to find me desirable or sexy ... and it seems that hasn't changed. He pulled away because he could never see me as anything--I'm concerned for you; Virgil's not the only one who can help you; it's going to hurt you--other than a weak, helpless victim.

I want to believe that I hold power over Lucas, and that he won't tell Virgil about the kiss, because the information I hold is worth more, but Bug is unreadable. I don't know his intentions--I never have--and I can't forget that he pulled away.

There's a light knock at my door, but it opens before I can answer. Luke slips in and shuts it behind him. I put down the brush and reluctantly turn. He stares at me, looking angry--then again he always looks angry. "What the hell was that?"

Here's my chance to smooth the crease of the kiss and direct the information back to its original place of power and persuasion. "It was a mistake," I reply.

Lucas looks down and nods. "... Okay."

I desperately want to ensure everything is okay, but if I ask, I'm giving him the power to answer yes or no, I'm giving him the power to decide, and I can't do that. I need it. If he thinks he has any control whatsoever, any leverage, I won't be able to get the answers I need to the questions I despise. I clear my throat and turn away, finding his reflection behind my own in the mirror. "Don't worry ..."

"About what?"

"I won't tell Virgil you kissed me."

His chin slowly rises as his glare hardens. "Your boyfriend is on his way here," Luke spits and leaves.

My stomach flips. I hope I didn't push my luck, or waste it. I think my message was taken appropriately: If he tries to tell Virgil about the kiss, I'll place the blame on him. I reapply my lip gloss, taking time to extend the fullness of my mouth, and stare at my lips ... the lips that touched Luke's.

I wish he kissed me back.

I cringe and toss the thought and the gloss across the room. But the notion returns--I wish he kissed me back--and buzzes in my ear like the annoying hum of a mosquito. I huff and stand from the stool, pacing the room as I force my attention away from Luke.

Virgil, I focus, what do I do about Virgil?

Anger and betrayal suddenly drown out all other unsolicited feelings as I remember the malignant truth I just learned: he's unfaithful. It's no longer a toxic suspicion or a nagging gut feeling. It's the truth. And it sickens me. The man I love lies to me. The man I love lies with others. I have the sudden urge to wash my mouth out, knowing it has contained his sloppy parts. I rush to the bathroom cupboard and frantically unscrew the cap of Listerine. Just before I swig it back, I pause, realizing I'll be washing away Luke too. I hesitate for a moment longer before filling my mouth. It burns my tongue and makes my eyes water, but soon the tears become real, they become emotional, and there's nothing I can do to stop them.

How could I have believed I was the only one? I'm so stupid.

I spit into the sink and watch the bright blue betrayal drain away.

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# 12

The sun has long disappeared and a grim rain has coated the bedroom windows with droplets.

I've waited and waited, but Virgil hasn't come to see me. There was a commotion downstairs when the members arrived--they're probably having a meeting about S-10--but I've remained in solitude. It's possible he doesn't know I'm here, but there are few other places I'm allowed to be.

I've occupied my mind with trivial tasks to avoid feeling like I'm sinking into the suffocating sand. I cleaned the bedroom and bathroom, which didn't take long since I tidied it yesterday, and reorganized my make-up drawer. And for the past hour I've listlessly watched television, keeping the volume low so I could hear if someone walked to the door. But no one has come.

It's probably a good thing I haven't seen Virgil, I don't think I could face him right now. Even though my anger has subsided during these past few hours of seclusion, my questions have grown and I'm afraid the mere sight of Virgil would detonate an explosion of me trying to understand why he feels the need to fuck around. Am I not enough?

I haven't decided what I'm going to do ... and it's because there is nothing I can do. Luke asked me if I was going to leave him, but if I do, where does that leave me? What does that leave me? I have nothing without Virgil. The stinging returns to my eyes as tears well and fall down my cheeks. I have nothing without Virgil.

There's a loud slam downstairs and I sit up, ears perked and eyes wide, straining to hear what's going on ... but only silence follows. My heart deflates as I realize they've left. I rise from the bed and cautiously open the bedroom door, peeking into the hallway before stepping out. All is quiet. I head downstairs, light and feathery, like I have so many times in the early hours of the morning, and enter the kitchen. I was right. Virgil left without saying a word to me.

"When did you get here?" Fleur asks over the back of the leather couch.

I press my hand to my hurting heart, startled. "Oh, I didn't see you--"

"Sorry."

"It's fine. I've been watching TV upstairs," I lie. "When did you get here?"

She rises from the couch and walks towards me, finger-combing her freshly bleached hair. "About an hour ago. I got my roots done," she announces. "The guys just left."

I hate asking her questions--she always knows more than I do--but my curiosity is currently greater than my pride. "Do you know where they went?"

She shrugs. "No, but I think something big is going down. These S-10 fuckers are causing a lot of problems."

"Really?" I ask, suddenly overcome with guilt. Here I am, once again, worrying about my problems when there's something greater at hand. Virgil must be dealing with so much crap and all I'm doing is piling on more. What's wrong with me? Why are the simplest things difficult for me to grasp?

"I'm sure they'll take care of shit, it's just a piss off. I wanted to spend the night with Bug, but he's out again."

My breath hitches from the mention of his name. Fleur may know more about the club's business than I do, but I know secrets about Luke that she doesn't. "Yeah, you guys haven't had much time together lately," I comment, maintaining a neutral tone.

She groans and rests her elbows on the granite counter. "I suppose it's the same for you and Virgil."

I'm about to spill my secrets like I always do--I'm about to cry to Fleur about finding the thong in Virgil's pocket--but I stop myself by biting my lip. I don't want her to know anything more about our relationship, especially since she thinks there's always something wrong with it.

I wonder if she knows that Bug cheats on her ...

A little part of me--a spiteful part of me--wants to tell her right now. As I stare at her disappointed face and petite, punctured body, I realize I want her to feel as bad as I do. I want her to ache and cry and ask what she did wrong. Most of all, I want her to question why she's not enough for the man she loves. I wouldn't have answers for her, but at least I wouldn't be alone with the lack of mine. But I can't tell her, not right now anyway; the information is too important, too powerful, and it needs to remain secret.

"Actually, I saw Virgil today." My fingertips graze the little lump in my pocket. "We had a late breakfast. It was really nice."

She mildly smiles. "See, everything always works out with you two. You worry for nothing, Sid."

I force a return smile. "I know," I reply, forgetting the lump in my pocket and swallowing down the lump in my throat. "I understand how you feel ... We don't get enough time with our men."

"No kidding. It's bullshit. I hate it--I fucking hate it--but I guess this is what I signed up for. The relationship isn't just with Bug, it's with the club too." She sighs, exasperated. "I just like him so much, you know?"

"You do?"

"Yeah ... Sometimes it scares me how much I like him."

My judging stare hardens. "How long has it been--only three months? You were fucking Zill and Puck before, right?" As the words fly from my mouth I realize they're more than words, they're sharp daggers aiming to pierce Fleur's skin. But I don't regret them and I don't take them back because they're an alternative to revealing my secrets, an alternative to telling her that I kissed Luke, an alternative to making her hurt.

Her slouched body instantly perks. "Yeah, but it was nothing like this. What Bug and I have is special. It's more."

"You really think so?"

She pauses and frowns, turning away from me and heading to the fridge. The cold light illuminates her street-hardened face as she grabs a beer. "It's hard to explain it to someone who has no idea."

My eyebrows rise. "You don't need to explain anything. I know exactly what you're talking about."

She cracks the beer and shakes her head. "No, hun, you don't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that, well, how could you possibly know? You can't compare what you have with Virgil to what I have with Bug."

"Virgil and I are in love--"

"Sid, just stop," she says, rolling her eyes. "You guys are not in love. What you have is not love. You don't get it, okay? You'll never get it."

Condescending bitch. "What could you possibly know about love? You're nothing but a whore."

Fleur slams her beer on the counter, making foam spill down the neck. She glowers at my insult, but after a moment of silence she chuckles. "You're right, Sid, I am a whore. And the next time you're being a saint and swallowing Virgil's cum, remember I swallowed it first, I sucked it first and I fucked it first."

The anger makes my blood so thick it threatens to choke me. "You weren't good enough! I'm with Virgil, not you, not anyone else." I want the comment to painfully resonate, to slash her pride and self-esteem, but her smirk doesn't fade or falter.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're his one and only," she sarcastically sneers. "Fuck you, Sid."

Her comment widens my eyes with suspicion. Does she know about Virgil's cheating ways? Does she know about the stripper from last night? Does Luke tell her about the crew's nights out?

"And just so you know, I am good enough," she continues. "I could've had Virgil if I really wanted, but I didn't--I didn't--because I fell in love with Bug before I thought I had a real chance with him." It seems my comment did create a wound, although she's quick to stitch it up as a spiteful gleam returns to her eyes. "You need to get off your fucking high horse. You think you're so beautiful yet you're screwing my scraps--"

"I am beautiful," I interrupt.

She scoffs. "Why, because Virgil says so?"

"Everyone says so--"

"He said I was beautiful too."

Her words are sharp. It has to be a lie. It just has to be. Virgil might have fucked her, but there's no way he found her haggard face beautiful. "No, he didn't."

"He did. He has a thing for blondes, don't you know," she says, tousling her platinum strands. "You think you're different from every other whore who's walked through that door, but you're not."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Whatever, Sid," she barks and grabs another beer from the fridge. "You know, tonight is shitty enough without you being such a bitch!"

"Me? You're attacking my relationship with Virgil because you're fucking jealous!"

"Jealous? Holy shit, you're so delusional! Why the fuck would I be jealous?"

"The President didn't want you anymore, he didn't love you--he didn't even like you--so you had to find someone else to fill the gaping hole between your legs."

She grinds her teeth, piercing me with her narrow glare. "Well, Virgil certainly didn't, not with that stubby dick. Congratulations, you cunt, it's all yours!" she screams and storms off.

I shake my head. Fleur is such a heinous slut.

I exhale the residual cruelty from the argument, take a seat on the stool and lean my elbows on the counter. Fleur and I have never fought like that, not once, not even close, but there's no going back after what was said and what I learned.

I'm glad I stifled my anger and stopped the truth from bursting forth. It wouldn't have been enough to hurt her. Fleur is tough, Fleur is jaded, and I can imagine her easily recuperating from the news of Bug's few faceless, nameless indiscretions, especially if she's so in love with him.

It needs to be more hurtful--as hurtful for her as it is for me.

It needs to be more personal--a recognizable face that will pop into her mind when she's kissing him.

It needs to fester beneath her pale skin--fester deeply so she has trouble looking at Luke, just as I'm having trouble looking at Virgil, in the same way as before.

I know what to do. I know how to win.

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# 13

After my shower I climbed into the cold king bed to watch television and calm my nerves. I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep until a rumble of chatter and laughter disturbed me, bringing me back to the flashing screen of the TV.

I crease my eyes with discomfort and shuffle between the sheets, finally glancing over to the digital bedside clock. It's 4:43am. The handle slowly turns and an awkward thud bangs against the door. I realize I locked it and spring out of bed. "Virgil? Virgil, is that you?"

The handle rattles a few more times before I hear him slur my name. "Sid ... Open up."

I unlock and the door swings wide. He stumbles in and almost falls, adjusting his weight to remain standing. He's drunk, extremely drunk, but not drunk enough to slip into an innocuous slumber. This is the Virgil I'm wary of, this is the Virgil that gets the lustful look in his eye.

"Are you alright?" I ask, remembering that we haven't spoken since our spat this afternoon. His eye is purple from the previous night, but no fresh wounds tarnish his handsome face. I hope he's not still angry with me.

"Sid," he grins, dazed, "Sid, I missed you."

"... You did?"

"Baby, baby," he slurs, "of course I did, of course I missed you."

A shy smile creeps upon my face. Virgil has a powerful effect on me--he always has--which makes me feel wanted and special and loved no matter how angry or hurt or concerned I am. "I missed you too."

Virgil steps closer and grabs my waist. "Good. I like it when you miss me."

"I don't."

"Did you cry?"

I nod. "You didn't say goodbye to me."

"Sid, baby, I hate saying goodbye to you."

"You do?"

Virgil tries to focus his glittering green eyes on mine. "You know it's true."

How can I be upset with him? He's so handsome and he's come home to me, to hold me in his arms and tell me he missed me. Does this not show how much he loves me? He then presses his mouth to mine and I bury the secrets even further down. His scruff scratches against my skin and his belt buckle digs into my stomach, but it's a familiar discomfort and a welcomed pain. I melt into him, finding comfort in his strong grip and ignoring the excessive scent of alcohol and cigarettes.

His hands move from my waist and firmly slide into the back pockets of my jeans. He grabs me and brings me closer, harder, and immediately I know he wants my body. Usually, by this point, I would've directed my attention to undoing his pants, taking the safe position on my knees and avoiding the use of my female flesh, but the spiteful argument with Fleur flashes in my mind. Virgil might've had all of her, but he'll have more of me.

How could she not be jealous? There's no way she has this with Bug. He's so serious, so taciturn and introverted, how could he ever express his feelings to Fleur, let alone express his love and desire of her frail, used body? She's so jealous. I smirk, triumphant that Virgil is undressing me and not her.

Even though I've made the decision to include my body in our sex, my stomach rolls with apprehension. It feels like Virgil is hungrier and more impatient than usual, but he's not; the consuming intensity of Virgil's desire is a powerful surprise each and every time.

He walks me to the edge of the bed and presses me into the soft mattress. He rips my underwear down to my knees, lowers his boxers and removes his stiff weapon. The first stab is swift and straight, making me gasp with surprise. It doesn't hurt. It's doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt, I repeat in my head as his stabbings become rhythmic. I try to think of the women in movies and porn and how they enjoy it so much, or at least appear to--no, they do enjoy it, at least to some degree, because sex is meant to be enjoyable. There's nothing wrong with me ... I'm enjoying this. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt.

Honestly--literally, physically--it doesn't hurt; it's in my head only that it hurts because I'm paranoid. It's like receiving anesthetic at the dentist but not being able to relax as they drill into your tooth just in case, somehow, improbably and illogically, the pain appears, shocking like a bolt of lightning, devastating and traumatic. I've experienced that pain before and I don't want to experience it ever again.

I close my eyes and concentrate on relaxing and releasing my fearful stress. Virgil's grunts of pleasure fill my ears and I try to join in, to participate and display the satisfaction I'm receiving. I believe I'm convincing--at least I hope I am--and he's never questioned my pleasure. I open my eyes and glance down at Virgil's thrusting torso before concentrating on his rocking face. Back and forth, back and forth. A light spray of sweat coats his forehead from the drunken exertion and I consider rolling on top. I prefer to be on top anyway. But just before I can voice my preference, Virgil voices his.

"Roll over," he commands, removing himself from within.

As unpleasantly expected, Virgil wants me on all fours. I lean forward and flip my hair back, knowing he'll want to hold it and yank it. He grabs a fistful of my strands and reinserts himself. The stabbing is more forceful, more violent now, but I can tell it'll be over soon. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt, I remind myself. With my chin high in the air and my roots tightly tugged, Virgil groans and finishes.

He falls back onto the bed, exhausted, and I fall next to him, relieved. It's over, it was relatively painless and Virgil is satisfied. I sigh loudly and nuzzle in the nook of his neck. The whiskey sweat, his musky skin and the faint scent of detergent from the shirt I washed fill my lungs. And somewhere within it all is the wild and inexplicable smell of power. He's my man and he plays by his own rules, he cheats death and cradles me in his muscular arms, and I love him. Deep down I love him no matter what. Deep down I know we belong together forever. Deep down I'm nothing without him and I have nothing without him, and I must never forget that.

Virgil's light snores rumble against my cheek; he's fallen asleep. I close my eyes for the second time tonight and recognize the welcomed warmth of not being alone.

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# 14

I dreamed of Luke. I dreamed of Luke even though I shared a loving night with Virgil. I can't remember what happened in the dream other than Luke was in it, but that's enough to unsettle me.

The conversations, the threats, the argument and the kiss all flood back now as I sit up in bed and glance over at Virgil. He's fast asleep and will likely remain so for a few more hours--until the alcohol is nothing more than a dull ache--but I can't sleep any longer. The dream has made me feverish and I want to do something, anything, to extinguish the troubled feelings that are making me burn. I want to hurt Fleur for the things she said, I want to find out more devilish details about the man lying next to me, and I want to see Lucas. The first two wants are clear and with reason--even if that reason is destructive--but the last want is blurry ... and also the one I want the most.

I can no longer remain between these crinkled sheets. I dress, fidgeting with the buttons on my shirt, brush my hair and ensure my lashes are still glued in the corners. And then I spread dark red color across my lips ... It suits my mood. I don't spend my usual amount of time in front of the mirror, not even half, before I'm leaving Virgil and carefully closing the bedroom door. I head down the hallway, down the stairs, past the forbidden clubroom, about to enter the kitchen, when I hear voices and it hits me that I don't have a plan. My disturbed mind has disturbed my sleep and made me frantic and thoughtless. What did I expect, to find Lucas sitting at the table, alone and waiting to tell me more?

My steps slow as I strain to hear who's in the kitchen. Fleur's irritating laugh meets my ears first, followed by a few other female tones. I roll my shoulders back, display my best royal face and walk into the kitchen. Fleur is chatting with two girls, but her smoker-tooth smile falls as she sees me. I don't know the girls--they're most likely member hook-ups--and though the one meets my eyes and smiles, I choose to ignore them all. I finger-comb my hair so it gracefully falls as I walk to the coffee machine.

As I make a fresh pot I hear Fleur snicker and whisper something, but I don't play into it. She's so pathetic--having to act like the queen bee in front of these irrelevant skanks. We'll probably never see them again, yet she feels the need to talk to them and include them when it's clear that they don't belong. Trash should never feel welcomed or accepted, especially in a palace, especially around royalty. But I suppose Fleur has convinced herself that she deserves to be here when she's no better than these random whores. I'll never take back what I said to her last night. It was an insult, but it was also the truth and someone needed to knock her down. She struts around here like she's the First Lady, but she's not dating the President, I am, and that position holds a certain amount of power. She needs to learn some respect.

The coffee slowly drips into the pot as I pull out a mug and lean against the counter. I stare at Fleur as she makes small talk with the shy sluts, and pucker my red lips. "So, did you get your night with Bug?" I interrupt.

Fleur turns, surprised by my forwardness. "Why do you care?"

I shrug. "You seemed really upset last night."

She frowns, her eyes beady and questioning. "Yeah, well ... I'm fine now."

"So, Bug came back with the others?"

The girls silently watch Fleur fold her arms across her chest. "Again, why do you care?"

I innocently place my hand on my heart. "Oh, Fleur, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up. I shouldn't have assumed that he came back with the rest of the guys."

She glares at me, unable to come back with an appropriate response.

"So," I smile at the girls, "who are you ladies here with?" I ooze confidence thanks to knowing how pretty I look, especially compared to their ragged, sleep-warped faces. I'm glad I took that extra moment to coat my lips with blood.

The girl who civilly smiled at me answers first. "Zill."

"Ven."

"Zilla and Ven. They're good guys, aren't they, Fleur?" I dig.

She doesn't answer.

"I'm just grabbing some coffee for Virgil and myself," I mention, pulling another mug from the cupboard. "We didn't get much sleep last night. Feel free to help yourselves to the rest." I lock eyes with Fleur once more. "You look like you could use a cup." I grin before I leave, two steaming mugs in hand. I'm pleased that I stung her, but it's not enough and hearing that Luke isn't here is disappointing. I don't want to go back to the bedroom, but I have nowhere else to be, nowhere else to go, no one else to speak to ...

I step into the room and find Virgil exactly where I left him. The light is pale and grey, too weak to push through the blinds, and casts shadows upon his sleeping face. I don't like it. It makes him look ugly and sunken and older than usual. The truth I pushed away last night, the truth I easily hid in the dark, just so I could be held in his arms, suddenly rises within like vomit, and I imagine him waking up next to the countless women with whom he's cheated.

I can't stay in this room.

I can't stay with him.

I can't breathe.

I place the coffees next to the TV and silently leave again. Tears blur my vision as I grab my purse and walk out the door. I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, but it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is I'm gone.

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# 15

The past two days have been a challenge. I haven't seen Virgil much, thankfully, but I haven't seen Lucas much either. The few times I have seen Luke are times when he's been surrounded by members or Fleur. It's evident he knows I want to talk to him, I need to talk to him, because he avoids my desperate stare. Before, I would've been the one to avert my eyes, but now it's him. I'm uncertain if his avoidance is caused by my questions or by my kiss ...

I feel like I'm going fucking crazy. It's been difficult to avoid the sinking sand; there are pockets of it everywhere I go and everywhere I turn, and I find myself tiptoeing around my thoughts. I've tried to keep busy, but the clubhouse is spotless and I've watched my fill of daytime television. And even though the paint was good for another week or so, I got my nails redone yesterday. As I sat in the little salon I couldn't help but search for Bug in the deserted parking lot, even though I was sure he would never show up there again.

I didn't give much thought to it before, but his elusive appearance is starting to make me question his whereabouts and his actions. Why is he away more than the other members? Perhaps it just seems that way because I need to see him. Or perhaps he's purposely staying away more than usual to avoid me. The truth is I have no clue. Bug's involvement in the club has always been extensive; he's moving up the ranks quickly and Virgil trusts him to get shit done, so I shouldn't be surprised that he's busy--and I guess I'm not--but I am frustrated. No wonder Fleur is always angry.

Fleur and I haven't spoken at all--because she knows I'm untouchable; I rank higher than her even though she's been here for longer. Her only retaliation was a brazen kiss with Bug on the couch. She was trying to show off to me, to show me their love and passion ... and I have to admit it stung a little, especially when Luke reciprocated the affection. But he also got up immediately after, leaving her alone with nothing but the worn leather couch as comfort. I know he doesn't love her the way that she loves him, and I'm going to use that to my advantage.

I pass Fleur in the entrance hall, ignoring her until I realize she's talking to someone. My steps slow and my ears strain to hear. "I have to grab a couple things," she says and I hear her light footsteps disappear up the stairs.

I whip around and find Lucas at the door. The iconic vest sits over his leather jacket and a black toque conceals most of his long hair. He sees me, he sees the glimmer of opportunity in my eye, and looks away. I quickly walk over, uncertain when this window of privacy will shut, and calm the frenzied mess of words and thoughts threatening to burst from my mouth. "I need to talk to you," I whisper.

"I've already told you everything."

"I want to know more--"

"No--"

"Luke--"

"No."

"Wait."

"No, Sid."

"There's something else."

He pauses. "What?"

"I want ... I want to go somewhere with you," I confess.

Luke looks deeply into my eyes, searching. "What do you mean?"

His focus is too intense, and for the first time in two days I look away. "I--I want to be alone with you."

He pauses, searching deeper. "Why?"

"I can't explain it here."

He looks past me, watching the staircase for Fleur, and sighs from his nose. "I'll be back in an hour. Meet me outside the gate."

My eyes widen slightly. "Wh--"

"She's coming," he whispers, turning his back to me and opening the front door.

I spin around and, having the good sense, head towards the stairs to avoid suspicion of her seeing me walk into the kitchen again. I meet her on the landing and she roughly brushes my shoulder as we pass.

"Bitch," she mumbles under her breath.

The vulgar taunt irks me, but I don't respond. My retaliation will come later. It will come in an hour.

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# 16

It's only 6:47 p.m., but the sun has already been swallowed like a small, pale pill. The Vancouver days are getting shorter. As I stand, bundled and damp in the gloomy night, I try to adjust my eyes to the darkness, but no amount of blinking or time spent out here would help. It's a dark so deep it makes me feel hopeless. It makes me believe the small, pale pill will never be regurgitated, like it's gone forever--downed, digested and destroyed. It makes me wonder if I'll ever see something light again, or if the darkness will expand and deepen and spread, creeping into the shimmery reflection on the road, dimming the glow of the streetlamps, even dulling the moon and stars until there is nothing sparkling in the night. I can imagine it so clearly. There would be nothing but darkness. Eyes closed. Sand surrounding. Nothing.

But somehow, miraculously, even though it looks wounded and sickly, the shrinking autumn sun rises again and the sand disappears.

My frame begins to shake, partly from the cold, partly from nerves, and I rewrap my thin jacket. Sneaking out wasn't hard, especially with neither Virgil nor Fleur in the house, but it still gave me a rebellious rush that hasn't faded. It's not often when I get to do things like this ... especially with Luke.

My intentions are clear. I know what I want from this encounter, but I don't know if I'll receive it. I intend to ask more questions about Virgil, and possibly about Luke's relationship with Fleur. And I intend to kiss him again. Actually I intend to take it much further than that, but I'll start with a kiss. If he pulls away again, I'm not sure how I'll handle it ... But at this point I'm willing to do anything to get back at Fleur. I know I could never actually tell her that I fucked around with her love--she could tell Virgil and that would be a disaster--but I'll know it and Luke will know it, and that's satisfying enough.

A black truck turns onto the street. The headlights are turned off, camouflaging it with the night as it slows to a stop. I open the passenger door and step up, meeting Luke's unreadable expression as I sit and shut us in. We drive from the isolated trees and the familiar streets, heading east on the highway and approaching the neighbouring town. The last of the work-traffic traveling home from Vancouver slows us temporarily, but it doesn't bother me. "Where are we going?" I finally ask.

"I don't know," he answers after a pause. "I just wanted to get away from there ... but I guess we are."

"Yeah."

"You just, you never know who's watching."

I glance down at my sharp nails. I guess he found that out the hard way. "Yeah."

Before entering the sleepy town of Mission, we make a left turn down a tree-cloaked road and pass a sign for an upcoming lake. There are no streetlights along the narrow lake road and the headlights fail to make a dent in the dense forest. This is private and perfect, this is exactly what I wanted, but now that I'm receiving this alone time with Lucas I feel overwhelmed. My spit suddenly feels thick. I glance in the side mirror and watch the lights disappear behind us.

"I think we're far enough," I comment, unable to hide the uneasiness in my tone.

He glances at me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You said you wanted us to be alone."

"I know what I said."

"Then what's the issue?"

"Nothing. It's fine," I lie.

"What? Is this too alone for you?"

I look over at him, but his focus returns to the road. Maybe my information is more powerful than I anticipated ... deadly even. No one could hear me scream out here. I push the morbid notion from my mind as I gaze at his familiar face. Luke wouldn't do that to me. "It's just far, that's all."

He lightly shakes his head. "Sid, if someone sees us together ... I don't have an excuse that would work without questions and consequences. Fleur's one thing, but Virgil ..."

"I know," I agree, pushing the claustrophobic forest from my chest. I almost confess that I'm nervous and mildly afraid of the dark, but that shows weakness and Bug can't be reminded of my weakness. "You're right. This is necessary."

After a few more minutes we break from the thick of the trees and he parks the truck. We're overlooking the lake and the distant dim lights of homes. I feel a little better, like I can breathe again, although my nerves are still rioting. Luke turns off the engine and we melt into the surrounding darkness.

"So ... why are we here?" he asks, breaking the stillness.

I glance down at my sharp nails again. "You brought us here--"

"You know what I mean."

I fall silent, considering where to begin.

He clears his throat. "Why did you want to be alone with me?"

Because I wanted to ..."Because I have more questions."

A loud sigh blows from his lips.

"It's the only way I can know the truth."

"The truth means nothing to you. I told you what Virgil does and you don't care--"

"I care," I argue, frowning.

"Then why are you still with him? Why are you still at the club?"

"I--I--" I stammer and then stop. I should be the one asking the questions. "I don't need to explain it to you."

"You can't explain it to me."

My face puckers, stunned by his frank reaction. This Lucas is different than the Lucas at the club; this Lucas is bold and daring and forward. "Yes, I can."

"Then explain why you're forcing me tell you things that don't matter--"

"They do matter."

"But they're not going to change anything because you won't change anything. So explain to me why you're making me tell you?" His voice is gruff.

"Because I can. Because I want to," I bite back.

"Fine. If that's the reason why we're here, let's get it over with."

I take a deep breath as I try to push through the distorting darkness. What did I want to ask? What did I want to know? What am I trying to find out? Virgil cheats on me all the time, what more is there? "Do you think Virgil loves me?" I blurt out. There's no truth to be known from Bug's answer, only opinion.

"No."

His answer is quick. Quick like a papercut. Quick like burn. It hurts a lot now, but it'll hurt more later. "Do you love Fleur?"

"I don't want to talk about Fleur."

I sigh, exasperated. "Do I need to bring up what I know, again?"

"You don't know what you saw."

"Virgil will know what I saw."

"No, I don't love her," he admits, crumbling from my mild manipulation.

"You don't?"

"No."

I expected this news to satisfy me more, to feed the hungry beast of revenge, but it leaves me disappointed. "You know she loves you, right?"

He shrugs. "She doesn't really. She loves pills. Nothing can compete with them."

His recognition sparks a sadness within me, something long lost in the memories I prayed to forget and, for the most part, have. Learning that Fleur's addiction overshadows real love makes me feel ... I don't know. I don't want to know. I want to change the subject. "Last month, you guys went out and Virgil didn't come home ... Was he with another woman?"

He shrugs again. "Which time last month? We go out a lot. I don't keep track of Virgil."

"I guess," I mumble, my eyes falling. "It's probably safe to say he was."

"Probably."

There's an awkward moment of silence. I unbuckle my seatbelt and shift closer, ready to implement the other part of my needs and vengeance. Luke is already staring at me as I meet his eyes. My face inches closer, but he doesn't move.

"What are you doing?"

"You know what I'm doing."

He stares straight at me. "Why?"

He's always asking for a reason. I've never known a man to ask so many questions when heading into a sensual encounter. Most of the time questions are avoided altogether. But not with Luke. "Because I want to."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do," I stammer. "Don't tell me what I want, you don't know what I want."

"You want revenge," he plainly says. "Right?"

I huff and sit back in my seat. "So what if I do?"

He's still for a moment. "I don't want to fuel your threats."

"I won't tell him. I swear I won't," I say, quiet and serious.

"What kind of revenge is kissing me if Virgil will never know?"

"I'll know. It makes it feel more even, it makes it feel like I can forgive him. He's made mistakes and so have I."

"Mistakes ..." He loudly sighs. "I can't do this."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"Is it because of Fleur?"

He's silent.

My heart throbs with hurt. "You just told me you don't love her--you told me you've cheated on her before--"

"It's not because of Fleur."

"Then what is it?" I question, searching for answers in the dark. And then I see it. And then I realize. "Is it ..." I can't finish the question.

"What?"

I hate bringing it up, but it's coming up whether I want it to or not. "Is it because of how you saw me that day?" I blurt out.

Luke's hands suddenly strangle the steering wheel. "Neil and that day have nothing to do with how I see you--or how anyone should see you."

Even though his words are surprisingly kind and sincere, I find little comfort in them. "Then what's the problem?"

He falls silent.

"If you don't think of that day when you look at me," I shakily continue, "then kiss me."

"Sid, this is ... You can't base this on some fucked up thing that happened--"

"If you don't want me to think it's because of Neil, then do it."

"Sid."

My task for revenge has morphed into something else. I didn't intend to bring up Neil and that day, but the hopeless, pale pill popped out even though I've swallowed it many times, wanting it to be downed, digested and destroyed, but there it is, always rising, always coming back, always following me into a new day. Sometimes I wish for the darkness. My requirement for a kiss is now a demand. "Do it."

"Sid ..."

A desperate demand. "Please."

He pauses, his expression strained, then he grabs my chin and presses his mouth against mine. It's slightly forceful at first, slightly awkward, but the surprise of his sudden touch soon melts away and I reciprocate the softness of his lips.

The kiss is short, sweet, but as he pulls back it's a mere moment before he leans in and touches my lips again. We kiss for a second time, shortly, sweetly, delicately breaking apart only to find each other again as quickly as possible. He moves my hair back and holds my shoulders as each kiss becomes longer and the breaks disappear. My hands reach over, feeling the smooth, tattooed skin on his neck and the stray hairs at his nape. I expected to have to play along, to merely go with the motion of revenge or to choke down the pale pill once again, but instead I'm losing myself in Lucas.

His cell suddenly rings. I wait for him to fulfill his duty to the club and leave my lips, but he ignores it. It continues ringing, shrilly, over and over, interrupting our dark peace, until it finally stops. Luke's kiss becomes a little deeper, a little more desperate, and I press my body closer. But no sooner do his arms hug me tighter, the cell rings again, seeming louder than before. He pulls away and grabs the frantic phone from his pocket.

"Shit, sorry," he mumbles.

I mildly shake my head, coping with the disappearance of his soft mouth. "No ... it's fine."

He answers, speaking quickly and gruffly, monotone, as usual. "When? Where was he? I'm on my way." Luke sharply shuts the phone and starts the engine.

"We're leaving?" I question.

"Virgil's been shot."

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# 17

I battle to contain the tears, to hold them tight and condensed, but the shock and overwhelming guilt frantically pour out. I wipe my eyes and try to keep my mascara intact, but I'm losing the fight. "What happened?" I splutter.

"He got shot."

"But where? How?"

"I don't know."

"Why didn't you find out more?" I question as we soar through the dark, gaining on the small lights dancing in the distance.

"He's alive. That's all that matters. We'll find out details when we get to the hospital."

"He could bleed out! He could die and we're stuck out here!"

Luke doesn't respond.

"Why did you drive us all the way out here?"

"You know why," he snaps, jaw clenched.

"This is not my fault! I didn't ask to go this far out!"

"You wanted us to be alone."

"Don't put this on me! This is your fault!"

"Stop screaming."

"Don't tell me what to do, don't tell me how to act! Virgil is hurt and we might not get there in time!"

"You're going to burst my fucking eardrum."

I pause, glaring at him with wide, beady eyes. "Why are you so calm?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Why aren't you freaking out that your President has been shot?"

"Just because I'm not screaming and crying doesn't mean I'm not concerned."

"Look at you, you're fine. You don't care. You don't care at all."

"Sid--"

"I can see it in your eyes. If he died, you'd be happy."

"Check what you're saying!" he shouts.

"You--you--" I stammer as the accusation bubbles in my gut and froths out my mouth, "you set this up."

"What?"

"You set this up. You set Virgil up to get shot tonight."

Bug throttles the steering wheel. "Don't, Sid," he says through gritted teeth.

I feverishly shake my head. "What other information could be this powerful? You crumble under the weakest of threats, from the slightest mention of Virgil's name. What don't you want him to know? Maybe that you're working with S-10?"

"Stop! I'm not working with S-10. You can't say shit like that!"

I search his angry, unreadable face. I don't know his intentions. I never have. "I don't believe you."

"You don't even know what's going on!"

"Then tell me why this happened? Why did he get shot?"

"Why do you think? Virgil has enemies and he just killed a member from S-10. Shit like that doesn't get forgotten, except by Virgil because he thinks he's invincible."

"He is invincible."

His grip gets tighter as his heavy sigh becomes a growl. "This was a big mistake. I should've never gotten involved in your fucked up delusions."

"I caught you sneaking around and now Virgil's been shot. It's too much of a coincidence," I waver, sniffing back the tears. "I'm telling him about you."

Luke doesn't feed my frenzy.

"I should've never kept it from him," I continue. "It's obviously big--whatever you're up to--and I'm not keeping it a secret anymore!"

"Your loyalty lies with a man who doesn't give a fuck about you."

"Virgil loves me!" I screech, smacking my hands on the dashboard.

The truck suddenly stops and I'm surprised to recognize the surroundings; we're back at the clubhouse. "What are we doing here? We need to get to the hospital."

"I'm dropping you off."

"What?"

"You're not coming with me, Sid."

My outrage is so intense that small stars twinkle before my eyes. I shut them and concentrate on articulating my rage. "Don't. Do. This," I sputter. "Take me to him. Now. Take me to him!"

"Get out of the car, Sid," he commands.

"No! Take me to him! We don't have time to waste!"

"You're acting crazy. I can't take you there like this."

"You can't do this to me! You can't fucking do this to me!" I shout, tears falling from my eyes again. "I need to see him!"

"The last thing he needs is some crazy chick making a scene."

"I'm his girlfriend! Take me--"

"I could bring the stripper he fucked a few nights ago and he wouldn't know the difference!"

I choke back the tears, stunned by his harsh words. "Fuck you. How dare you say that, you fucking traitor piece of shit!"

"You're only proving my point!"

"You can't keep me from him, I'll take a cab to the hospital," I threaten between gasps.

"You don't know which hospital. Now get out of the car."

"No, no, please, don't. I won't say anything, I swear!" I plead, frantically grabbing his arm, pulling at his sleeve, scratching his skin, yanking at his vest. "I won't say anything about you. Please, just take me to him. Don't leave me here alone."

He brushes off my insistent hands. "You're not thinking straight. I'll call you as soon as I find out--"

"No! Don't leave me here alone, Luke!"

"Get out of the car."

My hands ball into fists and I start punching him, over and over, not paying attention to where my knuckles land. He's blocking me, but I keep going, keep trying, keep fighting, as my vision blurs with tears.

"Stop!" he yells.

But I don't. I can't. I lean closer, my knees pressing into the fabric of the bench seat, and continue. "Take me to him--take me--take me with you!"

"Stop it, Sid!" he repeats, and with one push easily defeats my thrashing arms.

"I hate you!"

"You're out of your fucking mind!"

"I fucking hate you!" I scream.

"You hate yourself!"

I choke on my gasp, shocked by his accusation. "Fuck you, Luke! I hate you, I hate you!" I emphatically repeat, but my words hold no power.

"Get out of the car!" he growls, hurting my ears.

I realize I'm not going to win this. I jump out and slam the door with as much force as I can muster, but it's a feeble display of emotion. I'm exhausted, drained, essentially dead. The only thing keeping me alive is the consuming concern. The tires spin out as Lucas drives off and leaves me alone with my guilt.

On my way to the front door, I pull the cheap flip phone from my purse and ensure the ringer volume is at its loudest. I reach for the door handle and find it's locked, meaning no one is here, not even Fleur. My shaking fingers fumble with the keys, eventually finding the keyhole, and I step into the dark entrance hall. I don't bother putting on any lights. I walk upstairs and head to the room where Virgil and I made love only a few nights ago.

A new wave of tears crashes forth as I collapse on the bed, overburdened with the thought I can barely process: I was kissing Bug while someone was trying to end Virgil's life.

Lucas was right. I do hate myself. I have reason to.

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# 18

The cell doesn't even finish its first ring before I answer. "Is he alright?"

"... He's fine."

I'm bathed with relief, and I'm grateful I didn't pull out every strand of hair on my head over the past two hours of silence and doubt. "What took you so long to call?"

"Do you want to hear about him or not?"

I scowl. "Does he have to stay there?"

"They're sending him home. It was a surface shot in his arm," he lowly says, like he's trying not to be overheard.

"It's not serious?"

"A paper cut."

"Well, that's good. That's really good," I numbly say, waiting for my relief to increase.

"Yeah."

There's a silent beat. "Are you taking him to his house?"

"Clubhouse. He shouldn't be alone."

"He wouldn't be alone. I could go to his house and take care of him."

"No," Bug quickly responds. "He needs protection. He got lucky, again--or maybe it was just a message--but he's sporting a bull's eye."

"Was it S-10?"

"We haven't fully discussed it. The cops are here, but Virgil's keeping quiet, saying he didn't see the guy."

It feels odd to be told so much information, for my questions to actually be answered and then some. "When are you guys going to be back?"

"In a few hours, I guess."

"Okay," I quietly reply. "Maybe I'll order food for everyone."

"Sure."

I pause. "Where's Fleur?"

"Why do you care?" There's suspicion in his voice.

"Just wondering. I'm here all by myself."

He's silent, but I can hear him breathe, like he's trying to figure out why I would bring her up.

I don't know why I asked, and why I'm stating the obvious fact that I'm alone at the clubhouse ... Perhaps the spiteful feline embedded in every female decided now is a good time to toy; now that I know Virgil is going to be alright I can get back to playing with power. "It would be nice to have some help--you know, clean and set up for dinner," I continue, feeling his tension through the phone.

"I'm sure you can handle it. It's for your boyfriend, after all."

The game is back on. "Are you suggesting I wouldn't offer my help to Fleur if it were you who got shot?"

"You wouldn't do anything to help me."

"That's an ugly thing to say."

"Says the person threatening me."

My frown deepens, truly troubled, then starkly turns vindictive. I'm supposed to hold the power yet Bug was able to stop me from going to the hospital. Virgil could've been dying, taking his last breath and uttering his final words, and I wouldn't have been there because of Bug. "Not for much longer," I say coldly. "I'm not going to do it tonight, but I am going to tell Virgil the truth."

The line goes dead. He hung up.

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# 19

I suspect he's afraid.

Maybe he'll fight.

Maybe he'll run.

Maybe I'll never see him again.

My chest deflates from the concept: I may never see Luke again ...

I forcefully inflate my lungs, determined that telling Virgil the truth is for the best. The game needs to end. I kissed Bug--I had my revenge on Fleur and Virgil--and now it's time to get back to my loving life. Virgil and Sidonie forever.

Despite being hours too early, I swear I hear the front door open. I rush downstairs, desperate to see Virgil's suffering state, ready to console and tend to him, but as my fleeting feet reach the last few steps I find Fleur in the entrance, taking off her coat. My grip tightens on the railing as she slams the door and fixes her hair in the hall mirror. As she turns, her eyes find mine.

"What the fuck is going on in this place?" she yells, seeming too aggravated to care about our rocky relationship. "I had to take a fucking taxi from Whalley--sixty-three bucks!" She shakes her head and heads to the kitchen. "I need a drink."

I consider returning to the room, but I follow her instead. I don't want to be alone any longer. However, that's not the only reason for wanting to be near her. There's something else, something shameful and twisted, something I didn't notice before but is now commanding my attention: being around Fleur makes me think of Luke. The moment she turned around in the hallway I could see traces of him. I could imagine her lips and tongue touching his, the smell of his smoky, soapy skin as she breathes against his cheek, the feel of his hair and the muscular sinew in his forearms as she grips him for support. Seeing them together has always unsettled and intrigued me--I hate looking, I hate watching, yet I can't ignore it. And now that I've experienced first-hand the feel of his caress, the softness of his kiss, the unexpected tenderness of his touch, which is the complete and utter opposite to Virgil's desire, I find Fleur's presence even more detestable and delightful.

I stand in the archway, peering at her with subtle fascination as she reaches for the green bottle of Jameson. "You were in Surrey?" I ask.

She pours a double and huffs. "Bug dropped me at my sister's in Poco, but then she wanted to meet up with ..." she glances at me, "uh, it doesn't matter," she concludes, looking down at her glass. "Anyway, I was ditched and had to pay a fuck-load to get back here because Bug wouldn't answer my calls."

My eyes widen as I step forward. "You don't know what happened, do you?"

Fleur's expression instantly morphs from irritation to dread. "Is it Bug?--Is he hurt?--Is he alive?"

I'm stunned silent by her sincere reaction.

"Oh god," she utters as the tears choke her. "Oh my god." Her legs shake and bend as she doubles over and shudders with grief.

"Fleur," I gasp, rushing to the opposite side of the counter and crouching down. "No, he's fine. It's not Bug," I clarify, finally finding the words. But with finding the words I also find the tears, and as I place my hand on Fleur's shoulder I'm overcome with distorted emotion.

She sniffs. "Bug's alright?"

I nod as droplets fall down my cheeks.

"Then what happened?" she questions, gently wiping her blackened tears.

"Virgil got shot," I manage to mumble.

"Oh, Sid," Fleur laments, leaning on her knees and engulfing me in a tight hug. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Do you know if he's okay?"

I wrap my arms around her and press my mouth against her boney shoulder. My cries subside, but I stay still and silent, composing myself as I irrepressibly imagine Fleur pressing her delicate frame against Luke. Does he like this skeletal flesh wrapped around him? Am I feeling what he feels when he touches her?

"Oh god, is he that bad, Sid?" she asks, her voice wavering with worry.

I sniff again and pull away. "No, he's ... he's fine."

"Really?"

"It was a shot to his arm."

"Oh, well that's a relief," she breathily comments. She grabs me and squeezes me even tighter than before. "I swear that man has nine lives. He's going to be alright, Sid, everything's going to be alright."

I don't respond as my thoughts revert to her grossly skinny body.

"Sid," she pauses and releases me, "I'm sorry. About everything. I hate not talking to you. And I hate talking to those dumb bitches Ven brings back," she adds, chuckling.

I lower my soaked lashes.

"Can we please forget that day?" she asks, holding my hands and bringing them onto her lap.

I stare at the chipped, pink polish on her nails, aware of the cold softness of her fingers, the warmth of her palms and the closeness of the intimate space between her legs--a place that has been discovered by Virgil and Bug, doubtlessly many times. It's something she will forever hold over me, the superiority, the knowledge of what it's like to lie with Virgil, to taste Virgil, to feel flesh against flesh in a way that can never be replicated or explained. And I've got nothing over her. Yes, I currently have Virgil, but she's right, she already had him, and now she has Luke. She wins. She wins without even trying. She fucked my love, the man I thought I lost tonight--the realization and the image that flash in my mind are excruciating--and I can't simply forgive and forget.

Kneeling on the kitchen floor, I peer into her sapphire eyes with hidden resentment and bitterness. Like so many times before, I spread my lips into a carefree smile. "Already forgotten."

I don't apologize for anything--nothing I said and nothing I did--because I'm not sorry and I'm not done.

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# 20

The chaos and commotion have finally calmed from the arrival of Virgil and the gang. Everyone seems to be in good spirits, positive and untroubled by the possible threats beyond the iron gates of the clubhouse. Everyone except for Bug, of course. But his solemnity is nothing new or different and remains unquestioned and unnoticed.

I did, however, notice Fleur's clingy, boney-bodied hug she gave Bug. And I also noticed their lips lock, despite its briefness. I hugged Virgil, gently and carefully. Unfortunately, our kiss was also brief. In fact, Virgil barely met my lips as he slowly walked through the door. I suppose my reaction was ungraciously transparent--Zilla reminded me of his loopy state due to the heavy painkillers--so I quickly smiled and tended to my brave man.

The false smile remains on my face even now as the crew surrounds us with pizza and beer and weed, making my eyes burn and cheeks twitch with fatigue. For the past couple of hours I've watched Virgil peer around, vacant and glazed and loving it so much that he continues to feed the numbness with a couple of joints, a couple more painkillers and more than a couple bottles of beer. Incapable of concentrating on even the simplest conversation he dazedly laughs when the crew laughs, cheers when someone yells and incomprehensibly mumbles to himself. I keep asking him to repeat his words, but he waves me away and ignores me.

And, like a bad habit, I find my attention wilting for my wounded love and seeking Lucas. It doesn't take long to find the severe stare that has already found me. An intense jolt squeezes my stomach, but I don't look away. Instead, I remain hard and cold--mirroring Luke's expression--and gently spread my fingers against Virgil's beard. I gently stroke his face, pushing up into his hair and finally, with my eyes remaining on Luke's, I move closer and kiss Virgil's unresponsive mouth.

If I weren't familiar with the nuances of Luke's countenance, I wouldn't have noticed the disgruntled difference in his expression. But I am and I do. He glares at me for a moment longer, then grabs Fleur and places a hard kiss on her lips. I try to look away, but as usual I can't. Fleur welcomes his abrupt embrace and wraps her arms around his neck. Finally he pulls away and, though her back is towards me, I'm certain she's grinning with giddiness. It takes only a second before his eyes land on mine again, imperceptibly smug.

I flip my hair so it flows over my shoulder, like the girls always do in porn, and straddle Virgil. My knees sink into the soft leather and my crotch meets the warmth of his lap. My determined stare flickers between Virgil and Luke as I smile and kiss along his neck. I know there are other curious eyes fixated on me, but I care only to keep the attention of one.

In the distance, Bug picks up Fleur's light body and sits her on the counter. She opens her legs, assuming a habituated position, as he kisses her again ... but keeps an eye on me. I swallow down an uncomfortable lump and ignore the blood furiously beating through my body. I suddenly dislike this game. Observing Fleur in such a welcoming position and Luke so intimately enveloped makes me imagine them having sex. I can virtually see their entwined bodies moving as a stormy sea of endless skin, enjoying each other's flesh, as one is supposed to, without fear or panic or pain, only pleasure--gentle, sensual pleasure. I can almost feel Luke's touch, his care and attention, and his soft lips all along her body ... The image continues to violently rock, gaining momentum and heat until Bug finally pulls from Fleur's physical greed. His eyes flicker to mine again.

My beating blood calms as I realize I can easily top that display of teasing passion. I've performed many shows. I'm careful to not disturb Virgil's arm--though I'm certain he's incapable of feeling anything at the moment--as I press my thighs closer and lean back. Virgil dreamily stares at me, through me, with not even a shimmer of the wild green that usually gleams brightly. He's a tranquilized beast, muzzled and harmless, and a surge of something suddenly tingles my skin. For the moment I forget about Bug, I forget about the noisy, nosy crowd, and I forget about the plaguing guilt and concern. I stare deeply into Virgil's eyes, deeper than ever before, expecting a monster to leap out from the dark, for something to scare me away, but the only thing that breaks my intense fascination is the slow blinking of his eyelids.

The tingling surge is a feeling of freedom, a feeling of fearlessness. At this moment I hold power over Virgil. He can't shoo me away or slander me in front of the dear crew. And he can't grasp my hips and penetrate me for his own selfish enjoyment. In fact, he can barely lift his good arm. A genuine smile replaces the false one as my fingers crinkle the collar of his shirt. I lean forward and softly rest my lips against Virgil's, keeping my eyes open and looking into his. He slowly blinks again as his nose placidly pulls and pushes air against my skin. I pucker, kiss his lazy lips, and then release his collar. My fingers stroke his neck, down his Adam's apple and lightly tug on the top button of his shirt.

A deeper breath expands his chest as he struggles to speak. I lean forward again. "Tell me what you want," I whisper against his mouth.

He tries to articulate his demands.

"I said tell me what you want."

He tries and fails.

And I smile.

"You don't know what you want," I whisper, peering into his drugged stare. "How about I tell you what you want?"

I kiss my paralyzed Virgil, sucking on his bottom lip hard--harder--until I'm certain it's red with blood. And then I tenderly bite it and hold it between my teeth, like a cat suffocating its prey. The party around us doesn't exist, just the limp green eyes gazing back at me--eyes that belonged to the second-hand dolls I played with as a child, eyes that are vacant and feeble--until a familiar stirring beneath my pressing crotch shakes me from my thrown. I peer down, between my legs, and realize not every part of Virgil is lifeless. With the threat of his hardened weapon, the party crashes down and the attention my little game has attracted becomes apparent. Everyone is staring at us. At me. Slightly stunned, I glance around, blushing.

"Stop staring, you perverts," Fleur calls out, "and help get Virgil upstairs!" She sweetly smiles at me.

There's some commotion, some laughter, some hooting and hollering--nothing more than the usual--as they help his lame body from the couch and carry him upstairs. As I follow, Fleur touches my shoulder and winks at me, warm and friendly. Behind her, Bug is the stark opposite: jaw set and expression solid but unreadable, as usual. He undoubtedly saw the intimate moment that evolved into something I didn't expect, something I didn't want him to see, something that wasn't part of the game. I lower my eyes and head upstairs.

Helping Virgil without moving his arm is difficult and slow, but eventually they lay him on the bed and pull off his heavy riding boots. He groans and mumbles something, but before they even leave, his eyes close and he begins to snore.

"Night, Sid," they wish, one after another, as they head out.

"Night." I close the door.

And lock it.

I slowly turn and stare at Virgil. He's deep in slumber, unwilling and unable to wake. This is different than his drunken sleep--this is more powerful, more severe. Tingles run down my neck and make my nipples rigid as I survey his immobile body.

"Virgil," I whisper. But there's no response; no twitch, no semi-recognition that someone is calling his name or even in the room with him. I walk over and speak directly in his ear. "Virgil." I repeat it three times.

Nothing.

He has ventured into the deepest, darkest corner of serene slumber, and thanks to the weed and alcohol and pain killers nothing but time will bring him back to this reality. He's gone, or a piece of him is gone--the piece that makes his pupils pulse with power.

My focus remains undisturbed as I step back and undress. I drop my clothes to the floor, uninhibited, unafraid, and unhinge the clasp of my bra. I release my breasts from the push-up cups and pull down my thong. I step out of it and stand before Virgil with nothing but a gold necklace sticking to my perfumed chest. There's no ogling, there's no pressure, there's no expectance. And there's no suffocating sand.

I stay fixated on his loud snores as I stand there, presenting myself to him, presenting this side of me, one side of many, soaking in the rare moment of being stripped of my clothes but not of my dignity, of being naked for my sake and not his, and being comfortable in nothing but my skin. I tell myself there is nothing wrong, there is nothing shameful about my nudity, and that my bare body isn't who I am, my bare body isn't my entirety, and that men--and that Virgil--want me for more than just my beauty and my undressed flesh.

My bold confidence lasts for a few sincere moments--my chest swells and my shoulders straighten--and then it swan dives into the sludgy sand, lost so quickly and so deeply it's like it never existed. Even in his unconscious state he strips away more than my clothes.

I grab a plain white t-shirt from Virgil's drawer and pull it over my crestfallen head. It covers my private parts and hides my private thoughts as I climb into bed. I'm about to reach over to turn off the light when something stops me.

For a few long moments I stare, watching and thinking ... just watching and thinking. And staring. Staring at him, at the creases in his skin and the little pouch of unflattering fat under his slumped chin. Staring at myself, at my semi-nude body, at my nails and my shaved legs. Watching and thinking ... just watching and thinking.

And then I reach for the bandage on his wounded arm. Without hesitation, without thinking, I squeeze it and dig my thumb against the gauze. I can feel the ridge of stitches and the swollen skin, and I can picture the bullet ripping into it ... and the blood. Only the healing aftermath spots the bandage, but it still stimulates my imagination. I can see the spurting and gushing, the bright red danger, the bright red pain, the bright red shock of what's happening. And the fear. The fear that is fiery at first, glowing and blinding because it's so intense, then starts to lose all light, all hope, and grows darker and darker until it turns pure black with realization--the black fear of no escape, the black fear of endless pain, the black fear of death.

Virgil doesn't flinch.

He can't feel me touching his wound. A sigh blows from my nose, partly disappointed, partly intrigued ...

Facing him, I lie back on the bed and stretch out, slowly, very slowly, breaking apart my knees and spreading my legs, watching Virgil from between my free flesh as I inch wider and wider, shifting my heels on the soft comforter, until I can't go any farther. The air is cool on my exposed skin. If Virgil saw me like this, he would try to enter me, no considerations nor questions asked. He would never understand that this could be for my enjoyment or for my power.

I straighten my right leg, lightly kicking his wound as I slide my foot across his chest and up to his Adam's apple. My black-painted big toe rests against it. It feels like I'm stepping on a dog's chew toy, ready to squeak if I press any harder ...

Something within tempts me to take advantage of the opportunity, to do something I would never be able to do under any other circumstance, and so I push against his throat. The loose neck skin is rough with stubble and slippery against the ball of my foot, but it doesn't stop me. I add more pressure, listening to his snores become strained, louder at first ... and then softer the harder I press. He's struggling to breathe.

Something within startles me, something uncommon that's making the dormant space between my legs throb with want. It's such a rare sensation I'm not sure how to handle it and, as though I'm programmed to do so, I suddenly unbuckle his belt and lower his zipper. It's not until his flaccid penis lies in my grip that I realize I don't need to perform. I don't need to do anything. He's soft and asleep; I'm the one desiring sexual touch. Again, I'm not sure what to do or how to handle the unusual situation.

I glare at the soft, tubular meat. It's hard to believe that this thing is daunting or something to fear, that it can cause damage both physically and emotionally, and has done just that.

I wonder how many women it's been in.

My grip tightens, strangling it in my fist before I release it and it flops to the side. It and Virgil seem unharmed from my vindictive touch, making me feel frustrated. I consider pressing my foot against his throat again, but halt when I notice he's still wearing his holster. I remove the heavy gun from his ribs, weigh it in my hand and, without hesitation, point it directly at his dick. I don't know if there are bullets in it, but it doesn't matter--I'm not going to actually pull the trigger. Holding the gun feels good, but there's no pain being inflicted and he's incapable of showing fear, which makes my rush quickly fade.

I search his pockets for something else, something destructive, something to satisfy this sudden sadistic lust. My fumbling fingers find a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I flip it open. The familiar scratch echoes in the privacy of the bedroom and a small flame appears from just beyond my thumb. I stare at it with fascination, as though I've discovered the dangerous element, and succumb to the hypnotic glow ... And then, without hesitation, I lower the flame to the smooth tip of Virgil's penis. I run it under the head--between the crease he likes me to massage with my tongue--once, twice, three times.

And then I don't let it run.

I let it stand still.

I make it stand still.

The flame flickers against the shiny pink skin and I imagine the stinging burn, the pain, the searing delicate flesh--

A moan disrupts his snores, making me jolt and drop the lighter in the blankets. I stare at him, my eyes wide, my heart hammering, but a moment later his snores continue even louder than before.

I haven't been caught and I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel unsatisfied. The throbbing between my legs has gained momentum and nags me to do something to soothe it. So I sit up and straddle Virgil. I stay away from his floppy dick--it no longer interests me--and inch my way up to his mouth. My knees teeter on either side of his thick body, moving higher and higher, until they reach his armpits and I bring them up and over his collarbone. My weight on his chest affects his breathing, making his snores deeper and more severe. I hike my T-shirt up so I can see my panty-free flesh near his blowing mouth. The warmth of his breath teases me, making my nipples hard, practically raising every single hair on my body with anticipation. And then I gently lower myself onto his open mouth. He struggles to inhale through his nose, but his exhale is forceful and vibrates against me.

It feels wrong. Too intimate. Too depraved ... But it also feels really good.

It doesn't take much and it doesn't take long to push me to the peak. I'm close, so close--which has happened so few times I can count it on the fingers of one hand--and just before I climax I pinch Virgil's nose. Unconscious, he struggles to breathe, again and again and again, but he can't breathe, even though he's trying, and I don't care--I don't fucking care--because it feels too good.

I press down on his panting mouth as all the blood rushes to the nerves. He can't breathe and I don't care. Because he's never cared. How many times has he finished in my face or made me gag or pushed too hard? He's suffocating and I'm coming.

And I don't care.

I don't care.

I don't ... care.

Before he turns an even deeper shade of maroon, I release his nose and fall to my side of the bed. He takes a heavy inhale and returns to snoring, like nothing happened.

Drunk with endorphins, I turn off the light and fall into a deep, dark sleep.

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# 21

I float to the surface. The ascent is gradual, and as I leave the dark depths I feel calm. I break the surface, open my eyes and stretch my arms above my head. I can't remember the last time I slept so soundly.

But then Virgil's snores fill my ears and last night's obscure events crash down on my chest. I lower my arms and clasp my hands together, tensed and appalled. I don't have an excuse for my behaviour last night--I didn't drink, I didn't smoke and I can't blame Bug even though he triggered the detrimental game. It was all me. Something took hold, one and the same as the something that made me flirt with teachers and tease men I'd catch gawking at my breasts and body--everyone who came near but couldn't or wouldn't actually touch me because we were in class or in public. Everyone other than Neil. Everyone after Neil.

But never quite like that.

Virgil's snores are interrupted by a gurgle and a grumble. My eyes dart over as I grip the blanket tightly. "Sss ..." he hisses, sapping his dry mouth.

My voice fails as I watch him try to open his sluggish lids.

"Sss ... Sssid," he croaks.

But again, I can't find my voice to respond. I lie frozen with fear even though I know there's zero chance he'd remember last night or know what I did. His lids finally part just as I squeeze mine shut and pretend to be asleep.

"Sid," he gruffly repeats, but I remain still. "Fuck," he groans as he shakes the bed, trying to sit up. "Sid, wake the fuck up."

I flutter my lids, pretending to be waking for the first time--a performance Princess Aurora would've used if she was faking it when Prince Phillip kissed her sleeping lips--and meet Virgil's bloodshot glare.

"Where are my painkillers?"

"Oh," I murmur, quickly getting up and fetching them from the TV stand. I open the bottle and pass it to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Get me water."

I lower my chin, disappear to the bathroom and return with a glass. Since his good arm is still holding the bottle of pills, I place the water on the table next to him.

He pours a couple of white tablets onto his tongue and angrily glares at me. "Fucking pass it to me, don't make me reach for it. Jesus," he complains.

I take the bottle from his hand and replace it with the water. "Sorry," I apologize and wait for him to finish swallowing before taking the glass again.

He sighs, his face contorting with an uncomfortable frown as he sits straighter. I can tell he's in a lot of pain--more so caused by the heavy hangover rather than the gunshot wound, but pain nonetheless. And then he reaches for his crotch and readjusts with perplexed irritation. I freeze with the memory of the flame I held to him.

"What the fuck?" he mumbles, looking south. "Did I have my fucking fly down all night?"

I crudely tucked his tortured member back into his pants last night, but I didn't zip up. "Oh--no, I tried to--" I stammer and gulp, "I tried to take off your jeans, but I couldn't. It was too difficult."

"Ugh," he groans, rubbing his face. "I feel like shit." His fingers trail along his goatee and around his mouth, and my breath hitches as dried remnants of last night's orgasm lightly flake from his beard.

"Can I get you something, anything?" I quickly question.

He scratches his scruff, releasing more snowflakes. "Coffee."

I slip on the charcoal jeans I left crumbled on the floor and head downstairs. The house sounds empty, but I know it's a lie; the club is on lockdown for Virgil's protection, meaning it's crawling with at least ten members and their frayed pieces of female flesh. My ears perk before entering the kitchen, listening not only for Bug but for any commotion--I'd prefer not to see or speak to anyone--but there's nothing.

As I turn the corner and enter the kitchen, I realize the silence deceived me. Ven is patiently waiting at the coffee machine. I stop my steps and my thoughts for a moment before continuing forward. Ven isn't too bad; he's young but relatively quiet and level-headed. I'm pleased it's not Bowie or Tang, but mostly I'm pleased it's not Bug. I clear my throat to signal he's no longer alone.

Ven jerks his head around and his dark eyes dart to mine. "Sid."

"Hey--sorry," I apologize as I realize his right hand is dropping from his holster. I didn't expect such an extreme reaction.

"No. Don't be," he says, quickly grabbing a mug to occupy his hands. "Haven't had my morning cup yet. I'm not thinking."

"Don't worry. I'm here for coffee too."

"How's Virgil?" he asks after a curt nod.

"Sore. And a bit hung over."

Ven chuckles. "Aren't we all? It was a rough night."

I falsely smile.

He sighs. "I still can't believe he got shot. He's damn lucky it wasn't worse. We all are."

"He's been shot before, hasn't he?" I ask, seeing if Ven's lack of caffeine will benefit me.

"Never publicly," he replies. "I've been racking my brain ... Something's not adding up."

"What do you mean?" I ask, looking down at my nails.

"The liquor store ... It's just, what are the odds, you know?"

I don't know, I don't know at all, but with a thoughtful head nod I pretend he's brought up a point of view I haven't yet considered. "Maybe he was followed."

He stares at me for a moment, then brushes me away. "Maybe. I don't know." He grabs the full pot, pours his coffee and walks off without another word.

I don't think anything of his curt dismissal, I'm used to it, and open the cupboard. As the dark liquid fills my mug, I'm taken back to the darkness of the lake, of my accusations and Bug's equanimity. I couldn't be right, could I? Lucas said he wasn't involved in the shooting ... then again, actions speak louder than words and his actions have been deceitful.

I carry the steaming mugs upstairs--heart racing, body numb--and as I reach the landing the sunlight shines on the wafting steam. I stare at it curl and twirl with the sunlit dust. It looks magical, like time has slowed, like I've been given a moment to consider my choices and to realize that, despite my history with Luke, Virgil was shot last night. His life was and is threatened, and if I know something that could save him, I need to share the information; I need to share the secret. It wasn't mine to keep in the first place.

It makes the decision easier without having to see Lucas since last night.

It makes the decision easier knowing I purposely hurt Virgil last night.

I cringe with guilt, almost spilling the coffee, as I think of the cheating, teasing and burning. Maybe this confession will make up for my mistakes. I push the bedroom door open and lean on it to close. We need privacy.

He's right where I left him, only slightly more upright and watching television. The skin on his usually handsome face looks weathered, haggard, and I can't help but frown before placing the hot coffee next to him. The pain and alcohol and stress of it all are having an ugly effect. I don't like it. Seeing Virgil in this light makes me feel sick, it makes me feel repulsed. His handsome features aren't distracting me and all the horrible things he's done to me and said to me are seeping from their dark hiding places. Why am I with such a gruesome older man? I virtually glow with youth--my skin is tight, my hair is thick, my eyes are bright--and yet I know that's not enough for him, and yet I know it doesn't matter to him, because he could have another barely-legal girl in his bed, in this bed, in a minute.

But where was I before I met Virgil and started staying here? Wandering from couch to couch, working at a part-time job, and wishing Neil was faceless and forgettable. In other words I was nowhere, I had nothing and I was nothing. And now I've become something special, something that matters, and I know deep down I can't give it up. "Virgil, I need to talk to you."

He doesn't acknowledge me.

"... Virgil."

"Where's my coffee?"

I pick it up from the side table and place it in his hand. He slurps and continues to watch the television. I glance back to see what's so enthralling: football. Trying to remain calm before unleashing a storm of information about Bug, I sit on the edge of the bed, near his thighs, and stare at him. "Baby, I need to talk to you."

"So talk," he answers, eyes glued to the screen.

I don't know where to begin. "Do you know who did this to you?"

He shrugs.

"You don't know?" I question, confirming the definition of his indifferent response.

He shrugs again and shakes his head, his mouth turned down at the corners.

Ignoring the twisting knot in my gut, I continue. "I think I know who did it ..."

As though his eyes are moving through thick syrup, he slowly looks to me. "What did you say?"

The green fiercely flashes, and immediately I know I've said something wrong. I gulp and try to untangle my tongue. "I think I know who--it was S-10. Someone from S-10 shot you."

His expression turns furious and disconnected with an insane gleam in his glare. If he weren't injured, his calloused hands would already be wrapped around my throat--not to kill me--to teach me, to warn and punish me. It's happened a couple times before. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he growls and leans forward. He cringes with pain, and though I know he can't reach me, I swiftly stand and step back.

"I--"

"Who the fuck is telling you shit?"

"Nobody. Nobody tells me a thing." I pause, trying to come up with a proper way to release the information about Bug. Virgil's extreme reaction to my opening line has spun me. "I was--I heard," I stumble and stutter. "I saw B--"

"Get the fuck out!" he erupts, beet red in his swollen face. "Fucking cunt! Get the fuck out!"

His booming demands make me flinch. "Virgil, I'm trying to help--" but he refuses to let me finish my sentence for a second time.

"Get the fuck out of my face!"

"But--"

"Go! You're gone! Get the fuck out!" he roars, pointing at the door with his right hand and making a fist in the blankets with his left.

As though Virgil has just slapped me across the face, I'm stunned silent. I don't understand what just happened, why he exploded, why he doesn't want my help ... I close my mouth and head for the door.

"Fucking whores think they know what's going on," he mutters to himself, loud enough for me to hear.

Those cruel words may as well be tattooed on my wrists for I'll never be able to scrub them from my skin. That's all I am to him. All this time. That's all I am.

Keeping my eyes low, I turn the knob and carefully close the door behind me.

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# 22

The hallway teeters and sways beneath my feet, like a ship during a violent storm, and I struggle to keep my balance. My heart thunders in my chest and throbs in the back of my throat, making it difficult to breathe. My unsteady steps take me away from the door, but other than the non-private kitchen and lounge there's nowhere else to go.

I have no place to be.

I have no place to go.

I have nothing.

I am nothing.

I shut my eyes to ease the panic. Closing them calms me, it always has, because it reminds me of Sleeping Beauty. I imagine her lying peacefully through the turmoil and chaos, through the deafening stillness and solitude, and finding the inner sanctuary that kept her safe and beautiful.

Cautious of my steps, I walk past a few more doors, avoiding the stairway, and head to one of the bedrooms that doesn't get used on a regular basis. Not trusting the sheets, I sit on the corner of the bed and let out a deflating breath.

I tried to tell Virgil the truth, but he didn't let me.

The room tumbles and twists, and I numbly rock on the edge of the bed, indenting the skin on my arms with my grip. What was I thinking? Why would I juggle with something so slippery? I toyed with secrets and lies for what, to find out that Virgil cheats on me? I was better off remaining ignorant. The skin under my clutching claws looks like a balloon about to pop. At this moment I don't care if I draw blood. I deserve it.

My mind races with options and possibilities--all the what ifs and I should'ves. It's easy to say I should've told Virgil the moment I realized he wasn't the only one with a key to the clubroom or when Bug was supposed to be in Seattle and I saw him in East Van, but now, as Virgil's furious eyes flash in my mind, I'm not sure he would've let me. So what's the solution? Or, I guess I should say, what was the solution? Keeping my mouth shut. It's a simple lesson I can't seem to learn, and each failed test has come with harsher consequences that have led to something irreparable.

My breath hitches at the thought of Virgil having nothing more to do with me. I scramble and fidget, searching for the information I need to gain back what I've lost, searching for the instructions I need to survive. As usual, my thoughts flutter to Luke. He doesn't know I tried to tell Virgil ... Maybe there's still something there, some small amount of power with which to play, some way of getting me back into the house and Virgil's arms.

I lie back on the bed, no longer caring about the soiled sheets, feeling hopeless and lost and insignificant. The room is no longer swooping and spinning, but the sand has returned and it's slowly pouring in from beneath the doorway.

I've fallen far.

If I'm not careful, I'll descend even deeper.

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# 23

A day has passed and I'm still uncertain how to fix my mistakes.

I find myself staring, hypnotized, at the steam rising from two fresh coffees while I wait for Bug. Yesterday evening I told him I needed to be alone with him again, so he came up with the idea of meeting downtown Vancouver. It's a long way from the clubhouse and the city crowds create anonymity. His tattoos and long hair blend in here and, though I don't like to admit it, with the flowing sea of beautiful girls, so do I.

I took the Skytrain down by myself and he rode his bike, although as he pulls up outside I discover he's not wearing his colours or vest. He finishes his cigarette, stubs the butt then picks it up and places it in the metal trash can. I can't help but frown at this small but clear display of respect for the city. He steps through the glass door and takes a seat at the table.

"So, what do you want this time?" he questions, taking a sip of coffee.

I glare at him for a moment. He's quick to show defense, yet he didn't have to agree to meet with me. Maybe he's been thinking about our kiss by the dark lake too ...

Stop.

I reset my serious stare and focus on my task of survival. "Do you want Virgil dead?"

"For the last time, I didn't have anything to do with the shooting," he lowly says so no one can hear us, but I doubt anyone could with the blurring sounds of jazz music and city traffic.

"You didn't answer my question."

He frowns and cocks his head. "Why are you asking?"

"Because I wish you did have something to do with the shooting. And I wish they didn't miss."

"What are you talking about?"

"I hate him. You were right, he doesn't love me, and he treats me like shit."

"... Then leave him."

I swallow hard and shake my head. "It's not good enough. You don't know what he's said to me, what he's done to me. He has to pay."

Lucas glares across the slowly wafting steam, mouth hard, expression unreadable.

And I glare right back, not backing down.

He shakes his head. "You must think I'm an idiot," he grumbles.

"What?" My heart skips. "No--"

"So, you're not trying to convince me that you're on my side, that you want Virgil dead just like I do?"

"I've--I've wanted it for a while, but I've had no one to turn to, no one to help me."

He sips his coffee and places it back down. "Even if I did believe you, which I don't, you've got the wrong guy. I can't help you."

"I don't believe you."

He shrugs. "Too bad."

"We can work something out."

"No."

"I can help. I can--"

"No."

"Luke, listen, I can lead him somewhere, distract him while--"

"--while what? Are you expecting to get a confession out of me? Proof? Future assassination plans?" he whispers, incredulous, and leans closer. "Sid, what are you doing?"

I huff. He's effortlessly seen through my attempt to uncover a truth, something solid to present to Virgil and return to my thrown. "I'm ... I'm--"

"What?"

"I'm going to tell him," I blurt out, pulling the trigger, hoping there's still a bullet.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. "Then fucking do it already. Are you waiting for permission or something?"

My heart drops. "You don't care anymore?"

"I know you won't do it."

I almost say I already have, but I catch my tongue in time. "Of course I will."

He shakes his head. "I shouldn't have said you won't do it--I don't doubt that you would--it's that you can't do it."

I raise my chin, trying to deflect his assumptions. "Why can't I exactly?"

"Because all I have to do is tell him that you tried to kiss me and you're gone."

My spine stiffens. "You wouldn't."

"Sid," he looks into my eyes, "you know I would."

"If you did that, you'd be gone too," I state between clenched teeth.

"I might get a beating from Virgil, but that's it. And he won't believe a word you have to say after that."

"Then I'll make sure I tell him before you do--I'll tell him you tried to kill him."

"It's a stupid accusation and you know it. You don't have any proof."

"I'll find proof."

He rolls his eyes again. "No, you won't, because there is no proof because, for the last time, I wasn't involved."

The stomach-wrenching swoop of stormy waves bombards me. I close my eyes to ignore the suddenly swirling cafe. "I'll--I'll tell him you tried to rape me."

"No, you won't." He sounds confident, unbreakable, and I hate it.

The honking jazz trumpets and car horns and muddled voices and random laughter and clanking cups and shifting chairs make the spinning that much worse. "I swear, I'll--I'll tell Virgil you raped me the night he got shot and you've threatened to do it again.

"You can't."

"Of course I can! You think I care what happens to you?" I gulp. "Virgil will kill you. He'll fucking kill you."

"No, you can't because you're a terrible liar. If he confronts you, you'll start crying and messing up your lie--because that's what it is: a lie."

"That's--that's bullshit. I can do it," I fumble, practically guaranteeing his threat and theory.

"You forget," Lucas says, softening his tone, "I know you, Sid."

And with that, I feel the last remaining power I held over Bug drain from me, down down down, in a watery tornado beneath my feet. I glare at him, defeated. I could argue that he doesn't know everything about me, but he certainly knows more than most, definitely more than Virgil and definitely more than my long-lost mother. "I ... I don't know what to do."

He takes another sip of his coffee. "You don't have to do anything. I swear I wasn't involved in the shooting. The guys will figure it out. You don't have to worry."

"It's not just that."

"What else is it?"

"... Virgil isn't talking to me."

His chin lifts with noticeable intrigue. "He isn't?"

I remain silent.

"Well, he gets like that. It'll blow over," he comments.

I shake my head, finally realizing the truth. "It's different this time. It's over ... I'm gone." My body feels heavy and hollow. My reign has come to an end. No more clubhouse, no more Virgil, no more king bed in the master room. I've fallen from grace and I've fallen from my safe spot of survival. "I'm nothing to him," I dazedly mumble.

"Sid ..." Luke says, sounding like he's been repeating my name.

"Hmm?"

"He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No. He couldn't. He was injured," I recollect, suddenly fuzzy on the details of the past few chaotic days. It's like I'm in the eye of a storm, bobbing along the choppy surface while the waves churn and crash in the near distance. I'm trapped. I'll be battered beneath no matter which direction I turn, and if I don't go, I'll eventually sink into the suffocating sand. "I don't know what to do," I repeat. "I can't go back."

"Virgil said that?" Luke questions, studying me.

Get the fuck out of my face! Go! You're gone! I nod my head.

"Where are you going to go?"

"I don't know."

"... You can stay with me."

"What?"

He clears his throat and shifts his elbows on the table. "If you need a place to stay--if you can't be at the clubhouse--I've got an apartment."

My heart heavily thumps. "Wouldn't Fleur mind?"

He shifts again, his eyes flicking around the cafe. "She doesn't stay there. She, uh, doesn't know about it."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

My pulse thumps in my ears as I consider his offer. "Where is it?"

"Port Moody."

"Why doesn't Fleur know about it?" I can't help myself; Flimsy Fleur always smothers my thoughts and conversations concerning Bug.

"There's a lot that she doesn't know ... It's better that way."

Perhaps he's right. I know a lot more than I did before and I'm worse off. "Oh."

"Yeah." He sips his coffee and scans the cafe again.

I try not to watch him, but it helps distract me from the water and sand threatening to drown and bury me. As I stare at Luke I can barely imagine Virgil grinning or grabbing me, the sharp prickle of his thick stubble or the wetness of his nicotine lips, the hungry gleam in his greedy eyes or the pungent scent of his sweaty jeans. And I can barely recall the throat-straining yells, the constant profanity and the restrained violence. It's far, far away, once upon a time, in a different land and a different life.

He meets my studying eyes. "So, what do you want to do?"

"I don't know. It's a lot to process. A lot's changing."

"Good," he grumbles.

I lower my eyes. "Is it?"

"Of course. Virgil's strangling leash is gone. You're free."

Free. I don't know the word. I could read the dictionary definition again and again and never fully understand the meaning due to lack of actual experience. I've never been free. I glance up at Luke who's watching me again, serious and severe as usual. "How am I free if I'm relying on you for help?"

His stare softens. "Because there are no strings tying you down. You're not asking for help, I'm offering."

"But why are you offering?"

"I want to."

I shake my head. "That's not a real answer. Why do you want to?"

"To ..." he frowns, "to make up for the night you met Virgil."

"What do you mean?"

He pauses. "I led you into a trap. You would never have met Virgil if it weren't for me."

"You ..." I'm trying to think of a response, but his explanation has staggered me. Is this what he actually believes? "I ... Luke, I'm fine. You didn't lead me into a trap," I announce, sounding shaky and therefore uncertain.

"You don't see it the way I do."

"How do you see it?"

His jaw is strong and his eyes are lowered. "It was bad timing, bad luck," he grumbles, though I can't help but think of the good timing, the good luck, on the day of Neil. "It shouldn't have happened, I shouldn't have talked to you. You wouldn't have had to deal with all this shit if I'd just left you alone."

I swallow hard. "You can't blame yourself for ... what he's done." I was going to say for my broken heart, but it seems too intimate, too exposed.

"You don't see it the way I do," he repeats.

"Well ... it's over now, so ..." I shrug, hearing my words, knowing they're true but still not believing them.

"So ..." he falters, "will you come with me?"

I lick my lips, like I'm moistening them to speak, but I don't, I can't, so I nod.

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# 24

Riding with Luke is much different than riding with Virgil. It's just as intimate--breasts and crotch vibrating against him, muscles tightened and tensed, smelling the skin at the nape of his neck--but it feels different on the inside. There's a sense of safety I feel with Luke that I never felt with Virgil--mostly because I always had to wonder how much whiskey and cocaine Virgil had consumed before straddling the bike. Despite the risk, I rode with Virgil because it was a wild thrill that made me forget all of my other troubles. When he'd take a corner too quickly or make a last minute swerve from obliteration, I'd pacify my fear with the reminder of his experienced years--he's the President for heaven's sake, he could maneuver this motorcycle with a blindfold--and tighten my arms around his slightly protruding belly. But there's no sense of risk or destruction with Luke, and I tighten my arms around his lean stomach simply to get closer.

Before the wind has time to dry the emotional tears that always seep from my eyes, the bike dips into an underground parking lot that surrounds us with cement. We smoothly slide into a stall, and Luke cuts the engine and takes off his helmet. I unwrap my arms from his body and finger-comb my hair. He makes a gesture to head to the door, but neither one of us says a word as we walk through and step into the elevator.

I can't believe I'm heading to his apartment, his private home, where he eats and sleeps and--I was going to say has sex with Fleur, but I remember she doesn't know about this place. I don't know what else he could possibly do here all by himself.

The elevator doors open at the twenty-fifth floor and I follow him down the serenely lit hallway. It smells like a nice hotel--freshly vacuumed carpets, wiped walls, conditioned air--but I realize the building seems this way only because it's newly built and barely lived-in. He unlocks 2501. I follow him through the doorway and meet the bright blue light of the autumn day. "Oh my god ..." I murmur as I walk toward the windows, the city, the trees and the sky.

"I don't have much in here yet," he says from behind, like he's self-conscious of its minimalist state, like it's a bad thing. But it's not. The space is open and empty, except for a slick black couch, a wooden table in the center and a TV mounted above a gas fireplace. The walls are stark white, softly reflecting the daylight and making everything glow, magically, heavenly.

"No, it's great. It's ... wow," I say, breathless.

"I should have more furniture."

I look at the mountains in the distance before taking the plunge below. My eyes struggle to focus, as though the scene is so alien it needs to figure out a new way of viewing it. "I've never been this high up," I admit.

"Really?" he asks as he steps to the windows too.

"Is that weird?"

He shrugs.

"It feels different up here ... like I can breathe." I can see everything that's happening below but I'm nothing but a shadow, a hidden outline in a stack of dark glass. "Is that why you have this place, to breathe, to escape?"

He takes a heavy breath, inhaling the blue light and grey clouds. "In a way."

"Is it to escape from Fleur?" I blurt out, unable to keep her from intruding.

"Not really, no."

I frown, dissatisfied with his answer. I wanted him to say yes, that he needed a place to get away from her twiggy body and annoying voice, that he couldn't handle the stupid things she says and that without this secret place he would've dumped her by now--

"But she's part of it," he continues.

I pause. "What's the other part?"

"The club."

"Is that why you were sneaking around?" I ask, feeling brave--or perhaps I'm just getting used to asking him personal questions.

"It's ... complicated."

A perfect non-answer. I used to be content with those answers--mostly because they were the only answers I received on the rare chance I asked a question--but I'm no longer as easily pacified. However, I stop myself from pushing, remembering I no longer have leverage and that he's helping me, he's actually helping me, and if he doesn't want to talk about this beautiful sanctuary tucked within the clouds, who am I to taint it? And so we stare off into the overcast world, detached and invisible, on the outside looking in, not needing to speak, not wanting to speak, for a timeless, hypnotic moment.

I've been here for a blink of my existence yet I know I want to stay nestled in this private pocket forever, coexisting with Luke's steady calmness, floating like a permanent Vancouver cloud over the streets of toy cars obeying the rules of the road, over the colourful trees that will soon be spindly sticks and envious of the neighbouring evergreens, over the faceless figures that come and go and don't know I'm watching and staring and studying them. I will never know them and they will never know me, and it doesn't matter. Nothing matters here. Not the past few days or the past dark years. Not even my fear and anxiety, the waves and the sand, because I'm too high up and they're far, far below. Nothing matters here except for Luke and the blue light that's bright even on a dreary day.

Fatigue finally hits the back of my knees and I leave the view to sit on the hard couch. I release a sigh of relief. I don't recall ever feeling this way. Maybe this is what freedom feels like?

Luke turns, leaving the view as well, heads past me and speaks over his shoulder. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Uh, sure," I answer, sliding farther into the seat and resting my back.

He hands me a cold, opened beer, but remains standing. "So ... do you want to stay here?"

I nod.

"I guess you need to get your stuff from the house," he comments and takes a sip.

The beer splashes in my coffee-stained stomach, burning from the idea of heading back there. "I don't really have anything ..." I say, trying to sound casual, trying to hide my deep desperation to never leave this place. It's not a lie though; the few crumpled clothes in the drawers of the master bedroom are nothing special, nothing irreplaceable. I've never cared about wearing the same pair of ripped jeans day after day, the clothes just end up smelling like cigarettes anyway.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

He looks down into my eyes. "You sure?"

"I never want to go back there."

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# 25

The cloud coverage blocks the weak sunlight, making it seem later than what the clock displays, saturating me with syrupy melancholy because the best day of my life is coming to an end. We didn't do much, we didn't talk much, but we enjoyed an order of sushi, Luke eventually sat on the couch with me, and we watched a marathon amount of reruns.

I try to shake the sorrow, reminding myself that just because the sun is setting doesn't mean the day is over; we still have an equal amount of time to enjoy tonight, and we have all of tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that, because I don't have to go.

I smile. I don't have to go.

But then my smiles fades. Why don't I have to go?

I side glance Lucas, attempting to determine his motives, his thoughts, his unclimbable brick-wall expression. He says he feels guilty for introducing me to Virgil and the avalanche of chaos and heartbreak that came with it ... but I've barely thought of Virgil today. And my heart doesn't feel broken right now--fractured maybe, but not broken. I don't understand why I don't have to go, why he feels guilty and why he's helping me ... With no strings tying me down.

Is there such a thing?

I don't know Luke's intentions. I never have. I know he's not the type to talk about it or to ask ... but perhaps he's the type to expect. And what if he doesn't get what he expects? His help is over and I'm out--no place to go, stranded, no one to turn to, alone. I have nothing because I am nothing. There may not be a knife pressed to my neck, but survival takes many forms. I need to figure out what to do to survive and to stay here with him.

What does Bug want?

The question is rhetorical being that he's a man. Without considering the answer any deeper, I plunge into the numb, obligatory mindset--a detached state I force upon myself when I use my mouth to pleasure--virtually slipping out of my skin and watching a stranger reach over and touch Luke's hand. His shoulders lower and tense, but I continue to tickle up his arm, stroking the sprawling black ink as I move closer. I press my left breast against his stiff arm and lean into his neck, softly breathing against the moth's wing before gently kissing it. He releases a heavy sigh, a sigh of relief and pleasure, and I can feel his body start to melt from my unexpected caress. Without wasting any time--something that Virgil taught me--I reach for his belt and undo it. But before I can unbutton his jeans, my hands are crumpled between his like a piece of paper full of mistakes.

"Sid," he says.

"Just relax," I reply, commanding myself as well as him. I struggle to wiggle my fingers from his strong grip. "Bug, just relax."

"Don't call me that." He frowns, creasing his eyes.

Why is he making this difficult? "Just relax."

"Sid, seriously, why are you doing this?"

Because I don't want to leave.

Because I feel guilty for ratting on you.

Because with Virgil this solves everything.

Because I don't know what else to do.

None of the answers are suitable and I stare at him, speechless. "Because I want to."

He throws my hands aside and stands up, buckling his belt. "I'm not Virgil. You don't need to lie to me."

I'm still speechless. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize either."

"What do you want from me then?"

"I never said I wanted anything from you."

I fold my arms across my chest. "You didn't need to. I know how this works."

He tilts his chin. "You think I invited you here to suck me off?"

I shrug, like the answer is obvious.

"I told you I wanted to help you."

"Yeah," I say shortly.

"And you thought I was lying?"

"No."

"... But you thought that's what I wanted?"

I pause, feeling like he's tricking me. "I don't know. Yeah."

"That's fucked up, Sid."

I shrug again. "I didn't make the rules, I just know how to play the game."

"This isn't a game."

"Okay. Sure."

He frowns. "Do you think you're being clever or something?"

This sure feels like a game. I press my lips into a tight line. "I may be young but I'm not stupid. Nothing is free."

"You're so fucked in the head."

His tone isn't spiteful, in fact it's whispery soft and sad, but my defenses spike regardless. "And you're not?"

"No, I am. Difference is I know I'm fucked up while you've convinced yourself it's something else--street-smarts or a messed up game."

I stare down, angry. "Whatever."

"It's not whatever. You don't need to think like that anymore."

My anger refuses to fade. "Is that supposed to mean you don't want something from me?"

His eyes flicker to mine, holding them for a moment before releasing them. "It's not ..." he sighs and ruffles his hair, "it's not what you think."

My eyebrows rise. "What's not what I think?"

He sighs again, frustrated. "This isn't how I wanted--"

"You do want something!"

"But it's not what you think."

"You don't know what I think."

"Sid--"

"You made me believe your help doesn't come with strings--"

"It's not like that--"

"You made me feel like an idiot for making a move when it's exactly what you want--"

"Sid, listen--"

"It's exactly what you had planned--"

"I don't want your body, Sid!"

His comment slaps me silent. I self-consciously glance down at my curves, my flat stomach and the long strands that flow over my breasts, ensuring my appealing appearance hasn't disappeared. And it hasn't. Luke is seeing what I see, what everyone sees, what everyone stares at, yet his confounding words are sincere. "Why not?" I blurt out.

"Fuck." He pushes back his hair, tormented.

"What's wrong with me?" My voice is shaking.

"This is so fucked up."

"What's wrong with me?" I repeat.

"Nothing."

"Then why?"

"Because."

"Because why?" I demand.

"Fuck. Because you think that's all you have to offer!"

I fall silent and refold my arms across my chest. "You lied to me. There are strings attached to your help. You do want something." And it's not my body and beauty. I try to hide my hurt and confusion. Why was that his immediate response? How can he want Fleur's boney body but not mine?

"I didn't lie. But it's complicated."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't want to go back to Virgil, right?"

"I can't," I bitterly remind him.

"But if you could, would you? Would you go back to him and the club?"

I pause, considering how Virgil treated me, not just the other day but all the days, and what I had to do for him; my lack of freedom, my lack of friends, my lack of living except when Virgil told me when and how and where; the time I spent with tears in my eyes and fear in my heart, emotionally battered, mentally beaten, physically used. This one elusive day with Luke, suspended in the sky, has given me a new perspective. My immediate impression was correct: I want to stay here, and I never want to go back. "No."

"Okay, good. That's good," he replies, nodding his head.

"Why's that good?" I ask, frustrated.

He pushes back the stray strands of hair from his face. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

"Because I need to figure some shit out."

"No, I want to know what you're talking about. Figure it out now."

"Sid, I can't." His expression is vulnerable and genuine, and my emotions calm. "Please."

"Does Fleur know about whatever it is you can't tell me?" I cringe as I blurt out the irrational question. I feel like I'm constantly competing with her ... and losing.

"No one knows. You'd be the only one."

The answer subtly inflates my chest with satisfaction. "Fine. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

I lean back and float through the movie selection, pretending that my mind isn't racing with possibilities and endless questions. And as usual, the most selfish, the most insignificant issue--in the grand scheme of things--rushes to the forefront, blinding and burdening me: I don't want your body, Sid ... When it's the one thing that holds power, the one thing that everyone seems to want, the one thing that has been my blessing and curse, it hurts to hear someone like Luke reject it with such force. It hurts a lot.

He returns to the couch with two fresh beers and hands me one. And then we both watch a movie, or at least pretend to.

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# 26

The moon, the stars, the dark, the streetlamps, the headlights, the rough white sheets, the chill in the air, Luke's quiet bedroom, his t-shirt I'm wearing without a bra or underwear--the list endlessly continues--are exacerbating my restless mind. How am I supposed to sleep with so many unanswered questions?

I kick my legs out from under the covers, irritated by the spinning circles from which I can't break, like my thoughts are moving from one gravitational orbit to the next, centering around Virgil or Lucas or Fleur. All I want to do is float away and I can't.

I can't.

I sit up and stare into the shadowy night, returning to Luke's abrupt declaration despite promising myself to stop thinking about it. But I can't help it. How could he not want my body? What's wrong with me? It seemed like he wanted it when we were kissing in the dark.

Before I realize what I'm doing I'm out of bed, out of his bedroom and standing by the couch, staring at the twisting tattoos running down his bare torso, uncertain how far they travel beneath the blanket pooling just below his belly button. My interest is usually non-existent when it comes to the male sexual organ; I view it as a weapon or a thing that I sometimes put in my body or mouth, like a tampon or a toothbrush, in a chore-like way. But staring at the blanketed bulge stirs a curiosity within. I want to see his. Not because I want it, but because I'd like to see what it looks like, if it appears different than others I've seen, if it's big or small, crooked or straight, circumcised or natural. It's likely flaccid, but he may be hard from slumber. I gently pinch the blanket and pull it back, relying on the moonlight to display what's hidden beneath.

But I stop and lower my chin, searching for the sudden solid coldness pressing between my breasts. I frown with confusion and fear at the metallic shine of a gun. Too surprised to move, my unblinking stare follows the clenched arm that's pointing it, up up up, meeting the moonlit moth and finally his hard glare. "Luke, it's me," I whisper, uncertain if he can see me in the dark.

He exhales and lowers the gun. "Don't ever sneak up on me, Sid."

"You sleep with a gun?" I confirm, shaking.

"Uh, yeah," he uncomfortably says, quickly setting it aside. He pushes back his sleepy hair and his eyes catch the pale glow of the city. "What are you doing up?"

My back is to the large windows, casting a much appreciated shadow across my face. "I couldn't sleep."

He sits up and reflexively pulls the blanket a little higher. "You never sleep."

"It's hard to with so much on my mind."

"Are you okay?"

"How could I be?"

"Other than all the shit, I mean, are you comfortable? Do you need anything?"

"Nothing you can give me," I bitterly comment.

"You're angry."

I pause. "I'm many things."

Luke scans my hidden face. "I know you're upset about what I said earlier."

My chest freezes mid breath. "Which part?"

"About not wanting your body. It came out harsh."

I shrug. "I--I don't care."

"Really?"

"I don't care," I protectively repeat, causing a long silence between us.

"What if I was lying?"

I try to keep my voice unaffected by his response. "It wouldn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not interested in yours," I defensively answer, not considering if it's the truth or a lie.

"Is that why you were pulling down my blanket?"

His dark boldness is unexpected. "I was not," I stutter.

"Yes, you were ..." he pauses, searching my shadowed expression. "Makes me wonder what exactly is on your mind."

What is he insinuating? I take this rare moment to gaze into the pale hazel eyes that are typically severe and hard, finding them to be soft and open, like they're revealing something, an urge deep from within. It's not merely hunger--the salacious stare Virgil has countlessly given me--it's ... I'm not quite sure what it is, but it frightens me. I don't know how to handle it and I don't know what to do with it, but it's comparable to the tender caress he gave me on the night of Bowie's birthday. Men have always looked at me in a certain way, a way that makes me feel hollow, nothing more than a block of Swiss cheese--something with holes, something to fuck--but Luke always acts like he sees something more. I don't know what he's seeing--I don't know what more there is to see--and that frightens me.

"All your secrets and lies are on my mind," I say, maintaining a shielded attitude.

He loudly sighs. "Give me until tomorrow night, Sid, that's all I ask."

"And then what?"

He shrugs, staring with starry eyes. "We'll see. Either way, you can stay here for as long as you need. No one will bother you."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You're being too kind." My tone is not appreciative.

"I don't think I am."

"No one is this generous without expecting something in return, whatever it is."

"I'm not expecting anything."

"I don't believe you." But I want to.

"Sid, no matter what happens tomorrow, I want to help you, I want to make up for Virgil."

I sigh, upset by the mention of his name, of our past and our relationship. "I told you not to worry about it."

"But I do worry about it."

"Luke," I continue, "it's not your fault. You didn't force me to be with Virgil, you didn't make Virgil do the things that he did."

"It's not just that."

I frown. "What are you talking about?"

"That night at the bar, when I saw you," he pauses, "it brought back a lot of stuff--"

I cringe. "Please, don't bring up--"

"It's not about Neil."

I fall silent.

"It's about us," he reveals.

My heart thumps with curiosity.

"I remembered when you moved in next door. I remembered seeing you at school. I remembered feeling something that was light and ... happy. And I remembered the crush I had on you," he says with a sudden, embarrassed smile.

I'm too stunned to speak--stunned by his unexpected recollection, stunned by the rare grin.

Then his expression suddenly falls. "But I wrecked it."

"What do you mean?"

"I did what I always do, I took something good and I destroyed it."

I stare at him, lost. "What did you destroy?"

"Us." He pauses. "That night you became his, and I wanted you to become mine."

His response is so perfectly candid and quick and colossal that I don't process what it means. "You did?"

He nods.

"You ... but ... I didn't know."

"Because Virgil took over, he took what he wanted. That's what he does."

My head shakes with contradiction and confusion as the confession crumbles into chewable bites and I start to swallow it. "But you've never said anything."

"There's never been a good time to say it."

"Except for now?"

"No, now's probably the worst time."

"Even after all these months you still ...?" I can barely get the question out.

"I do."

"But you're with Fleur."

"It's complicated."

"What does that mean?" I ask, unable to hide my exasperated emotions.

He pauses and exhales, struggling to keep his secrets from seeping out. "Tomorrow, Sid. Please. Tomorrow."

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# 27

We didn't kiss. We didn't touch. We didn't say anything more. It was too difficult to talk without being able to speak; too many questions, zero answers, ceaseless secrets. I left him shortly after his confession for wanting me through everything and after all this time. Needless to say, I didn't sleep. I watched the weak sun rise, and when I heard Luke stir I closed my eyes, ignored my racing heart and pretended to be asleep. I don't know why I faked it, but I couldn't let him see me in the fresh morning light. I just couldn't.

I'm left with nothing to do but wait.

I shower and put on my sink-washed underwear, which is crinkled and rough from air-drying overnight.

I'm left with nothing to do but wonder.

What is Luke going to ask of me? It's something free of expectance and obligation, but also something highly secret. I curiously wander through the bright apartment, opening cupboards and drawers, not searching for anything except a distraction. But other than a few kitchen utensils and a couple crumpled shirts, which I refold, the place is bare.

I'm left with nothing but the memory of Luke's moonlit eyes.

I sit on the couch, trying to squash the chaotic, almost painful feelings to a place where I'll no longer sense them. But I'm left with nothing but the guilt of ratting on Bug and the overwhelming, dizzying confusion of how I feel for him, especially now, especially after knowing how he feels, especially after knowing how he's always felt.

I can't handle it.

I turn on the television, slump into a numb stare and sit very still, blending in with the empty apartment. The hours drift by as I carefully focus on the superficial program problems to avoid my own. And for the most part it's working. If only I could sleep, that would be the ideal escape, but it eludes me even with a previously restless night.

The sun eventually fails its fight and hides behind the gloomy clouds and, just as I hear the door unlock, the rain begins to fall. There's a distressing moment of silence and expectance as Luke steps through and puts down his keys. My back stiffens and I sit up straight. Should I call out? Should I get up? I suddenly wish I hadn't avoided him earlier; acknowledgment, even if it was just a look, might have eased the tension of seeing him now. But I didn't, and a tightening between my shoulder blades forces me to stand and roll my neck. As I turn, he appears from the entrance hall just as stricken as me.

"Hey," he says, walking forward.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Hi."

"Are you okay?" he asks, pointedly stopping before getting too close.

I shrug and nod, unable to speak the lie out loud.

"Uh, do you need anything? A drink, maybe?" he offers, already heading to the fridge. He seems rattled, breathless, anxious.

"Sure. Whatever you're having." I return to my seat on the couch. It's still warm from my hours spent there. I was expecting a beer, but Luke hands me a tumbler with a double shot of--I smell it, uncertain of the tawny liquid--whiskey, neat.

"I hope that's okay," he says, taking a rigid seat on the couch.

"It's fine."

An awkward hush enshrouds us. Where do we begin? How do we begin? Bug gulps back his drink and roughly places the glass on the small table. "I wasn't sure if you'd still be here."

I blink with surprise. "You thought I'd leave?"

He nods, leaning his elbows on his knees and entwining his fingers. "After last night ..." he trails off.

Blood rushes to my cheeks. "No ..."

He pauses again, like he's about to speak, but finishes his drink instead. "I promised you some answers, and I've got them for you."

I can feel my jumping pulse disrupt my swallow. "Okay."

He exhales then taps his glass. "I need another."

My eyes follow his tattooed body as he returns with the bottle. He pours, takes a sip, glances up at me once, then takes another deep breath. "Okay."

I empty my glass and place it on the table, not necessarily wanting more, but Luke pours another for us both. "What is it?" I ask, trying not to sound desperate, but his uncommonly nervous energy is exacerbating my own.

"That day you saw me in East Van, when I was supposed to be in Seattle, I was meeting with someone who I shouldn't have been meeting."

I lightly nod. "I pretty much figured that."

"Yeah, but it wasn't who you think."

"It wasn't S-10?"

"No, I told you the truth about that. I've never worked with S-10 and I didn't set up the shooting."

"Okay, then whose car did you get into?"

"His name is Bryan Collard."

"Bryan Collard?" The name doesn't sound familiar.

"... Detective Bryan Collard."

My chin juts with confusion. "Detective?" I pause, searching his distraught face for clarity. "You're talking to cops?"

He roughly rubs his scalp, eyes wide, staring at the floor. "Uh, yeah, I guess," he stammers, like he's never fully realized it before.

I hadn't anticipated this answer. Not even close. Bug, essentially the most committed member, a severe outlaw with permanent, highly visible markings of loyalty, is speaking to an enemy of a whole new caliber. "You're talking to cops ..." I repeat slower, trying to comprehend it.

His eyes are studying me now.

"You're working with cops?" I continue. "Are you a cop?"

"No."

"But you're undercover for them?"

He pauses. "I don't know what I am."

"What does that mean?"

"I just ... I talk to them."

My frown deepens. "About the club?"

He puts down his empty glass. "It's a little more specific than that."

The whiskey on my empty stomach suffuses my senses, or maybe it's Luke's confession--it's probably both--and my head begins to float, making everything seem dreamy. I put down my glass, refusing to drink any more. "I don't understand. What do you mean more specific?"

"I speak to them about ... Virgil."

His name pricks my skin with unpleasant chills. "Virgil." I gulp. "Why Virgil?" I should be asking questions with less obvious and more insightful answers, but the mention of Virgil takes over.

"Because he's at the top," Luke mutters.

"I still don't understand," I blurt out. "Do you want to be President or something?"

"No, I don't give a fuck about that."

"Then why are you doing this?"

He pauses. "I want out."

"What?" My head shakes. "Why?"

"I don't want to do this anymore."

"You don't want to do what anymore? Selling?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, that and all the other bullshit."

"Then stop," I say with a frown. "Don't talk to the cops, just stop selling, stop coming to the clubhouse--"

"It's not that simple."

I stare at him in disbelief. "But working with cops is?"

"No, but there isn't another way."

"What are you talking about? You can disappear, you can head south or east, you can just go--"

"With this?" he says, pointing to the moth on his throat.

"That can be changed."

"And it will be. But I can't just go."

"Why not?" I repeat, not getting answers that make sense to me.

"Because it doesn't work that way. This isn't a job I can just quit. Quitting means dying," he looks into my eyes, "and I don't want to die."

The shock of it all fades with his sincere confession. He doesn't want to die. It's a concept that isn't difficult to understand; this is his form of survival. "Would Virgil really do that?"

"Without so much as a blink."

"But the club, the house, the other members ... What would you do without them?"

He scoffs. "There's life beyond those walls. I know it doesn't feel like it, but there is."

"But ..." I curiously stare at him, trying to crawl into his head.

"But what?"

"What exactly are you hoping to get from doing this?"

"I don't know ... Freedom? The chance to make a mistake without having life and death consequences. Less violence. Fewer lies. A day without having to constantly scan my surroundings." He releases a sigh. "Just a life--a semi-happy, semi-normal life."

I'd never even considered it. It's like the jackpot signs at the gas station advertising the lottery--$10 million, $20 million, $50 million--seducing the customers who are numbly pumping gasoline. But I've never fantasized about swimming in the deep riches and possibilities of what that amount of money could do, the luxuries and freedoms it could afford, just like I've never considered having a semi-happy, semi-normal life, because I've never had a ticket for either; I was never set up to win. I don't know what a semi-happy, semi-normal life is ... but maybe Luke could show me. Maybe Luke could be my ticket so I could at least have a chance at the jackpot. "Yeah, that would be nice."

He studies me for a moment longer then leans forward. "I can't believe how well you're taking this. I thought you'd freak out, or storm out. Something."

"It must be the whiskey," I reply, realizing how calm I feel. The room isn't rocking and the sand isn't suffocating; I don't feel like I'm going to lose control.

"I guess you really are done with all that," he carefully suggests.

I lean back and relax my strained muscles. "He doesn't want me back and I don't want to go back," I say, detached from emotion. "It feels like ages ago, like a different life."

His brows flick with surprise. "I wish I could say the same."

"It's this place," I continue, looking around. "And you."

He nods, serious, but evidently relieved. "So ... you're not going to hold this against me? Blackmail me?"

An awkward, alcohol-infused chuckle pushes out. "No, and I'm sorry. I got wrapped up in all of it."

"You don't need to apologize," he sighs, "I'm the one who got you wrapped up in it."

"Luke, stop. You--"

"I was already working with the cops when I saw you that night. I should've just left you alone."

I consider his concept, but shake my head in disagreement. "I wouldn't have let you. It wasn't just your choice."

"Things could've been so different." He frowns. "Sometimes I think of an alternate reality, for not only that night but for many nights."

We avert our eyes.

"So, what happens now?" I ask.

"Well," he begins, readjusting his position, "you could meet them."

"Them?"

"You don't have to. You don't have to say anything," he quickly clarifies, reiterating what he told me yesterday.

"They want to know about Virgil, right?"

"Mostly, yeah."

My face puckers with doubt. "But I don't know anything."

"Sid, I'm sure you know more than you realize."

My mind sifts through all the things to which I've turned a blind eye, all the times I've pretended not to hear or see, all the months of being a worthless fly on the wall. "Okay," I decide, willing to at least try.

Luke nods, a slight anxiousness returning. "Okay."

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# 28

I'm alone in the apartment again with nothing but my scrambled thoughts and Luke's confession: Bug's working with cops. It still seems inconceivable. If I hadn't heard the words leave his lips firsthand, I wouldn't have believed it. It seems drastic. Then again, people do drastic things to survive.

I wonder what Detective Collard is going to ask me.

I wonder what answers are going to bubble to the surface.

The idea of speaking to the police doesn't bother me as much as I would've expected it to--though it's not exactly a thought with which I've flirted. This white-walled oasis has changed everything, from the way I think to the way I react. I feel light in the middle of a heavy situation.

Though I'm happy to be far away, suspended twenty-five stories in the sky, I can't help but wonder what Luke is currently doing at the clubhouse. He said he wouldn't be long, but already it's been almost four hours. Then again, I know from experience how lengthy a meeting can be.

It's not long before each blink becomes a burden and I drift away, naturally.

"Sid, wake up!"

My body uncontrollably convulses. I quickly open my eyes to find the moth fluttering above me and Luke's hand gripping my shoulder.

"Sid--"

"What?" I croak, carefully rubbing my eyes. Luke steps back, finger-combing the wind-swept hair from his face and I sit up, frightened by his concerned expression. "What's wrong?"

"You told me he was done with you. You told me it was over."

I frown, confused. "With Virgil?"

"Yes, with Virgil!"

"It is. He told me himself. It's over, I swear it's over. I'm done with Virgil," I reassure, trying to calm his frantic state.

"Well, he's not done with you."

The room slightly faults, jumping in the corners of my vision. I crease my eyes to halt the spin. "What are you talking about?"

"He's searching for you, Sid, asking around, telling members to lookout for you and to bring you back to the clubhouse. He wants you there."

"He's searching for me? I've been gone for only two days," I say with disbelief.

"You've never been gone for two days before, you've never been gone for one."

My vision twitches and sways deeper this time. "Why would he tell me to go if he still wants me?"

Luke shrugs, stressed. "I don't know, but he's angry. Furious. He's the Virgil I always hope to never see."

My heart thunders. "What should I do?"

"You have to stay here. You can't leave. If you leave, there's a chance someone will see you--"

"I can't leave?"

"No." He loudly exhales through his nose, frustrated. "We can probably work something out with Bryan and Reiden--"

"Reiden?" I interrupt.

"Yeah, Detective Dash, Bryan's partner."

More cops. "What could we possibly work out with them?"

"I don't know, getting you some protection, maybe a relocation."

"Protection?" I repeat, startled.

"Yes, protection."

"From who?"

"From Virgil!" His frown deepens. "Why are you acting surprised? Why are you acting like you don't know him?"

"Why are you making such a big deal about it? You said he's just looking for me."

"Sid, he thinks you abandoned him in his time of need. He feels betrayed. You don't want to be anywhere near him."

"You're making it sound worse than what it is," I reply.

"No, I'm not."

I shake my head. "Look, I can sort this out."

"What?"

"I should go back and--"

"Did you not just hear what I said?" he shouts.

"Luke, I can clear things up," I say, meeting his distressed stare. "I know how to handle Virgil."

"I'm telling you, you don't."

I feel my chest rip down the middle. "I still think I should go back."

He stares at me, stunned. "Why?"

I pinch the tips of my thumbs, switching from left to right, over and over, fiddling as I try to make sense of what my heart is telling me to do. "Because it's a misunderstanding. He's upset for no reason."

"He's upset because he thinks he owns you!"

I lightly flinch from the volume of his voice. "Look, I can fix this, I can calm him down, I can help," I stammer.

"Why don't you want to stay here?"

"I didn't say I don't want to stay here," I exclaim. "I just, I don't know, I want some answers. He told me to leave and now he's searching for me and wanting me to come back."

His eyes look lost. "If you go back, he won't let you leave ever again."

"Luke, I can leave any time I want--"

"You really believe that? Look at what's happening! He's on a war path to find the toy he lost."

"You're warping this in your mind. I'm telling you I can help, I can get him off this war path."

"Listen to me, if you go back, he will lock you away."

My head shakes again. "He wouldn't do that. Virgil doesn't chain me up."

"He might not chain you up, but there are chains, and I'm beginning to think you're the one who wraps them."

I'm taken aback. "I'm sorry that I'm not over him and our relationship, but it has been only two days," I say with attitude.

"You told me, to my face, that you were done with him," Luke says through gritted teeth.

I stand up. "If he needs to see me, I need to go."

"You have freedom and you're choosing confinement."

"Freedom doesn't mean I can't leave the apartment! Talk about locking me away!"

"I'm not trying to lock you away." His light eyes hold mine for a moment. "But if you stay here, your safety is guaranteed. You'll be safe with me, Sid."

I avert his stare. "I'll be there for a few hours, that's it."

"You won't get another chance like this to escape him."

"Luke, I need to find some answers or some closure, something, or else it's going to follow me--he's going to follow me--forever. That's not escaping, that's just avoiding."

He sighs, exasperated. "It's not safe! I shouldn't have told you. It was meant to show you how fickle and fucked up Virgil is, but you're just like him!"

"You're concerned, I get it, but it'll be okay--"

"You told me you would never go back, that you wanted to never leave this place, but they were just lies."

"They weren't lies! They weren't. But I need to go. We had a relationship and--and he's asking to see me. It's not a crazy request, especially since we didn't leave on good terms."

"You're not going to meet on good terms either. Why can't you see this for what it is? Why can't you realize you're in danger?"

I narrow my glare. "I've been with him for seven months, okay? Don't act like I don't know him."

"You don't know him. You didn't even know he was fucking around until I told you. What else do you think he's capable of? He kills and tortures and manipulates people--what makes you any different from them?"

"Lots of things!" I shake my head, certain he's merely slandering. "What Virgil and I have can't be defined or controlled or predicted. You haven't seen the side of him that I know."

"And you haven't seen the side of him that I know."

I huff. "I'm not saying we're getting back together, or that I'm moving back to the clubhouse, but I need to see him."

"Stop saying that, you don't need to see him."

"I do! I need to hear what he says, I owe it to our relationship to--"

"He's just going to lie to you. You're giving him a chance to convince you it'll be different or better, that he won't fuck around or hurt you."

My jaw clenches. "You don't understand."

"Why do you keep allowing him to hurt you?"

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"You don't understand!"

"You're going to get hurt again! Virgil's just another version of Neil!" he rants, coming to a halt from the exploding comparison.

My knees give way and I find myself sitting again, not by choice. "He is not," I stammer, pleading more so than stating. "He is not! Take that back."

His mouth quivers, like he's about to respond, but nothing emerges.

"Take that back! Fucking take it back!" I scream.

He looks slightly guilty and definitely pained, but he remains silent.

"I need to go," I announce as I struggle to stand.

He reaches out his hand. "Don't go--"

"Don't fucking touch me!" I shout, dodging his fingers.

"Sid--"

I storm past him and out the front door.

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# 29

The taxi stops at the black gates.

It's been only two days, but it feels like a lifetime.

I don't know what to expect.

My steps echo on the wet driveway and up the stairs, but I hesitate before I enter the house, uncertain if I should knock or go straight in. I decide to enter unannounced--I don't need added attention to my unexpected arrival.

The entrance hall is dark, but a light from the kitchen spills onto the hardwood. Upon entering, the house's musk fills my nose: cigarettes and cloves. The pungent concoction of men and rain and trouble has never changed despite what's cooked or smoked or sprayed. The odor was noticeable when I first arrived, but over the months it lost its potency. But there it is again like new, like I'm a stranger: cigarettes and cloves.

I head up the stairs, holding my breath at every creak and crack, and make my way to the master bedroom. It looks the same, only the bed is unmade. My few clothes remain folded in the drawers, and my extra make-up and bottles of nail polish lie untouched in the bathroom vanity. It's like I never left. As I close the bathroom drawer, I catch my disheveled reflection in the mirror and tamper with my rain-wrecked strands. I've let myself go these past two days, not caring about make-up or curlers. I pull a brush through the knots and dab some concealer under my eyes, but I still look like damaged goods. I need a proper shower, however I won't be undressing under these circumstances.

I exit the bathroom and, just as I begin to wonder when I'm going to see him, I meet the intimidating green glare of Virgil. I step back, startled.

"You're back," he says.

I nod, too stunned to speak. Before our explosion, before the end, before staying at Luke's, I would've run to him, but now I have the urge to run from him. I expected to feel differently towards Virgil, but I didn't expect to feel a gut twisting fear.

His heavy boots echo in the room. "Did someone bring you?" he questions.

I shake my head.

His fingers push the brushed strands from my shoulder as his eyes inspect my face and neck. "Where'd you run off to?"

My minds spins with uncertain notions. "I didn't run."

"You left," he says and his eyes flicker. He smells like beer. He always smells like beer.

"I thought you wanted me to."

"You walked out when I was in pain and you're trying to pin it on me?"

I lower my eyes. "You were angry. I--I thought I was doing what you wanted."

"... Why are you back?"

I meet his green glare for a moment. "I want to know if you've changed your mind."

"You want back?"

I nod, not knowing if it's the truth or a lie, knowing only that it's what Virgil wants to hear.

He's still and silent like the green cedars surrounding the property. "Let's go for a ride."

I hesitate. "Now?"

He grabs my hand. "Yes, now."

"Isn't it raining?"

"Not much."

He pulls me forward, but I pull back.

"What's the problem?" he demands.

"I just ..." What do I say? "I don't feel like going for a ride."

He glares at me. "You love the bike," he firmly reminds.

He's absolutely right, and he's absolutely dead set on going for this ride--something to which I would've jumped at the chance, something I would've seen as romantic and exhilarating--except I don't want to go with him. Is my fear real or are Bug's words playing with my mind? "Okay," I mumble, belittling the apprehension. Virgil hasn't even yelled at me.

"That's right."

We leave the house without witnessing another member, not even a t-shirted whore, and straddle the motorcycle. As we roar into the drizzling night, I look back at the fading lights of the clubhouse ...

I grip Virgil for support as I face forward, recognizing how sickening I find the scent of his skin and how disgusted I am to be wrapping my arms around his beer-bloated stomach. My newfound repulsion and fear may not be related to physical harm, but they are related to the idea of being Virgil's again. I don't want to be his. The inkling surfaced yesterday, but I didn't understand the severity in its sincerity until right now, until I saw his menacing eyes and the pulsing of his leathery forearms.

Lucas was right again. I'm fickle and fucked up. I've been head-over-heels in love for months, virtually since the first moment I saw Virgil--his experience, his power--and now I'm disenchanted with him. How did this happen? How did I get this way?

No! I argue in my head as I force my crotch closer and deepen my gripping hug. I close my eyes and concentrate on the stinging of light rain as we jet through the inky night. I hate feeling like my choices are incorrect, I hate feeling like I'm not in control, I hate feeling helpless. I'm not fickle, I'm following my intuition. I'm not fucked up, I'm street smart. I didn't make a mistake by coming back--I didn't--but the bike rhythmically rattles my contradictions--fickle and fucked up, fickle and fucked up, fickle and fucked up--which muddies Virgil's intentions, Luke's criticizing concerns and what my heart is telling me. It shakes me so hard that nothing makes sense anymore; I can't remember why I left or why I came back or what it is I want.

The bike slows to a stop, and I part my wet lashes and peer around. The forest surrounds us, and so does the night. He turns off the engine, tips the bike and kicks out the stand. "Get off," he demands.

I frown, confused, and follow the order. Shaking from the cold ride, I fold my arms across my chest. "Virgil, where are we?"

"Where were you?" he asks, ignoring my inquiry.

I gulp. I'm not prepared. I came back expecting to listen to what he had to say, not the other way around.

"Where the fuck were you?" he repeats.

"When?"

"Don't play stupid with me."

I can barely see his face, only the moonlit outline of his jaw and shoulders. "I was ... at a friend's place."

"A friend's place?"

"Yeah." A quiver in my voice is present. I casually rub my arms, pretending I'm shaking from the cold and not from fear. "I didn't know where else to go."

"What friend?"

"Just a girl I know, a--a girl from school."

"A girl from school?"

He keeps repeating my answers, skeptical, taunting, like he knows I'm lying, like he knows something I don't ... Does he know I was with Luke? Was this a big set up? Did Luke double-cross me to save his skin? Should I tell the truth? Should I spill my secrets? The key, the kiss, the sighting, the apartment, the police--

"Who the fuck is she?" he continues, breaking me from my thoughts.

A lump forms in my throat. "She's--she's nobody, she's just some girl from school, a friend. I--I phoned her--"

Virgil glares at me in the dark. "You're lying."

The tall cedars surrounding me unnaturally sway. "I'm not--I'm not--"

"You're lying to me."

"I--I would never--"

"I know when people are lying," he interrupts, his growling voice echoing in the wet forest. "I know when you're lying, Sid."

"I'm not." My words are broken as my tears drop and the trees swirl. "I'm not lying, I--I--"

"Where were you?"

"At a friend's house."

"Let me see your phone."

"What?" I step back, petrified. If he checks my phone, he'll see that I called Luke and only Luke.

"Let me see your fucking phone!"

I consider running. Now.

Run.

Now!

Then I realize my phone is in my purse, and my purse is still sitting on the bathroom counter in the clubhouse. "I don't have it--it's at the club--I don't have it here."

He doesn't believe me. He grabs my waist, angrily patting my pockets, but finds nothing. "I know you were with another man."

I shudder and wipe my face. "What?"

"You were fucking some other man."

"No! No--"

"You did something," he spits, shaking his head. "I know you did something."

Tears rain down my face. "Virgil, no--"

"You were with someone! I know you were with someone--"

"I wasn't--"

"You're guilty! I can see it, I can fucking smell it!"

Luke was right yet again. He called this. He knows me better than I know myself. "I swear--I swear I didn't--"

"Then why are you crying, Sid? Huh? Why the fuck can you barely speak because you're choking on your own fucking tears?"

"Because," I shudder, gasping for air, "because you're scaring me."

"Where have you been for two days? No call, no message, nothing! You fucking disappeared! No one could find you, no one knew where you were! So tell me, tell me where the fuck you were!" Virgil growls, spit flying from his furious yells.

"I told you--I told you!" I sob. "I was at a friend's house."

"You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know you? You don't have anyone to call!"

"I do--you don't know everything about me. I have friends, I have people."

Virgil pauses. "Is that a threat?"

I blink away the tears. "A threat? No, of course not, I'm just saying--"

"--that I don't know everything about you? Who the fuck do you know, huh? Who the fuck would help you?"

The argument is taking a torrentially bad turn. His anger is so strong, so hot, I can practically feel it radiating from him. "I--I don't know anyone--it was just a girl from school, just a friend--" I repeat and cry. "She's nobody."

He lashes out, reaching forward and wrapping his rough hands around my throat. He walks me off the road, onto the dewy grass, and slams me against the trunk of a tree. "Stop lying!"

"I'm not--I'm--"

"Tell me where you were! I swear I will end you right now, you hear me?" he growls in my face. "I will fucking end you and dump your body in the woods. No one will find you, no one will even look for you."

* * *

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# 30

REIDEN

My cell buzzes and I look down to see the private number from the phone we gave him. I hold it to my ear. "What's going on, Lucas?"

"Reiden, hey, uh, shit, I--"

"What's the problem?" I ask, placing my steaming coffee in the holder of my car. From the moment we met Lucas he exuded an unusual calmness; he's young but jaded, hard and reserved, and after a year of listening to his voice remain steady even in slippery situations, his current stumbling words ring like alarms in my ears.

"It's Sid, you know, the girl I told you guys about?"

"Of course, the informant for Virgil."

"Yeah, she's--shit, I've--I think I've messed up."

"What are you talking about? Messed what up?"

"I told her some stuff last night and she seemed to take it well, you know, she was fine and willing, I think, and she was going to meet with you guys, and everything was good, it was going to work out--"

"Get to the point, Lucas."

"We got into a fight and she stormed off."

"Stormed off where?"

"Back to the clubhouse, back to Virgil."

"Shit. Where are you?"

"The apartment."

"Stay there. We're on our way." I end the call and search for Bryan. He's taking his sweet-ass time in the washroom. I've told him to cut out dairy, but does he listen? We need to go, this is bad. I shouldn't be surprised that something has gone wrong, things always go wrong, no one can be trusted, no one can be counted on, but we're in too deep, Lucas is in too deep, to just shrug our shoulders and believe we'll find another way. An informant for a year; he's put his life in danger since the moment he walked into the station. Overall, Lucas is really good--secretive, unruffled, backed by one hell of a vendetta--but that phone call has got me fidgeting in my seat. This girl has rattled him, and we can't have an informant that's rattled.

I only hope we didn't make a mistake by giving the idea of Sidonie the green light.

He seemed certain that she would be a lot of help, but perhaps his emotions got in the way of the mission. He can't save everyone at once, and he can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, he can't save someone who doesn't know they should be saved. It's a tormenting notion, but it's the truth and he needs to believe us and trust us, and understand this truth in practice not only in theory, because in practice it means a year of sleuthing and planning all destroyed, in practice it means death.

Where the hell is Bryan?

I crane my neck, looking through the tinted coffee shop window. Finally I spot him walking from the back hallway, double-checking that his shirt is smoothly tucked. I honk the horn twice, hoping it'll catch his attention.

He picks up his pace and slides into the passenger's seat. "Sorry--"

I step on the gas before he's settled. "Lucas called. They had an argument and the girl has gone back to the clubhouse."

"Sidonie?"

"Yeah."

"Shit. We told him to feel it out, give her a theoretical rundown not the whole story. What exactly did he tell her?"

"From his call, I suspect more than he should have."

"Where is he?"

"The apartment."

"Is that where we're headed?"

"Yeah." I increase the pressure on the pedal. "We need to figure out if we're going to have a dead informant on our hands."

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# 31

REIDEN

Bryan knocks five times on the apartment door and steps back. Only a cop would knock like this, I think, just as Lucas unlocks and opens. Each time I see him I'm distracted by the black moth on his throat. That thing has got to go; it's a bullseye. But today the tattoo is not the only thing about his appearance that troubles me. He keeps his eyes low as I walk in and study his face and fallen shoulders.

Shit.

I glance at Bryan who gives me a knowing nod; he's noticed the shift in Lucas too.

Shit.

He locks the door and we walk into the bare living room. "Lucas," I begin, "what's going on?"

He drops to the couch and sinks his face in his hands. "I've screwed up."

Bryan and I share a concerned look. "Let's start from the beginning," I say, trying to keep him from unraveling. I gesture to Bryan to sit down, a tactic to get on Lucas's level so he doesn't feel like we're ganging up on him. "When we last met, you said Sidonie got kicked out and could have useful information for us."

Lucas nods.

"So, what's changed?"

He pushes back his long hair. "I've upset her."

"And you told her more than you should have?" Bryan confirms.

Lucas nods again, troubled.

I sigh. "Okay, let's take this one step at a time. Did you tell her you're working with us?"

"We can skip the one step at a time--I wasn't exaggerating when I said I screwed up. I told her everything, she knows everything, and then I," he pauses, "I yelled at her and she ran back to him."

"Why didn't you stop her?" Bryan asks.

Lucas frowns. "Stop her how? Grab her? Pin her down?"

"Does she have a phone?"

"Yeah, but she's not answering."

I glance at Bryan again, reading his equally worried stare. "Was the argument about us?"

Lucas shakes his head. "No, she was fine with the whole cop thing actually. She even said she would help."

"Then what was it about?"

"She thought she was kicked out, that Virgil didn't want to be with her anymore, but that's not the case. He wants her back and I made the mistake of telling her that he's looking for her."

"Jesus."

"He has members searching for her--if I didn't let her know, she might've gone wandering and been snatched. I thought I was keeping her safe, but she said she can handle him and she deserves to hear why he kicked her out. She's still under his spell. She thinks she loves him--"

"How do you know she doesn't?"

He shoots me a hard glare. "Because there's nothing to love."

"Lucas, your hatred for Virgil isn't shared by all." I pause. "There's a high chance that her allegiance still lies with him. We're going to have to get you out of the city. It's a bust."

"No," Lucas replies, "it might not be. Sid has been hurt by him; it could go either way, we just need to wait it out."

Bryan presses his lips in a knowing line as our eyes meet. I'm about to ask a question to which I already know the answer. "Do you have feelings for this girl?"

Lucas sighs, reluctant. "I don't know, I care about her. We have a complicated past."

Bryan's eyes widen and flicker to mine. "You have a past with her? Why haven't you mentioned this?"

"What kind of a past?" I interject.

He sighs again, like coming clean is a burden. "She was in trouble once. She was--she was getting hurt and I helped her. I also introduced her to Virgil. I'm the reason why they met."

"You helped her?" Bryan confirms. "Maybe this isn't a bust just yet. She may not mention anything."

I feel like he didn't tell us all the necessary facts--he went rogue because his heart told him to. It's difficult to weigh the pros and cons when they're not all listed. "Are you guys sleeping together?"

He looks away again. "No."

"But you have feelings for her." It's not a question.

"I think she's in danger and I want to help her. My feelings for her are secondary."

"Not when they make decisions for us, they're not." I stop, catching my rising frustration. "So you like her, but you guys aren't having an affair behind Virgil's back. Does she know how you feel?"

He slowly nods. "I told her last night."

"Along with everything else."

He nods again.

"Okay," I take a deep breath, "let's ... let's talk about your relationship with her."

"What do you mean?"

"Would you consider the two of you to be friends?"

"... Sort of."

"Is Virgil aware of your guys' past?"

"No."

There may be some leverage there. "You really think she'll keep her mouth shut?"

"Maybe."

"Tell me more about Sidonie."

"What do you want to know?"

"Is she quiet, introverted?"

"Mostly, yeah."

"Is she reliable?"

"Sometimes."

"Is she honest?"

"She's a terrible liar, if that counts."

"That could be a problem," Bryan grumbles.

"Is she vindictive?" I continue.

He pulls a face. "That's a strong word."

"Is she?"

He lowers his eyes. "When she's backed into a corner, yes."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning this club brings out the worst in people."

I frown, suspicious. "Has she ever been in this position before--had information about you that could be harmful?"

Lucas hesitates. "Yes."

Bryan and I share a glance, waiting for Lucas to elaborate, but he remains silent. "And?"

"And what?"

"Did she snitch?"

"No."

I crease my eyes, reading his subtle expression. "Did she threaten to?"

"... Yes."

"Shit," Bryan grumbles.

"When?"

Lucas takes a breath. "That was different, this is different--"

"What the hell?" I spit, trying to comprehend his relationship with this girl. "Since when do you keep information like that from us? We've been working together for a year--"

"I know, I know, but that's why you need to believe me when I say this is different."

"You're not thinking clearly."

"I am, Reiden. I know this looks bad, but Sid is not a bad person. She's just confused and has gone through a lot of shit--like me, just like me--and I want to help her, just like I wish someone had stepped in sooner and helped me--"

"Lucas, if someone had tried to step in sooner to help you, you would have killed them. You're manipulating the situation in your mind; you're no longer seeing it the way others see it, the way members see it. You're looking from the outside in and, as you may recall, you can't see out when you're in there; it's not until you step back that you realize there's a real life outside of all the bullshit and violence. But you're the one who stepped back, you're the one who stepped out. You were not dragged, you were not forced, and if you had been, you would've died to get back in--you would've died for the club."

Lucas stares at me for a moment, then rubs his face with his hands. "What am I supposed to do? Even if she snitches, even if Virgil tricks the truth out of her, I can't just let her rot there."

"Well, you can't go to the clubhouse if that's what you're suggesting," I reply.

"Fuck." He turns away, pacing along the dark windows. "I have to. She could be in trouble, he could be beating her, she could be lying there half dead--"

"--she could be lying in his bed, happy. And he could be planning his payback for you, just waiting for you to walk through the door so he can put a bullet between your eyes."

Lucas stops pacing and stares at me. "What if she didn't tell him? What if he believed whatever lie she fed him? What if this isn't a bust and Virgil is looking for me because we have shit to do?"

"He's got a point," Bryan comments. "If, somehow, things are still on track, Lucas can't be away for much longer. There's too much in the works--the shooting with S-10, the deal with the docks. He'll have to go back, tomorrow at the latest."

"Okay." I nod, calculating the risky moves in my head. "Not tonight though. Lucas, you're on lockdown tonight."

"What if Virgil calls?"

"Answer it, make an excuse, but whatever you do don't go to the clubhouse."

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# 32

REIDEN

The hall light is on like usual. Another late night. I'm exhausted.

I put down my case, head to the kitchen, put on the kettle then move to the bathroom and start running a bath. I follow this routine almost every night: hot tea, hot bath, reading in the tub then bed. But as I pour boiling water over the tea bag, I know I'm not going to be able to concentrate on the fantasy worlds that usually take me away from the grim realities of my job.

When I'm working I'm too busy to concentrate on the veracity of the situation--it seems like a game, for how could life be this horrific?--but when I get home, when I see my things, my couch, my house plants, my fridge filled with food, which I bought with the money I earned doing the things that I do, that's when the game stops being a game and the heaviness of the work weighs on me.

Sometimes, on the nights that I can't bear to read, like tonight, I cry. There's no particular reason for my tears, they're just tears, they're just a release, but they're insistent and intense, and they frighten me.

As usual, I question if I'm weak--is that why I'm crying? Because I can't handle it; I'm not tough enough or intelligent enough to detach myself from the work?

As usual, I question if the job is corrupting me--is that why I'm crying? Because I'm noticing a detrimental change in myself; I no longer have good intentions and I'm in this position because I'm some sort of sadist, enjoying being around the decay of humanity and the ruthless violence?

As usual, I question if I'm strong enough to do anything, not just this job, but anything at all.

Shit. I wipe my eyes. Is it normal to cry like this? I doubt anyone else breaks down like I do; the world would fall apart if it were filled with people like me, wouldn't it?

Questions. Questions. Questions.

I've never shared my breakdowns with anyone from work, not even Bryan, and I never will. They'll think it's because I'm a woman, because of my soft female emotions, and they'll wonder if it's that time of the month. I remember seeing female cops as a young girl. They always stood out. They always got stares. You could practically hear the remarks from their facial expressions--especially from men's.

A female cop, even though it's more common than ever, remains atypical. I still get looks from men; they eye me up and down, weighing me, wondering how the hell I got into this position of power, and if I got special treatment--the equivalent to a female push-up--in my training. Sometimes they see me as their mother reprimanding them. Sometimes they see me as a stripper in an authentic uniform. But more often than not, they see me as someone they can easily pin down on the ground. This, of course, isn't all men--some do simply see me as a police officer--but call it misogyny, call it primal instinct, call it whatever you want, there's a little flash in their eye, a little whisper that perks their ear, a little moment before I pull out my gun that says I'm stronger than her.

Whenever I saw a female cop I was in awe that she had the confidence and courage to step into the ring and fight. But now that I'm where I am, now that I've gone through the training and the years and the tests and the experiences, I feel like a failure. My physical strength may never match a large man's, but that's why my mental strength needs to be resilient, and that's why my tears frighten me: they make me feel like I'm not strong; they make me feel like I'm going to crumble into a million grains of sand.

As usual, once the last wave of tears shudders from my body I feel better, renewed, like I've shed the toxic skin from the day, and I tell myself, like now, that tears do not equate to weakness. Emotion is not weakness. I am not weak.

However, even with this little pep talk, I would never share the secret of my late-night cries because something inside still doubts my abilities and my strength. Something inside still makes me believe they would think it's because I'm a woman.

Tired from the day and tired of soaking in my tears, I rinse my face and wash my body. As I dry myself and slip into pajamas, I sip on my tea and run through all the available moves of the case, like I'm looking at pieces on a chess board, figuring out the scenarios and what ifs.

Working with informants is volatile, unpredictable, but other than this slip-up with Sidonie, Lucas has been straight and steady. We've already racked up a decent amount of proof and, thanks to the bug that Lucas planted in the clubroom, there's more to come--including the stuff that will lock Virgil away for a very long time. But we need the next few events to unfold, they're crucial, and they may not happen thanks to this fickle girl.

I switch off the lights and enter the dark bedroom. The sheets are cold against my skin as I shimmy to the middle of the bed. The familiar warmth meets me and wraps me in its arms. This moment right here, the moment when I get to sink into his skin, makes everything else not matter. Not the past troubling hours and not the past troubling years. I wouldn't be able to do my job without him. I ... I don't know what to say about him, what to think about him, because there are no words nor explanations. Our relationship is sacred and private, and it will remain that way. Bryan has stopped asking me what I did on my days off, he's stopped trying to learn if I'm married to the man with whom I share a life, he's stopped wondering if we're going to show up to the work BBQ's or to the bar to socialize with people whom I have to talk to and work with every day.

Bryan and I have a great working relationship--we can read each other, we suspect similar aspects and come at problems from alternate sides, but he knows that my work-life is a dental office magazine, open and freely read, and my personal-life is a closed book that's locked away. I have to keep things this way to stop the poisons from seeping into the other aspects of my life. I am fully committed to my job, but my job is not what makes me smile. I am fully committed to my job, but I do not seek happiness in the work.

My happiness is here and now. And that's all that matters.

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# 33

REIDEN

I glance down at my ringing cell. It's Lucas's number.

"Lucas, where are you?" I ask, instantly suspicious that he didn't listen to my lock-down demand.

"The apartment."

"Good. Is everything alright?"

"Virgil called me last night."

My step falters. "And? What did he want?"

"He asked me where I was, why I wasn't at the clubhouse."

"Did he sound angry?"

"Not really."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I'd been doing what he asked, I'd been looking for Sid."

"You what?"

"It's okay--I think it's okay. He seemed to believe me--he thanked me actually."

"What else did you tell him?"

"I stumbled my way through it. I told him he shouldn't thank me because I didn't find her, and that's when he told me it didn't matter."

"Because he saw her--she went back to the clubhouse, right?"

"I don't know, he was vague." Lucas's voice hitches. "I asked him what he meant, and again he said it didn't matter--he said she was gone and I didn't need to look for her anymore."

A heaviness fills my chest. "You think he killed her?"

I can hear him take a strained breath. "Fuck," he says, "I think--I think he did. I think she's ..."

"Lucas, just stay calm. We don't know for sure. But if he did, he must've had a reason, right? She must've told him about us."

"I don't think she did. I know Virgil--I can tell when he's angry, he can't contain it--and he sounded fine. He was talking business as usual."

I press my fingers against my temple. "I don't like this. It could be an act."

"Reiden, I don't care. I have to find out what happened. I have to at least look for her."

"Lucas, we can't lose you. This is too big of a risk."

"My entire life has been a risk. This is no different."

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# 34

REIDEN

What are my instincts telling me?

They're telling me that Lucas is going to get hurt, but he doesn't care because he's got feelings for this girl. I'm not sure if it's love, but if he's willing to risk his life for her, it may very well be.

I flick my pen.

I could step in and end it all, hide Lucas, threaten him with jail time if he rebuts, but instead I'm allowing the festering game to flourish. Except it's not a game. These are lives that are at stake and Sidonie's may already have been lost.

It's possible Virgil killed Sidonie on first sight, not even waiting to hear why she left nor why she came back. As sick as it is to think, that scenario would be ideal for us; it would mean our operation isn't blown and Lucas has but another reason to work to put Virgil away--not that Lucas needs another reason to fuel his revenge.

But as a cop, as a human being, as a woman, I hope she's not dead--it's just difficult to be optimistic after getting to know Virgil and what he's done to Lucas.

I flick my pen again.

Trying to figure out Lucas and Virgil has been hard, as it always is, because trying to walk along someone else's path, in someone else's shoes, trying to learn of someone else's experiences, and feel someone else's pain, is tricky--it's more than tricky, it's impossible. Lucas could reveal every descriptive detail of his life to me, every dark and destructive moment that led him to a life filled with even more negativity, but I would never truly know what he has gone through nor how it influenced him because only he experienced it. It's a frustrating obstacle--it's inflexible and hinders understanding--and there's no way through it for any of us. We too greatly rely on words, even when a person can't bear to talk about it. But the words matter, and they need to be found and they need to be spoken, because they are how we work around the obstacle, they are how we learn of the decisions made, or lack thereof, that have led to the current mental state and situation.

Every so often I imagine how much easier life would be if we could observe one another's experiences in a dream-like way, firsthand, engulfed, involved--a simple, easily comprehensible flash of awareness. If that were reality, I don't believe my job would exist. But instead we're running around, oblivious to our fellow persons and what makes them tick. All we can do, all we need to do, is talk more and listen more--and I'm not saying it's not tricky, and I'm not saying it's not impossible, but we have to do it. It's easy to say a person is just a bad person, it's a challenge to understand why a person does bad things.

Usually I see a person in their lowest and worst condition, a pebble that has stumbled so far and fallen so deep the sun can no longer touch it. Often they've been wallowing in the depths for such a long time that when they see the light they no longer know what it is. And sometimes, like with Lucas, the memory of the sun is faint, or barely exists, but the want to know it, either again or for the first time, is there. That's all it takes. That one sun rise, that one strong ray of light, which makes you crease the skin around your eyes and form a brim with your hand; that one moment in which you see the world differently.

I've witnessed it happen many times before, but I've also witnessed the shaded stare that no longer sees the sun at all. Virgil has this blacked-out view--the dark stare of someone who could see a lost child asking for help and look the other way, the dark stare of someone who could hear a woman scream no and still penetrate the flesh, the dark stare of someone who could look you in the eye and pull the trigger.

Yes, from what I've learned, this is Virgil. And I don't doubt that he's this way for many matted, monstrous reasons. But it's those reasons, those experiences, that have shaped him--those reasons, those experiences, that he has allowed to shape him--that make it difficult for me to believe that Sidonie is alive.

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# 35

REIDEN

"Lucas, calm down, please, I can't understand what--"

"She's not here. I thought I was just thinking the worst, you know, that I'd walk in and see her in the kitchen or hiding up in the bedroom, but she's gone."

He's whispering; he must still be at the clubhouse. "Lucas, please, check your surroundings. Are you sure you're alone?"

There's a pause. "I'm outside, and barely anyone is at the house--not even Virgil."

"Maybe she's out with him," I suggest, wondering why I'm making such an effort to come up with an optimistic lie.

He huffs. "I found her purse upstairs. All her shit had been dumped out. He fucking did something to her, I know it."

"Lucas, I need you to calm down."

"I can't calm down!" he says, muffled. "I wanted to help her--I was supposed to help her--but he fucking got to her."

"Listen to me!" I firmly say. "This is not over, do you hear me? We are not done and I need you to remember all the work we've put into getting this man, this monster, once and for all. But I need you to work with me here and not lose your head."

"Reiden--"

"Never say my name when you're there!"

"Sorry, I know. I just, I have to look for her. He could've taken her somewhere. I've already searched the property, but he's too smart to do anything here."

"Lucas, you have the meeting at the docks, you know you can't miss it."

"Maybe I can get them to change it to tomorrow or something--I need--"

My pulse quickens with anxiety. "Change it? What are you talking about? These guys aren't going to reschedule--"

"Please. I need to find her."

I sigh and swear under my breath. "I'll find her."

"You will?"

"I'll try."

"Now?"

"Yes. Collard and the team will be near you at all times. You know the drill. I'll go look for Sidonie."

There's a silent beat. "But, I don't have a picture--a way for you to identify her."

I sigh, again. "Lucas, I'm going to scan the radius of the house ... and if I find a body I'm going to assume it's her."

It sounds harsh, but it's the grim truth.

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# 36

REIDEN

I've been driving around for over an hour without a sign of the girl--without a sign of anyone.

There are a few old houses tucked away in the greenery, but it's mostly dense forest that encroaches the road. I crane my neck as the car rolls on the rain-drenched tar, pushing my vision through the tree trunks, looking for a sign of something that doesn't belong, but I've yet to find anything. There have been a few times when roots of a fallen tree have slumped into a position that looks like a hunched-over body, sometimes a random boulder tricks me too, but if there is a dead body lying out there, and its covered by even the thinnest sprinkling of dirt or leaves, I'll never be able to see it from here. A team with dogs will have to track her down--if she is in fact within this radius, but she could be anywhere, he could've taken her anywhere, he could've dumped her anywhere.

Nevertheless, I keep straining my neck and eyes for a sign so that when I bring the bad news back to Lucas I'll know it comes from a dark but honest place.

I glance at the time. I'm missing the meeting that we've been working on for two weeks. I can imagine Bryan and the others, tensed and waiting on Canada Place Street, listening in on the conversation that's happening in the heart of the Metro Vancouver Port. They're not to interfere unless something goes sour, though their involvement may be useless; the meeting could end in carnage by the flick of a switch. Tempers flare, one guy flexes, another guy pulls a gun--soon it's a splattering of bullets and blood. If that happens, Bryan and the team are to move in and try to stop the mayhem, or at least try to get Lucas out of there. It's a fragile plan. Best case scenario: the conversation is recorded, the plans are set, and Bryan doesn't have to intervene at all.

I can imagine Lucas standing there, his lighter bugged with a microphone, quiet and collected, receiving his instructions for next week's shipment--possibly the largest bust ever made in British Columbia. Of course, he may not be quiet and collected at all, he may not be paying attention to detail because he's too busy thinking of this girl. He can't appear rattled, even for a second, even when he's standing next to Virgil, fantasizing about taking his gun, putting it to Virgil's unsuspecting head, and pulling the trigger.

It would be a perfect opportunity.

Virgil would be talking and making a deal, watching the members from the Mafia, not one of his own, not thinking it's a mistake to turn his back to his Black Wings' brother. The Mafia wouldn't even blink at the brutality, and they wouldn't avenge Virgil by shooting Lucas. No, they would simply make the deal with Lucas instead--probably at a decreased profit, but the deal would occur regardless. And the other Black Wings' members would believe Lucas if he told them that Virgil stepped out of line and the Mafia shot him. Some of the B. W. members would be angry, feeling like they should cancel the dock deal, forget about the shipment, avenge Virgil's death--fuck the Mafia, they killed one of our own--and then Lucas would calmly explain what "happened" and remind them of the wads of cash that would soon be filling their filthy pockets.

Simple as that. Business as usual.

But he can't appear rattled. Even if this crazed scenario is running through his mind, even if he ends up acting on it, he can't appear rattled. He can't show fear. He can't show weakness. He can't show he's doing this for any reason other than the club and the money.

Shit.

I hope I'm not wasting my time and missing out. I hope this is giving him peace of mind so he can focus on his task at hand. I feel like it's an important game and I've been condemned to the bench. I could've sent someone else to search, but would they have looked for this long? Would they have realized how much it means to Lucas? Probably not.

I slow the car to a complete stop and pull out my personal phone. I text I love you and hit send. I don't ask him how his day is, just as he doesn't ask me how my day is, because our time apart is never worth discussing. I'll see him tonight when I crawl into bed, and I'll see him tomorrow when we share a coffee together. My phone buzzes with a simple response: I love you. I smile and blacken the screen.

I check my rear-view mirror and press down on the gas pedal. For almost two hours I've been searching and finding nothing--not a torn sweater or a lost shoe on the side of the road. Nothing. My stare continues to bounce from side to side, but it feels pointless now. I press down a little harder, increasing my speed, coming around a bend, only to slow down again.

In the distance, I see her.

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# 37

REIDEN

I drive up right behind her--at least, I think it's her, I'm assuming it's her, for who else would be wandering these forested roads? I roll down the passenger window and peer out, but she gazes ahead. Her clothes are rain-soaked and smeared with dirt, her make-up is streaked down her cheeks and her arms are hugging her shaking body.

"Hey," I call.

She doesn't acknowledge me.

"Hey, are you alright?"

She nods her head, staring straight.

She's in shock and I don't want to scare her off. "Do you need a ride? I can drop you off somewhere," I offer in a friendly tone.

This time she looks over at me and I stop the car. Immediately I see a reddish bruise sitting low on her right cheek. She's been hit.

"Here," I say, leaning over and pushing open the passenger door, "get in. I'm heading into town."

She stares at me for a moment, like she's waking from a dream, like reality is finally setting in, before she grabs the door and slumps inside. Not a word leaves her bluish lips. She must be freezing, I realize, and I turn up the heat. After about a minute of driving and warmth, I notice her body is not shaking as hard.

"What's your name?" I ask, again in a friendly tone. There's silence and I wonder if she's going to answer. Finally she confirms my assumption:

"Sidonie."

I can't believe I found her. I can't believe she's alive. "I'm Rei," I respond with a smile. "What are you doing all the way out here? It looks like you've been walking for hours."

Again there's a long moment of silence before she answers. "I got lost."

"I can see why. I've taken a few wrong turns myself around here. It's a good thing we bumped into each other."

She glances over at me again and nods.

"You've got quite the nasty bruise on your face. Are you okay?"

She turns away from me. "I'm fine."

"What happened?"

"I--I tripped."

Terrible liar; Lucas wasn't exaggerating. We drive in silence once more. The tree coverage depletes and we begin to pass old homes and elementary schools. "So, where should I drop you off?"

Long pause. "Here is fine."

"Where?"

Long pause. "Anywhere. It doesn't matter."

"I can drop you at home if you want. I don't mind, really." Though my oblivious act is on point I don't actually know much about Sidonie, like if she has a home to go to. She should probably see a doctor, but I don't want to back her into a corner. Telling her I'm a cop is out of the question. Lucas needs to speak with her first and foremost.

"No, here is fine."

I don't slow down. "Look, I can tell you're hurt and I'm not going to just drop you on the side of the road."

She doesn't say anything, but she does begin to cry.

"What's the matter? Why are you crying?"

"I don't ..."

"You don't what?"

Silence and sniffles. "I don't have anywhere to go."

It makes sense, and it could be another reason why she has stayed with Virgil for as long as she has. "You don't have a friend whom you could call?"

She shakes her head. "I don't have any of my stuff--my phone, my wallet."

"You can use my cell."

Tears roll down her cheeks. "I don't know his number."

I suspect she's talking about Lucas. "Well, do you know where he lives? I can drop you off."

She shrugs and looks down at her hands. "I don't know the exact address, and it's far. It's in Port Moody."

"Really? Talk about a coincidence," I lie, "that's where I'm headed."

We come to a stop at the red light and look at each other. Her eyes search mine, moving up to my hair, across my lips, even down to my breasts. "You're heading all the way to Port Moody?"

"Yeah." I smile. "It must be fate."

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# 38

SIDONIE

After being in the car with her--a stranger--for almost two hours, the feeling has finally returned to my fingers and toes. A drive that should've taken about an hour has taken a lot longer thanks to a car accident on Pitt River Bridge. We came to a dead halt at one point and sat in silence. This stranger, Rei, is nice enough, but I don't feel like talking. I don't feel like thinking either, but that's all I can do while we wait and creep along and dazedly observe the bumper of the car ahead.

I subtly cringe each time I remember Virgil's night-shaded face, the anger in his voice and the violence in his grip. He knew I was up to something. I don't know how he knew, but he did. And he could've easily killed me, but he didn't. I lightly touch my jaw. The pain is throbbing up into my head. His fist knocked me out and I awoke only once the sun had already risen, pain pulsing in the parts that weren't numbed from the cold night. I awoke only because he showed mercy.

All the times before, all the times I thought I had witnessed Virgil's fury, were insignificant. I never want to see that ruthless side, or any side, of Virgil ever again. Going back was a mistake.

We finally pass the smashed cars and broken glass. I peer at the wreckage, looking for blood and body parts--a twisted curiosity--but the vehicles are empty and being chained to a tow truck. Once we get through the bottle neck on the bridge, the lanes open up, the traffic decreases and we speed along the highway.

"So, do you have a job?" Rei asks, breaking the long silence.

I shake my head and look over at her again. She's stunning--and I don't flagrantly admit that about other women. She's not wearing much make-up, but the simple accentuation of her lashes and eyebrows is all that's needed to make me feel jealous. "Do you have a tissue?" I ask.

"Sure, yeah." She grabs a packet from her door and hands it to me.

"Thanks," I murmur. I pull down the visor and open the mirror. I pull out a tissue, wet it with my tongue and wipe the smudged mascara from my cheeks.

"Are you a student?" she asks, friendly.

I don't think I've ever met someone as beautiful and openly kind. I don't get the sense that she's looking down her nose at me or judging my disastrous appearance. I think back to the morning I saw those two girls standing with Fleur in the kitchen. I've forgotten their names, as I'm sure Ven and Zilla have too, but I remember my behaviour. Despite my false smile, I was callous and condescending; I looked them up and down and pulled a face. They knew exactly what I was thinking. Girls learn to read minds and expressions early on, and that particular look is well known. Ugly. Whore. I'm better than you. But I haven't received this from Rei's face for even a split, unguarded second.

I don't get the sense that she knows how intimidatingly gorgeous she is either. A woman who doesn't know her beauty doesn't know her power, and when that happens it's impossible to strip it away. If she doesn't recognize her own power, how would she recognize mine? Despite my troubles with Fleur, we both know I'm more beautiful and therefore hold more power. The guys will always take more notice of me, they'll do favors for me, and they'll think of me before they think of her. Fleur opens her legs to make up for that she lacks. It's an unspoken but mutual understanding.

But Rei ... I can't help but narrow my stare. Does she know that she's more beautiful than me, that she ranks higher than me? The thought--the concern--bubbles up from nowhere. Do I really believe she's more beautiful? It's not a common realization, and I don't like it. I wipe under my eyes again, but a shadow of mascara remains. I glare at myself in the small, unflattering mirror. I look disgusting. Ugly. Whore. She's better than you.

"Are you?" she asks.

"Am I what?"

She smiles. "Are you a student?"

What is her motive? Why is she being so nice to me? Why is she doing this for me? "Oh ... No."

Her cell phone rings. "Hmm," she murmurs and holds it to her ear. "Hey, everything okay?"

I can't help but continue to stare at her.

"I'm glad to hear it. Good work. We'll discuss details later." She pauses and catches my curious eyes. "Now's not a good time."

I look away.

"Is he with you? Yeah ... Yeah, I'm on my way there now. I'll explain soon, but you can tell him I found what he was looking for." There's a pause. "Yeah, I'll be there soon. Ten minutes. Yup. Bye." She hangs up and smiles at me. "This traffic has been brutal. I'm running later than I realized."

I fake a short smile.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?"

My chest deflates and I shake my head.

"Really? There's no special guy?"

"Not anymore."

"Sorry. Break-ups are never easy."

There's silence.

"What about this friend that you're heading to? Is he just a friend?" she asks, maintaining a casual tone.

I'm about to tell her yes, when I realize I could actually tell her the truth. I haven't been able to talk about Luke to anyone, especially Fleur, but this time I could let my true feelings spill without consequence. I'll never see this woman again. "He's something more, I guess. It's hard to define it--it's new, but not."

"So, you guys have known each other for a while then?"

"Yeah. But nothing's ever happened before."

"And something is happening now?"

I shrug. "I think so."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's just, there's a lot of other stuff--complications. I just broke up with this other guy and, I don't know, it feels ..." I shrug again.

"I think I know what you mean. Moving into a new relationship right after a break-up isn't always best. Take it slowly, collect your thoughts and emotions, find out what you want. If this friend really likes you then he'll understand," she says.

Though her words and expression are sincere, her light brown eyes and smooth skin and dark hair make me frown and turn away.

"That's just my advice, of course," she adds. "You don't need to take it. Do what feels right for you."

I remain silent.

We're steadily approaching Port Moody and my increasing envy of her is replaced by the fact that I don't know where I'm going. As we drive closer to the concrete high-rises I recognize how similar they all look, and how Luke could live in any one of them.

"Should I turn left here?" she asks.

"Uh. Sure."

She pulls into the heart of the towers just as her cell phone starts to ring again. We park on the side of the road and she answers. "Hey, I'm outside." Pause. "No, I don't think she knows."

I glare at her. Is she talking about me? My suspicion of this beautiful stranger rises higher.

"I don't think she'll believe me," Rei says, glancing over.

My apprehension soars. What the hell is going on? Is this a trap? Who is this woman?

"Okay," she replies, then holds the phone to me. "He wants to talk to you."

"Who?"

"Lucas."

I stare at her. "Lucas?"

"Yes."

"How--how do you know Luke?"

"I'll let him explain."

The world beyond the rainy windscreen dips into a dizzy swoop. Slap the phone from her hand. Open the door and run. I look at her again as my mind twirls with a pitiful escape plan. Where would I go? What would I do? I don't even know what I'd be escaping. So I reach for the phone. "Luke?"

"Yeah, Sid, it's me. Are you alright?"

I'm silent.

"Sid?"

"Where are you?" I ask.

"The apartment. You're stopped outside of it."

I glance to my right. "But ..."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm ... confused."

"But are you hurt?"

"Who is this woman?"

"Detective Dash."

I frown. "She's a cop?"

"Yeah. Remember, Detective Collard and Dash--I'm working with them."

"But how did she--how am I--"

"Come upstairs and I'll explain everything."

"With her?"

"Yeah. Collard is here too. We'll just talk, okay?" He sounds worried.

"Can't we go somewhere?"

"The apartment is the safest place, Sid," Luke explains.

"Can we talk alone?" I don't dare look at Rei.

"They won't be here for long, then it'll just be you and me."

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes."

What are my other options? As usual, they're limited. "Fine." I hang up and pass her back the phone.

"Are you okay?" Rei asks.

I frown and lower my eyes. "You knew who I was this entire time."

"I did, yes. Lucas asked me to look for you."

"He knew I was in trouble?" I murmur.

"He was afraid you were dead."

I pause, stealing a glance. "Why'd you ask me all those questions if you knew who I was?"

"To get to know you better. And to make the long drive less uncomfortable." She looks puzzled. "Did I ask you something offensive?"

"You knew I was talking about Virgil and Luke."

"I assumed so, yes."

"I told you those things because I thought I could. I thought you were a nobody."

"Look, Sidonie, I know it feels like I've lied to you--we're starting off on a bad foot--but I couldn't have told you I was a cop. It was best coming from Lucas. And whatever you told me is in strict confidence. I'm here to help you, not gossip behind your back or interfere with your relationship. You can tell me anything, and if you want advice, I'll do my best to give it, and if you don't, I'll keep my mouth shut, okay?"

I don't have the strength to comprehend what she's saying--if it's a trick, if it's a truth--so I open my car door and step into the rain. As we walk through the glass doors and into the elevator, my eyes stick to her again, in awe of her perfect power. She looks stunning even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

And then another thought--another concern--bubbles up from nowhere. She's working with Luke. Luke's working with her. How could he not find her beautiful? How could he not dream of her and yearn for the moment when they're together again?

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# 39

REIDEN

Sidonie is difficult to read. I know she's tired and hurt, and I know she's upset and feels betrayed because she said things she likely wouldn't have said if she knew who I was--all of this makes sense so far, I get it, it has reason behind it--but her intense stare is a mystery. The stare doesn't feel pounce-like, like she's gearing up to swing at me or claw out my eyes, rather it feels like she wants to say something, like a person who stares, stunned, as they articulate their thoughts. But when I look at her, ready to listen, she averts her eyes. Although, it's for only a moment. As soon as I look ahead or at my phone, in my peripheral vision I can see her staring again, studying me.

Twenty-five floors feels like two hundred as I try to figure her out.

Most difficult to read of all: whether or not she's pleased to have been picked up from the side of the rainy road.

The elevator beeps as we reach Lucas's floor. I offer for her to exit first, but she dips her chin, so I walk ahead. I have the key to the apartment, but I always knock. I want Lucas to feel at ease, comfortable, not like cops could barge into his space at any moment, even when he's expecting it.

Bryan opens the door, but Lucas isn't far behind. He rushes forward, past Bryan, past me, and wraps Sid in hug that forces her to stand on the tips of her toes. The building is new and many of the apartments are still empty, but I suspiciously scan the closed doors and peepholes. "Inside, now," I demand, guiding them through the door.

Bryan gives me a look to say, so this is her?

I nod and pat his shoulder. "Good work today. I'm sorry I missed out."

"It wouldn't have run so smoothly without all of your planning. Lucas was good. Everything is set up."

"Good, we'll talk more about it with the team. I want to hear the audio, get the details down pat." I'm about to ask Lucas how he felt it went, only to be met by Sidonie's intense stare again. Even though Lucas has her wrapped in his inked arms, head nuzzled into her neck, not letting her go, her eyes are on me. I've had many chances to ask her why she's staring at me, but I haven't, on purpose; she isn't ready to talk yet, so I want her to act candidly and unaware of any expressions and ticks that unintentionally shine through. So far I've learned that I'm the only one to receive her curious stare. But why? It's not because I'm a cop, otherwise Bryan would get the glare too. I cock my head. Is it because ... I'm a woman? I reach into her pupils until she looks away.

Yes, that's it.

Again, I know she's tired, I know she's hurt, I know she's upset and feeling betrayed, but what does that really mean? What is she really thinking? Two hours together has barely scratched the surface of Sidonie.

"So," Bryan quietly interrupts, "are we doing this?" He flicks his brow at Lucas and Sidonie who are still embraced. They're whispering to each other as Lucas pushes back her hair and examines the bruise.

"I don't know," I murmur and pull an expression that displays doubt. "Lucas, Sidonie, we need to discuss a few things."

We walk farther in, and Bryan gestures for them to take a seat on the couch. "Sidonie, how are you feeling?"

She shrugs and looks down. "Fine."

"We're going to get you looked at by a member of our team," I begin. "She'll be here soon to look for signs of concussion."

"I'm fine," she repeats. "I don't need to be examined."

"That bruise says otherwise," Bryan backs me up.

"I'm assuming you were knocked out," I continue as her hair falls across her face. "Again, it's just a safety measure before you go to sleep."

"I could kill him," Lucas comments. "He's never touched her like this before."

"Luke," she murmurs.

"It's okay, you're safe here, I promise. You don't need to be afraid. Bryan and Reiden aren't the bad guys," Lucas says, peering at her, but her eyes keep flickering to me.

"How do you know?" she asks, almost in a whisper.

"What do you mean? They're the police, they're detectives."

"So? What, that automatically makes them good?"

Lucas glances over, seeming just as surprised by her question as we are. "They've been helping me and working with me to stop Virgil. You know this, I told you this."

"I don't know anything."

Lucas stares at her. "Sid, what--"

"I don't know anything."

She's tired. She's hurt. She's upset. "Sidonie," I begin, "you've been taught to keep your mouth shut, we understand, but anything you know about the Black Wings could help us. It could help Lucas."

She lowers her eyes. "I don't know anything. They're just a motorcycle club."

"Sid," Luke says, "what are you talking about? You know what else is involved--"

"I told you, I don't know. Virgil never told me details, and maybe it's because there were no details to tell. It's just a motorcycle club."

Bryan and I share a restrained look of concern. He understands my doubt--doubt that has now escalated into hopelessness.

"The Black Wings are not a motorcycle club, they're a criminal organization," Bryan says.

"She knows that," I interject and she glares at me.

"I don't know anything," she says with attitude this time.

"Sid ..." Lucas turns to us. "She's just tired and shaken. She's been through a lot."

"Sidonie, why do you doubt that we're here to help?" I calmly ask.

"I don't."

"It sounds like you do."

"I don't, okay? I just want to know why you think you're good and they're bad."

"Why don't you tell me what you think?" I offer.

"I don't think there's that great of a difference."

"Really?"

She shrugs. "Gangs have guns, cops have guns. Gangs kill people, cops kill people."

"Okay, let's end this simplistic good versus bad polarity because even though I'm a cop I don't believe all cops are good."

"You don't?" she blurts out, then bites her lip.

I steady my voice, knowing what I'm about to say, what I'm about to explain, could take a while. But I continue anyway, wanting to tell her something that comes from my heart. "I don't believe all gang members are bad either. I wish it could be that simple--placing people in good and bad categories." I frown. "It would make my job much easier. But it's not like that--it's far from that.

"There are those who have had negative things happen in their lives, things that have damaged them and were never properly treated to heal. It could be anyone, a gang member, a cop, in the past or the present, and it matters because these horrible things mess with us--they corrupt and warp and blur the lines of pain-suffering versus pain-production."

I shake my head and maintain a sincere tone. I don't want this to come across as a lecture. "It's complicated, and there are a lot of damaged people out there, but I will say this: the majority of those who strive to be a police officer start with some sort of a good intention, and I can't say the same for those who join a gang. From the start they knew of the crime and the drugs and the death--it's not a secret. Those really bad things that have happened to them might explain why they joined, or why they do hurtful things, but it doesn't excuse it."

Lucas nods. "Can't argue with that."

"What if they don't have a choice?" Sidonie questions, biting off his sentence. "What if they need the money?"

I shrug. "Everyone needs money, everyone needs to buy food and pay rent and work. Choosing how to do that matters. Hurting people to make a buck is never justified."

Sidonie tightens her mouth.

"I'm sure you've been on East Hastings," I continue, knowing most residents have at least driven down it. It's a street on the outskirts of extreme wealth and commerce, on the boundary of beautiful restaurants and quirky coffee shops. It's also a street where the forgotten roam, drugged to a zombie-like state, stumbling amongst shopping carts and stolen merchandise, and jaywalking in a 30km/hr zone, oblivious to the traffic. There are pimps and dealers and prostitutes and runaways so saturated with chemicals they no longer know how they got there, or what went wrong, or what triggered that life, because now they're numb. Numb on purpose. Numb so they don't remember. Numb so that nothing matters.

I spent my first few years patrolling East Hastings, trying to keep the peace, calling for an ambulance when we found someone convulsing or a coroner when we found someone cold. Most of all, trying to create a dialogue with the people on the street, to keep them out of trouble or at least keep them from hurting themselves more than they already had. But East Hastings is arguably the last stop before the morgue. There's a black cloud of hopelessness that clings to those rainy skies. Those who wind up on the street have nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, nothing else they can do, and so they become ghosts of the people they used to be, of the people they could've been, because no one cared enough to help them when it mattered most--before they ran away, before they tried to numb the pain, before they went to any length just to survive.

Sidonie nods her head.

"I worked there for four years. The meth, the heroin, the prostitution, the death--it's fueled by gangs. They capitalize on people who have stumbled into an addiction and hard times. They profit on pain and I'm against it." I pause. "And I don't want you to end up there."

Her eyes widen. I can't tell if it's from realization or offense. Five knocks on the door interrupt our conversation. It's the medic to check on Sidonie. Bryan answers the door.

"I just need to know one thing," I conclude. "Did you say anything about us or Lucas to Virgil?"

"No," she murmurs with attitude, looking me up and down, "I'm not a snitch."

"Fine. Lucas can we talk outside?" I ask as the medic nods at me and kneels down by Sidonie.

"I'll be right back," Lucas says to her, but she stares only at me as we walk out.

I lead him past the doors and the peepholes to the elevator. Bryan joins us, his expression troubled.

"I know what you're thinking," Lucas begins, "but this isn't like her--"

"This is exactly how you described her: vindictive when she's cornered." I sigh. "I don't know if we can use her. She doesn't seem willing."

"I'll talk to her."

"What could she possibly know? Maybe it's best if we just keep her in the dark," Bryan suggests.

"I agree. You can't let her know any of the plans or any more info. She already knows too much and she's unstable."

Lucas frowns, disturbed. "There's no way Sid would go back after what happened--you saw her face, he beat her."

"I believe she's taken a lot worse than a punch to the jaw," I comment. "The medic is going to take photos as proof if she wants to press charges--when the time is right, of course. She'll have to speak in court." I purse my lips. "But I don't know whose side she's on."

"She's just tired and confused. It's a lot to take in," Lucas reminds us.

"I know. Still. She's difficult to read. I don't know how I feel yet. Just make sure she stays here--I wasn't lying when I said I don't want her to end up on East Hastings. She has nowhere else to go."

"I know," he replies, looking down.

He's so good at hiding his emotions except when it comes to Sidonie. I pat his shoulder. "She's alive, she's safe, and that's what matters. And we have things to discuss to ensure you remain alive and safe."

"The docks are set up, but there have been S-10 sightings everywhere. We spotted a few on the street when the deal was happening," Bryan reveals.

"Really?" Lucas replies. "How would they have known?"

I tut. "It's never a coincidence. Who knows how many members they've got on the hunt. They're probably following you guys from the clubhouse, which means you need to watch your back when you come here. "

"I do."

"Even more. Always park underground, never wear your vest unless you're at the clubhouse, and if you're sharing the elevator, press a different floor and get off. No breadcrumbs. Vigilance at its highest," Bryan warns, still troubled.

"Okay. I understand."

The situation gets heavier as we pile more complications on Lucas, but the one complication that could topple him to the ground is Sidonie. I find Lucas's eyes. "You're doing well, okay, we're close. You just have to stay focused."

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# 40

SIDONIE

"You seem okay, no sign of concussion. You've already gone through the worst of it, though you're probably in a considerable amount of pain," the medic says.

Another woman. She's not beautiful enough to incite jealousy, but she's so damn confident. She doesn't seem to be aware that I'm prettier than her even in my rain-soaked state. The pain throbs in my head as I nod.

"This'll do the trick," she says, handing me a bottle with a smile.

"How is she?" Luke asks, entering the apartment.

I bet they were talking about me. I bet Rei was telling Luke that I'm nothing but trouble.

"She's going to be just fine," the medic replies, standing.

"What pills are those?" he asks.

"Not to worry, just a few Ibuprofen."

"Oh," he says, noticeably relieved, "good."

"Is there anything else you need?"

I shake my head.

"Just some food and rest," Luke answers.

She grabs her medical kit. "I'll be on my way. If the headache persists longer than a few days or if you have any other concerns, you know how to contact me."

"Thank you," Luke says and walks her to the door.

I pop three pale pills in my mouth and swallow them down without water. As Luke walks back into the lounge he stops and finger-combs his hair back, staring at me.

"What?" I say, squirming a little.

"I'm just, I don't know, relieved you're here ... relieved you're alive."

I look down. "You are?"

"How could you even wonder?"

I shrug, answerless. "I didn't leave on good terms. I guess I do that a lot."

"I shouldn't have said what I said."

I don't want to think about what he said--Virgil's just another version of Neil--yet it pops up, unwanted. I swallow it down again. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. I shouldn't have--"

"I don't want to talk about it. It doesn't matter."

Luke pauses. "Well, I'm sorry, for whatever it's worth."

Silence.

"Do you want something to drink?"

I pause. "You were right."

"About what?"

"He knew I was lying. He knew something was wrong," I confess.

Luke somberly nods. "Yeah, Virgil gets suspicious easily. That's why we've had to take our time, do little by little. But ... you were good, you saved me, you didn't tell him anything."

I lower my chin. "I didn't have to save you. He didn't even ask about you. He has no idea what's going on."

"Really?"

I nod. "He thought ..." I cringe from the memory, "he thought I was fucking some other guy." I shake my head. "He cheats all the time, yet even the thought of me being with someone else and look what happens."

"Virgil's a monster."

"... I shouldn't have left here."

Luke sits beside me, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. "I'm sorry this happened."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. And I'm not going back. I mean it."

He grabs my hand and places a kiss on my knuckles. A heavy blush pushes past the bruise on my face; I'm still not used to this open-hearted version of Luke.

"Rei and Bryan want you to stay with me," he says.

My blush disappears. "Did Rei say that?"

"Yeah. She thinks you'll be safest here."

I pull my hand from his. "I don't care what she thinks."

Luke frowns. "You don't want to stay with me?"

"No, I do, but not because she said so."

He pauses, scanning me. "Why don't you like her?"

"I never said I don't like her."

"You didn't need to. Sid, you were almost biting her head off."

I stand up. "No, I wasn't."

"What's going on? Did she do something to you?"

"No."

"Then why are you acting like this--"

"I'm not acting like anything. You just, you didn't tell me you were working with a woman," I blurt out, immediately regretting it, immediately hearing how threatened I sound.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Why--why would that matter?" Luke fumbles.

"I said never mind."

"No, you're obviously upset. So what if she's a woman?"

I've never seen Lucas look so confused. Can't he see it? Doesn't he realize she's prettier than me? Doesn't he know she could swoop in and steal him away in a second? "Because ..." she's beautiful and I hate her for it--I don't say it. I can't say it. "Because she's not strong enough to take down Virgil."

"Oh," he says with a frown, "no, she's tough, and she's really smart. How else do you think we've been undercover for almost a year? Reiden runs the show. She knows how to take on Virgil, so don't worry."

Great. Beautiful and street smart.

I'm nothing.

I fake a reassured smile and Luke kisses my hand again.

"I'm going to order a pizza," he says, standing and reaching for his cell. "And then I have to head out for a bit."

"To the club?"

"Yeah. I won't be gone all night, just a few hours."

"What should I do?"

He shrugs. "Shower, relax, watch a movie."

"Aren't they going to ask me questions?"

"Dash and Collard?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, not tonight."

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

As I step out of the shower I hear Luke announce that the pizza is here. My clothes are in the washer, removing the mud and grass and rain from yesterday, so I dry off, slip on one of Luke's t-shirts and catch my reflection. I look like one of the whores that slink around the clubhouse.

Luke gave me sweatpants to wear too, but just as I'm about to put them on I think of how he's going back to the club and, ultimately, back to Fleur. She's going to be there, oblivious to the fact that I'm hiding at Luke's, wearing his clothes, eating dinner with him, and probably sleeping in his bed. She's going to be all over him, clinging and caressing, probably kissing him, maybe more ... I know she would try to do more. Whore. Luke wouldn't have sex with her, especially now, especially after all we've been through and what he's told me, would he? What if he has no other option? What if saying no to her wilted-petal body raises suspicion and causes questions, because why would he say no to her? I roll my shoulders with unease. Why is he even with her?

And after he leaves the clubhouse and Fleur, he'll be speaking to Rei. He may even meet up with her--a late night check-in to talk about what's next. It'll be dark and they'll be alone, adrenaline pumping, minds racing, lips moving with plans, and if he doesn't fuck Fleur then his tension will be high.

The palms of my hands press against my temples. Stop, stop, stop! The idea of Luke having sex with Rei is so much worse than the bombarding idea of Fleur.

I don't put on the sweatpants; I walk out barelegged and panty-less. His large t-shirt covers me like a short dress--a length of dress that I've worn many times, possibly even shorter--but this is different. Luke takes a second-look, scanning my appearance. It's rare when he sees me like this. I finger-comb my hair to the side, hiding the bruise, and casually head to the couch.

It's dark outside. And rainy. And a chill skitters down my back as I think of where I was this time last night.

"Were the sweatpants too big?" he asks, placing the pizza box on the coffee table.

"No, I'm just too warm from my shower," I comment, tucking my legs on the couch. "Is there something to drink?"

"Uh, sure, yeah. What do you want?"

"Something hard."

Luke stares into my eyes, then brings a bottle and a glass from the kitchen and pours me an inch.

"What about you?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I've got a long drive ahead of me."

"Right," I murmur as I put the liquid to my lips.

"You should probably eat something before you drink that."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat."

I reluctantly pick up the smallest slice I can find and take a few bites. I know I should be starving, but instead I feel sick. Sick from my thoughts of Luke with Fleur and Rei. And sick from repression. I don't want to think of last night, or even this morning, because I never want to be lost or hurt or cold ever again. I fill my mouth with whiskey, swishing it around like mouthwash, stinging my gums, before I swallow it down. "So," I begin, "why do you have to go tonight?"

He finishes chewing and looks down. "To check in. Virgil likes to know what everyone's up to. He's always got shit for us to do--deals, meetings, that sort of thing."

"Do you always do the things he asks?"

He shakes his head.

"But ... don't you have to?"

"I do, yeah, but I don't."

"Don't you get in trouble?"

"Reiden and Bryan have worked out a system."

"Oh." I frown. "What system?"

He leans back on the sofa, silent.

I lightly scoff. "What? You can't tell me? Did Rei tell you not to tell me?"

"Maybe it's better if you don't know. The more you know, the more danger you're in."

"Danger? From who, Rei or Virgil?"

"Virgil of course. Why would you even ask that?"

I sigh, knowing how unattractive my cattiness is. "I don't understand. I'm never going to see Virgil again--he probably thinks I'm dead."

Luke stiffens. "At first I thought the same thing, but Virgil isn't one to leave loose ends. If he meant to kill you, he would've killed you." His eyes flick to my bruise. "I don't claim to understand all of Virgil's actions, but last night's purpose was not death."

"So, even after everything Virgil thinks I'll go back to him?"

Luke's face looks troubled. He recognizes, as do I, how similar this is to yesterday; Virgil beckons and I eagerly answer. But I'm not going to be stupid this time. Last night's purpose wasn't death, it was a lesson, and I've learned it.

"I don't know," he mumbles.

"Luke, I'm not going back there, ever. They're not just words, it's a promise."

He nods slowly, processing. "The thing is, you're going to have to leave this apartment at some point and, no matter where you go or what you do, there could be someone watching and waiting--"

"I won't tell them anything, I promise that too. If I do get caught, I won't tell them anything about you ... I won't put you in danger." I mean it whole-heartedly, but the guilt still stings from my almost-confession to Virgil.

"Even still, the less you know means the less you have to hide. Plus you already know a lot--too much to be safe--and look what's happened to you."

Maybe he's right. I take another sip. "I left my purse there. It has my phone in it."

"I know. He tried to look through it but the battery was dead. Thankfully. If he saw my number in the history ..." Luke roughly strokes his chin, "I'll try to find it, hide it in case he finds a charger that works. Who knows how dedicated he is to finding you."

"He can be as dedicated as he wants, he won't find me."

Lucas moves closer to me on the couch. He gently pulls the glass from my hand, takes a sip and places it on the table. And then he holds my hands in his and strokes my ringed fingers with his thumbs. "I hope not, Sid."

"He won't find me," I repeat, adamant.

"I'm not hoping that just for the sake of the mission."

"I know."

His pale hazel eyes press into mine and, without thinking about my cold, wet hair or the bruise on my cheek or the dark night that's pushing through the windows, I lean forward and kiss Luke. Each time our mouths have met there's been a jolt of shock followed by the realization that this kiss is happening and it shouldn't be happening, but it is and it feels good, and I've wanted it for longer than I've admitted, and he's wanted it for longer than he's been able to handle. The memory of me kissing Virgil no longer matters and the memory of Bug kissing Fleur no longer matters because the past doesn't matter, just the present, regardless of how complicated it is and how much trouble this kiss is going to cause.

He's careful not to touch my bruise as our kiss deepens. His inked arms wrap around me and we float higher, even higher than the twenty-fifth floor, leaving the chaotic ground below, rising up through the clouds, until there is nothing but the starry sky surrounding us. There's a hint of whiskey on his breath, and on mine too, but the scent of alcohol doesn't make me apprehensive. For once, for the first time ever, I don't know if this intense kiss is going to lead to sex. There's no pressure or expectance, and there's such a sense of relief in that thought alone. But if it were to lead to sex, for once, for the first time ever, I would welcome it. I would welcome it with Lucas.

I carefully lift my legs onto the couch and he pulls me closer. I run my hands down his tattooed skin and his fingertips flow down my thighs. Our kiss is soaring and my heart is racing--until we're interrupted by the ringing of his phone. I plummet back to reality and our kiss breaks.

"Shit," he says, pulling it from his pocket as I lower my legs and move away. "Shit, I have to take this." He stands up. "Reiden, what's going on?"

She's calling already? She left only a few hours ago. I roll my sore shoulders. What's her problem? I bet she's calling for no reason, just to talk to Luke, or to purposely interrupt us--like she knew something would be happening.

"No, I'm leaving now. Yeah. Bye." He hangs up and returns to the couch. "Sid, I've got to go--the meeting, I can't miss it. I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"I'm sorry."

"Be careful."

"I'll see you later. I'll try to call you. And I'll try to bring your purse or some clothes if I can." He leans over and gives me a soft kiss on my lips.

I nod and smile, though the smile is mostly fake. All the consuming concerns and fears that forgot me when I floated away with Lucas have suddenly found me again.

He's leaving me.

The starry sky is quickly covered by clouds.

He's heading to Fleur.

He's meeting with Rei.

Tensions are high. And nothing is guaranteed.

I watch him walk out and lock the door before I head to the kitchen, grab the bottle of whiskey and gulp down as much as my throat and stomach can handle. And then I stagger to Luke's bed, already feeling the dizzying effects from the alcohol and my imaginative mind, and fall into a lost, cold, painful sleep.

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# 41

REIDEN

Lucas missed the first fifteen minutes of the meeting last night. It's a small slip up in many months, but it's following a trend that didn't exist before his relationship with Sidonie escalated. He needs to stay focused. We're so close.

Sure, the conversation was being fed to us live, and also being recorded, but Lucas needed to be there to ensure his influence was swaying the topic and direction, and also to ensure Virgil didn't blindly assign him to a task that wasn't preconceived by us. We've made it look like Lucas is working on new deals, but the deals are fictional and untraceable, and as long as Lucas appears busy and continues to "make" money, Virgil doesn't argue. It has to stay that way; Lucas can't actually be wheeling and dealing, he's too busy and it's too dangerous.

I spoke to him after the meeting--there's a slight glitch in our plan, but we'll work it out.

I sip my coffee as I wait for the light to turn green. I got called earlier than usual this morning. And I got home later than usual last night. It's times like these, when my moments with him are cut short--no time to recharge in his arms--that I feel drained at the beginning of the day and not only at the end.

Seeing how relieved Lucas was when he saw Sidonie was a reminder of how powerful love can be. But seeing how distracted Sidonie was when she was embraced in his arms was also a reminder of how destructive love can be, especially when it's one-sided. I'm not saying she doesn't love Lucas--it's difficult to gauge the depth of their relationship in such a short amount of time--but from what I've witnessed so far, it doesn't seem mutual. And that could be the biggest problem of all.

I turn onto Lougheed, familiar with the highway and its cross streets; I've got a few more minutes of driving before I reach the address. Bryan lives closer and should be there already. I don't know much yet, just that a female was found dead, foul play is suspected and so is gang affiliation. That's why they called us; they think it's linked. It probably is, it usually is--the gang world is incestuous--but being linked could mean anything: accidental crossfire, wrong-place-wrong-time, or a drug deal that went bad. The fact that the victim is a female is unusual, but she could've been with someone else and he got away.

I turn the corner and see the yellow tape and flashing lights. I park and exit the car, my breath puffing white clouds in the rising sunlight as I briskly walk and duck under the tape. It may actually be a sunny day.

"Reiden," Bryan calls, walking away from two uniformed officers.

The body is covered but not moved.

"What do we know?" I ask, getting straight to the point.

"They don't have identification yet, but I need you to see something." Bryan looks concerned. He gestures for me to follow him as he walks to the body and kneels down. With a gentle tug of the sheet he exposes her face. "It's her, isn't it?"

They may not have found an identification for her yet, but Bryan and I know who it is. I'm going to have to break the news to Lucas. "Yeah." The shock silences me for a moment and Bryan covers her face again. "Are there witnesses?" I ask.

"It happened at about four-thirty. Only one witness. Heard shouting and looked out. Says there were two guys, black car, not sure what model, didn't get the plates. One guy got out and started yelling. She yelled back. She screamed. He aimed his gun. Shot two times. Got in the car and they drove away."

"No identification on the guys?"

"Just the jackets. Witness said she saw a red snake on the back when he stepped under the streetlight," he explains, pointing to the now off lamp above us and the corpse.

"S-10," I mutter.

"That's why they called us here."

"Okay." I pause, saddened and confused, which doesn't happen often during the day, then I stand straight. "Is Dirksen in charge?" I ask Bryan.

"Yeah, he's over there. I didn't say a name yet, I wanted to be sure."

I nod and walk to Dirksen. He wordlessly greets me, serious. "Dash, what do you think? Is she one of yours?"

"She's not one of mine, but she was affiliated. Pretty high up too."

"Do you know her name?"

"Yeah," I numbly nod again, "Sabon. Fleur Marie Sabon."

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# 42

SIDONIE

Luke's voice wakes me. My head pangs as I roll over and check the time: 7:37 a.m.

"What are you talking about?" he says in the distance.

I sit up, ignoring the pain. Is someone here? Is Rei here? I move out of the tangled sheets and finger-comb my hair as I peek around the corner. Luke is pacing in the bright white lounge, alone but on the phone. I pull a face, predicting that it's Rei. She calls him late at night and first thing in the morning--it's like she's obsessed with him. What makes it worse is he takes all her calls. I sigh and clear my eyes. While his back is turned I decide to sneak to the bathroom, I want to check my reflection before he sees me, but my steps stop as he drops to his knees.

"She's dead?" he stammers.

My spine straightens.

"No, she can't be. Reiden, please, it has to be someone else, she can't be--" His voice falters.

Who's dead?

"Where are you? I want to see for myself," he suddenly yells. "It can't be Fleur!"

My mouth parts in shock.

Fleur.

The bright white room takes a nasty, dizzy dip. I grip the doorframe.

Fleur.

Lucas is crying now. "I--I saw her last night," he says. "We got into a fight." He shakes his fallen head. "No, I didn't tell her anything."

Pause. Reiden seems to have a lot of questions.

"I told her I wanted--I wanted to end things with her. Fuck. And she cried, and yelled. She was hurt, because of me, I--I hurt her, and she left."

Pause.

"I don't know, probably her sister's."

Pause.

"Um, Renee, yeah. Renee Sabon." His shoulders shudder as he sniffs. "I don't know."

Pause.

"No, I'd sometimes see her when I'd drop Fleur off, but that's it. She never came to the clubhouse."

Fleur.

I feel sick.

"How do you know it was them?" he asks.

Pause. Luke sits straighter, listening intently.

"But why would they kill her? ... Me? Why would I know? S-10 has beef with Virgil and the Wings, not Fleur, not--"

His sentence is cut off.

"What? She wasn't talking to S-10, I assure you."

Pause. His free hand balls into a fist.

"Because I know her--I ... I knew her--and she had no reason to go behind the Wings' back. It doesn't even make sense, why would--" his sentence is cut off again. "You said you found her in PoCo, right? Her sister lives in PoCo. See, that's where she went, to her sister's, not to some S-10 clubhouse--"

He stands and paces to the window.

"I told you, I don't know Renee ..." Pause. "Wait, what? You think she's in with S-10?"

A prickle of suspicion triggers something Fleur once said to me. On the night she had to take the taxi from Whalley, the night Virgil got shot, she mentioned how she was visiting her sister in PoCo, but they ended up in Whalley because her sister wanted to meet up with someone. But Fleur never said who. In fact, she avoided it. I didn't think anything of it at the time--it was just a useless detail--but now it looks like a possible piece to the puzzle.

"No, it doesn't make sense, it--" Yet another of Luke's sentences is cut short, but this time it's cut short by him as he turns and meets my shocked eyes. "Reiden, I've got to go. Yeah. I'll head to the club and call you later. I will. Bye." He closes his cell and looks down.

"Fleur?" I croak.

He pushes back his hair and nods, defeated.

"... I'm sorry."

He slowly nods again, silent.

"How did--Why?" I stammer, unable to articulate my confusion.

"I don't know. I ... don't know." He stares at the ground.

"It was S-10?"

"Yeah."

"How do they know?"

"A witness saw their jacket. He just, he just got out and shot her on the street. And left her. Fuck." He roughly wipes his eyes and turns away.

I tiptoe to him, pausing before I softly hug him from behind. Tears roll down my cheeks and soak his shirt. I didn't want her to die. That was never in my fucked up thoughts about her. I blamed her for everything, all the problems in my life, all the situations I couldn't control, all the times I was hurt, but I never once wanted her dead.

But she is.

As my guilty tears continue to rain, I realize she's probably zipped in a dark body bag and headed to an ultra-blue morgue where she'll be tagged and slid into a claustrophobic fridge. And there she'll lie. And there she'll wait. For what, I don't know. For who, I don't know. Maybe her sister--if her sister cares, or is still alive. Maybe no one will show up to claim her.

No one would show up to claim me.

And as though I'm thrown from the window of the high, bright apartment, a place in which I thought the sand couldn't reach me, I'm suddenly in an edgeless pit. My grip around Luke tightens with fear until I realize holding him isn't making me feel better--nothing can make me feel better--and so I let him go and try to fill my burdened lungs with grain-free air. But the sand pours in, pushing my mouth wider and scratching down the back of my throat. I stagger back, coughing--no, choking--as it pulls me quickly and deeply.

"Sid?"

I can't answer. The gritty grains stick to my tongue and gums.

"It's okay, it's okay, come here," Luke says, grabbing my shaking arms and pulling me closer to the windows. "Look out far, look at the mountains." He unlocks the latch and, as it swings open, a gust of cold air puffs against my face, reminding me that I'm not in a sinking pit, I'm not surrounded by sand, I'm not buried beneath the ground, I'm up high--very high.

My breathing begins to calm.

"Sorry," I finally murmur.

"Yeah," he replies. "Me too."

FLEUR

CANDICE

AMBER

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# 43

REIDEN

Three days. Three bodies. Three days. Three dead women. Each of them affiliated, to some degree, with the Black Wings. Each of them shot down, according to weak witness reports, by men wearing jackets displaying the red snake of S-10.

The first call to Lucas about Fleur was the most difficult. He wanted it to be a mistake because even though he knew their relationship was fake she didn't know, and when he told her that he wanted to end it it broke her heart. Then she left. Then she left and she died. I could hear the plaguing guilt in Lucas's voice when we spoke on the phone and I could see it upon his shoulders when we met up. He's taking responsibility for Fleur's death despite how many times I tell him, and will continue to tell him, that it's not his fault.

It was S-10's fault. All three deaths. We know who and we know how, but we don't know why.

Lucas knew Candice and Amber--Candice worked at a local bar and frequented the bed of Ziggy. Their relationship wasn't official, but it was something. And Amber used to hang with the guys about a year back, but stopped after a near-fatal overdose. Since then she'd slipped into the shadows, trying to disappear from a world that wanted to drain the life from her. But S-10 found her and shot her dead--just like Fleur, just like Candice--out in the open, two shots, body left on the sidewalk, and the members long gone before anyone could get a call to 9-1-1.

But we know it was S-10; they're not exactly being shy about it. If they wanted to, they could've made these deaths secretive, hidden, with barely a trace to be found except for an old picture of the victim, usually a high school yearbook shot--the most innocent-looking photo the reporters can find--to pique the interest and sorrow of the six o'clock news viewers. S-10, any of the gangs, any of the murderers, could make it so that her body was never found. But they haven't. They've done it on public streets, in full view with shouts and shots, all while wearing a significant sign.

Yes, we know it was S-10 because they want us to know it was S-10. But why?

Because they're on a revenge-filled rampage, killing anyone affiliated with the Wings, and they happened to come across club girls first?

Because they want to demonstrate their ruthless style, purposing killing club girls to show what's coming for the members?

Or was it one big fucking coincidence and I'm hyperventilating in the bathtub for no reason?

A bead of sweat runs down my temple. I made the water too hot.

I can't read tonight.

I also can't cry.

No escape and no relief.

Three women, three bodies, in three days. I keep repeating it, trying to understand it, trying with all my might to figure out how it is that I'm failing. I keep thinking there's a vital piece or a crucial event that I've somehow overlooked, and the moment I realize what it is everything will start getting better, and people will stop dying, and the gangs will stop growing in size and violence and strength because the members will witness the consequences, not necessarily in terms of a prison sentence but in terms of what they're doing to others and to themselves, and they'll realize they don't want a life filled with turmoil ...

There I go again, daydreaming in the steamy bathroom. That scenario might have happened once before, but it was miracle; Lucas having a change of heart and coming into our lives was almost unprecedented. It'll never happen again, at least not in my career.

But at the end of the day it's not up to Lucas to fix society's problems. I'm supposed to be on top of this, I'm supposed to be stopping the brutal violence and senseless death, yet it keeps getting worse. I'm the one who is failing.

I need help. And I have no one to turn to.

Bryan and our team work so hard, and I couldn't ask for more trustworthy individuals--figuratively and literally. Our unit is considered specialized, which is another word for small, which is another word for lack-of-funding. It's easy to feel alone in this battle when attention is focused on more dramatic areas, on issues that are new and exciting and make the headlines. The news of three gang-related deaths, regardless if they're male or female, affiliated or unrelated, gets a spot in the newspaper, a blurb in the evening news--a flash of the victim's high school photo--but people tend to feel disconnected from the event even though it's happening in their backyards. It's as though society perceives the gang problem as old news.

Or maybe it's unsolvable to even the smallest degree. No one wants to speak against the Wings or have to deal with them. I've worked with cops who washed their hands clean when they found out the situation was gang related--especially if it was related to the all-powerful Black Wings. The problem with that is the problem doesn't disappear, the problem with that is the problem gets dumped onto someone else, and then someone else, all while the problem continues to grow, and grow, until it finally lands in our team's lap and we stare at it, overwhelmed and wondering what the hell we could possibly do to help.

And if we wash our hands clean of the situation, if I scrub my skin and drain the bath and shrug my shoulders of the burden, despite it being my job, despite it being in my backyard, whose lap will it land in then?

Society's.

I know because I've seen it happen--it's happening now--and the ones who suffer are the ones who become the overlooked and the forgotten.

Even when Fleur, Candice and Amber's story finds its way to the media, I know people will pull a tragic expression then tut and shake their head, condemning any more sympathy to something that's gang affiliated. "They were asking for it. That's what happens when you get mixed up in gangs," they'll all-knowingly say while looking at the situation from a polarized and compassionless view.

I hate the six o'clock news.

I hold my breath and sink beneath the water.

Our unit has taken funding and staff hits thanks to the endless, uphill battle, but what's more worthwhile than fighting an insidious poison that creeps into cities and suburbs, into the youth and disadvantaged, into the lost and the abused?

I've made these arguments many times before, but the only response I've received is an open-handed shrug. What do you want us to do, Reiden? There's only so much we can do. It's true. There is only so much we can do. Despite funding, despite staff. And all I can do is do it. And I will. I won't stop.

I release my breath, making noisy bubbles as I resurface.

Sidonie must've known these girls. She might've known them even better than Lucas, or on a different level. She could have information.

I get out, dry off and message Bryan to meet me at the apartment tomorrow to question Sidonie. He quickly confirms and I plug my phone in to charge.

Then I crawl into bed, find my happiness, and cry.

SIDONIE

The night of Fleur's death.

We don't speak. We can't speak. Luke can't even look at me. Or maybe I can't look at him. Maybe it's mutual. Maybe we're glancing up when the other is glancing down, both looking to the right or the left so all we see is the back of each other's head. No iris, no pupil, no intimate contact of any kind, no connection or entry into what each other is thinking. Just a guess. Just a plaguing, growing, guilty guess.

He blames me for her death.

SIDONIE

The day after Fleur.

It's getting worse.

The guilt is worse.

The resentment is worse.

The avoidance is worse.

I pretended to be asleep in his bed as I heard him get ready and lock the door. We haven't spoken a word since the call.

I'm sinking again, faster and deeper than ever before.

SIDONIE

Two days after Fleur.

He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me. He blames me. He hates me.

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# 44

SIDONIE

I'm alone again and the sand is rising. Even though I'm up high, even though I'm in the sky, the sand is rising. Or maybe it's the building that's sinking. Either way, every time I look out the window the ground is closer and the grains are filling the floors below.

I'm alone again, like I've been for the past three days, ever since the phone call about Fleur's death. Even though I hated her and our friendship was false, even though Luke didn't love her and their relationship was fake, her death has changed everything.

I'm alone again. And even though Luke brought me here with a purpose in mind, even though I've met with the police and semi-willingly agreed to speak with them, or at least keep my mouth shut about their plans, they've abandoned me. All of them. Including Luke.

Especially Luke.

He hates me. He blames me.

I can hear the sand pouring through the windows of another floor, shaking the building and forcing me to catch my step. I pull from the dull blue world outside and turn on the TV. I'm confused and answerless.

And alone.

So alone.

Luke didn't come back to the apartment last night, he stayed at the club instead, taking care of business, discussing retaliation, doing whatever it is that he does ...

He hasn't kissed me, he hasn't touched me, he hasn't talked to me. And he slept on the couch on the two nights he was actually here. On the second night I crept out and watched him sleep. The moon was bright and highlighted his tattooed skin, but he looked tormented even being so far from the real world. I didn't step closer or try to console him, I just watched him for a few minutes, then sunk back into his room and his bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling, until my eyes burned with tears and eventually closed.

Fleur's death has changed everything, including the way Luke feels about me. It was me, after all, who lured him away from her wilted arms and made her flee from the safety of the clubhouse. I sometimes feel guilty about it ... and other times I don't, because I didn't do it on purpose, I never wanted her to die, and now her death is destroying my life.

What am I even doing here? What's my point and purpose? I can't leave because it's not safe, but I shouldn't stay because I'm just getting in the way. The cops don't need me and Luke doesn't want me ...

A knock at the door startles me. Luke wouldn't knock ... It must be Rei. The knock rattles again. I consider ignoring it and not letting her in--she's the last person I want to see--but I hear the jingling of keys and watch the lock turn. I stand, uncomfortable with the invasion of space, expecting to see Rei's stunning appearance, but Bryan walks in instead.

"Oh, you are here," he comments, closing the door behind him.

"Sorry, I was napping."

"Detective Dash isn't here?"

I shake my head.

He pulls out his phone. "Excuse me for a moment." He turns as he presses it to his ear.

I wonder what's going on. He doesn't look troubled, just surprised, like he wasn't expecting to be alone with me ... My eyes wander across his back and down his body. His muscular frame is evident even through his collared shirt. He glances back at me, catching my curious eyes, and gives me a polite smile. He's actually quite handsome. I'm surprised I didn't notice that before. Hmm ... I tousle my hair and bundle it over my right shoulder just as he closes his phone.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Everything is fine. Detective Dash is caught in traffic. She'll be here soon."

I wrap a strand of hair around my index finger. "How soon?"

"Um, I'm not sure. Fifteen, twenty minutes. Why do you ask?"

I shrug and coyly smile. "Just curious."

He slightly frowns--a frown I've seen many times before, a frown displaying a question, and that question being: is she flirting with me or am I imagining it? You're not imagining it, Detective Collard. Something sparks within me--a little surge of the power I love, a little surge of the power I haven't felt in a while; making men uncomfortable, making them blush and stammer and frown with questions of doubt, feels good. "So," I begin, "can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"No whiskey?"

"It's a bit early for that," he says.

"What about some water then?" I continue, stepping closer.

"Really, I'm fine."

"Rei is going to be a while, why don't you take a seat?" I suggest, gesturing to the couch.

"Alright," he agrees, checking his watch as he passes me.

I can smell his freshly showered skin ... and something else. I don't know if it's my nose or my mind that's playing tricks on me, but I swear I can smell the indescribable scent that oozes from Virgil's pores. I stare at him as I sit on the couch. "What cologne are you wearing?"

"I'm not wearing any."

"Really?" I smile and lean forward. "You just naturally smell good?"

He pauses and reissues a slight frown. "So, how have you been feeling?"

I shrug and touch my bottom lip. "Fine."

"Do you have everything you need?"

I shrug again and smile. "I'm in need of some company ..."

"Yes, I suppose it can get quite lonely here."

"Very."

"At least there's a TV," he comments.

"It gets boring after a while."

He politely nods. "Yeah, daytime television ..."

"--it's awful. Plus," I continue, "this couch isn't that comfortable." I stand up and stretch high, letting my shirt lift to reveal my lower stomach. "I could use a massage."

His eyes flicker to my skin before he averts them. "Well, I'm sure Lucas will sort something out for you."

I swallow down the mention of his name. "Lucas is too busy."

"Yes, things have taken a chaotic turn since the tragic outcome of Fleur."

I lower my head, allowing my hair to fall across my eyes, refusing to let this thorny topic get in my way. "Yeah, it's been hard. Really hard."

"Lucas said you knew Fleur too."

"We were friends."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"I haven't ... I haven't had anyone to talk to about it."

"You can talk to Detective Dash--Reiden--or myself anytime. In fact, Reiden is on her way here to discuss details with you."

"With me?" I ask, surprised.

"Yes, along with a few questions."

"About what?"

"She'll be here soon."

I shift a little closer. "You're not allowed to tell me?"

"Detective Dash is going to tell you."

"Is she in charge of you?"

"We're partners."

"But she tells you what to do--so, she's the boss of you."

"Sure."

"Does that make you feel like less of a man?"

He studies my innocent expression. "No."

"Really?"

"Why would it?"

I smirk. "I guess some men like being told what to do."

He pauses. "I don't understand what you're getting at, Sidonie."

"It's nothing," I coyly murmur. "I mean, I'm no stranger to being told what to do." I lock eyes with him and he clears his throat. "In fact, I like being told what to do," I continue, "especially by a strong man like yourself."

He pats his knees with his hands. "Sidonie, this is--"

"What?" I toy, "I'm just playing around with you."

"Well, please stop."

I shift closer and grin. "If anything, you should take it as a compliment--I'm saying I think you're strong. Don't cops want to be told they're strong?"

"You know what you're saying and it's inappropriate."

"Don't be so uptight, Bryan. If I said you could do anything you want, that would be inappropriate."

"Sidonie--"

"You could though, if you wanted," I declare as his eyes slowly meet mine. There's a glimmer of realization and intrigue in them. I've got him. I've got him in the palm of my hand.

"... You would let me do anything to you?" he questions.

I tuck a few strands of hair behind my left ear, squeezing my breasts together as I do. It feels good to hold such power, but most of all, it feels good to be wanted. "Anything."

He looks me up and down. "Really?"

I giggle and nod my head. "I like men who know how to be men; I like a man who takes charge."

"And you think I'm that type of man?"

"I do--despite how Rei treats you. I know you're a powerful man and a powerful cop, and I know you could take control."

"And you wouldn't tell?"

I shake my head with a flirtatious grin.

"Well ... I would," he firmly says, making my expression fall. He stands from the couch and looks back at me. "You have a warped perception of how to interact with men--probably women too. You need help, Sid, you need therapy. And I mean that sincerely. I'll talk to Reiden about what help we can get you."

The room dips and I slump back. "What?"

"I need to make a call."

"Why--why don't you want me?" I stammer.

He pauses with his cell in hand. "That's not what this is about."

I stand up. "I don't understand--why don't you want me? What's wrong with me?"

"I need you to calm down," he says.

"Tell me! Why don't you want me?" I yell, walking towards him.

"Sidonie, stop--"

"Am I not sexy? Am I not beautiful?"

"Stop where you are!" he shouts.

I obey his dominant command and look into his bewildered eyes. "Why won't you touch me?"

"Jesus," he murmurs, "who fucked you up this bad?"

"I'm not fucked up!"

"Sidonie, please--"

"I want an answer!"

"Sidonie, stop--"

"Why don't you want me?"

He sighs, distressed, and says the first truth that comes to mind. "Because you're not okay--because you're broken."

It resonates deep down. It hurts deep down. I'm broken deep down. "Then fix me."

"What?"

"Fix me," I demand.

He shakes his head. "I--I--"

"Please," I whisper as I lurch forward and press against him.

Our lips touch for only a second before he grabs my arm, spins me around and locks it behind my back. At first I think he's going to give in to my physical demand, bend me over and penetrate me--it's begun this way before: pain followed by more pain--but instead I feel the cold wrapping of cuffs around my wrists. He guides me back to the couch and sits me down.

"I knew you had power," I say, peering up at him. His expression is hard and troubled. He looks dangerous and the sting of his strong touch still graces my skin. I feel crazed and desperate. "My hands are tied, but my mouth is free," I comment, my eyes falling from his face to his belt.

He takes a breath, like he's about to say something, but walks away in silence.

The door slams shut, and again I'm alone.

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# 45

REIDEN

As I pull up to the apartment building I see Bryan waiting in the lobby. From his stance and expression, even through the glass doors, I can tell something is wrong. I was just on a call with Lucas and he didn't mention a problem, which means there must be an issue with Sidonie. I park and step out, locking the car as I walk to the door and catch Bryan's attention. He perks up and turns the handle. "Reiden," he begins, but I interrupt him.

"What happened?"

"Sidonie--she threw herself at me."

My eyebrows rise. "Violently or sexually?"

"Sexually." He runs his hand down his mouth and chin. "She's messed up--I mean, so messed up."

"More than we anticipated, it sounds like."

"It's deceiving since she doesn't look broken--you know what I mean? She looks normal, beautiful, but deep down there's a lot hiding, and there's a lot wrong."

I study Bryan's troubled expression for a moment. "Did anything happen?" I straightly ask.

"No ..." He slowly shakes his head then meets my eyes. "But it could have. I've never ... I've never even considered it before. I mean, she's a victim, she's under our protection, our care, but she ... she made me question my morals."

Wow. I've never before witnessed Bryan in such a tormented state. "Bry--"

"It came out of nowhere too--this whirlwind--I wasn't expecting--I didn't think she would even--"

"Bryan," I say again, trying to snap him from his traumatized daze.

He meets my eyes. "Yeah?"

"Is she still waiting up there?"

"Yeah. In cuffs." He pulls a face. "I had to."

I pat his shoulder. "It's fine. I should've been here, I should've known she'd pull something like this."

"How could you have known?" he sincerely asks.

I smirk and shake my head. He has little clue of the complexities--both virtuous and poisonous--of a woman. He may be an intelligent man in his mid-thirties with more than a few sexual experiences and relationships, but right now he appears to be a naive teenage boy. I hope he doesn't believe Sidonie is actually attracted to him. It's not to say that Bryan is unattractive, rather that Sidonie is likely playing a game. "Why don't you take a walk, get a coffee, clear your head. I'm going to talk to her about the other victims ... and her behavior."

He nods and hands me the keys.

"Bryan," I call just as he opens the door, "don't think of the what ifs--they don't matter. Nothing happened. You didn't fall." My words should be comforting, but he doesn't look any less troubled. Sidonie has shaken him to his core. He nods again and walks away.

I enter the elevator with more questions than ever. Is Sidonie lashing out? Is she trying to manipulate Bryan? If so, for what? It's not like she's a prisoner fighting for freedom--but it is a complicated situation. I naively thought she would be grateful to be away from danger and Virgil and the possibility of turmoil and death, but who knows what's going on in her head. And if she's throwing herself at Bryan, what does that mean for her and Lucas? Lucas's affection is strong and clear, but here she is, sexually taunting a detective ...

Fleur's death.

That's it. It must be a thorn in their delicate relationship. My mind whirls with possible hints or clues that Lucas has mentioned over the past three days. I've been so preoccupied I haven't been able to keep an eye on their relationship--not to mention, their relationship isn't a top priority on my long list--but it could be their connection that plays a big piece in the success of our mission.

I unlock the apartment door and step through. My shoes click on the laminate, signaling my presence. Sidonie is sitting on the couch, hands locked behind her back, tears trickling down her face. "Can we talk?" I carefully ask.

She shakes her head.

I walk closer. "Why not?"

"Because," she sobs, "you're going to tell Luke."

I find the cuff key and gently sit on the couch. "Here, let me get you out of those."

She stares at me, at my face and hair, my shoulders and chest, then back up to my eyes, before she shifts her body so I can reach her hands.

"I'm not going to tell Lucas. I told you I wouldn't interfere with your relationship and I meant it. It's up to you if you tell him what happened ... but it can't happen again, at least not to a member of my team. Do you understand?"

She lowers her eyes and nods.

"Did Detective Collard start it?" I ask. It's not that I distrust Bryan's word, but I want to hear it from her mouth too; everyone deserves the chance to tell their side.

"No," she murmurs.

"Did anything happen?"

"No," she murmurs again.

"Are you sure? You can tell me."

"I tried, but he ... rejected me."

I can see the shame on her face, but above all I can see the embarrassment. "It's not rejection of you, it's rejection of the situation--of taking advantage of a person." I pause. "Are you attracted to Bryan?"

She lowers her head even more. "No."

"Then why?"

She shrugs. "I don't know."

"Are you and Lucas fighting?"

She shrugs again. "How can we be fighting if we're not even talking?"

"Since Fleur's death?" I guess.

She nods and rubs her wrists.

We're silent for a moment. I'm wondering if I should continue to press her for answers, but I sense I already know the answers, and she doesn't seem willing to talk about it. "Lucas has been dealing with a lot, more than ever actually. It's not fair on him and it's not fair on you. Fleur isn't the only death that's burdening him. Two more women have been killed, just like Fleur."

"Who?" she asks, appearing concerned.

"Candice Whitterson and Amber MacDonald. Do you recognize those names?"

She breaks her stare, placing the names with faces. "Maybe. I think so. I knew a girl named Candice, she'd be at the club sometimes. And I heard rumors about a girl named Amber, but I never met her. I'm not sure if they're the same girls--I didn't know their last names."

I try to hide the surprise in my face from her candid response. "Yes, they're one and the same. S-10 shot them down, just like Fleur, the days following her death. Were you friends with Candice?"

"They killed her?" She appears stunned by the news. "I--we weren't--I didn't know her that well. We spoke a couple times, mostly when she was really drunk or high."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

She shakes her head, thinking. "I don't know, about a month ago, I guess."

"And you never met Amber?"

"No, but Fleur would talk about her. They used to both sleep with Puck, but something happened--Amber almost overdosed, I think, and it stopped Fleur from using heroin." She pauses. "Fleur would act like she was so above heroin, like she was too smart for it, but all she did was replace it with painkillers."

"What about you?" I inquire, hoping to ride this wave of open honesty. "Do you have a vice?"

She looks into my eyes and sadly smiles. "Not one that comes in a bottle."

Sidonie's answer surprises me and I suddenly understand Bryan's vexation. She's beautiful on the surface, so much so that it acts as a distraction from what's beneath. She doesn't look like a victim--she doesn't have hollowed eyes or scabbed skin, dirty nails or a dull complexion, she doesn't even have the vacant, lost stare of someone who's been used and abused--and so it's easy to forget what she's been through, it's easy to overlook her inner turmoil and battered self-esteem.

"Everything is going to be alright," I reply. I don't know why I say it, it's not a phrase that commonly leaves my lips out of the simple fact that it's commonly not true, but out it comes, out of pity, out of hopefulness, out of trying to say something that's legitimately comforting and not realistically comforting, which commonly isn't comforting at all. She shows relief. I clear my throat and stand. "Thank you for your help today, Sidonie."

"That's it?" she asks, jolted.

"For now, yes, unless you'd like to talk about something else."

She pauses, like she's weighing the idea. "I don't know if it's true ..."

"You don't know if what's true?"

"I overheard your call to Luke about Fleur. You suspect Renee of working with S-10, right?"

"It's just a hunch ... Do you know something about it?"

"I don't know if it's true," she repeats, "but Fleur mentioned something--she met up with her sister and someone, she didn't say who, but the way she said it ... I don't know. It's probably nothing."

My eyebrows rise. "It's enough to make us look into it further. Thank you, Sidonie," I sincerely say. "I have to go, but I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure."

I give her a smile and head to the door.

"And you won't say anything to Luke, right?" she calls just as I'm about to leave.

I turn back. "Not a word."

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# 46

SIDONIE

I feel numb.

What just happened? I tried to seduce Bryan and I played nice with Rei. I never expected to do either, and in a matter of forty-nine minutes I've done both.

Speaking to Reiden wasn't as horrible as I was expecting, especially after my mishap with Bryan. I thought she was going to storm in here, pointing her finger at me, screaming whore and threatening to tell Lucas of my indiscretion. But she didn't. I'm too numb to process what it means. Or doesn't mean. If she sincerely won't get involved. Or if she's just waiting for the opportune time to hold it against me.

I don't want to think about Reiden. I don't want to like her, I don't want to have a relationship with her, and I don't want to compete against her for Luke's attention.

Luke ... I sigh and feel the sting of tears again. How can I come clean if we're not even speaking, if I don't even see him? I lean back on the couch as the question of if I should even tell him plagues my mind. It didn't mean anything, it never does--I've always done shit like that, but it doesn't make it okay. Maybe I'll tell him one day, once we're past all this bullshit, once we're together again, and once the sting of Fleur's death no longer obstructs his affection for me.

He hates me. He blames me. And I don't know how to fix it. In fact, I've only made it worse.

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# 47

REIDEN

I close my cell, no closer to finding information about Renee than I was earlier today. This girl is a ghost. Sidonie's unexpected confession wasn't much to go on, but it validated my hunch. I believe there's something of importance there, but I'm catching nothing but a scent of smoke--no fire, no flame, not even a charred match. We have to keep searching.

My phone vibrates in my hand and I glance down. It's Lucas. We briefly spoke earlier, but he's been keeping his ears and eyes open at the club, trying to keep plans going smoothly in the midst of many wrinkles. "Hello?" I answer.

"We've got problems," he says. His voice has become decreasingly calm over the last week.

"Did something happen with the dock deal?"

"It's not that, it's Virgil--he's wants her back. He's looking for Sidonie again."

"He knows she's alive?"

"He wasn't trying to kill her that night, he was trying to punish her--the sick fuck was trying to teach her. We have to do something, Reiden, we have to keep her safe."

"Where are you?" I question, not liking him speaking so freely with names.

"I'm not at the club, don't worry." He heavily huffs. "We have to do something. The moment Sid shows her face outside of the apartment there's a chance someone will snatch her. She's not safe--she'll never be safe here, she'll never have a life here."

"Lucas, shit is already messy--we have enough on our plates, we can't pile on more. We have to wait with Sidonie."

"I'm sick of waiting. I've sat by for almost a year waiting for the moment when I can help her, and this is it, Reiden--it's now or never. Sid needs to go somewhere safe."

I frown at his panicked tone. "Does Virgil suspect something?"

"No, but he's got everyone on the lookout for her, and not just our chapter, all local chapters and affiliates. He says he wants to protect her from S-10--fucking bastard, spouting shit about wanting to protect her. Think about it, Rei, it's not just the Wings who are looking for her, S-10 is probably on the lookout too. They know Sid was with Virgil--she's a high priority target--"

"Lucas, okay, I get it, I get it--"

"Set something up, please, I'm begging you. Anything, everything you can do--witness protection, new papers, new identity, new city--"

"Lucas, Lucas, listen to me, it's not that easy. I can't just set it up, it takes time, it takes--"

"Do it for me, Reiden. After everything I've done for you, every time I've put my life in danger for the mission, do it for me."

I fall silent. "... I'll figure something out."

He sighs. "Figure it out soon."

"What are you up to?"

"I'm going to talk to Sid. She needs to know what's going on."

"Don't lose your head, Lucas. This dock shipment needs to happen before I can provide any real protection--please, we're close. It needs to happen, okay? Lucas, tell me you understand."

"She could be dead by then."

"Not if she stays hidden. Keep her at the apartment."

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# 48

SIDONIE

My eyes flutter open and meet the darkness. I shift my body, realizing I'm on the couch. I don't remember falling asleep, but that doesn't surprise me; I've barely been sleeping at night, making up for the lacking hours at random points during the day.

I sit up and feel for the TV remote, listening for a sound in the ink black apartment, a sound of Lucas or Rei or Bryan, but there's nothing. I'm alone. I should be used to it by now, for no matter what situation I'm in, whether I've been at school or home, the clubhouse or this apartment, no matter if I'm being punished or saved, every memory, every moment, no matter the crowd, no matter the circumstance, I've been alone.

There are the few exceptions, of course, and they all include Luke. But the exceptions to loneliness don't make me feel any less alone, they simply highlight the loneliness in all other aspects of my life, especially when the one person who makes me feel less alone has left me to be just that.

The thought of how helpless I feel, of not knowing how to fix things, of not knowing how to fix myself, makes me tired again, however now it's a sleepless tired.

I finally find the remote and turn on the TV. It flashes brightly in the dark room, making me crease my eyes with discomfort. I change channels to verify the day and time. It's still Thursday, but many hours have passed since Bryan and Rei were here. I lie back again in a daze, still Thursday, still numb, still alone.

Fleur is dead. Amber is dead. Candice is dead.

Thursday.

Numb.

Alone.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Rei said she would talk to me later, but she hasn't. I don't suspect I'll be seeing Bryan anytime soon. And the last time I saw Lucas was two mornings ago ...

What am I doing here?

Suddenly the unlocking of the front door halts my deprecating thoughts. I sit up and stare down the hall, holding my breath while I discover who's here.

"Sid?" Luke calls.

My heart beats up into my throat. "I'm here."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Are you alright?"

"Why are all the lights off?"

"I fell asleep. Here," I say, heading to the lamp.

"Wait," he demands as he rushes past me, to the windows, and pulls down the shades. He smells of smoke and spice--he's been at the clubhouse. "Keep these down from now on."

"Why?" I ask as I turn on the dull light. The sight of Lucas soothes me until I notice he's wearing a turtle neck, covering the moth and his arm tattoos. His expression is frantic.

"You never know who's watching."

"What's going on? Is everything okay?" I ask with a concerned frown.

"There are a lot of people looking for you, Sid."

"Me? Why?"

"S-10 is on a killing spree and Virgil is on the hunt," he reveals, pulling off his toque and combing back his hair. "Have you left the apartment at all today?"

I shake my head. "I haven't left the apartment for days."

"Good, that's good." He begins to pace. "At least no one could've followed you--but they could've followed me. Don't answer the door for anyone, do you hear me?"

"Luke, what are you saying? Is S-10 really on a killing spree?"

"Yes, they're killing girls--that's why they killed Fleur. They're looking for anyone, doesn't matter who, but you ..." his eyes flicker to me, "they would love to get you--Virgil's number one."

"I'm not Virgil's number one, I'm not Virgil's anything," I stammer.

"They don't care, Sid. They're out for blood and spilling yours would be significant."

The room sways in the outer corners of my vision. "What about Virgil? Wh--what do you mean he's on the hunt?"

"He's looking for you--he's got everyone looking for you."

"But ... why?"

"Because he's a psychopath! It's just a big game to him. Fucking you up, fucking around on you, fucking you--it's you, he wants you. You're his favorite play thing." He shakes his head. "It's just a matter of time before one of us slips up, one of us gets followed and this whole thing is blown. S-10 is already following a number of Wings. I have to get you somewhere safe."

"I--I thought I was safe."

"Not anymore."

"Luke, you're scaring me."

"I'm scaring you? S-10 should be scaring you, Virgil should be scaring you!"

I'm silent. The last time I saw him act this way was when he was threatening Neil.

"Reiden is trying to set up a witness protection thing, but it's not happening fast enough. You need to leave tonight."

The windows warp with a sudden sway. "What?"

"I have a bag in the closet. Go pack whatever you have."

"What? I don't want to leave."

"You have to, Sid."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"East. I'm getting you a bus ticket."

"I'm not leaving."

"You have to, don't you get it? You have to go!"

I pause, suspicious of his rattled behavior. I haven't seen him in two days, we haven't spoken in four, and now he wants me gone. Am I being saved or am I being punished? "Did you speak to Rei today?"

"Yeah."

"Did she tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"About today, about me."

"No." He pauses. "Did something happen?"

"...Yes," I admit, my voice quivering.

His eyebrows rise, expectant. "What?"

"You're trying to get rid of me," I deflect.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're trying to get rid of me!" I shout as the room sways harder. "You don't want me here, you don't--why, why does this keep happening? Why doesn't anyone want me? Why are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Sid, I'm trying to keep you safe!"

"Then why have you left me here all alone? Why haven't you been here?" I scream.

"I'm trying to sort shit out! Do you have any idea what's going on? Do you know what I'm dealing with at the club, and with Virgil and the cops and S-10?"

"Don't pretend like this isn't about Fleur! As soon as you got that call you could barely look at me."

"What are you talking about?" he yells, exasperated.

"There's always something else, someone else getting between us! If it's not Fleur, it's Reiden!"

"This is ridiculous. I'm trying to keep you safe and you're blaming me for not paying you enough attention!"

"I'm blaming you for telling me to leave!"

"It's for you! It's to keep you safe! How many times do I have to say it? You're not safe here, you can't have a life here!"

I lower my voice with realization. "You mean ... I can't have a life with you."

His shoulders fall and his head shakes. "We can't be together."

I close my eyes as the room spins and swirls with sand.

"Pack your things, Sid. You're leaving tonight."

Somehow I keep standing, somehow I keep breathing. "I can't."

"You don't have a say in the matter. It's for the best."

I fold my arms across my racing heart. "I don't have any money."

"I'll give you enough money to set yourself up with a new life."

I swallow down the tears. "I don't have any identification."

"Good, leave your name here. Sidonie no longer exists."

"You can't send me away without a name. I need a name. How--how am I supposed to find work? How am I supposed to check into a motel? Unless you expect me to sleep on the streets," I bitterly say.

"Shit." He pushes back his hair. "Shit. Okay, I'll find you something. Just stay here." He looks at me, worried. "Promise me you won't go anywhere until I get back."

I peer into his beautiful hazel eyes. "... I promise."

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# 49

REIDEN

Why the hell is Lucas ignoring my calls? I've been trying to reach him for almost an hour. My concern is starting to turn hysterical, which doesn't happen often during working hours--not that these are considered normal working hours. Maybe that's why I'm losing my shit? I'm usually in the bath at this time of night, analyzing and crying over the day, decompressing, but I'm at the station instead.

I'm wound tight full of tears, full of panic, full of frustration and full of theories. Anything could've happened--Virgil could be torturing him for information, S-10 could've filled his body with bullets, the mafia could've double-crossed their deal--and I don't know anything about it.

I call Bryan for the tenth time this hour. "Still nothing," he answers, knowing my question.

"I'm heading to the apartment. Best case scenario, he's sleeping with Sidonie and ignoring my calls."

"I'll meet you there," he offers.

"No, don't worry, get some sleep. I'll call you if shit hits the fan."

"You sound like you're losing it, Reiden."

"There's no fooling you."

"That's it, I'm putting on my pants."

I loudly sigh. "No, I'm fine. It's probably nothing, he probably is too busy in bed, but I need to know for sure. I'll message you as soon as I find out."

"You're stubborn. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Not for a few hours."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I will," I reply and end the call only to dial Lucas's number again. It rings and rings with no answer. I have the urge to send him a message, but it's a flawed idea. If the worst has happened, if he's being beaten or lying dead somewhere, a message could have severe implications even if it's something as simple as 'where are you?' But I need to know where he is, even if it means barging in on him and Sidonie in bed.

I hate feeling so helpless, so useless.

I pull from the curb as I run through possible scenarios and what could've caused them. If his cover has been burned, there was no warning. Although, Lucas has been acting differently this past week, unravelled, exposing emotion ... Maybe he got sloppy without realizing? Maybe someone overheard him while he was talking to me? Maybe something happened and plans got changed? As far as I know everything is the same--the shipment is on schedule, Virgil thinks of Lucas as an integral member and the crew is fighting external wars and not internal rumors--but I could be detrimentally wrong.

If I've lost Lucas, not only on an informant level but on a personal level, I'll never forgive myself. After everything he's been through, after everything he's sacrificed, first for the club, now for the police, I want to give something back to him, I want to give him safety and a real life. He's been dangling himself over the edge and I've been holding the rope. It needs to end. It's not fair. But we're so close to putting Virgil away for a long time, and that's been the driving force behind it all, including Lucas's vengeance.

I remember when he told me that Virgil killed his best friend. He didn't cry--he wasn't able to cry yet, the rage was too strong--but the look in his eye was something I'll never forget. The commitment that that murder instilled in Lucas has kept him going for over a year. I'm certain it could go on for longer--I could milk it, I could make him work as an informant long after Virgil is behind bars--but it mustn't continue. Arguably it shouldn't have continued for as long as it has, but bringing down a notorious president of a powerful gang is tricky and complicated, and we're almost there ... We're so very close.

Repeating it doesn't calm me, it only emphasizes how much is riding on the shoulders of a troubled young man who won't answer my calls.

Perhaps Sidonie will know where he is ...

I shake my head. Who am I kidding? We've kept her contained and therefore ignorant to what's happening with the Wings. After the candid information that she shared earlier today I feel like I could ask her more questions, maybe even trust her, to a certain extent, but right now she's clueless to the events and decisions of the club and Virgil.

I pause, considering where the fallen pieces are situated. If it comes down to it, I could send Sidonie to the club to check if Lucas is there ... My heart hammers with anxiety. I couldn't put her life in danger like that. If Lucas is dead, the last thing he'd want is for Sidonie to be anywhere near Virgil.

Shit. I hope he's not dead.

I've arrived without realizing, too consumed with concern to take note of driving or parking or riding up the elevator. I softly knock on the apartment door as I glance around the hallway. It's peppered with one-eyed spies. I knock again, a little louder, and keep my head down. I press my ear to the door, but I hear nothing. Maybe they're sleeping?

Shit. My gut hollows with negative intuition.

I unlock the door and step inside, but the apartment is dark, pitch dark--not even a slice of moonlight cuts through the clouds or shines through the windows--and I close the door behind me. "Lucas?" I call as I reach for my gun. I hold it ready as I slowly walk forward, past the kitchen and bathroom. "Sidonie?"

I listen intently for a creaking of a mattress spring or a slumber filled sigh, but there's nothing but my heart beating in my ears. I scan the lounge, unable to spot a shadow on a couch or the floor, and peer into the dark bedroom. "Lucas?" I whisper one last time before I reach my hand along the wall and flick the light switch.

The bed is untouched.

I frown and check behind the door.

And in the closet.

Then I hit the light in the dining room.

And the kitchen.

And the bathroom.

I even check the small balcony.

The cold wind whips against my face as I stare out into the quiet night.

They're not here.

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# 50

SIDONIE

As soon as Luke locked the door I fell to the floor and cried. And, though my tears are now dry, on the floor I've remained, lying on my back with my chin tilted and my eyes to the sky, looking at the world upside down. There is no moon and there are no stars. The ink black night and the ink black clouds have concealed any form of light, even light as weak as a mere twinkle.

I've never known Luke's intentions, but I do now.

He wants me to leave.

He doesn't want to be with me.

The rising sand itches my back as it magically pushes through the concrete and floorboards. It's been steadily rising for days--or, like I said, maybe I've been sinking--and it's finally here to creep and crumble against my skin, into my eyes and ears and nose, suffocating and burying me.

He wants me to leave.

Maybe I'll let the sand win this time. What's the point of fighting it?

He doesn't want to be with me.

He says it's for my safety, but it feels like something else. If Prince Philip really wanted to keep Princess Aurora safe, he would've left her to sleep the days away in secrecy and seclusion. But he didn't because he wanted to have a life with her ... and Luke has made it clear that he does not want to have a life with me.

A new rush of tears burns my eyes.

Everyone leaves me or makes me leave.

I peer into the night, rolling my eyes back until I meet the roof and windows of another apartment building down the street. It's the only light other than streetlamps and headlights. There is no moon and there are no stars. Every flicker of light out there is fake. I stretch out my body, lay my arms by my sides and close my eyes. I look like Sleeping Beauty, but that too is fake, and Lucas is not coming to revive me with a kiss.

Tears squeeze from my closed lids and meet the rising sand. I can feel it pressing on my throat and filling my ears. It's quiet now, so quiet I can hear the thump of my heart. And soon it will consume me entirely and there will be nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Luke wants me to leave.

Luke doesn't want to have a life with me.

As the sand covers me completely, I lie deadly still ... until a thought, a beautiful revelation, enters my distraught mind. There is someone who wants to take the risk, someone who wants me to be by their side, in the face of trouble and mayhem, despite the consequences and complications of the present and the past. He's the man who wasn't afraid to sweep me off my feet and bring me into his world. He's the man who, in spite of my countless mistakes, is still searching for me so that I can reign by his side.

Virgil and Sidonie forever.

A small smile spreads my lips.

Virgil and Sidonie forever.

I think of the countless times I doodled it with hearts.

Virgil and Sidonie forever.

I was a fool to leave him.

I sit up, gasping for air, and then I stand up. The grains of sand fall from my skin as my heart flutters, knowing what I need to do, hoping and wishing that Virgil has forgiven my final mistake.

Virgil and Sidonie forever.

I promised Luke that I wouldn't leave.

But a promise can't get in the way of destiny.

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# 51

REIDEN

"What do you mean they're not at the apartment?" Bryan questions, his voice perking with concern.

"I mean, I'm here and the place is empty."

"Not even Sidonie is there?"

"He's gone. She's gone. I tried to call him, but there's still no answer," I explain.

"Do you think they ran away together?"

I pause, contemplating. Could they have just gotten up and left? Screw the club, screw the police, screw the world. "I don't know. It's possible, I guess."

"Is there a note or anything suspicious?" Bryan asks, searching for a plausible direction in which to head.

"Nothing. I searched the place--no note, no sign of a struggle. All his stuff is still here, but there wasn't much to begin with. He could've left without thinking twice about it."

"Shit," he groans.

I sigh as I grip my head. "I don't know what the hell is going on."

"Let's meet up and take a drive by the clubhouse. We might be lucky--spot his bike or a sign of something."

"Okay, I'm leaving now. Meet me at the parking lot on the main street," I say, trying to hold my shit together.

"See you soon."

I'm trying to find my focus, my determination to rectify the situation, but the likelihood of finding something from driving by those dark gates is slim. We don't have any other ideas or options though.

I'm losing control.

I'm failing.

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# 52

SIDONIE

I've returned to the castle.

I take a deep breath as I try to collect my thoughts and calm my hammering heart. The wet sound of the cab's tires fades down the street as I numbly stare at the clubhouse.

This is where I belong. Virgil is my strong, brave man.

On the way here I touched up my mascara and dabbed concealer on the fading bruise. My hair is a bit unruly, but hopefully Virgil can see past that.

I wrap my shaking hand around the door handle and push. Immediately I hear deep voices coming from the kitchen and lounge. I roll my shoulders and pat down my hair once more as I softly step through, uncertain how I'm going to be received.

I strain my ears to hear Virgil's voice, but I'm having trouble focusing. The scent of the clubhouse is apparent again, cigarettes and cloves and rain, musky and heavy and filling me with memories, some of which I had successfully forgotten--or successfully hidden--until now. But now, now they're all rushing forward, demanding to be seen and heard.

My head is swirling and my heart is thumping and I'm anxious and terrified and yet my feet continue to walk forward, disconnected, one foot in front of the other, to the kitchen and to the commotion, until I'm standing in the doorway with nothing to say and no thoughts in my head and the palpable sight of Zilla and Puck and Virgil sitting on the couch, beer bottles in hand, pulling my attention.

They fall silent and look at one another with surprise. Virgil stands up and scans me with his powerful stare. "Sid ..."

I gulp. "Virgil."

He swigs his beer. "... Come here."

My feet suddenly refuse to obey. I touch the doorframe as the room takes a short, sharp spin.

"Sid, come here," Virgil repeats, gesturing with his finger. "I want to make sure I'm not imagining things," he says with a chuckle. Zilla and Puck chuckle along with him, but it's filled with an awkward tension. It seems no one is certain of Virgil's intentions.

I glance down to steady myself, and then I softly walk to him, pulling my hair over my shoulder as he watches me. I stop and peer into the hard emerald eyes that are intimidating and perplexing. Is he pleased or pissed to see me?

"Are you alone?" he asks, the tang of alcohol rolling off his breath. He always smells like beer.

I nod.

Zilla and Puck stand and leave the room without a word.

Virgil takes another swig of beer, but his eyes don't leave me. "You're back ... again."

I nod. I've finally learned it's best to keep my mouth shut.

"For good this time?" he asks.

I nod. This is where I belong, I remind myself. Virgil is my strong, brave man who wants me in his life.

"Really?" He sounds skeptical.

"For good."

He reaches up, brushing his rough fingers against my hidden bruise. "I need my lady to be tough, and you're a tough one, Sid," he says with a sly grin before leaning closer. "Just remember ... I don't know where you've been or what you've been doing, but if you ever upset me again, you won't be leaving those woods." He stares deeply into my eyes for a moment.

I nod, understanding what I've known since the moment we met, understanding the harsh truth.

And then he kisses me.

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# 53

REIDEN

Bryan opens the car door and slumps in. He passes me a coffee and takes a long gulp of his. We've decided to stake out the clubhouse, not because we believe it's a good option, but because it's our only option.

"Thanks," I mumble and take a sip.

My frantic adrenaline has kept me going deep into the night, but my frantic mind has worn me out. I'm answerless about the situation, about the empty apartment, about Lucas and Sidonie leaving without a word ... about Lucas abandoning all of our planning and progress.

We're so close, doesn't he know that we're so close?

None of it computes, none of it makes sense. I keep running through it, as I did during the long drive, again and again, testing the probability and likelihood, and understanding, above all else, that love and fear make people do drastic things and Lucas and Sidonie have a relationship that is undeniably filled with a tangled mixture of both.

Suddenly I feel the urge to break down and cry, but I can't, I mustn't, I need to suck it up and keep going. I take a sip of coffee to distract my detrimental thoughts. Staking out the clubhouse isn't a waste of time, I tell myself. Sometimes the unexpected happens, sometimes the hidden reveals itself, sometimes a rare chance creates a new reality, and unless you're going to lie down and give up you have to go with it.

My half-hearted pep talk only half-helps my mood.

"Rei, I bet they left," Bryan comments with a defeated shrug. "You said Lucas called you earlier, yeah? He was heading to the apartment to tell Sidonie the truth, the amount of danger she's in, right?"

"Yeah. I know, it's the perfect lead up to a runaway. But Lucas," I frown and look at Bryan, "you really think after all of this he would just get up and go?"

Bryan juts out his chin. "For her, yes. If she asked him to leave the chaos, just the two of them, definitely."

I'm not impervious to her charm, but this still seems extreme. I put my coffee in the holder, start the engine and pull out of the empty parking lot. As soon as we turn onto the evergreen encased road, I turn off our lights and reduce my speed. We're still a way from the clubhouse, but we're on a road that barely gets used, meaning we need to hide our unwelcomed presence even more.

As we slowly creep along, I realize there is no moonlight. The sky is blanketed with clouds, blocking even the faintest of starlight too. Hopefully it doesn't start raining. Spying with no streetlights, no moonlight and rain would make our stakeout impossible, although visibility through those gates is arguably already impossible.

The urge to cry again knots in my throat. Is this pointless? It's almost 2 a.m. and we're staking out a Wings' clubhouse for a sign of ... what? Lucas's bike? I don't even know.

Suddenly my phone vibrates with a call. It's Lucas. "Holy shit," I mutter and show Bryan the screen.

"It could be a trap," he says. "It may not be him."

I nod and accept the call without a greeting.

"Hello? Reiden?" Lucas's voice asks.

A surge of adrenaline floods my head and I stop the vehicle on the side of the road. "Lucas, where are you?"

"Did you take her? Is she with you?" he frantically questions.

"Who?"

"Sidonie! Is she with you? Did you take her? Please tell me you took her."

Bry and I stare at each other, wide-eyed. "No, no she's not with us. We thought she was with you--"

"I'm at the apartment and she's gone!"

"Where have you been?"

"Fuck!" he cries. "Fuck! She's gone, Rei, she's gone!"

"Lucas, we'll figure this out," I say, hoping it's not a lie. "Tell me where you've been--why haven't you answered my calls?"

"I was taking care of something, finding something for Sid--it took longer than I expected--"

"What were you finding for Sid?"

"I. D.--a different name, something she could use--"

"For what? Why?"

"So she can get the fuck out of this place! So she can go somewhere where no one knows her--somewhere where she's not being hunted, and she can start over and leave all this bullshit behind!"

I gasp with realization. "What did you say to her?"

"I told her the truth."

"Did you tell her to leave?"

"I told her the truth, I told her she can't be here--it's not safe, she's not safe," he stammers.

Bryan and I stare at each other, understanding what's happened. Sidonie and Lucas haven't escaped together, Lucas's good intentions have pushed her back into the arms of the man who keeps hurting them both. I don't know what to tell Lucas without destroying him. "Lucas ... that wasn't the plan. I'm afraid it's made things worse."

"She promised me, Reiden. She promised me she would do this, she would leave, she would live a new life. She promised me," he rambles. The pain is evident in his voice, like he's finally realizing what's happened and where she is.

"It's not too late, okay? This isn't the first time Sidonie has made an impetuous decision. She's fragile, she's--she's not thinking straight," I say, fumbling with an explanation. "She's probably at the clubhouse, and she's probably already regretting it. We're almost at the clubhouse now--"

"You are? Why, what's going on?"

"We were searching for you. You didn't leave us with many options. We'll keep an eye out for Virgil and Sidonie, but you need to get here to check what's going on inside."

"If she's inside ..." he releases a heavy exhale, "if he hasn't killed her, he's never going to let her out of his sight."

"We'll figure something out. There's always a solution, okay? Just get here safely."

He loudly sighs. "I fucked up."

"You were doing what you thought was best."

"I always do this--I always hurt the people I'm trying to help."

"Lucas, you're not alone in this. We've got your back, okay?"

"... Okay."

"We're on the west side of the club. We'll keep a look out for activity."

"I'll signal to you when I ride past."

"Okay," I say, ending the call.

Bryan rubs his face, appearing just as stunned as I am. "Even without traffic he's only going to get here in about forty minutes. A lot can happen in forty minutes."

"Our hands are tied. We just have to keep our eyes peeled," I say, continuing our slow creep down the dark road.

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# 54

SIDONIE

I wrap my arms around Virgil as he revs the thunderous engine. He thinks giving me a ride on the motorcycle is a reward because I've always expressed my love for it--for this warped belief that I'm experiencing a feeling of freedom--but that was before he rode me into the woods and beat me. Needless to say, it's tainted the experience I once cherished.

But this time Virgil isn't taking me to some far off location to teach me a lesson--he believes I've learned it by crawling back to his steel-toed boots--he's just taking me for a late-night ride in the dark without traffic or attention to the rules of the road.

It was just before 2 a.m. when we left and, though I'm tired from the day of emotions and arguments and crying, the crisp night air is perking my senses and, unfortunately, my troubled thoughts. The surreal clouds enshrouding the situation--that I've returned to the throne and to the man I believed was my king--have been blown away by the sharp wind as we roar down the road.

What I've done, what I've chosen and what I've broken are finally hitting me.

And I begin to cry.

Crying while riding is a normal reaction for me, only this time my tears are filled with pain instead of pleasure. They're filled with pain because a million fucked up questions are filling my head: Why am I like this? Why did I break my promise to Luke? Why do I keep making choices that are bad for me?

I've based my life on a fairy tale like a foolish little girl, believing that I'm special and royal and that there's power in that and therefore there's power in me. It's because I feel weak and helpless. I feel like I can't take care of, or even protect, myself from those who want to harm me, and yet I keep finding myself around people and in situations that are harmful. I might not have had the power to choose my circumstances before, but I have the power now, and yet I fall into the same vicious, victimizing orbit. I stick with the abuse because I stick with the familiar. I choose the pain because I choose what I know.

I've based my choices on a fairy tale like a child who can't tell the difference between what's real and what's imaginary. Only when I'm honest with myself, when I don't build or blame my decisions on the fairy tale, can I see the truth. And the truth is that Lucas loves me and he's always loved me, and I love him and I've always loved him--since the moment I saw him, since the moment he saved me--and his wish for me to leave was an act of love. Only, it didn't fit into the fairy tale so I rejected it. I rejected the reality and took the path of the imaginary, convincing myself that it was better.

I've based my past on a fairy tale like a lost orphan who's dealt with hard times only to be granted a magical wish and live happily ever after. I've pretended that my mother loved Sleeping Beauty and that she named me Aurora, after the Princess, because she wanted to share that love with me, but the truth is--I shudder with tears and shame--I don't know what my mother loved. My first name isn't Aurora. I made it up. I repeated it so many times, convincing myself that the magic existed, that the lie became real to me. It kept me going through my troubled childhood and the horrors that happened in my teenage years because I believed there would be a happy ending one day--I believed I would find my Prince and my castle, and everything would be alright. But the fairy tale belief warped my view so much, too much, that I overlooked what's right and what's wrong, and what really made me happy, and what really made me feel loved.

The truth about my past is that I didn't know my father, I barely knew my mother, and now I don't know myself. I know only of a Princess, a Princess who doesn't exist.

I wish ...

If I could have a wish ...

I would wish I were stronger. And for the first time I mean that sincerely and not in the shallow sense of having power over another person, but for myself.

Stronger so I could rise from the ashes of my past instead of letting them weigh me down and dictate my future;

Stronger so I wouldn't need someone rushing to save me or hide me or help me;

Stronger so when someone did offer to help me, I would let them;

Stronger so I could learn to truly use my heart.

Lucas might have given his heart to me, but I never gave mine to him--and it's because I don't know how to use it, let alone give it to someone who would keep it safe.

Maybe there's still a chance.

I've escaped Virgil's clutches before and, in spite of his menacing threats and violent hold, I have the power to change my life.

Maybe there's still a chance.

The bike begins to slow and I part my tear-soaked lashes to see the reason. We're nearing the gas station where Virgil shot that member of S-10. I remember how little I cared, how powerful I believed Virgil was because of his ruthless actions, only to now be hit with disgust for his brutality and my ignorant response.

Virgil probably wants me to buy him a pack of smokes, I realize, and an idea sparks inside. If he asks me to go in, I could call the cops, I could even call Rei. I'll tell the clerk at the till I'm in danger and it's an emergency. I could let her know where we are and what's happening, or at least relay a message that would get to her and Luke.

Just as Virgil turns into the gas station, a speed bike zooms from behind, passing us and continuing down the dark road. I follow it with a curious frown before a black car, coming from the opposite direction, pulls into the station with rolled down windows. Virgil tries to turn the bike and ride away, but it's too late.

They open fire.

Suddenly nothing seems real, not the shocking bang of the triggers nor the bright flash of the exploding bullets, not even the pain when they pierce my ribcage. If anything, it feels like the most fantastical moment of all my fairy tale illusions. It feels like the moment when the fire-breathing dragon appears and all hope is lost.

The bullets entering Virgil's body cause him to lose control of the bike and I'm thrown forward, spinning in the air and rolling on the ground until I stop on my back, looking up at the moonless and starless sky.

Now all this fairy tale needs is a hero to fight the dragon and come to my rescue. He'll kiss me and love me and make it all better. I strain my eyes to find Virgil--maybe he's fighting back, maybe there's still a chance. But he's not. He's lying dead on the ground, face down, red blood staining the leather of his vest.

I take a deep, deep breath.

I wish ...

I wish I were stronger so I could have the courage to die without reverting back to the fucked up fairy tale.

The pain is suddenly real.

A shadow blankets me as my flaws flow from me. I wish I were left with an image of love, but I don't see anything or anyone--not my mother, not Lucas, and most certainly not myself.

The bandana-covered face of a stranger dreamily hovers above. He steps over me, but I can't hear the slick slap of his shoes or the sharp shots or the screeching tires.

It's all quiet now. It's time to sleep.

He points the gun to my head.

It's time to sle--

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# 55

REIDEN

We're still waiting in the shadows for Lucas when we get the call: another shooting, gang-related, two victims found dead at a gas station on 300th and Braxton; one male, thirty-eight years of age, believed to be Virgil Hanks, President of the Black Wings Vancouver Chapter; one female, approximately eighteen years of age, no identification found on person.

Shaking, I plug the address into the GPS--it's about fifteen minutes from us. I look at Bryan in shock. "How could this have happened?"

"I--I don't know, we must've pulled up just after they left."

"But--"

He points at the screen. "Look, they headed east. They took the opposite road--they didn't even pass us." He dives his fingers into his hair. "Fuck."

I press on the gas as we fully comprehend the series of ill-timed events that have taken place. "Maybe it's not her," I comment, "maybe it's someone else."

Bryan doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. There's no point in feeding my hopeful lie.

As soon as we turn onto the main street, the chaotic aftermath of the crime meets our distraught stares. The blue and red flashing lights seem so bright against the ink black night--instead of illuminating the scene, it's emphasizing the darkness surrounding it. I park and we exit without a word, desperate and terrified for verification as we duck under the caution tape and meet the remains of a notorious gang leader and a fragile young woman.

I knew it was going to be Sidonie--I hoped and prayed it wouldn't be--but actually seeing it is unexpected. Actually seeing it is so much worse.

"No," I choke out, rushing forward and falling to my knees by her bullet-filled body. "No, no," I repeat, searching her face for a faint sign of life, for a chance to save her, for a chance to tell her I'm sorry. But the chance isn't there. Her short, troubled life has ended--her short, troubled life has been taken from her.

For the first time as a cop, I don't condemn the display of my tears.

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# 56

As I sit at my desk, behind a pile of paperwork, I reflect on the details that refuse to leave my mind even after I've released them in the reports. I've written most of the information and experiences ... but not all of it. Not yet. Not the truly personal stuff. Not the intimacy and history of Sidonie and Lucas nor what happened when I told Lucas what concluded.

The sting of tears returns to my red, tired eyes.

I stood from Sidonie's bloody body, walked to a private section amongst the cold, flashing chaos and pulled out my phone. Lucas refused to believe me at first. And then he cried--we cried--and he fell silent for a long time, but he remained on the phone. I told him that the coroner had arrived and they'd likely move her soon, and that he shouldn't come there, he shouldn't see her in that way.

He didn't disagree.

He just asked me if I was positive that Virgil was dead, and I assured him without a shadow of doubt.

It's been three days since that phone call. It's been three days since I spoke with Lucas.

A few hours after the incident we got a call about another--that's how gang incidents work: a chain reaction of retaliation. Neighbours called it in. Four suspected members of S-10 were shot dead ... No witness of the gunman.

I have a lead heavy suspicion it was Lucas. I mean, I don't know how he did it, but who else could it have been?

It was a suicide mission, I do know that. Lucas shouldn't be alive right now, and maybe he isn't, but his body has yet to show up and there wasn't a sign of blood trailing the scene. Maybe he wanted to die--that's why he did it, that's what he was hoping for--but deep down I don't believe he is. The stupidity and audacity of his bold rampage was probably what saved his life; he caught them by surprise and opened fire. The neighbours heard the gunshots, but all the true witnesses are dead.

I don't know what to do. For the first time in my career I'm facing a severe moral crisis. And for the first time since I met Lucas, I don't know where his loyalty lies.

His reason for working with us was to stop Virgil and, ultimately, even though he kept it secret for a long time, to save Sidonie, but now those reasons have been destroyed. The club is leaderless and Lucas allegedly performed an act that could be perceived as courageous revenge for shooting Virgil, when really it was vicious heartbreak for losing Sidonie. If the members are looking to appoint a new President, I fully believe that Lucas would be voted in unanimously.

I tap my pen against the printed report, rereading what I've written and what I've left out.

If he is alive and if he has been appointed President, I don't know if the position of poisonous power has warped his mind. I don't know if he will seek even greater revenge. I don't know if I'll ever see him again.

If. If. If.

To top it all off, the dock shipment is coming in on Saturday. It was the final piece, the final stab to Virgil's heart, the final event to lock him away for a lifetime.

Only none of that matters now.

I mean, it still matters, we're still going to bust the shipment like we planned--as long as Lucas hasn't turned on us--but more than anything it's a reminder of how differently things were supposed to work out.

Speculating a chess game, considering all the moves--mine, theirs--identifying the what ifs, observing alternate realities and possibilities, concluding on fact and pushing aside fiction but not forgetting it because it could hold some obscure value ... That's what I'm doing. That's what I've always done. Except, more than ever, I'm having trouble disguising the horrors as a game, even a game as difficult and complicated as chess. It is painfully obvious that this isn't a game, it's life, and life is vicious and volatile.

Despite what happens with Lucas, I'll never stop fighting for those who can't or don't know how to. I'll never stop fighting for peoples' rights and requirements for help, so that they don't end up with limited options that include drug abuse and gang life. I'll never stop fighting for those who believe, in some way or another, that they deserve the abuse. All it takes is one drive down East Hastings to remember to fight.

I look down and find myself doodling Sidonie's name in cursive on a blank piece of paper. I knew her for less than a week, yet the sting of tears is fresh and the guilty hammer on my chest is heavy. A week is like a lifetime with some people.

I wish I had more time with her.

I wish I had done more for her.

I wish I had saved her.

If only fairy tale wishes were true.

My phone vibrates and jolts me from my daydream. I peer at the unknown number, clear the lump from my throat and accept the call. "This is Detective Dash."

There's a pause, and then I hear his familiar voice. "Reiden, it's me."

***

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# An alternate universe.

I've never been in a bar before, but as I follow Jen inside I give the bouncer a smile. I believe I'm playing the part well--the part of a girl who goes out with friends, the part of a girl who knows what she's doing, the part of a girl who's fun and free and beautiful.

As we slink through the dark crowd, the overwhelming aroma of stale alcohol floods my senses and makes me slightly queasy. This place doesn't look like the clubs I've seen in movies ... It looks rough and dingy, but the energy within it is palpable. There are a lot of men--a lot of loud, muscular, dangerous men. I immediately recognize the patches. They make me think of Lucas ...

Jen hollers and laughs. "They're over here," she says and skips to a table filled with people I don't recognize.

I follow and greet them, shyly introducing myself as we sit down. They're Jen's friends, but maybe they could be my friends too. I was surprised when she invited me out, but I was grateful and I didn't question it.

"Who the hell picked this place?" she asks with a grin.

"Hey, dive bars are the best bars, everyone knows that--"

"Everyone of legal age knows that," another guy chimes in.

"Hey," Jen exclaims, "we're only a few months short of nineteen."

"More like a year, and a half," her friend counters and rolls his eyes. He looks at me. "At least Sidonie looks nineteen. I don't know how they bought your sad excuse for an I. D.--the woman in it is like thirty-five."

Everyone laughs ... and so do I. This feels strangely normal--something you would see on TV: a rebellious teenage outing, a first-time in a seedy bar, a Saturday night out with friends.

"Hey, I'm Porter," the guy says, smiling at me.

"Hi."

"You want a beer?"

"Uh, sure." Jen and I took a few shots of gin before leaving her house and I'm still feeling the effects, but Porter is cute--he has such a baby face--and I don't want to miss out on the chance to be a part of the group. He pours from the pitcher and hands me the glass.

"Cheers," he says with another smile.

I can tell he's interested in me--from the look in his eye and the nervous twitch in his smirk--and the silly surge of power and excitement perks my spine, making me sit straighter on the bar stool.

As the night continues, Porter starts to compete with other guys for my attention. It's cute--he's cute--really cute, and I can tell he's trying to make me laugh. At the same time, I can tell he's trying not to be too pushy--which is something I don't witness often. I think I might actually like him--which is something I witness even less often. Maybe it's the beer or the gin, or because I'm with people who could be considered my friends, but I feel like something is changing, like something big is about to happen. I laugh and take another sip.

"What's so funny?" Jen chimes in.

"Me, of course," Porter jokes.

"Now that can't be true," she replies. "This guy can't even tell a knock-knock joke."

I chuckle again. "No, it's true," I answer, sipping my beer.

"See," he says, smug.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were sweet on my girl Sid," she says, nudging him.

He nudges her back and dimples mark his cheeks as his grin grows bigger. "You really know how to embarrass a guy, don't you, Jen?"

Laughing, I look away from his cute, red face ... and find the patches again. I had almost forgotten they were here. I'm just about to sip the last of my beer and pour another when I see him. His hair is longer and his muscles are bigger, but it's him, it's Lucas, with his iconic, moth-covered throat, wearing the iconic patches of the Black Wings. The rumours were true. Lucas's threats were true. Without thinking, I slide off the stool and walk over to him.

"Sid--Sidonie! Where are you going?" Jen calls, but I don't answer. Nothing can distract me now and nothing can stop me from going to him. I step into the heart of the boisterous crowd of patched men and dolled-up women, but before I can make it to Luke, to tap his shoulder and bravely say hi, he turns and meets my eyes. I had almost forgotten the intensity of his pale hazel stare.

"Sid," he says, surprised.

He remembered my name. "Lucas," I say with a smile.

"What are you doing here?"

I don't answer him. Maybe it's the beer or gin, or because for once I'm not alone and I'm having a fun night out, I don't really know, but I wrap my arms around him. He embraces me, holding me tightly, but a deep voice interrupts us.

"And who might this beautiful creature be?"

Our hug loosens and I turn to see who's asking. The hard emerald stare of an older man scans me up and down. There is nothing cute about this look and there are no dimples dotting his hungry grin, but there is something that makes my heart hammer and my spine shiver so hard it almost frightens me.

"Uh, Virgil, this is Sidonie," Luke says, uncomfortable.

"Very nice," he says, looking me up and down again.

I've never met a man who could make me feel so stripped. I don't know if I like it, but I can't deny the power he possesses. It's incredible. It's intoxicating. It's ... the gin, the beer, they're making my head swirl--or maybe it's Luke, or maybe it's Virgil. I look down and touch my forehead.

"Sid, are you alright?" Luke asks.

"She's fine. Come here," Virgil says, grabbing my arm and pulling me against him.

"I think she's gonna puke," Luke says. "I'll take her outside."

"Nah, she's fine. Aren't you, beautiful?"

Something inside says yes, something inside says no. I could stay here, in the powerful arms of this dangerous man, swallowing down whatever alcohol is trying to escape. Or I could leave with Lucas, and maybe puke, or maybe not, but he's the real reason why I left my new friends and walked over here. I could say yes. I could say no. The choice is mine. The choice is now. "I should go with Luke," I mumble and turn away from Virgil.

Lucas holds out his arm and guides me from the crowd. We leave the stale warmth of the bar and he walks around the corner. "Here, you can puke, no one will bother you."

The starry night clears my swirling head. "I don't need to puke, I'm fine."

"You are?"

I nod. "I wanted to talk to you. I haven't seen you in a long time."

"Yeah, I ..." he pushes back his long hair, "I'm not living at the house anymore."

"I know."

"Have things been okay?"

I subtly cringe. "I'm not at the house anymore either."

"Are you living on your own?"

I shrug. "I'm kind of all over the place. I think I've found something good though."

"That's good."

"What about you? Are you," I point at his leather vest, "a member?"

"Uh, yeah, I am."

"It's what you've always wanted."

He frowns. "Things change."

"What do you mean?"

"It's complicated." He sighs. "I mean, I'm trying to make some changes in my life."

"Oh," I frown, trying to understand his cryptic response. "Well, maybe we can, you know, hang out and you can tell me about it."

He stares at me, unreadable, beautiful, just like I remembered him, just how I daydreamed about him, and then he pulls me into another tight hug.

"Is that a yes?" I ask with a grin as he releases me.

"I wish I could."

I frown, confused. "Why can't you?"

"Could you do something for me?" he asks, not answering my question.

"... Okay."

He grabs my hands and holds them in his. "Could you leave?"

"What?"

"Could you leave? I'll pay for your cab, but I need you to leave."

"Why?" I ask, trying to hide my hurt.

"Because I know Virgil, he's dangerous, and as soon as you go back inside he's going to make you his."

"... What?"

"He won't stop. He always gets his way. And I don't want you getting involved in this," he says, pulling at his leather vest.

"Lucas, if this has something to do with you not wanting to see me--"

"Sid, I'm begging you. Please do this for me. Please leave."

I meet his severe stare. The concern in his expression is desperate and intense and I can't dismiss it and I can't say no. "Okay."

He hugs me again, holding me for a few moments, and I close my eyes.

"Thank you," he softly says and releases me. He flags down a waiting cab and opens the backdoor. He hands over a wad of cash and flashes me a short but relieved smile.

I take a seat and roll down my window. "When will I see you again?" I ask, swallowing down a lump in my throat.

"One day. I'll find you again, Sid."

This is happening too quickly, this is ending too soon. "Promise me."

The dark moth flutters in the moonlight as he bends down and nods. "I promise."

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# Author's Note

Though this story illustrates many faults, sometimes it's best to highlight the negative to avoid being blind to it. I believe that, at some point in our lives, we were all a version of Sid--afraid, self-deprecatory and lost. Despite these destructive qualities Sid was never actually weak, none of us were, none of us are.

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AS ALWAYS, MUSIC PLAYED a significant role in my work. The artists I listened to the most while writing ULTRA BLUE were Lana Del Rey, BANKS, Devon Baldwin, Garbage, Hole, Meg Myers, Alanis Morissette and Bjork.

Shane, you continuously strive to be a better person,

and that's what matters,

and that's why I love you.

Find my books and projects at:

www.LMduPreez.com
