Rebirth (Tattooed Angels Trilogy 1)

Chapter Two

The church reminded him of the St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, but half the size and fewer embellishments. All he knew for sure about the place is that it was built near the end of the American colonial period and that it had been abandoned for longer than anyone could remember. Not even his mother could recall how long it had been sitting in its weedy throne.

Despite the church’s small stature, it still towered over the quaint neighborhood just as it had since its completion. The modern homes neighboring it left the old monument stuck in a past no one wanted to remember. Regardless of its battered appearance, it was a solid piece of architecture and it was the perfect place to be alone.

He couldn’t remember what it was that brought him here so long ago, but the peace he felt when he walked inside its rotting wood doors had been refreshing. Slipping past the one working door, he stepped inside the dust-covered wreck. The church had once housed several angelic statues, but time and neglect had crumbled most of them. Two stone guardians near the front had broken limbs, wings, and faces. Remnants of wooden pews scattered the floor. Behind the podium, in front of a shattered stained glass window, lay a crippled wooden cross in a bed of rubble, having failed to uphold the savior it had once supported so proudly.

This place would have been a sight to see in its prime. Only the finest materials had been utilized: fragments of marble, splinters of dark cedar. Hints of silver were also evident in the little bit of décor that remained intact. What had once been a virtuous white now lay in filth, grayed by dust. That decay added to the musky scent the air held.

 Amid the wreckage, there remained a few places one could sit, and Hotan would spend hours there, lost in thought.

This is my place.

The neighbors questioned his coming and going from the church. No “For Sale” signs had ever graced the lot in the time since he’d first noticed it and, oddly, no one he’d ever asked knew who owned the property.

As he sat on the pew, staring at the broken gray world around him, he felt his muscles loosen. Leaving behind the conflicts of the day, he steadied his mind and his emotions, inhaling the pungent smell of the decaying church and finding harmony within it. After several minutes, he sighed and walked back out the front doors. He pulled a cloth tarp off something large, exposing the motorcycle he had parked off to the side. A blue-flamed Suzuki Hayabusa glimmered in the afternoon sunlight.

The school had thrown a tantrum when he attempted to register it as his senior year transportation. They revoked his parking permit at the very idea of such a thing, so he resorted to parking it here. Pulling on his helmet, he started the bike, gassing it soft so as not to disturb such a peaceful place. The moment the back tire hit the asphalt, he opened up the throttle and roared towards the waiting city.

 

Shellie gripped his waist in a firm hug as they pulled off the busy downtown street. The front tire splashed through the puddles littering the back alleyway. He had picked her up on his way to the club, fearing that Hisota’s confrontation at school was his way of telling Hotan that he was going to be a no show again. The bike leaned heavily against the kickstand as he waited for Shellie to climb off. He pulled off the full-face helmet, huffing as he shook out his hair. Looking over the parking lot, he saw no signs of Hisota’s bike.

Hotan bit his tongue as he dismounted his own bike, stomping past Shellie and through the back door of the club. Anger crawled across his shoulders as he tensed and threw his helmet at the lockers. The noise was thunderous; he had everyone’s attention.