branded (phantoms mc #2)

eleven: in which she cleans up eve's adam

"You know that I'm tired, you know that I'm ill" – Zola Jesus, Run Me Out

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"Yup. That's a dead body, all right."

"Funny," said Stevie, tilting her head to one side. "I kinda thought I'd be freaking out seeing this, but I'm not."

"Well, that's good to hear," I told her. "Put your gloves on."

I didn't want to think about how, at any moment, one of Tyson's friends could walk through the door at any moment and find me and two of my girlfriends hauling his body out of his apartment. Tyson's friends were probably all Cursed members, and that would not be fucking pretty. The Bloody Marys weren't a one-percenter club like the Cursed. No, we were better than that. As the only all-female motorcycle club in Sallow County, the Bloody Marys were made up of lost women, of broken women, of women looking to belong, and of women who just loved a good ride on a sexy fucking beast of a Harley. This club was a safe haven for people like Stevie, who'd left an abusive boyfriend. This club was a family for Monroe, who'd grown up without one. This club was home for Fish, who'd grown up on the streets.

This club was all the above for me.

"How are we gonna do this?" Fish wanted to know, tucking a strand of her strawberry-blonde hair behind one ear. She was leaning against the wall, looking bored.

"Exactly how we talked about."

"Yeah, I don't think that's gonna work, Pussy."

"We'll put a beanie over his head."

"P," said Stevie, "half his damn skull is missing."

Eve had failed to mention that she'd bashed Tyson's head in with a heavy-ass monkey wrench. Most of his brain matter was currently spattered against his refrigerator.

"Ugh," Fish grunted, straightening. "Where's this asshole's bedroom?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?" I asked her, rolling my eyes when she stuck her middle finger up at me. "Cunt."

She left the kitchen. Stevie grabbed an opened bottle of wine from the countertop, taking a long swig.

"What?" she said when I stared at her. "I'm getting a little...anxious."

"So you're putting your lips all over a crime scene?"

"It's hardly all over," she muttered, but she grabbed a rag off the counter and wiped around the mouth of the bottle. "Happy?"

"Thrilled."

Dirty pots and plates filled the sink, and I could still smell traces of Eve's famous slow-cooker beef stew. The secret was mixed spices. Looking around at the tornado of a disaster that was Tyson's kitchen, it was clear that Eve had prepared a romantic dinner for the two of them.

And somehow, he'd ended up dead on his kitchen floor.

Fish returned to the kitchen, dragging a large, fabric trolley bag behind her. She could've been going on a trip.

"There's no way he's going to fit in there," Stevie declared.

"Actually..." I looked at Tyson's body then back at the suitcase. "He just might."

"You're kidding, right?" Stevie was looking at me like I was insane. "We're going to force this linebacker into a bag?"

"Suitcase, Stevie," I corrected her, resisting the urge to smile. "You take his legs, I'll take what's left of his head."