MERCY (RUTHLESS HELLHOUNDS MC (A RUTHLESS UNDERWORLD NOVEL) Book 1) Page 2

  I tap the gas tank with my finger. “I don’t want him to know. This needs to be between me and you.” While I wait for his answer, I insert the key to start the bike but don’t turn it.

  He sighs, and I hear the click of a keyboard in the distance. “You better say you found this shit on Google. I’m keeping my tongue, fucker.”

  I chuckle, but don’t make a noise. My shoulders bounce instead. I know it isn’t funny, but it’s funny in the sense that there is truth to his statement. “I promise. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Done,” he says at the same time my phone dings with a text of the address. “Don’t fucking kill anyone. We don’t need that kind of heat right now.”

  “I swear, I won’t. I just… I don’t know, Snake. I want to get to know her since I’m not able to.” The sorrow and hurt dripping from my voice are impossible not to hear.

  “I understand. Just be careful,” he says, his tone kind and smooth. “Keep me updated.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Snake.”

  “Anytime, old man,” he teases and hangs up the phone before I can say anything else.

  “Old,” I complain and scoff at the offensive term. “I’ll fucking show you old.” The Harley grumbles to life, and I place my phone in the holder that’s attached to the handlebars, type in the address, and pull out of the parking lot. I hate to leave my daughter behind, especially when I know I could help in some way, but I have to respect her wishes.

  All I can do is hope she’ll come to me when she’s ready.

  I look left and right, waiting for a space to open up on the road before I pull out. I tend to wait for too much room between cars because I’m paranoid no one is going to see me and then run me over.

  Finally a gap opens. I crank the throttle and fly down the road, the wind ruffling my shaggy hair and the sun beaming down hot on my forearms.

  I fucking love it.

  It’s freeing. Real freedom, not the ‘I can do anything I want and say what I want kind of freedom’ kind. Being on a bike is actually freeing. There’s nothing like the power, the vibrations, the danger of this pressed steel between your legs. Anything can happen, but it’s all up to the rider to be prepared for what happens.

  And anything could happen.

  It’s what makes the ride such a fucking thrill.

  I follow the green line on the screen, passing a few historical cemeteries along the way. They give tours through them and even though I grew up in New Orleans I’ve never been on a tour. I’ve moved around a lot in my life.

  I pass an old Cathedral church next, with tall gothic towers and a cross above the doorway. The lawn is perfect, well-maintained, with a stone sidewalk leading to the entrance.

  If there is one thing I haven’t done in a while, it’s walk through the doors of a church. If anything, I’m afraid to.

  The GPS brings me out of my stupor, reminiscing on the days I used to talk with God every Sunday, and take a left down Bayou St. John, one of the oldest roads in the city, watching the light sparkle off Lake Ponchartrain. Some houses are gorgeous, historical, Antebellum homes near the Old Portage. Legend has it this road has been the site of many ancient voodoo rituals. The road is ridden with pasts that go far deeper than the dirt that’s been traveled.

  I take the road to the end and take another left for about a mile, then a right. The houses are starting to look a little more worn the closer I get to where Daphne’s house is. Finally I pull into her neighborhood. I park down the road to remain inconspicuous, tap the kickstand to the ground, and swing my leg off the bike. My boot scuffs on the top of the pavement and I take my sunglasses off to get a better look at the surroundings. I fold them gently and tuck them in my pocket, cross my arms, and lean against the bike as I survey.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, but if my memory serves me correctly, this street has really let itself go. Weeds have grown uncontrollably, most of the houses have chipped paint with broken fences, which defeats the purpose of a damn fence.

  A few mailboxes lean and the lids are open, probably due to the fact they can’t be shut. The willow branches hang low, scraping against the dirt driveways like bony fingers with long arms. The leaves rustle as the wind carries the smell of the bayou.

  It fucking stinks.

  I kick off my bike and keep my head down, hoping to block out some of the foul smell. I pass a few interesting things on the side of the road.

  A used condom.

  An empty Bud Light can.

  And a red high heel that has seen better days.

  Someone either had a great time or…

  I’d rather not think about it.

  I stare at my phone to take my mind off the horrible alternative, turn down the voice on my GPS, and follow the route quietly. The sidewalks are uneven, broken, and a few slabs have graffiti on them. The artwork is faded, washed away by rain and time.

  I stop after I pass a cartoonish crawfish and stare at my phone in disbelief.

  I’m here.

  I’ve arrived at my destination.

  There’s a simple mailbox to the right; black, plastic, and cheap. There are cobwebs along the body of it and the numbers of the address have peeled off. I turn left and begin my walk down the driveway, not really giving a fuck if I get caught or not.

  If her fake father comes up to me, I’ll kill him.

  The driveway isn’t as long as some others, and when I get to the house, a memory tingles in the front of my head. I remember staring at Michelle through those front windows serving dinner to her husband and daughter.

  The daughter I didn’t know about.

  I inhale a sharp breath and dart my eyes around the place so I don’t get too caught up in thinking about the past. The house seems empty. There’s no car, or bike, or anything else telling me no one is home.

  “I could have done better for her,” I whisper to Michelle, hoping she can hear me wherever she is. “I could have given her a better home than this.”

  The house is a piece of fucking shit. I can’t believe Daphne lived here and survived this hell hole. It’s not just rundown. There’s no love here. I can feel the emptiness seeping into the bones of the house itself.

  There’s a piece of plywood boarding up the window to left. The kitchen curtain has holes and hangs in shreds. The gutters are clogged with leaves and whatever else, and the door isn’t even shut. It’s wide open, and the only thing standing between me and the inside of that house is a screen door that doesn’t even have a screen on it.

  What a fucking dump.

  I’m so angry my little girl lived here. I’m so angry this piece of shit man didn’t take care of what was always meant to be mine.

  With long, determined strides, I grab the handle of the screen door and see if it is unlocked. I press my down on the button and pull the door, scoffing at the audacity this man has to leave his home so vulnerable.

  Well, the only thing valuable in this home is Daphne, and she isn’t here right now, so I doubt anything else here could ever be worth half as much as my daughter is.

  Right as I step through the door, a wave of stale beer and cigarette smoke batters me at once. “Fucking gross,” I croak, waving my hand in front of my face.

  I’m horrified at what I see. A sick, revolting feeling takes over when I see the place Daphne calls home. I almost regret coming in here now.

  Almost.

  There are stains on the walls, brown and some yellow, probably from burning out cigarettes against it. The floor creaks under each step I take down the hallway. The aisle runner is matted with dirt, and when I get to the first room to my left, it’s the living room.

  It’s weird to sneak in the place Daphne grew up in. I feel like I’m asking for pain standing in this house where she had her first steps, said her first words, and called this fucking man Dad instead of me. I hold my hand to my heart and hold my breath when the emotion hits me again.

  I’m a glutton for punishment, but I want to know Daphne. And until she talks
to me, this is the only way.

  There’s a green recliner in front of an old TV with fucking rabbit ears on it. Do those even work anymore? There are scattered beer bottles lying next to it and a plate covered in breadcrumbs on the end table next to it. If it can be considered an end table… I think it’s a TV tray.

  The couch is mustard yellow with dark wood trim. The left cushion is torn, almost as if it was slashed. There are no pictures anywhere which I find odd, considering this is supposed to be a home. I turn my feet and head right, stepping into the dining room where I saw my life end and had to begin all over again.

  I can’t be in this room. It chokes me with everything I wanted and everything I never got to have.

  I step out and head down the hall again, still no pictures on the walls, and when I get to a shut door on the left, I know it’s Daphne’s. I don’t know how I know. I just do. I feel it. Maybe it’s the girly purple and green beads hanging on the doorknob that lets me know this is where I want to be.

  My hand rests on the knob, the cheap metal cold against my palm, and when I swing the door open my hand covers my mouth as shock wells inside me.

  I can hardly breathe. I’m getting tiny glimpses of her. Her room is decorated, and much cleaner than the rest of the house. The walls are made from fake wood panels, but she does a great job at making it feel like her space. I close the door behind me and with shaky legs I sit on her bed, rubbing my palm over the cheap comforter.

  This is where she was tucked in.

  This is where she had bad dreams.

  This is where her life began.

  I press my palms against my eyes to stop the burn. My heart is getting ripped out of my chest and it’s my fault for torturing myself for coming into her personal space. What choice do I have? I just… I just want to know her. I want to see what’s she’s about and what she’s like, but I should have known better.

  There isn’t much here.

  And I bet that has everything to do with this man that calls himself her father.

  There is one picture on her nightstand. It’s of her and her mom. Daphne looks she’s around five here. She’s wearing a pink princess swimsuit and her hair is wet. She has a huge smile on her face as Michelle throws her in the air while they are in a swimming pool. Michelle looks happy too.

  And she’s wearing the locket I got her.

  Why did she keep it if she wanted nothing to do with me? I don’t understand.

  I pull my phone out and take a picture of the picture so I have it, then set the frame down in the same spot I picked it up from.

  Dust floats in the air. The sun beams through the windows to shine on a dresser, a pair of worn tennis shoes, and a scarf that’s lying on the floor.

  Lifting off the bed, I bypass the dresser. There is no reason to enter into that territory, but there is a stuffed teddy bear on top of the dresser, and my throat tightens as I reach for it.

  Holy fucking hell.

  That’s the teddy bear I gave Michelle when we went to the county fair. It has seen better fucking days, that’s for sure. I chuckle as I hold it against me, and I can’t stop the tears this time. If I would have known she would die so soon…

  It doesn’t matter. I can’t change the past.

  A tear falls onto the teddy bear, where a black eye used to be, but since it’s so old it’s bound to be a bit torn up. Like me. The left ear is torn, and I bring the bear to my nose and inhale, hoping I can smell her.

  There’s nothing there, and a sob beats inside my chest, begging me to set it free.

  “Oh, Michelle, why?” I press my forehead against the bear and sob. I fall to my knees. I grieve for her. I haven’t been able to and it’s hitting me now. Fuck, it hurts so bad. I can’t breathe. I hug the bear to my chest, remembering the big smile on her face when I handed it to her. I think I threw a baseball at some weighted bottles and won. I spent more money than that bear was worth, but her happiness was priceless.

  “I can’t believe you gave her this,” I whisper, stroking the top of the head of the bear. “Why didn’t you tell her about me?” I stand up on shaky legs and place the bear where it belongs, then open the closet. Her clothes are comfortable, conservative, but brightly colored.

  I touch a sleeve and slide the hanger across the rod, not liking how bare her closet is. Why doesn’t she have more? More of everything?

  Actually, why doesn’t Daphne have everything she’s ever wanted? I’ll have to make sure to do that for her if I get the chance.

  What in the world is that…

  There’s a door in the back of her closest. Smaller, but a door nonetheless. There are four deadbolts and a master lock to keep it closed. This seems a bit out of Daphne’s character. I don’t know her well, but I know her enough to know that three deadbolts isn’t about keeping something safe.

  It’s about hiding something.

  And color me goddamn curious, I want to know what this bastard thinks he can hide from her.

  I lift my leg and smash my boot against the door and let out a huff in disbelief with how easy the door gave way. This guy put three deadbolts and a master lock on the same damn paneling her room is made of? What an idiot.

  I peel the rest of the paneling away and stare at a box. There’s no writing on it, but it’s taped shut.

  “Well, a good man always carries a knife with him,” I mutter to myself as I flip my pocketknife open. I stab the box and cut it right down the middle, tearing the tape with ease. It’s your typical cardboard box. It has U-Haul written on the side and is about to fall apart from years of neglect. It looks like there had been a leak at some point with the water damage at the bottom.

  I yank the box out of the closet and sit down on the floor, then pause when I think I hear something or someone.

  I hold my breath, waiting to see if I hear footsteps, but after a minute or so, I know it’s just my nerves getting the best of me. I don’t hear a thing.

  Prying open the box, I gasp when I see a few of Michelle’s belongings. I’d fucking know that AC/DC shirt anywhere. I lift it up slowly, carefully, gently, afraid that it might disintegrate right in front of me. I bring it to my nose, hoping there is a faint smell of her on the shirt, but there isn’t. It’s musty from being locked away in this box.

  There’s a photo album, and I get my phone out again to take pictures of it, because I want them all. I want memories that are forever lost, memories I’ll never be able to have. I take a deep breath and open the book, realizing it isn’t a photo album at all.

  It’s a scrapbook of Michelle and Daphne.

  It’s pictures of Daphne right when she was born. By the looks of it, they are still in the hospital. Her husband, or whatever the fuck he is, isn’t in the picture.

  Good.

  This is my family.

  Well, they were supposed to be my family.

  I rub my thumb over Daphne’s cute pink face. Her eyes are closed, and she’s wrapped in a white blanket with pink stripes, and Michelle is looking at her as if Daphne hung the moon. Michelle’s skin has a light sheen on it, sweat from the exertion of labor, but she’s glowing. I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.

  “You did good, baby. You did real good,” I say to the picture, hoping somewhere she can hear me. “I’m so proud of you for raising our girl the best you could.” I tap my phone and take a picture, making sure I get Daphne’s height and weight in there.

  She was a little thing.

  Nineteen inches long and five pounds eleven ounces. I bet she could have fit in the palm of my hand.

  I’ll never know the feeling, and for some reason, my heart fucking hurts knowing my time for children has come and gone.

  I flip the page and smile when I see Michelle changing Daphne’s diaper; by the look on Daphne’s face, she isn’t too happy about it. Her mouth is open, her cheeks are red, and there are tears running down her face. “Oh, you didn’t like being changed, did you?” I chuckle, wiping the tears from my face. My eyes move to the next page and
the happiness isn’t as prevalent in Michelle’s eyes, but it’s still there. Daphne seems a little older now, maybe three. She’s holding her mom’s hand, looking up at her like Michelle holds all the answers to life.

  I flip the page and hold my breath when I see a picture of me. I’m in uniform. My dress whites, to be exact. On the next page is the obituary.

  She thought I died.

  I flip the page again and the rest is empty. There are no more photos or memories I get to see. I hold the book to my chest, grasping it until my fingers dig into the edges of the book.

  And I cry.

  It’s unmanly, but I don’t care.

  She really thought I died. She didn’t move on in the sense I thought.

  “You kept me going, baby. I want you to know that. You’re all I thought about over there. God.” I squeeze the book even harder as I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to scream the pain away. I want to rage. I want to turn back time and never join the military. If I had the choice between serving for my country and living my life with my family, my child?

  I’d pick my family every time.

  Maybe my presence would mean Michelle would still be alive.

  Maybe my presence would mean Daphne would be happy and healthy.

  And safe.

  Maybe my presence would mean we could live out our dreams together.

  “I’m so sorry I failed you Michelle.” I place the scrapbook on the floor and reach into the box again, grabbing a handful of something. “Hmm,” I hum as I pull it out.

  Oh my god.

  Letters.

  Dozens of them.

  All addressed to me, and all of them have the stamp on it: ‘Return to Sender.’

  She wrote me.

  A teardrop falls from my jaw onto the first envelope. The letters are tied together with ribbon, and they look like they are about to fall apart, but I have to read them. I reach into the box again, hoping to find more letters to take with me.

  But when I take them out, they are the letters I sent her before I had to go dark for the mission. I hadn’t had time to tell her she couldn’t write or that I couldn’t. It wasn’t safe.

  Damn, she tried to reach me. She tried.