River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(22)

John was struck by something Beth had told him not long after she’d gotten sick from the chemotherapy and the cancer. He’d been telling her she wasn’t alone, she had him, that he’d be by her side every step of the way. She’d touched his cheek, smiled a sad smile. “It’s my body, my sickness, and I’m alone with it. You can be here with me, hold my hand, wipe my brow. But I’ll still be alone with it.”

He’d argued with her, adamant she’d been wrong. She would never be alone, not while he was alive. But now, he finally understood what she’d meant. The club members would have his back without hesitation, but he had pulled the trigger. It was his actions that set him apart, his consequences to face. His life. The club was a beast of its own making. Every member was expected to sacrifice himself for the group as a whole. And that was exactly what he’d done when he’d killed the young buck. He’d sacrificed himself.

No matter how much he’d yearned to be a part of the club, a member who had fought to belong, a man who had prided himself with friends who had vowed to give their lives for him as he would give his life for them, in the end when it came right down to it, he was all he had. It was what Beth had been trying to tell him, to show him what it meant to be truly alone.

The realization cut through his muscles, slicing straight to his bones. He thought he might fall out of the chair and curl up on the floor and cry. Not for himself but for Beth. It tore him apart to imagine the pain she’d felt, how he’d been powerless to help her, how he hadn’t been able to understand what she’d gone through, how much she had really suffered.

“John,” Hap said.

“Yeah.” He shifted in his seat, pulling himself out of his thoughts. His forearm sparkled with the stripper’s body glitter. He’d thought he’d scrubbed most of her scent away, but the damn glitter was everywhere. The stuff would cling to his skin and hair for days. He rubbed his arm. The sight of it pissed him off, a reminder of another mistake.

“I asked when you think they’re going to retaliate.” Hap’s stare bore through him as though he were searching for a weakness.

“The kid was skimming off the top from everybody. If we didn’t get to him, someone else would have.”

“Maybe we should’ve let them,” Chitter said. He lit a cigarette. A skull tattoo with devil’s horns covered his forearm. His hair was a mass of dark curls except for a bald spot by his temple where he’d been struck by the handle of a gun. He’d been left with a scar, a white, raised patch of skin where the hair no longer grew. He was lucky it hadn’t been a bullet.

It had happened several years back. The club had organized a run, a party across the bridge on the Jersey side with the Crew, another chapter with whom they did business. It had been a typical event, bikes and booze, old ladies and sweeties. Chitter, being who he was and having the sixty-nine patch on his cut to prove it, had been caught with one of the Crew’s old ladies. A fight had broken out, fists and brass knuckles. When they’d tired themselves out or passed out, they’d found Chitter unconscious on the ground, with a gaping head wound but alive.

“Too much booze and women, and you turn into a bunch of Neanderthals,” Beth had said. She’d been holding an ice pack to Chitter’s skull. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” she’d told him. John had rubbed his jaw where he’d taken a punch. “Dumb asses,” she’d said and smiled at both men. John had pulled her into his arms, kissed her. It had been so long ago, but Christ, it felt like yesterday. Even Chitter’s scar reminded him of Beth.

John shook his head. “No,” he said to Chitter. “This was personal. We agreed I was the one who would handle it.”

Hap continued strumming his fingers on the table. In the bar the sound of balls cracking on the pool table filled the silence. A girl’s voice rose above the noise. The door to the back room flew open.

Chitter jumped to his feet. “What the hell?” he said.

Candy, Beth’s niece, burst into the room, pointing her finger at first Chitter and then Hap, stopping on John. She was crying; mascara blackened her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Her lip was still swollen from where the young buck’s fist had struck her mouth.

“You,” she said to John. “You did this.” She lunged at him, punching her small fists on his arms and chest. He didn’t protect himself and let her hit him. He turned his head away. She was swinging at him with everything she had, landing blow after blow and barely making an impact. She was too thin, and there were track marks on her arms. John suspected she was using heroin or maybe cocaine. Either way, she was addicted to something, and he suspected the young buck had had something to do with that too.

Chitter grabbed her by the waist, pulled her off John. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time for you to go.” She swung and kicked, trying to get at John, to break free from Chitter’s grasp.

The men in the bar were laughing. “Ain’t she a wild one,” one of them said.

“Don’t just stand there,” Chitter said, struggling to keep a hold of her. “Someone grab her legs before she kicks me in the balls.”

She was screaming obscenities, calling out names directed at John, but he didn’t allow himself to fully hear everything she was saying. “How could you? You bastard!” she hollered. Her voice carried through the bar. “Murderers! Every last one of you!”