Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2)(111)

I needed a doctor—and this time, I would obey every instruction. Along with my body, I would fix my mind … I would get better—spiritually, physically, and emotionally.

The hum of my tires soothed my jagged nerves and for the first time in almost a decade, I could f*cking breathe.

Breathe knowing I’d avenged Cleo.

I’d claimed what I was owed.

Even my headache couldn’t take that away.

Everything would be better. I had a new future, new possibilities, new horizons.

My heart fisted as Mo and Beetle came back to mind. I couldn’t shake off their sacrifice. I would never stop being grateful for the termination they’d given me.

Grasshopper looked over, his bike keeping pace with mine. He smiled sadly.

Tonight was a celebration and mourning all in one.

Our fallen comrades were with us on the road, even though their souls were not.

Their death would forever taint our victory.

Squeezing the throttle, I picked up speed, trying to outrun the sadness and enjoy the freedom just a little longer. I was selfish in a way—wanting to bask in the knowledge that my father no longer existed.

Mo had been a gruff, guiding force, invincible. And Beetle had been my protégé. They were good men.

I pushed my bike faster. Wind gushed harder and I shot forward from the crowd of my brothers.

No matter how fast I pushed the engine, it wasn’t enough.

I wanted to see Cleo. I needed to be in her arms and bury my sadness for causing the deaths of two brothers.

But then … it didn’t matter.

The concussion I thought I’d broken returned with a vengeance. Agony worse than the stab wound in my side splintered my skull.

I cried out.

The road disappeared before me.

Noise, touch, sight, sound—it all shut off as if I’d driven into a silent black hole.

The headache compounded. It didn’t return with vise or needles, but with machetes and machine guns.

It tore through my head. It hacked through my thoughts. It careened me into agony.

One moment, I was lucid.

The next, I was falling.

Skidding.

Sliding.

The road came up to meet me.

My body tumbled to embrace it.

And that was the last I remembered.





Chapter Thirty-Three


Cleo


I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I didn’t want to teach or be a chef or fly the world. I wanted to heal animals. I needed to fix helpless creatures who suffered at the hands of sinners. I needed to put goodness back into the world. But mainly, it was because of Arthur.

He was fading before my eyes, withdrawing from me. He thought withholding information protected me. It didn’t. It only made me worry more and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t save him. —Cleo, age twelve

“Take me to Pure Corruption.”

Switchblade looked up, his baby face wreathed in cigarette smoke, his jacket absorbing moonlight. His eyebrow rose, but he didn’t have time to speak.

Charging past him, I straddled his bike resting in the forecourt. With my voice soft but lethal, I demanded, “I won’t ask twice. Take me to the compound.”

Switchblade shook his head. “You know I have orders to keep you here.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s for your own safety.”

“Think about your own safety if you don’t take me to Pure Corruption this very second.” My temper helped hide my fear, but once again the sinking, suffocating feeling of being untethered consumed me. It was like hurtling through space with no rope. Like jumping off a building with no parachute. Like amnesia for my heart.

It took all my power not to fall to my knees and scream. I squeezed my eyes. “Take. Me. To. The. Compound.”

The unhinged beg in my tone sent alarm skittering through his eyes. Coming closer, he looked me up and down. “Whoa, everything okay?”

Tears were a diabolical enemy, doing their best to stream from my eyes. I wouldn’t let them fall. Not until I knew. Not until I found Arthur and saved him like I should’ve done all those years ago. “No, everything is not okay.”

Fear shadowed his face. Understanding animated his pudgy limbs. “What do you mean?”

Please, please let me be wrong.

Please, let this empty sickness disappear.

When my prayers went unanswered and the aching loneliness gaped wider, I choked, “Something’s happened. We need to go. Now.”

It’d been too long.

Far, far too long.

I’d paced and fretted and gone out of my mind with worry.

For hours, I’d tracked paths through the Clubhouse, desperate for any news. We’d received nothing.

To start with, it’d just been Switchblade and me—rattling around in a space with my soul missing. Then, others trickled in. Melanie, Feifei, and more.

Cell phones had been called. No replies. Theories had been conjured. No answers.

We were back in the telephonic dark ages, waiting for our soldiers to return home. I had to hope the sickness inside me was wrong—that they’d appear any second and not some god-awful telegram with bad news.

The waiting was torturous. We suffocated on excruciating worry.

I could understand why women who lived through WWI and WWII signed themselves up for danger. Enlisted as nurses. Gave their services to sew buttons and build tanks. Anything would’ve been better than the endless waiting.