Perversion (Perversion Trilogy #1)

Marci nods in agreement. No hesitation. “I’m in.”

Haze and Sandy celebrate by giving each other an across-the-table bro-hug. Marci ducks to avoid being caught in the middle. She kisses Belly on the lips.

It’s just me and Belly left as the rest of the table gets up and shuffles out of the room. He points to me.

“I’m backing you because I believe in you. Always have.” He leans in close and places a hand on my shoulder, just like he did on the very first day I arrived. “One day, when I’m no longer around, Bedlam will be in your hands, Grim. You’re going to have to lead those boys and all our men, by example. You’re going to be the one who makes sure this ship of ours don’t sink when I’m gone.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’re not going anywhere,” I tell him, hating that he’s even mentioning a world without him in it. “Docs tell you something new you ain’t telling me?”

He shakes his head. “I won’t be gone soon, but I will be someday. That’s all I’m saying.” Belly stands from the table. “It’s always been you, son.” He raises his chin. “Don’t fuck it up. Oh, and schedule a sit-down with Marco and Margaret to give ‘em a heads up. Lord knows we don’t need any more bloodshed in this town. I don’t wanna lose any more soldiers.” His eyes grow sad. He looks to Digger’s empty chair. “Or anymore sons.”

“You want me to talk to them about extending the ceasefire while we’re at it?” I ask.

Belly shakes his head. “We’ve got a month. We’ll handle it then. No need to push buttons on something that don’t need to be pushed just yet.” Belly takes another swig of his whiskey, then sets the glass down. He’s about to leave the room when he turns back to me. “You wanna tell me something that you ain’t telling nobody else? You got that look in your eyes again. This about Emma Jean?”

“For once, I wish you didn’t know me so well,” I say with a chuckle. I scratch my jaw.

“You find something out about her finally?” Belly asks with hope in his voice.

“I found her,” I say, “I just didn’t know it at the time.”

“Where was she?”

I shake my head, still unable to believe it myself. “In my fucking bedroom.”





Fourteen





I overhear Tristan on the other side of the door. Whoever he’s talking to mentions Gabby’s name. It won’t be long until he finds out she’s Marco’s sister, and that I’m the enemy.

For the second time in my existence, I feel guilty. Not even the knowledge that I was finally able to give his picture back can ease the soul-crushing, stomach-twisting guilt made worse by the fact that I can still smell Grim. Feel him over me.

I shiver.

The connection between us suddenly makes sense when I realize who he is. All these years, he’s been right here in Lacking. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything. But I can’t. If he remembers me at all, only two outcomes are possible. He’ll either try to protect me from Marco, and, by doing so, break the truce that’s allowed this town peace for the first time in years, causing a war, or he will kill me.

And, a war would start anyway.

Which is why I’ve come to a decision. It might be a stupid one, or I should say, another stupid one, but it’s the only option that won’t end with a whole town blood bath.

I know where I have to go, and what I have to do.

Splashes of graffiti cover the exterior of every building lining the main road through town. Lacking’s equivalent of archaic caveman drawings, all competing to be noticed.

Most are signs from different gangs, marking their territories. A Bedlam bleeding black rose. A yellow bandana tied around the face of a sugar-skull for Los Muertos. A tattered pair of angel wings representing the Immortals MC.

Between the signs, there’s a lot of So and So wuz here’s and the word redrum appears repeatedly. As if murder spelled backwards somehow makes it more threatening.

You won’t find an art museum in Lacking, but you will find art created by some ridiculously talented, if not misguided, artists. A depiction of Jesus hanging from the cross. A cartoonish big breasted woman with tiny plastic toy soldiers hanging from her nipples. A gun in a man’s open mouth with a white flag that reads BOOM sticking out of the back of his head.

And then, there are the hundreds of lifelike murals of fallen gang members, usually with RIP written on it somewhere along with a date of birth and date of death.

Every drop of spray paint in this town holds some sort of meaning. A message.

A warning.

I tear my eyes from the paint on the walls and concentrate on the task at hand. The graffiti warnings all around me act as the wind at my back, propelling me forward, faster and faster, until I’m practically running toward the bus station.

The money for two one-way tickets out of Lacking crunch in my pocket with each step. It sounds like freedom.

I come to a stop as the bus station appears at the end of the road and take a deep breath. Escaping Lacking is risky, but so is staying. With each passing day, it only gets more dangerous, as does Marco.

One of the larger murals of a fallen gang member comes into view. It takes up the entire side of the bus station. The Los Muertos yellow bandana is tied around the man’s neck, I don’t bother looking at the rest. I take it as a sign to keep moving, and so I do.

I enter the bus station and purchase the tickets quietly and quickly using two fake IDs I’d acquired after waiting for the just the right ones to come along. Ones with photos who could, at a quick glance, pass for me and Gabby.

Gabby’s was the easier of the two. Long dark hair, big brown eyes. Of course, Gabby was stunning. There was no one who could match her, but Giana Villanueva was a close second. Mine? Not as easy. It’s half the reason I’ve straightened and darkened my hair. Now, I at least somewhat resemble Kelly Flowers, organ donor.

Peering out the glass door of the station, I check the sidewalks to make sure there’s no one lingering outside who might recognize me. It’s clear. I leave just as quietly as I came, without so much as causing the bell above the door to ring.

I’m walking away, back in the direction I came, but I stop. Feeling the sudden need to see the rest of the mural. I turn and look over my shoulder. The rest of my body follows.

RIP Slinky. 10/31/90-11/2/15.

Slinky? I crane my neck, and my gaze lands on his face. I knew him. Slinky’s real name was Carlos. I know that because that’s how he introduced himself. “They call me Slinky, but the wifey calls me Carlos.” I spoke to him several times but never for long. He was one of the more pleasant of Marco’s soldiers. A few times, he brought Gabby and me several trays of chicken and rice his wife had cooked after realizing our food situation was more of a famine than a situation. Carlos disappeared shortly after, and I never saw him again. I found out later he died in a shooting between Los Muertos and Bedlam.

Grim may have even been the one who killed him.

The thought would be sobering if I wasn’t already all too aware of all the shitty situations gathering other shitty situations like a rolling tumbleweed.

Above Carlos’s head, written in cloud-like lettering are the words he lived and died a soldier.

A soldier. Not a friend. Father. Husband. Cousin. Son. Amateur boxer. And I know from just the few short conversations we’d had that he’d been all those things.

Not even Carlos.

Just Slinky, the soldier.

That’s all he was.

To this town. To Marco. To his own so-called brothers.

I can’t live in Lacking because I can’t die in Lacking. There won’t even be a mural for me when this town brings me down. I’m no soldier. And no matter how much I pretend to be one, I can’t fall in line like the others. When I die here, I’ll be nothing. Not Emma Jean, the writer and story-teller. The best friend. The girl who likes magic and complaining about her hair in every weather situation.

I can’t die as nothing.