“I was fifteen.” I stare down the hall, my eyes focusing on the closet door at the end of it. I feel Saylor’s eyes on me. At some point, she had climbed on the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room. I clear my throat and start again.
“I was fifteen when I transitioned from a boy to a man. I’d been gone all day, delivering shit to clients that had midmonth orders. It was July and unusually hot. I was so fucking tired. I’d sold out, which wasn’t unusual for me. But this time, Black didn’t have any for himself and was pissed when I showed up with a pocket full of cash and not a single bag of coke. I never argued with him. I just let him cuss me until that wasn’t enough, then I let him hit me until he was satisfied that I understood why he was right and why I was wrong. He started in, calling me every motherfucker in the book while he sat on his ass in the living room. When he didn’t get a response, he stood up and yelled louder. I walked down the hall away from him. Just like the coward he was, he pushed me from behind. I lost my balance and fell against the hall door.”
I reach my hand up, fingering the scar in my brow. My eyes fall on the hinge at the bottom of the door, and I stare at it just like I did years ago. “I hurt him that night. I hurt him so bad that I spent the next three days nursing him back to health because I couldn’t bring myself to let him die. We never spoke of it and he never put his hands on me again. I just wish I had that strength when I was seven.” I’m staring at the hinge, replaying the scene again. Saylor’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Where is he now?” I turn to see Saylor still on the counter, her hands fisted in her lap. Her expression is a mixture of anger and pride. But still, there is no pity. I think about her question before I answer. I could tell her simply, or I could tell her the whole truth. She didn’t tell me she was proud of me for standing up to him, and she doesn’t have to. It’s written on her face. I did everything in my power to put that look on Black’s face and I never saw it. Yet this woman that I’ve spent less than two weeks with wears it. That in itself deserves the whole truth.
“I killed him.”
11
I WATCH SAYLOR closely, waiting for her reaction, and I don’t expect any less than what she tells me.
“Good.” She gives me a nod of approval, burning her eyes into mine like she wants me to feel the hate she has for this man that she doesn’t know. I could tell her how. I could tell her why, but I won’t. She doesn’t need the details. I’m sure she thinks it’s because of what he did to me, but it’s not. When I became a Nomad, I took a job. One that I did without question no matter the target.
When I came to Nevada and my mission was to kill a man who stole from the club, I was more than happy to oblige. When I found out he was a brother, I was even happier. I would make him suffer longer because I expected more of him. I had trusted this man, as had my brothers. But, when I found out it was Black, my anger was replaced with guilt.
I knew what Black had done all those years because I helped him do it. I stopped working for Black the day I almost killed him. It had been years since I’d been involved in the business, but I was still guilty. Telling the club was easy. I was ready to accept my fate because I deserved it. But, when I told them, they excused it without question. I knew they just wanted him dead, and they knew if any man should kill him, it should be me.
“Tell me how you killed him.” I look at Saylor, wondering what she could ever get out of this. She reads my unspoken question. Witch.
“I want to know so I can visualize it. I need that imagery to help me process everything you’ve told me. I want a happy ending to this story and that will give it to me.”
Every man dies. Every man has done something in his life to warrant him of it, but hearing those words come from the mouth of Saylor sends chills down my spine. I can’t imagine her wishing death on anyone, no matter their transgressions.
“I can read your body language. I know you’re pissed. I know you have hate for this man because of what he did to me, but he was all I had. He took me in when he didn’t have to. Even though he didn’t want to, he let me stay. He gave me what I needed to survive. He made me a man and I’m not proud of the man I am, but I still owe that to him. Right or wrong, good or bad, at least he did what no other motherfucker on this planet wanted to step up and do. I killed him, Saylor, but it wasn’t like what you think.”