Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(2)

"Don't rush," Sheila guided, her voice soft. "What happened when you did wake up?"

"I'm cold. I'm very, very cold. I think I'm outside, but there's a wall  against my back. I can't move much  –  I don't want to move, anyway,  because everything hurts, everything's cold. Somewhere in my mind I  think I deserve the cold. Because they said it was a punishment, and in  the dark … and after so long … it feels like it might be right. Like I'm  being punished, and I deserve the pain, the cold."         

     



 

"But you know you don't," Sheila said, her words soft as they float  across the room to Tricia's ears and land like feathers in her brain,  registering only in the vaguest sense.

"I know I don't," Tricia says, almost repeating her therapist's  statement. "I don't deserve the pain, I don't deserve the cold. I didn't  do anything to deserve it."

"Good. Go on, Tricia."

"Time doesn't mean anything. At some point, the man  –  the big man  –  says  to the others to go inside and get something to eat. I'm hungry, too,  but not as hungry as I am thirsty, and not as thirsty as I am cold. So I  don't care. He says that if I'm good, he'll bring me in before the sun  goes down. He's not talking to me. He's talking to them. I don't exist.  I'm not a real person. They don't need to talk to me, because I'm just  an object."

Tricia's brow furrowed as she remembered what came next. For the first  few months, she hadn't been able to remember these things. It was only  with repeated hypnosis and time  –  precious, precarious time  –  that she  could recall the events as they happened, remember how she'd felt, how  alone and hurt and scared. Her mind had tried to protect her for a long  while. Now, though, she knew the only way out was through those  memories.

"I hear them leaving. The barn door  –  creaks. And then  –  well, I think I  fall asleep a little, or maybe I'm still awake but … then I hear him  coming in. The big one yells. He sounds confused. He sounds angry and  confused. He screams something and then  –  then the gunshot. It's so  loud. It's like hearing the world end. I think I'm dead. I think someone  shot me. I'm almost happy for it. I thought it was going to happen  anyway so  –  so sooner the better."

"But you weren't the one who was shot," Sheila prompted when Tricia paused.

"No," Tricia said. "I'm not the one who was shot. I know it's not me  when I feel his arms around me. That scares me worse than the gunshot,  at first. The feeling like suddenly  –  I don't know. Feeling trapped in  this mountain of warm muscle. But then he starts speaking, and I know  him, and I know I'm safe. I feel like my heart is breaking into a  million pieces. It's like  –  I should be so happy, I should laugh, or  something. But instead I just want to … "

Tricia's voice dropped off again. Trying to put that into words  –  that  feeling that wasn't a feeling, that sorrow that wasn't sorrow, that fear  that wasn't fear  –  it was daunting. Perhaps impossible.

"Want to?" Sheila goaded again.

" … I want to die, again. I mean  –  I want to just die, there, knowing in  that moment I'm safe. Because the future … .the rest of it … everything  after that moment … I don't know what will happen. But in that moment I  know. So I just want it to end there. I want that last little bit  of … peace. I want that to be the last thing I ever have."

"And do you still feel that way, Tricia? Do you still feel afraid of the  future? Do you still feel like you would have been better off dying  there, then, in that moment?"

Tricia shook her head. Even in her half-trance, it was fervent.

"No," she said. "No, I'm glad. I'm glad to be alive. I'm glad to be … here. And I'm glad to be … "

Her words trailed away. A clock ticked.

"Glad to be going home?" Sheila asked.

For a long moment, Tricia didn't respond. And then she nodded.

"Yes," she said. "Glad to be going home."





2





The general population of a kumpania, the collection of families and  extended families that travelled and lived together, could change from  month to month. People came home  – wherever home was at the time  –  and  people left, to find their own fortunes, or simply because flying shoes  fit them better. Damon Volanis' kumpania had settled in Kingdom a year  ago, made it their home, and welcomed their familia to come and go as  the spirit called them. This led to a level, steady, manageable  population.

But on a Wednesday in early summer, with the sun bright and warm, the  trailer park where the Romani lived was full to bursting, with almost  everyone who'd ever been a part of the kumpania arriving by plane,  train, or automobile for a very special occasion.

Baba Surry  –  everyone's grandmother or surrogate grandmother  –  was the  guest of honor at the very last party she'd ever attend: her funeral.

The Romani that lived in Kingdom eschewed many old traditions. The  reason they no longer bore striking resemblance to their dark-skinned,  Indian ancestors was because they didn't believe in arranged marriages  or in excluding gaje, non-gypsies, from the gene pool. It was preferable  for a Romani to marry a Romani, but love was more important than race,  and modern day had made clear the benefits of having a more grab-bag  approach to DNA. They didn't make their money in sideshows, carnivals,  fortune tellers, or petty scams; they owned legitimate, well-run  businesses (most of the time, at least.)         

     



 

But some things were too sacred to give up, no matter how ancient the ritual, how dated the practice.

The Volanis family: Kennick, Cristov, and Damon, stood in Baba Surry's  trailer. Kennick, the rom baro, or "big man", leader, of the kumpania,  had stood vigil the previous night with the Surry clan. Candles lighting  the main room helped guide Baba Surry's spirit to the other side; white  sheets and wildflowers adorned the walls to cleanse the place where  she'd died. She had been the group's phuri, a sort of matriarch who  acted as the feminine counterpart to the rom baro. That title would be  passed down, in time, after the mourning period.

Now, the brothers watched in as the closest members of her family came  to leave coins in her over-sized casket, already full to brimming with  her personal belongings  –  anything that might be necessary in the other  world, included new dresses, old photos, and jewelry. Each of her sons,  daughters, nieces, and nephews bent by the casket and whispered to her,  telling her their sins so that her spirit might forgive them.

Notably absent was Jenner Surry, one of Baba Surry's many grandchildren,  who was the most in need of absolution from his late grandmother. He  wasn't missed, either. The man had long plotted against the Volanis  brothers, thinking that the Surry name should be given a place at the  head of the kumpania.

The title of rom baro was, traditionally, an elected one; but the  kumpania had trusted in the lead of Volanis men for so long, the  election had become more of a formality than anything else. The Volanis  men trained their firstborn sons to take up the helm. It was how things  were. No one thought it would be better otherwise; except Jenner Surry.

He'd gone so far as to burn down one of their own trailers  –  whether he  knew that there was a child inside when he did it was a matter of some  debate. And then he'd collaborated with a vicious biker gang, the Steel  Dragons, to take down the gypsy's marijuana business. It had resulted in  a hell of a lot of trouble for everyone involved  –  and the kidnapping  of Tricia Garland, who wasn't really involved at all.

Jenner had skipped town after that plan fell apart, and now even his own  mother spat on the ground when his name was mentioned. The only people  who wanted him were the police; there was a warrant out for his arrest,  on counts of aiding and abetting, conspiracy, and arson. Even Baba  Surry's spirit could not have washed his own soul clean.

Soon, the entire gypsy horde would take to the streets of Kingdom,  carrying the casket to its final resting place. The trailer park was  barely large enough to hold everyone. The three neat rows of trailers,  set near the woods, had turned into a helter-skelter crowd of RVs,  trucks, sedans and tents as relatives and kin poured in. Coffee and  strong liquor passed amongst the mourners, some of whom elected to  follow the tradition of not bathing or shaving during the mourning  period  –  a tradition not well understood by the few gaje in attendance.

Kim and Ricky James stood by their men: Kennick and Cristov,  respectively. Damon, standing at a slight distance, admired, not for the  first time, the poetry of their differences. Kim and Ricky were  sisters, but their similarities ended there. Kim was voluptuous, with  light auburn hair, deep blue eyes, and freckles that dotted across her  nose like constellations. Ricky's body was long and lean, and her hair  was so blonde it almost looked white, while her eyes were so pale blue  they could be grey at times. Her porcelain-white skin was clear, like  milk.