The gray-haired man's dark eyes shone back at him. Dark eyes which Miles also had, along with the same strong jawline. But that was where the similarities ended. Miles was in shape with sculpted abs and strong, muscular arms. His Uncle was bloated with a heavily wrinkled face. He might have been handsome once, but it was hard to tell beneath the years of damage he'd done to his body. A long scar ran the length of his Uncle's face, completely dividing it in half. It cut clean across his nose, narrowly missing his left eye. Although a keen observer would notice that it didn't move as the right one did. Nor was it able to focus. Because it was made of glass and merely there for show.
Deacon shuffled in his chair so that his good eye could focus on his nephew.
"Yeah, I wanted to see ya," he drawled.
"Okay," Miles shrugged nonchalantly. "Here I am."
"I heard about what happened over in Weatherly."
Miles groaned and raked a hand through his hair. He should have known that events in Weatherly would eventually catch up with him.
"I told you to kill the guy."
"Uncle," Miles shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "He left town. Surely that's what you wanted? Killing him is a bit, finite, don't you think?"
"Don't tell me how to do my job, boy," his Uncle warned, his voice gravelly and deep as though every word was delivered from the pit of his ample stomach.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Miles mumbled.
"Look here!" Deacon smacked a fist against the table, causing the flimsy wood to shake fearfully.
"I took you in, Miles. I put a roof over your head and food in your belly. When I found you, you were nothing but a sprat living rough on the streets. Your own Momma had abandoned you."
"Yeah, well all she was ever good for was leaving," Miles rolled his eyes and stiffened. He was in no mood to revisit old memories, especially painful ones.
"I made you," his Uncle continued. "I gave you a home, a purpose. And you enjoy your life don't you? Lord knows you're up in the clubs enough, a different girl on your arm each time you leave."
"I'm just enjoying life," Miles grinned mischievously. "Seems a waste to live it any other way."
"Well, between you enjoying life and not directly obeying orders, you've managed to ruffle a few feathers around here."
Miles glanced around at the men gathered in the bar. They seemed oblivious to the conversation he was having with his uncle, but he didn't doubt that they'd be mad at him. Most of them had been raised by dinosaurs and continued to think like one. They thought that violence was the only solution to any problem. Miles didn't share that mentality. Growing up on the streets he'd been surrounded by death. The moment he gathered together a few dollars, someone bigger than him would beat it out of him. And all that did was make Miles resolve to one day be a better man. A man who could get what he wanted without hurting others. But he was a long way from reaching that goal. Being a member of the Highway Reapers probably wasn't the best path to take when aiming for a non-violent life, but it wasn't the kind of club where he could simply cancel his membership. When you joined up, it was expected to be for life.
"I'm just different, Uncle," Miles defended himself. "Different isn't always bad you know."
"I don't need none of your Buddha bullshit right now," his Uncle spat. "What I need is for you to listen and listen good. Your next job is going to be in Colridge."
"Colridge?" a shiver shot down Miles' spine. Colridge wasn't a place any members of the Highway Reapers frequented, even though it was just one town over.
"I told you, you ruffled some feathers," his Uncle explained unapologetically.
"So what? They figure sending me there will get me killed off?" His Uncle looked briefly pained by the accusation.
"Colridge is Blood Pact territory!" Miles continued, his blood pressure rising. "You can't seriously expect me to go there! Not with everything that's been going on with them lately."
"You just need to lay low while you're there and focus on the job."
"Okay," Miles calmed a little but was still tense. "Now I get it. Send me to Colridge where I'll be unable to go out and actually have any fun. What exactly am I being punished for here? Weatherly or something else entirely?"
His Uncle gave a low groan and Miles realized that he was right. He hadn't earned this punishment because of Weatherly.
"Sammi Cartwright." His Uncle said the name as though it should mean something to him. Miles shrugged dramatically.
"Who?"
"The little blonde you slept with last month," Deacon growled, growing agitated. Miles shrugged again.
"She has the dragon tattoo up her back."
Miles thought for a moment and then recalled the night in question.
"Oh," he drew out the word and nodded to himself. He'd met Sammi at a club in town. She'd worn a tight fitting denim miniskirt and a low cut white tee. He'd caught her looking at him the moment he walked in. He knew her type – women who liked to be with dangerous men. And from the outside he fit the bill – he rode with the Reapers and had a tattoo sleeve up his right arm. So when she drooped herself against him after he'd had several beers, he didn't push her away. Instead he took her to the bathroom and fucked her hard against the sink, not caring who might walk in. With her little skirt pushed up around her waist she'd screamed out his name in delight until her lungs ached.
The next night he went back to the club and she was there again. This time, he chose to be more of a gentleman and took her back to his place. When she stripped down, she revealed the dark dragon tattoo which snaked up her back and looked about to breathe fire over her shoulder. She had a tight little ass and perky tits. Miles had bent her over his sofa and made her cum twice. But by then he was bored of her. Perhaps he had Mommy issues but Miles never liked to settle with a woman. He told himself it was because his lifestyle was too dangerous but deep down he figured he'd just not met the right woman yet. And with his image and occupation he was destined to only ever attract the wrong kind of women.
"Oh indeed," his Uncle chided. "She's engaged to Bones. Bet she didn't tell you that."
"We didn't do much talking," Miles said with a cheeky grin.
"Boy, you are going to learn some respect!" His Uncle pointed a podgy finger at him. "You're going to Colridge and you're going to do this job for me and you're going to do it right. No trouble. You hear?"
"And if I refuse?"
His Uncle's expression darkened.
"Fine," Miles released an exasperated sigh. "I'll do the damn job. But am I seriously being exiled because of some lousy lay?"
"You watch your mouth in here," his Uncle berated him. "Bones is enamored with that skinny girl. He thinks the sun shines out of her ass."
"Well, I've been up there and I can assure him it doesn't."
Miles pushed back his chair, ignoring his Uncle's thunderous expression and headed for the door. He was beyond pissed about his new assignment. Weatherly, he could handle. It was far from home, but he could still go to clubs there and party. In Colridge, he'd need to keep a low profile if he wanted to avoid getting one hell of a beating.
Back on his bike Miles turned on the engine, savoring how the power felt between his legs. He put on his aviators and maneuvered his motorcycle out of the parking lot, towards the open road. Colridge was South, away from the familiar sights and sounds of his hometown. But he wasn't heading there just yet. He had one more stop to make, one more point to prove. He made a right and headed in the direction of Sammi Cartwright's trailer, determined to have one last proper send off before he left town, just to piss people off.
Chapter 8
It felt strange being in Colridge. Even though it was just one town over, it felt like a foreign country. Brea couldn't help but gawk around at the bustling streets and bright neon signs over the stores as the cab pulled up outside what would be her new home.
Everything had happened so fast over the last few weeks. She'd secured the position as the tattoo artist's apprentice and Sylar had helped her find an apartment close by. Though he was obviously worried about her leaving he was doing his best to be supportive and Brea appreciated that.
But now as the cab slowed and she looked up at the front door of the apartment building, she suddenly felt sick with nerves. She'd never before been this far away from Sylar. Since their parents died it had always been the two of them against the world and now they were separated by miles. She was starting to think that moving over to Colridge had been a mistake.