Mason:Inked Reapers MC(103)

"You ready then, sweetheart?" the kind faced driver asked as he turned in his seat to look at her.



"As ready as I'll ever be," Brea admitted, forcing herself to open the door and step outside.                       
       
           



       

It was a sunny day with warm light bathing the street and warming Brea's  bare legs. She was wearing a simple sundress with her hair tied up in a  neat bun at the nape of her neck.



"Let me help you," the driver got out and bustled around to the trunk.  He hauled out Brea's suitcase and the two garbage bags she'd filled with  the rest of her belongings. And that was it. She glanced sadly down at  her entire world bundled up beside her. All that was missing was Sylar.  But he'd promised to visit regularly. She just hoped that it was a  promise he intended to keep.



"This your new place?" the driver nodded up at the door.



"Yep," Brea nodded. She'd only seen her new apartment online at the  library back in her hometown. She had no idea what to actually expect  now that she was there.



"It's a nice part of town," the driver smiled kindly. "You'll do well here."



"Thanks," Brea nodded gratefully at him. According to Google Maps the  tattoo parlor where she'd be working was just two blocks away. She'd be  able to walk to work every day.



"New starts are never easy," the driver empathized. "But they are always worth it."



"I hope so," Brea sighed. "I really hope so."





Chapter 9



Miles woke up as the bright sunlight seared against the back of his  eyelids. Groaning he sat up, his back stiff from having spent the night  on a hard mattress in a cheap motel. Raking his hands through his hair  he did his best to wake up. The whiskey he'd downed the night before had  left his throat feeling raw. Awkwardly he got up and stumbled towards  the bathroom. He had a brief glance back at the bed and was relieved to  see that it was empty which meant no awkward removal of someone he  didn't want around now that he was sober.



Turning on the faucet, Miles splashed cold water against his face. It  washed away some of his fatigue allowing him to take a good look at  himself in the cloudy bathroom mirror, which hung above the sink. He  looked a little tired but other than that he was okay. Things could have  been far worse, he smirked at the thought. Last night he'd completed  his first Colridge based job. He'd had to walk to the outskirts of town,  find a member of the rival gang, the Blood Pact, and break a pool cue  in half over their back. He'd been expecting trouble. When he left the  motel he'd hidden three small blades in various places on himself; one  in each boot and the other tucked under his belt. He hoped he wouldn't  have to use them but sometimes, during turf wars, things went really  bad, really quick.



Now that Miles was in Colridge, he understood why he was actually there.  His Uncle was looking for him to stir up enough trouble for the Blood  Pacts to make a move against them. And when they did, because they  inevitably would, the streets would run red with blood and only one  victor would remain standing. Whoever that was would own all the nearby  territories. His old Uncle was doing his best to strengthen the Highway  Reapers. He was a crotchety old man but he was ambitious. Miles admired  that.



"Come on, man, wake up," Miles splashed more water on his face but it  didn't give him any further release. He decided instead to take an icy  shower. Despite his raging hangover, he didn't want to spend all day  cooped up in a tiny, shitty, motel room. He knew he wasn't supposed to  be seen around Colridge but he was sure a quick look up and down the  neighboring few blocks wouldn't hurt. After all he was meant to be there  for the better part of a month, if he didn't find something to occupy  himself during that time he would surely go crazy.





Chapter 10



Brea liked her apartment. It was modest but with shiny, modern amenities  and a pleasant view over the rooftops of Colridge. With the back drop  of a clear blue sky, the town had its own urban beauty which Brea  enjoyed looking at. She pulled out the cell phone from her pocket and  took a picture of the vista to send to Sylar. The phone had been his  final parting gift to her.



"If you need me," he'd said sternly, his eyes wide and intense, "any  time, day or night, just call and I'll be there. You got it?"



"I got it."



Standing in her apartment Brea looked at the phone which was more than  just a device, it was a life-line. With it she could be in touch with  Sylar every day. With her few belongings unpacked in the furnished  bedroom, Brea didn't have much else to do. She didn't start work until  the next morning. The night stretched before her, cold and alone. Though  she was used to spending every night alone at her parent's old house,  this felt different. Here, no one would be coming back in the morning.  It was just her. Brea sadly lowered herself against the apartment's sofa  in the open plan living area. A sad lump formed in her throat as she  realized that independence wasn't as liberating as she'd hoped it would  be. She was so used to having someone else around. Now she would be  cooking for one, coming home to an empty apartment.                       
       
           



       



On the verge of tears Brea called the one number she had entered into her phone. Sylar swiftly answered.



"You okay?" he demanded briskly.



"Yeah, I'm fine," Brea did her best to sound convincing. "I was just wondering what you were doing?"



"I'm heading out to work." In the background, she could hear the locking  of the front door and Sylar's heavy footsteps approaching his  motorcycle.



"Oh, okay," Brea said softly.



"There's been some issue … at the factory."



"Oh?"



"Someone else got hurt," Sylar explained gruffly. "And now I'm expected  to sort it all out. As if I don't have enough going on at the moment."



"Maybe you could just call in sick?" Brea suggested sweetly, thinking  that if Sylar did that he could drive over to Colridge and they could  order in a pizza and watch a movie together, like they used to do when  they were younger. Back then they lived on take-out food and watched  countless movies together. It was easier to sit side by side and watch  something than to talk about losing their parents.



"Mine isn't the kind of job you call in sick to."



Brea frowned. Surely every job would permit you to call in sick when you had to?



"Good luck for tomorrow," she heard Sylar climb on to his bike and start the engine. "I know you'll do great."



He ended the call and Brea was once more alone in her apartment. She  didn't want to dwell on the emptiness so she got up and headed for the  bedroom, pulling her sketch pad out of a drawer. She decided she'd spend  the evening drawing in readiness for her first day at her new job.





Chapter 11



After a brisk ten-minute walk, Brea was standing in her new place of  work. The walls of the tattoo parlor were lined floor to ceiling with  intricate images, each of them beautiful and breathtaking and probably  already inked onto someone's body. The air smelt of disinfectant and  nail polish. Nervously Brea introduced herself to the heavy set man on  the desk. He had piercings in his nose and running the length of his  ears and a large stud in the center of his chin. He looked fearful but  when Brea spoke to him, he gave her a warm smile and ushered her through  to the back.



Art was everywhere. On every wall, on the arms of the artists in the  back area. It was beautiful to behold. Brea took a deep, steadying  breath certain that this was where she belonged. The fear she'd felt the  previous night evaporated leaving only giddy excitement in its place.





Chapter 12



Miles shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he walked. He wished  that his Uncle hadn't sent him to Colridge alone. With someone else, it  would be easier to occupy his time while he waited for more assignments  to come in. As he wandered down the streets, he idly glanced at the  boutique shops which sprung up around him. There was a bakery, a coffee  house, which was already pretty full, and a gothic art gallery. Colridge  felt like a surprisingly progressive place and he felt strangely at  home there, even though it wasn't his gang's territory.



He was wearing dark jeans and a loose fitting white t-shirt. He hadn't  pulled on his leather jacket knowing it would be foolish to do so. Even  though the sun was shining and the people he passed seemed to be in good  spirits, he knew that if they saw a Highway Reaper's logo that would  all change. He'd be picking up his teeth from the curb after receiving  one hell of a beating. But without the jacket he looked like anyone  else. His t-shirt exposed the sleeved tattoo he had on one arm. It was  an homage to his late grandfather who had served in the navy, full of  battleships, large anchors, and stormy seas. He barely remembered his  grandfather, just the stories he used to tell him on cold evenings about  his life at sea. When Miles listened, he imagined this vast, magical  ocean on which his grandfather sailed. The stories captivated him. Had  Miles not been enrolled into the Reapers he would surely have gone into  the service himself. Although it was doubtful that they'd have him,  considering his illustrious police record.