Mason:Inked Reapers MC(129)

       



"Hey, Miles," Hank called out groggily, raking his hands through his long blonde hair and managing to sit up with some effort.



"Hey, man," Miles turned around and took in how terrible his companion  looked. Hank's right cheek was red and swollen up like a balloon about  to pop. It was painful just to look at.



"I know I don't look like my usual pretty self," he chuckled. "But I'll  be right again soon enough. Hand me that will ya?" he nodded to a half  empty bottle of whiskey over by the television. Miles stepped back into  the room to grab it for him.



"Thanks," Hank lifted the bottle to his lips and drank greedily from it. "You off out?" he asked when he was done drinking.



"Yeah," Miles nodded. "I need some pain meds."



"I got all the pain relief I need right here," Hank raised the bottle and grinned.



"I need to keep a clear head," Miles countered.



"Where's the fun in that?"



"We made a lot of noise last night. We'll have attracted the attention  of the damn Blood Pact, I'm sure they'll be here soon enough."



"Let them come," Hank gestured widely with his bottle, his eyes burning  with the fiery delight of a mad man. "I had so much fun last night. I'd  love to do it all again."



Miles' head throbbed even more furiously when he thought about the  previous night. How the three of them had descended upon the small bar  in town. It had been a slow night, most of the tables were empty.



A waitress with dark blonde hair had flirtatiously lifted her top to  show Hank her new tattoo. He'd grinned with approval and ran a hand down  her back, letting it settle on her waist.



"Darling, I think you should come home with me," he'd told her. Miles  had glanced at the tattoo and wondered if it was Brea's work. He felt  heavy with guilt to think of her. He knew that they should have been in  some darkened theater watching a movie, rather than him out running  errands for the Reapers gang. Resentment burned in him, dangerous and  hot.



When the clock approached the witching hour, the trio made their move.  Hank had casually approached the pool table where two men in lumberjack  shirts were playing.



"Hey man, we're still playing, wait your turn," the taller of the men had declared tersely.



"I don't like waiting," Hank had replied, narrowing his eyes. Then  without warning he'd punched the taller man square in the nose,  deliberately aiming his fist so that it connected with the soft base.  There was a loud crack and blood erupted from the man's face like a  sinister fountain. He staggered back, clutching at his nose.



"You broke my fucking nose!" he cried shrilly. "You fucking bastard!"



The man's friend managed to get a punch in. It landed on Hank's cheek,  connecting squarely with his flesh. Spittle came from his mouth as his  face got knocked so harshly to the side. But Colin was there to step in.  He grabbed the man by the shoulders, pulled him close and then  delivered a knee directly into his chest, winding him.



"Hey, we don't want no trouble!" the freshly tattooed waitress had called out, her face drained of color.



"Go home," Miles instructed her quietly. "Turn around and walk away right now."



"I'll lose my job if I leave," she fretted.



"Then find somewhere to hide. Things are going to get pretty ugly in here."



She'd nodded fearfully and scurried off towards the back room. A few of  the other patrons made a hasty retreat, but the more foolhardy among  them stayed. They were keen to defend their local bar. Miles wanted to  laugh at their naivety. Instead, he was surprised by a bearded man who  wielded a blade and slashed at him, realizing that he was with the other  trouble makers.



Miles cried out in surprise. But he didn't hesitate in delivering a  defensive blow. He moved with cat-like speed and grace, grabbing the  man's arm which was holding the blade and bending it back, applying  pressure until he heard the reassuring snap of a bone breaking. The man  screamed and dropped to his knees in agony. Stooping down Miles grabbed  the blade and took it for himself.



"Thanks," he told the man who was writhing in pain, clutching his limp  arm. Miles walked over to join Colin and Hank, he could feel his own  warm blood trickling down from where the blade had caught him.



"Hey," Colin was wiping a hand across his clammy forehead, his sleeves  rolled up as six burly men approached the trio, thinking that they had  them cornered over by the pool table.                       
       
           



       



"What happened to you?" Colin nodded at Miles' ear.



"Some fucker cut me," he replied with a sneer.



"Redneck bastards. Who brings a blade to a brawl?"



"Exactly."



The other men in the bar who had banded together approached the trio and  as the two sides connected punches and kicks were thrown. Hank bit the  ear clean off one guy, while Miles tried to keep his own fighting  cleaner. He mainly just punched anyone who came at him. He knocked out a  few teeth and might have even broken a jaw or two.



Finally, when all the men were down, they started to rip apart the bar.  They turned over tables, toppled the pool table, ripped down light  fittings. They did everything they could to render the place ruined.



Not once did they hear the piercing squeal of approaching sirens. The  cops knew that this was pack business and were smart enough to stay  away.



"Are we done here?" Hank eventually asked, pausing to kick a fallen man in the ribs.



Miles scanned the destruction. The bar had been totaled. It would be months before it was able to re-open.



"Yeah, we're done."



As they were leaving, he noticed the blonde barmaid peering out from a  distant door towards the back of the room. When she observed the  destruction, a solitary tear fell from her eyes and she shot Miles a  hateful look. He'd normally shrug off such a look but this time it  pierced him deeper than the blade had. She hated him and she had every  right to. He'd ruined her bar and for no good reason other than he'd  been told to, by his bitter old Uncle. Both shame and pain kept Miles'  head low as he trudged back towards the motel behind Hank and Colin.





Chapter 66



Sylar didn't care who saw him as he rode into town. With Smith at his  side, he felt powerful and unstoppable. He drove down the narrow streets  until he arrived on the street where Brea worked. He drove directly  towards the tattoo parlor and then stopped.



"Looks closed to me," Smith observed as he came to a stop just behind  him. Swinging himself off his bike he walked round to Sylar and glanced  at the closed shutters.



"Yeah," Sylar agreed, frowning in confusion. "It does."



"Shouldn't it be open by now?" Smith checked the time on his cell phone.



"It should be, yeah."



Smith approached the shutters and read the sign on the nearby wall which had the opening times for the tattoo parlor.



"Open daily 10  –  8," he called out. "And it's 11.30."



"Damn," Sylar clenched his fists in frustration. Brea blatantly wasn't  at work which meant she must be back at her apartment. It'd be hard to  convince her to leave from there and worse, Miles might be there. Fear  slid up Sylar's throat, causing him to cough. Even though it'd be two on  one, he didn't want to have to face down a Highway Reapers gang member  in front of his sister. He knew how messy that could get.



"So is she at her place?" Smith was striding back towards his bike. "Let's go there."



"I need to check if she's alone first," Sylar sighed as he fished his phone out of his pocket.





Chapter 67



Brea stopped crying when she heard her cell phone ringing. Sniffling she  wiped her face and reaching for the phone, expecting to see Miles' name  glowing on the screen. Instead, it was her brother's details she saw.  For a moment, her finger hovered over the decline button but then at the  last minute, she accepted the call.



"Hey."



"Hey, Brea, are you at your place?" Sylar's voice was muffled by a loud  noise like a passing car. Where was he? Was he outside somewhere?



"Yeah," she frowned at his question. "Why?"



"Are you alone?"



She straightened up on the sofa, drawing her knees up to her chest. "Why  would you ask that?" she demanded angrily. "What the hell do you want  Sylar?"



"Are you home alone, yes or no," she could hear the tension in his voice.



"Is everything okay?" Brea glanced fearfully around her apartment. She was most definitely alone.



"Just answer the question." She imagined her brother delivering the  question through gritted teeth as he swiftly lost patience with her.