Anders takes my hand when I hesitate at the entrance of a new room. There are chairs on different levels and a big black thing on the wall.
“It’s for the movie,” he explains and then tells me to sit down in one of the puffy chairs.
A few minutes pass while Anders thinks too hard about what to watch. I saw movies and television shows on his phone. I know what they are, and I don’t care what we watch. I just like seeing the people and places.
“This was my favorite movie when I was a kid,” he says, doing something on a little machine. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”
“I’m not a kid,” I remind him.
“No, but it’s also my favorite movie as a grown-up.”
Smiling, I like knowing this movie means so much to Anders. He wants to show me his life after so long of only talking about it.
Anders sits in the puffy chair next to mine. Then the lights in the room turn off, and the black thing on the wall gets brighter. I grab his hand, scared by the noises around me.
“The movie is starting,” he says softly.
I wish Anders weren’t so excited about showing me his favorite movie. If I could be honest, I’d tell him that I don’t like this room and want to leave. Instead, I’m forced to keep my mouth shut.
Then the movie begins, and I can’t think of Mama or the Village or Rusten’s bleeding head. I just see the man on the screen running from a huge, round rock. Then he’s in an airplane with a snake.
Bouncing in my seat, I can’t wait to find out what happens next. Anders chuckles next to me, most definitely relieved I like his favorite movie. He’s so happy that I bet he forgets to worry about Bronco and the other biker men.
It’s just him and me and Indiana Jones.
ANDERS
The movie is a hit with Pixie, leaving her smiling like crazy. Then she asks a lot of questions and wants to watch the next film in the series. Despite her excitement, I suspect her real goal is to stay up and avoid sleeping without her family.
Knowing tomorrow might turn out ugly, I offer her a shot of whiskey. After the second one, she doesn’t care about movies or families. She can barely speak once the liquor hits her hard. I carry her to my bed, where she closes her eyes and doesn’t move for hours.
Resting next to her, I can’t believe my flower child is in my house. I wake up frequently to check if she’s run off. Am I just dreaming the feel of her hand in mine? I finally sleep deep around two.
Five hours later, Pixie wakes me as soon as the sun lights the sky. She squats next to me in bed with her face inches from mine. She keeps saying my name, even after my eyes are open. I finally say her name, and she stops.
“We need to get Mama, Dove, and Future.”
“Yes,” I mutter, sitting up.
Pixie wraps her arms around my shoulders and gives me a gentle squeeze. “You sleep like Future,” she whispers, pouting her lips to show me how I look. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“No, I dreamt of you.”
Smiling, Pixie nearly crawls on my back when I get up. Instead, she jumps off the bed and wants to come into the bathroom with me. I tell her I have to piss. She still shoves the door open and stands at the mirror, studying her unbraided dark hair.
“Did you piss already?” I ask, using the other sink to wash my hands.
“Yes.”
“We should get food.”
“No, we need to save Mama, Dove, and Future.”
“You can’t go, wearing this,” I say, gesturing at my large white T-shirt. “I need clothes for you. I also need my club to agree to help me help your family.”
Pixie opens her mouth to squeal in protest. She looks threateningly at me and even swings her fists, but I just shrug.
“If I go in there by myself, the Volkshalberd might not let me take your family. Then I could get shot, and your family could get hurt. This is better.”
For thirty seconds, Pixie keeps her mouth poised for screaming. Then she nods at my idea and smiles.
“You’re very smart, Anders. Lots of men are dumb, dumb, dumb. John of the Marks is stupid. Not you.”
I smile at her compliment. My heart feels lighter when she says nice stuff about me. Pixie isn’t fake. She doesn’t like everyone, and she’s very, very obvious about her feelings. Her approval is a prize few people enjoy.
Once in the kitchen, I check my messages. Bronco tells me to meet him at the Woodlands’ clubhouse in an hour. Another message is from my VP’s wife, who came by overnight and dropped off clothes at the front door.
Looking through the bag left by Topanga, Pixie says no to them all. She doesn’t like pants, and pink is the color of baby butts. Yet, when I explain how she needs to change so we can get her family, she instantly strips down and dresses in the clothes.
The shirt goes on backward, of course. I have to help her with that, which makes her laugh. Through the process, she keeps eyeing the door. I make her eat some of the leftover food from last night before we leave. Not wanting most of it, she acts as if the food tastes weird. I guess it probably does to someone who rarely eats meat. I have her put together a bag of snacks for her family. Finally, we get in my SUV, where she refuses to wear a seat belt.
“You’re beautiful,” she says when I try to strap her in. “But no.”
“Yes. Or we can’t go.”
Pixie backs down immediately, and we’re able to leave the garage.
Only the Executioners can live in this gated community. There are a dozen empty lots on the back end of the subdivision where my house is located. At the center of the Woodlands is the community’s clubhouse. There’s an indoor pool and a play area, along with plenty of space for parties. Today, the clubhouse’s parking lot acts as a meeting place for the Executioners.
My SUV is the first to arrive. A handful of bikes roll in a few minutes later. Bronco and Lowell appear next. Once they arrive, I know I need to join the group.
When I get out, Pixie tries to follow. No way does she want to be cooped up in the vehicle. I beg her to stay put while I talk to my boss. Maybe remembering how we need them to get her family, Pixie obeys. I show her how to work the radio and hope the music calms her down.
“Long night?” Bronco asks me once I join my club brothers near the building’s double door entrance.
“She couldn’t sleep most of the night. Too worried if her family is dead.”
“They probably are,” mutters my club brother, Wyatt. “Hell, the Village could have gone the Jim Jones Kool-Aid route, and we’ll find nothing but bodies.”
I don’t normally care about Wyatt’s mouth. The hotheaded blond is family to the man in charge. There’s even a chance Wyatt might run the Executioners one day. Usually, when his mouth spouts bullshit, I keep my head down.
But not today.
Without thinking, I reach out and wrap my large fingers around his thin neck. He inherited a soft lady's throat from his mama, Bambi. I’d never snap her neck, but I feel myself struggling against the urge to end her son. Wyatt’s bright blue eyes—got that from his mama too—widen with fear. He knows he can’t win against me. If we battle, I’ll easily crush him.
“Titan,” Bronco says in that tone he uses when he’s making threats without actually threatening.