Archer smirked, obviously amused by the blatant fear that was running through every inch of my body.
“Look, Dillon, the only way this works is if you trust me and the rest of the club. Keeping secrets can get you in trouble, or worse, killed. If you got something going on, and the club needs to know about it, then you better start talking.”
I looked at my feet, reluctantly sitting down on the bed with a sigh.
“I did something bad…” I started, briefly looking up at him.
His blue eyes flashed with a strange look of worry, almost like he actually gave a shit about me.
“I grew up in the foster system with my sister. My parents abandoned us when I was eight, signing over their rights to me and my sister and handing us over to the State. We were passed around from foster home to foster home. Some of them were okay, but most of them were bad.”
“I see,” he said gruffly.
“When I was ten and my sister was twelve, we were shuttled to a house of horrors. The people there were complete monsters, ones that took advantage of us every chance they got. My sister was raped repeatedly by the father of the home…”
Archer’s hands clenched. I’m not sure he even realized he was doing it, or the fact that his jaw was pulled tight.
“… and I was raped by his son.”
“Jesus,” Archer bit out, anger vibrating through him.
“We had a rough life. Our last foster home was almost as bad, but my sister offered herself up freely to Mr. Sinclair, so he would stop beating me and using me as an ashtray.” I showed him my arms and all the scars Mr. Sinclair had left on me when he used to put his cigarettes out on skin as punishment.
“And what about these?” Archer asked, examining the self-inflicted wounds I carved on myself.
I quickly pulled down my sleeve, embarrassed that he even saw them. “Those helped relieve the pain.”
Archer’s brow fell, his eyes softening when he realized what I meant. Then he did something I didn’t expect. He held out his own arm, showing me similar markings that were almost faded and close to his bicep. “The release only lasts a minute, Dillon. It may help you momentarily, but it won’t help you in the long run. Sometimes, the easiest way to deal with your pain is to face it head on, and deal with any repercussions that come with it.”
“You used to cut yourself?”
He nodded.
“But you don’t anymore?”
He shook his head. “I found other ways to release all that pain I was holding inside. I found solace with my brothers here in the Celestial Sons, and I learned how to manifest that pain in other ways, clearing my mind with meditation and self-reflection.”
“You don’t strike me as the type of guy who meditates,” I said, laughing a bit.
“You’d be surprised. Maybe one day I can show you how to release pain without inflicting more wounds.”
His offer surprised me, but it also gave me a sense of warmth I usually didn’t feel. “I think I’d like that,” I admitted, feeling closer to Archer than I had any other male in my life that came before him.
The corners of Archer’s mouth ticked up slightly, but then he got all serious again, knowing there was more to my story than the little I had given him.
“Well, before I teach you anything, I need to know exactly what I’m working with.”
It was hard to keep direct contact. I didn’t want Archer to look at me the way he was right now… disappointed. “Okay, but in order to understand why I did what I did, I need to tell you the rest of my story.”
He nodded, encouraging me to go on.
“The only love I have ever felt from anyone is what I felt from my sister Joey. She’s all I have in this world. She spent a better part of my life protecting me from the demons and monsters that were out there trying to hurt us. She tried to get custody of me when she turned eighteen, but the judge wouldn’t give it to her, so she had to walk away, and I was sent to a boys’ home in Austin. After I turned eighteen, I returned here, searching for my sister that I lost contact with when I was almost sixteen. It didn’t take me long to find her, but when I did, all hell broke loose.”
Archer stroked the hair on his chin. He had a short-kept beard that was a dark brown color, and hair that was cut short to his head military style. He always wore tight black and white t-shirts paired with jeans, and hardly ever smiled. To an outsider, he looked like a menacing biker, but I was starting to see past his off-putting façade, and getting to know the gentle giant within.
“Okay?” he said. “How?”
“She’s a sweet butt for the Hell’s Artillery.”
