“Momma?” Her voice rings out again and I find myself looking from the right to the left, searching desperately through the whiteness for my baby girl.
God, she isn’t even a baby anymore. She’s . . . she’s twelve now.
“Momma?” Peyton’s voice surrounds me and suddenly as I blink, she appears right before me. The same copper tinted soft brown hair she had when she was a toddler. Her eyes are just as bright as mine, with their grassy and emerald mixture.
“Yeah, baby?” I say to her, kneeling down on the ground, I take her hands and can’t stop smiling, seeing her face clearly for the first time in ages. I know this can’t be real, it feels too . . . off.
She draws her brows together and her smile turns into a grimace. “Why haven’t you come to get me, Momma? Don’t you love me anymore, or do you hate me just like Daddy says?” Her voice goes from soft-spoken to a shrieking scream. I rip my hands away from hers and cover up my ears. My vision begins to spin and before I know it everything goes black.
Blinking my eyes over and over again I glance to my left and see nothing but pitch blackness. Fuck, it must still be pretty damn early. Grabbing my phone, the screen lights up and I see it’s not even five in the morning. Jesus. I knew it was early but I was hoping it would at least be seven.
I’ve had dreams like this before, but they’ve never been like this. I decide to get up and head over to my ensuite bathroom. It’s not huge, but it’s enough to get the job done. With a small walk-in shower, a toilet, sink, and an over the sink cabinet . . . well, I’ve got everything I need right here.
I strip out of last night’s clothes and toss them on the pile I have on my floor. Every Thursday I do laundry, so I’ll get to that mess in a couple days. Pulling my glass door to the side, I turn the handle and let the hot water hit the tile walls. I’m the type of person who likes my showers to be scalding hot, almost to the point where it’s burning my skin. I turn the cold side on just a tad, enough so it isn’t scorching, but it’s still the way I like it.
Stepping in, the water stings against my flesh. I place my hands on the wall and breathe in and out slowly. It’s something I do every day, trying to understand why she haunts my dreams the way she does.
I know I left her, but I didn’t think I had a choice when it was all happening. They were too powerful, too terrifying. They targeted me like they target everyone, and my husband . . . he dragged me along for the ride. When I was forced to make that horrible decision to leave Peyton behind, I made a vow to myself. A vow that I would get stronger and I wouldn’t ever let her go again. I only needed to have allies, resources, and knowledge to do it, and now here I am. A member of the Iron Vex MC, hunting the same cult that ruined my fucking life.
It was merely a coincidence that we ran across them, but one I’m thankful for every day. It’s allowed me to gather more information about them without being worried about looking suspicious.
I get out of the shower, blow dry my violet hair and plaster on a bit of foundation, a tad of neutral eyeshadow, and of course eyeliner. Then I head back into my room, put on my clothes, and slide my cut over my shoulders. Since I’m ready for the day, I head downstairs to have my morning cup of coffee and as soon as I’m done, I’ll head out into the city. I’ll be going early for my appointment, but I haven’t had a good ride around Manhattan in a while. It’s about time I went for another stroll.
Here I sit on a bench in Central Park after Beretta changed our meet location, again. I should’ve known she’d change the place, better yet the time. My nice leisurely ride around the streets of New York turned into a complete waste of time. We were supposed to meet at nine, not ten. Now I’ve wasted another hour and I’ll have to come up with some sort of excuse to give Boss when I get back, an excuse I haven’t even thought of yet. I’m sure it won’t be too hard, especially if I pull the cult card. I could tell her I was following a lead, and it was early so I didn’t wake anyone up. It could work, I just hope I don’t piss her off in the process.
Beretta comes strutting up in her full leather ensemble, though she’s wearing dark denim skinny jeans, or maybe they’re jeggings. Either way I don’t suppose it matters. Her hair’s styled in thick, bouncy curls and I’m positive she’s wearing a pair of sunglasses that cost as much as a month’s worth of rent for a studio apartment in the nice part of the city.
“Vanna, nice to see you,” Beretta calls me by my first name. I swear my mother gave me this name because she was a huge Wheel of Fortune fan, but I never had the chance to ask her. She died when I was fifteen from a heart attack. To this day I regret not
