Page 11 of Vandal Unbound

Her eyes are narrowed, her brow furrowed. I get it—she doesn’t know me and has no reason to trust me. She reminds me of a tiny kitten Mom had when I was younger. Mabel would scream bloody murder for milk, pitiful tiny mewls with an angry face.

As it is, I unwrap Elsie’s hands from around my leg and crouch down in front of her. “You and Boo Boo Bear okay?” I ask.

The volume of music from the apartment reverberates through the concrete, and Elsie covers her ears.

She nods, and I almost die when tears fill her eyes. “The men are so shouty,” she says. “I don’t like them.”

I nod at that. “Yeah. Can see why. They’re dicks.”

Her mom coughs, and when I look up, she’s raising both eyebrows. “She’s five,” she reminds me.

“Sorry. Yeah. They are definitely…being naughty.” The floor shifts a little, and I wobble as liquor sloshes in my gut. Haven’t showered in three days either. Should probably get on my way.

But Elsie throws her arms around my neck and clings to me, so despite the fact my body is in various stages of falling apart, I stand with her in my arms and hold on to her.

“You okay?” I ask her mom.

She watches Elsie curiously. “I am. Thank you. I’m Daisy.”

Daisy and Elsie.

Their names match, and I can’t explain why. Same vibe.

I remove the hand placed on Elsie’s back and offer it to Daisy. “I’m Vandal. Elsie called me.”

I can see the reluctance on Elsie’s mom’s face, and I get it. Who would want an unshowered drunk biker around their daughter?

“Um…we’re grateful.”

The door to the apartment down the corridor opens, and the music gets even louder. Elsie buries her head against my shoulder, and Daisy jumps and places her hand over her chest. I place my hand over hers on her sternum, and it’s a shock how soft and smooth her skin is. For the first time since the accident, I feel like lingering, but instead, I nudge her back inside the door so those assholes can’t see her.

“Here,” I say, offering her daughter back. “Take Elsie back inside and close your door. Don’t answer it unless you hear me ask you to open it.”

Daisy shakes her head. “Don’t. You’ve already done more than enough.”

I glance toward the nearby door and see a cloud of smoke come out of it. Mom and I lived in places like this when I was a kid. I remember the noises. People having sex, even in the stairwell. People fighting. Music and parties all times of the night.

The first thing I did with my Outlaw paycheck was get her into the house she’s in now. Lived there with her for two more years before I found my own place, just so I could be sure she was safe.

So I know what it feels like to live in a place that’s so out of control, each day is a hyper-vigilant struggle.

“Thank you, Vandal,” Elsie says.

I smile at that. It’s weak, but it’s been a while since I’ve felt the corners of my mouth lift. So I tip my head in her direction.“You’re welcome. Now go in. Lock the door. I’ll knock again if I need you.”

Daisy steps back enough to reach the door, but before she closes it, she pauses. “Thank you. For helping us.”

I nod, then turn to move down toward Chris’s apartment, where Chris and another man stand outside. I’ve dealt with men exponentially more frightening than Chris. Wealthier. Better armed. Stronger fighters.

And I force myself to consider the odds. Out of every fight I’ve ever been involved in, from school to the club, only once have I had my ass handed to me.

But this is the first time I’m gonna enter a fight with three distinct disadvantages. First, I’ve got injuries that will never heal if they get smashed up again. Second, I’m not even sure if the metal plates in my skull will bend or break or whether screws will pierce my brain if I get hit, but I’m guessing they will. Three, my vision is blurred, which means my aim will be off. Oh, and a fourth one: There are more of them than there are of me.

I shake my arms off and crick my neck from left to right. Any punches I land need to hit home fast. So, when the first occupant of the apartment—a man with a shaved head and a Nazi vibe—looks at me in surprise, I punch him so hard, his head spins as he smashes into the wall before he can say a word.

One down.

“Joe, Mark,” Chris yells over the deafening volume as he stumbles back into the house, and I catch him trying to scramble for a baseball bat in the corner.