Church
1061 Words
The leathers didn't just fit like sin.
They fit like a sentence.
Like the second skin Knox Vance had decided I would wear for Year One.
I stared at myself in the cracked mirror bolted to the Godown wall. The woman looking back wasn't Prosecutor Aria Wanjiru Mwaura. She was something else. Something Kamiti-made. Black leather hugging curves I'd used to hide under blazers. A zipper pulled up to my throat like a collar. Boots that came to my knees, heavy enough to kick down doors. Or kneel in.
My hair was a mess. My split lip was still yellow-green. My eyes were his.
Ten minutes, he'd said.
It had been eight.
The deadbolt turned before I could count to nine.
Knox. Cut on now. Rusted Saints President patches on the front, skull wearing a crown of thorns on the back. It made him broader. Meaner. More mine.
His eyes ran over me. Slow. From the boots up to my throat. Up to my mouth. Up to my eyes. Like he was memorizing the damage. Like he was checking his work.
"Good," he said. One word. Kamiti gravel. "Now you look like you belong to me."
He didn't ask if I was ready. He didn't care. He turned and walked out, expecting me to follow.
I did.
Because Year One: Learn to ride.
And Knox Vance was the lesson.
The Godown opened up past my cell. It wasn't just storage. It was a kingdom. Bikes lined the walls like soldiers. A bar built from engine parts. A pool table with a map of Nairobi burned into it. And at the far end, double doors with that same skull and crown of thorns.
Church.
Where they voted. Where they bled. Where they sentenced.
Rusted Saints turned as we walked through. Dozens of them. Cuts, ink, scars. The men I'd put away. The men I'd failed to put away. Their eyes dragged over me. Not lust. Assessment. Weighing if the Prez's new Old Lady was worth the trouble she brought.
She put me in Kamiti, their eyes said. Now she's in leathers.
I kept my chin up. Courtroom posture. Kamiti survival. Knox's shadow.
He stopped at the double doors. Turned to me. His hand came up, thumb brushing my jaw again. Right over the bruise. Claiming it. In front of everyone.
"Whatever happens in there," he said, voice low enough that only I heard, "you don't speak unless I tell you to. You don't move unless I tell you to. You don't breathe unless I tell you to."
He leaned in. His mouth at my ear. His breath was coffee and gasoline and ruin.
"Understand, Counselor?"
The title was a blade now.
"Yes," I whispered. Because Kamiti teaches you when to fight and when to survive.
His mouth curved. Not a smile. A warning.
"Good girl."
Then he kicked the doors open.
Church was round. A table scarred with knife marks and history. Twelve chairs. Eleven filled. One empty at the head. The Prez's chair.
Every man at that table had a file in my office. Armed robbery. Murder. Trafficking. RICO.
And now I was walking into their court.
Knox's hand landed on my lower back. Possessive. Heavy. Guiding me forward. Not to a chair. To the space behind his.
"On your feet," he told me. "Behind me. Where I can feel you."
I stood there. In leathers. In front of the Rusted Saints. The prosecutor behind the President.
The VP with the scar spoke first. "You brought her to Church, Prez. You know the rules."
"I make the rules," Knox said. He sat. The chair groaned. "She's mine. That makes her Saints."
"She put half this table in Kamiti," another one spat. Serpent tattoo on his neck. "She put you in Kamiti."
Knox went still. The kind of still that happened right before violence.
"And I put her on a mahogany table," he said, quiet. Deadly. "I put her on my bike. I put her in my Godown. And now I put her in my Church."
His head tilted. He looked up at me over his shoulder. His eyes were hell.
"Tell them what you are, Wanjiru."
Twelve pairs of eyes. Twelve killers. One me.
I swallowed. Found my courtroom voice. The one that sent men away for life.
"I am his," I said. Clear. No shake. Kamiti killed the shake. "His bruises. His protection. His sentence."
Knox's hand reached back. Grabbed my hip. Dragged me forward until my thighs hit the back of his chair. Until I was standing between his knees. Caged by him. Claimed by him.
"Mine," he agreed. To the table. To the room. To me. "So anyone who touches her, looks at her wrong, talks about her..."
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Serpent tattoo nodded. Slow. "Understood, Prez."
The VP leaned back. "Then let's vote."
They voted.
On me.
On whether the woman who prosecuted them could breathe their air.
Knox didn't vote. He didn't have to. His vote was me, in leathers, standing between his knees.
It was unanimous.
I was Saints.
When we walked out of Church, the sun was dying. The Godown was lit with neon and fire. Bikes were being rolled out. A line of them. Ready to ride.
Knox swung his leg over his Ducati. Looked at me. Jerked his chin.
"Year One, Counselor," he said. Patting the seat behind him. "Time to learn."
I walked to him. Put my hand on his shoulder. Swung my leg over.
His body was heat and muscle and Kamiti rage under mine. I wrapped my arms around his waist. Pressed my chest to his cut. Felt the skull and crown of thorns against my skin.
"Hold tight," he said, revving the engine. The whole Godown shook. "I don't lose what's mine."
Then we were moving. Out of the Godown. Into Nairobi. Into night.
Twelve bikes behind us. Rusted Saints. My Saints.
I closed my eyes. Let the wind tear at my hair. Let his heartbeat thud against my palms.
Year One: Learn to ride.
Year Two: Learn to bleed.
Year Three: Learn to rule.
Year Four: Learn to burn.
Year Five: Learn to stay.
I was holding onto the man who ruined me.
And I had five years to ruin him back.
I tightened my arms.
Make him count, Wanjiru.
Every damn second.
- Writer
