by A. C. Bextor
“Come here,” I insist, clutching my hands into fists at my sides.
“I loved you, Gypsy.”
Loved. Not loves.
If I move any closer, she’ll run. She’s never run from me before, but she’s also never been in another man’s bed.
Fuck, everything between us has changed.
“Cricket, I said come here.”
Cricket shakes her head. “I’ve never meant to you what you still mean to me.” At the same time I take a step toward her, she takes one back, adding, “I’m glad you’re safe, and that you’re home this time for good. I care about you, and God knows I’ve missed you. But I can’t be sorry I didn’t tell you about us.”
She said us. Not her and I. She and that dickhead.
Fuck.
“When?” I demand. “When did you and he…”
Christ, I can’t even say the words. When did she start to fall for him? When did she allow him inside her the way I once was? How is it possible my gorgeous girl allowed that asshole to mark her beauty, to taint her heart, and dirty her soul.
When?
Cricket looks down, moving an errant piece of hair from her face. She swallows hard and says, “He makes me laugh.”
I used to make her laugh. And fuck, when she did, the sound was music.
“He says I’m crazy,” she adds with a reflective smirk.
She is crazy. Crazy to the point of frustration.
“He protects me.”
“Protects you?” I fire back. The weight of worry sinks in my chest. “What the fuck? Why do you need protection?”
Cricket appears defeated, ashamed. “Not like that,” she answers. “He’s protecting me from the memory of you.”
At this, I falter. Stepping toward her, she allows my approach, giving me those big, beautiful blue eyes, framed in that equally beautiful face.
My hand cups her warm cheek, my thumb catching a falling tear.
Patiently, she leans into whatever comfort she can. She sighs before her eyes close, forcing me to lose my reflection in their depths. A reflection I saw the first and only time I moved inside her.
Before she has a chance to stop this, to turn away for good, I slam my mouth to hers. My tongue prods her lips, pleading for permission to enter. Giving in, she allows my touch.
But only for a second.
Pulling back, Cricket looks up. In place of my reflection, I find she’s lost, hesitant, and so fucking sad.
“Gypsy, I’m sorry.” As she pulls from my arms, I reach out to grab her wrist. Yanking herself from my grasp, she insists, “I couldn’t wait anymore.”
And with that, the woman I love, but have hurt the most, turns and walks away as fast as her feet can carry her.
Six weeks earlier
“You’re drunk,” I accuse, my determined gaze focused on Gypsy.
His long and muscled body leans against the kitchen counter. Holding a bottle of beer in one hand, he runs the other through his hair. The mark on his bottom lip is angry, dried with blood, and suffering against the newly swelled cut. Mud covers his black boots top to bottom.
Last night’s bonfire had been a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
Leglas had been in the mood to start shit, more so than I’ve seen since Gypsy came back. The two have never seen eye to eye in club matters or otherwise. But last night was different, with Leglas topping the scale of asshole in more ways than one.
“I may be drunk,” Gypsy concedes. “But I’m still sober to recognize how much you’ve been fuckin’ lying to me.”
“Lying to you?”
Gypsy nods, blinking slowly as he does.
“What am I lying about?” I press, crossing my arms over my chest.
The drunk and broken man in front of me shrugs. The dirty T-shirt he’d been wearing last night hangs loose at the neck where Leglas had torn the hem.
“You still love me,” he huffs, shifting on his feet to lean both elbows on the counter.
“Of course I still love you,” I admit, because it’s true. “I’ll always love you.”
He brings the bottle to his mouth and takes another drink. Once finished, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slams the bottle down in front of him. Then, he turns to face me.
His face is worse than I thought. Not only is it bruised from the strike Leglas got in, it’s also matted with dirt and grime. He hasn’t showered. I fight the urge to go to him, to touch his cut and clean his cheek. I fight so hard, I’m left unguarded at his next question.
“Last night,” he sneers. “Why’d you let Leglas touch you the way he did?”
When I don’t answer, Gypsy’s eyes narrow, his brows furrowing in frustration.
“No man has the right to put his hands on you the way he did,” he berates.
“You’re wrong about him,” I explain. “You don’t get how we are together.”
Gypsy doesn’t know Leglas like I do. He doesn’t understand Leglas loves, shows compassion, feeling. If Leglas’s hands were on me, he was expressing something no outsiders could understand.
Obviously, Gypsy will never understand because he gives nothing away, physical or otherwise. He’s incapable. He’s impossible. And he’s also still alone.
Standing straight, pointing to the door, he rages on. “Jesus Christ, Cricket, Leglas had his fingers around your goddamn throat!”
“Leglas could never, and would ever hurt me,” I argue back, my tone calm and even. “He’d hurt himself before hurting me.”
“He put his hands on you!”
“Of course he did!” I cry out, defending the man who picked up the shattered pieces of my soul when the one I loved never cared that he broke it. “Leglas has every right to put his hands on me. I’m his!”
Gypsy blinks. Once. Twice. Silence falls between us as his eyes narrow in confusion and pain.
Remaining steadfast, I straighten my posture and go at this another way. “Leglas gives me what I need.”
“What you need?”
“Yes. What I’ve always needed.”
The air in the room shifts, breaking any ease between us.
Gypsy smirks, brutality coaxing his lips. “He do this while you’re on your back or on all fours?”
Strike one.
“Fuck you,” I seethe.
Ignoring my growing agitation, he pushes, “Does my brother prefer you ride him from the top, or does he bend you over so he can drive in deep?”
Strike two.
“Stop it,” I demand. “You’re saying this to hurt me.”
Grinning, Gypsy holds the bottle of beer to his mouth, but instead of drinking, he says, “Had you once, babe, so I know you’re a natural. Is Leglas teaching you how to do one better?”
Strike three.
I can’t do this.
Turning on my heel to run, to get as far away from this living heartbreak as I can, the sounds of Gypsy’s heavy footsteps mark the floor. My arm is wretched, and he uses my shock to slam my chest against his.
Breathing hard and looking down, he locks his arms around me. Then I watch with surprise as tears fill his eyes.
I’ve never witnessed Gypsy showing remorse. Happy, on occasion. Anxious, sometimes. Angry, a lot. But tears of remorse? Never.
“I’m sorry,” he gets out on a leaden murmur. Resting his forehead to mine, he closes his eyes. The mist of alcohol on his breath lingers between us when he says, “Fuck, I’m so goddamn sorry.”
“Gypsy, I can’t do this anymore.”
“I know,” he agrees, shaking me in his arms. “Fuck, I know.”
“Let me go.”
“Tell me you love him,” he pleads. “Just fuckin’ tell me you love him. I need to hear it.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Holding me closer, tighter, he shoves his face into my neck, running his nose along my ear.
Moving his hands to my ass, he quietly orders, “Tell me you’re plannin’ to spend the rest of your life with him.”
I can’t do that.
“Tell me it’s his kid you want growin’ in your belly.”
This is killing me. No matter how much I care about Leglas, the odds will always be against us. He doesn’t want what I want. A house. A family. A kind of peace. Something worth having that we would fight to keep. And how could he want any of that? Saint’s is what Leglas knows. The club is his life.
With my arms held captive to Gypsy’s chest, I plead, “You have to let me go.”
He doesn’t listen. Rather, he kisses my neck, his tongue darting out to taste. My body trembles, my skin pebbling with longing to have more of this—more of him.
Resting his lips at my jaw, he insists against my skin, “Baby, tell me you’re his in a way you’ll never be mine.”
Closing my eyes, a tear escapes. My arms ache to wrap around him, while my fingers itch to run through his hair. My heart hurts knowing I can’t do anything at all.
Last night, Gypsy acted out in a way I’ve waited my entire life for. Something inside him snapped, revealing what I’d dreamed about for so long, I can’t remember a time I didn’t.
Gypsy misses me.
Gypsy wants me.
Gypsy still loves me.
At the same time, we pull back, but Gypsy’s hold around my waist holds steady.
Heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul, I watch as a pyramid of emotions whirl behind his rich hazel eyes.
His body grows languid as he tilts my head and brings his mouth to mine.
“I came back for you,” he whispers. Against my lips, he adds, “I came back because I couldn’t wait another fuckin’ day to tell you that I—”
I’m done. He doesn’t have to say anymore. I’m through fighting. I’m over worrying about him every day we’re not together, and I’m finished caring what others think.
My eyes close and my mouth falls open. Soft, sweet, caring, and slow, he takes over the kiss. This isn’t the frenzied connection of lost lovers. This is two people coming together—really coming together—the way they should have always been.
When his other hand reaches up to hold my face, I allow mine to roam freely. This body I’ve held before becomes taunting. These arms that I’ve cried in so many times before become weapons. My heart breaks in my chest as I taste and drink from the man who left me.
Left me alone.
Left me fearing if I’d see him again.
Left me to another.
Before I can pull away, a voice sounds from behind us. All we had in this small, shallow moment in time is lost.
“Like we’re not already in the middle of a shitstorm.”
Fucking hell.
Mia.
Present…
Everything is dark.
The knot of the rope tugs at the back of my head, pulling my hair and pricking my scalp with each move. The burlap hood covering my face reeks; its stench is old and terrifying.
My right eye is swollen shut, my vision limited through the weight of its swelling. My cheek throbs, warm liquid seeping from its side. The skin is tight, dried blood having been there for too long.
I’m alone with haunting memories of how I came to be here.
“This one,” a vicious woman dressed in a gray, pinstriped suit, black tie, and shiny stilettos cooed.
Her accent was foreign. With my ears ringing in fear, I couldn’t place where I’d heard the same before.
Her hair was pulled up in a severe bun on the crown of her head. She had thin lips that were painted red. Along with an evil scowl, she wore dark framed glasses as she glared down at her shaky, naked victim.
She grabbed the girl by her quivering chin, forcing her to cry out in pain. Sharp fingernails dug into the meaty flesh of her tear-stained and bloody cheeks. The woman stared into her eyes, tilted her head, and gave off a disgusted tsk. The girl’s head flew back on a gasp as the woman pushed her away. She watched her nearly topple, smiling at her unease just to spite.
The taste of the gag is vile. The material chokes, forcing my breathing into shallow pulls. The strong waft under my nose tortures my throat with every ragged breath I’m able to steal. I fight the urge to vomit at the souring stench of the same clothes I was taken in.
Three days I’ve lived this nightmare. I’ve counted, each day seemingly longer than the one before.
Little solace was found finding out I wasn’t alone. Nine girls had started this nightmare at my side. Nine victims of abuse, all different shapes, origins, and age.
After being forced to undress, discarding our clothes into an open box provided at the door, we were herded into a shower. The men who guarded us kept careful eye. Some scowled as if having to endure our presence was a waste of their time. Others exposed themselves, pulling out their hardened cocks and grunting as they fondled themselves into release.
Once we were deemed clean, we were ordered to dry. Minutes passed like hours before we were brought in here, single file, for close inspection.
My arms and wrists ache with agonizing pain. The open and exposed flesh simmers against the prickled teeth of the tattered rope binding them together at my back. Any attempts so far to pull them apart have been futile. I know because I’ve tried countless times since my deliverance into this hell.
I’m so fucking tired.
Closing my eyes, I don’t wait for sleep. I beg for it, wishing I could forget where I am, offering a moment’s reprieve.
But it never comes.
“You,” the venomous woman called in my direction. Narrowing her eyes, she studied my reaction. In the depth of her contemplation, I noticed she’d been reveling in the fear of those who’d been beaten, starved, and mentally extinguished. Surprising me, she added on a hiss, “I know you.”
“You know me?” I blurted, before a quick and severe pain slammed against my lower back, forcing me to my knees. I fell forward, bracing my hands on either side of her shiny black shoes for balance.
I was broken and pathetic. My hands were covered in filth. My fingernails were filled with the dark stains of earth.
Until that point, I hadn’t been touched, nor had I been sexually violated. I knew without having to ask that most of the others who were with me had been, though. With each glance we chanced at each other, we wordlessly conveyed our story.
The tear marks covering their dirtied faces said more about their fear than a conversation ever could.
The bite marks marring their once healthy skin was the invitation in knowledge of how their terror had begun.
The ripples of blood dropping from between their legs spoke of their crude sexual violation.
I wondered where they came from, and how we as strangers came to share this nightmare together. I tried to guess how long it would be before I looked as they did.
Sullen with doubt of anyone ever finding me alive, I questioned if the next girl brought in would look at me the way I did the others.
Tired. Worn. Beaten. Empty of sustenance and drained of life.
With my lack of response, the abhorrent woman continued her torment, her accent dripping with insinuation in my ear. “Roberts spoke the truth for once in his miserable, cheating life.”
Roberts, she’d said. Tyler Roberts.
My biological father.
Damn my life for coming into it marked with the devil’s sign painted on my back. I haven’t set eyes on my father since I was taken from his warehouse a lifetime ago.
I was too young to understand I hadn’t been stolen, but saved from my father’s warehouse. Gypsy, Pop, and what seemed an army of men had come for me in the night. The memories are there, but faded. Just one standing out so clear—it was in Gypsy’s arms I was carried out.
I never dwelled on my past. There was never time. I was too busy giving thanks for the new family who took me in and loved me as I should’ve been loved all along.
The murmured verses and cadenced rhythm of music coming from the next room echoes off the walls, piercing my ears through its thin barrier. The same song on repeat mocks my position;
its lyrics playing over and over, again and again… and again.
Ironic, I suppose, that the chorus of “The Sound of Silence” once brought both familiarity and peace. Now, not only its notes, but its words are deafening.
My feet burn, hanging haplessly from the oversized wooden chair. The cuts to their bottoms pulse against the cold, damp air. The slices made to each were intentional and deep.
“Get her up,” the woman demanded waspishly. Another line of salvia escaped my lips, swinging in mid-air, then dropping to the concrete floor.
Brutal fingers dug deeply into the flesh of my upper arms. My shoulders screamed in agony as I was jolted to my feet. My back cried out from another punishing blow.
Once I was upright, the woman stepped in close. Closer than she’d been before, and closer than she’d been to any of the others.
“We’re keeping her,” she declared, locking her malevolent gaze to my desolate one.
I wanted to roll my eyes at her empty threats. I wanted to scream, holler, and curse for being there at all. But I knew my voice would go unheard, my prayers of getting out would go unanswered.
“Make sure our guest is welcomed,” she ordered with a crooked smile.
It was then I let go of my fear, worry, and despair. I embraced my fate, accepting that since birth my destiny had been exactly this. My time on earth started out as shit. A mother absent from my life. A father who wanted to be. The man I loved above any other denying our fate at every turn.
So, it was in that moment, right before I was carted away to this dark room, that I surrendered.
The first blow to my face caught me off-guard. The second to my stomach was worse, leaving me to gasp for breath I didn't want to take.
I gave over to the pain, retreating to indifference. I stopped fighting for the will to live. I accepted my past and forfeited my future, if only to end its misery.
Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown in the towel on my freedom so easily. Maybe I should’ve fought harder to stake claim on what’s been mine since I took my first breath.
But, with each brutal blow those men delivered, and with each promise of pain they spoke, I took control the only way I’d been able to. I let them have their way, granting their malice to break me.