Maelstrom

by Susanna Strom

  The Wilcox Brigade hadn’t defiled the dining room the way they had the living room. No flags were pinned to the walls or pamphlets scattered across the tabletop. I imagined that the room looked much the way it had when generations of Rasmussens dined here. A rustic walnut trestle table anchored the room, surrounded by a dozen sturdy Shaker-style chairs. An oil painting of the ranch hung over the sideboard.

  I dropped the potholder onto the middle of the table and placed the pan of spaghetti on it, an inelegant way to serve dinner, but functional.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Libby called.

  The others traipsed into the room. Jerrilyn took the place of honor at the head of the table, an interesting glimpse into the group’s power dynamics. Boyd sat to her right, Dwight and Darryl to her left. Without asking, Ripper sat opposite Jerrilyn, and patted the seat to his left, urging me to take my place at his side. Tuck sat at Ripper’s right.

  Libby disappeared back into the kitchen, then appeared with a pitcher of iced tea. She circled the table, filling glasses. After she poured tea into Ripper’s glass and mine, she paused.

  “Mac and I were talking about babies.”

  Ripper had lifted his glass halfway to his mouth. He carefully placed it back on the table and swiveled his head toward me, raising his eyebrows.

  “Libby thinks that we should have a baby. That it’s our duty to the race.”

  In order to infiltrate the Wilcox Brigade, Ripper and I had agreed that we had to act as if we were sympathetic—or at least receptive—to their twisted world views. But—crap—the last thing I wanted was to have a public discussion about Ripper getting me pregnant. We’d never talked about having a baby. I had no idea if he ever wanted to be a father. With my birth control implant, we wouldn’t need to think about it for almost two years.

  “Huh,” he said. “Guess that’s something we’ll have to talk about.”

  “Ripper’s your road name, right?” Darryl interrupted. “What’s your real name, the one on your driver’s license?”

  Ripper leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. Tilting his head to one side, he met Darryl’s eyes. “Alejandro Solis,” he said, carefully enunciating each syllable.

  “Shit.” Darryl tossed his napkin onto the table. “You a Mexican?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Ripper

  “You a Mexican?”

  Fuck Darryl. Fuck him six ways to Sunday.

  Before I replied, I gave myself ten full seconds to indulge in a mental picture of my fist bashing into his face. “My family is Asturian.”

  “Beg pardon?” Darryl smirked. “Ass-what-ian?”

  The imaginary beatdown continued.

  “My grandparents all came from Asturias, a province in northern Spain.”

  Close enough to the truth to pass the sniff test. My great-grandparents all immigrated together from Gijon, a large coastal city in Asturias.

  “So are you white?” Dwight asked.

  To my surprise, Boyd answered. “Hitler considered the Spaniards to be a Mediterranean subset of the Aryan race, so yeah, he’s white.”

  I’d pass muster with Hitler? Fucking great.

  From their sour expressions, Boyd’s statement disappointed his cousins. They probably hoped to kick me out on my ass and make a move on Mac. I piled on. “My grandfather volunteered for the Blue Division during World War II. You heard of them, Darryl? Spanish volunteers who joined the Wehrmacht and fought for Hitler on the Eastern Front?”

  A bald-faced lie that would make my grandfather spin in his grave. He’d proudly served in America’s Sixth Armored Division during the war, and I just called him a Nazi-loving fascist. Sorry grandpa. Greater good and all that.

  Darryl crossed his arms over his chest and sulked.

  “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s eat,” Jerrilyn pronounced.

  Darryl and Dwight had enough smarts between them to stop eye-fucking Mac, but they kept talking to her.

  “How about you, Mac?” Darryl asked, after polishing off his first helping of spaghetti. “Where are your people from?”

  She laid down her fork and reached under the table to touch my knee. “I’m kind of a mutt. My dad’s people came from Scotland and England. My mom’s half Danish and half Norwegian.”

  “All good, northern stock,” Boyd said.

  Mac shrugged and played dumb. “I’ve never thought too much about it.”

  “It’s past time for your racial consciousness to awaken.” Boyd pointed at the people sitting around the table. “All of us, we’re the seed germ of the master race. We all have an important role to play in the new world.”

  “Me?” Mac looked startled. “I do, too?”

  “Especially you. You and Libby. Hitler said that a woman should devote herself to her husband, her children, and her home. There is no greater duty for a woman than to bear and raise right-thinking white children.”

  Mac’s nails dug into my knee, but she maintained a wide-eyed, guileless expression on her face. This was the same woman who balked at wearing a German-style helmet the first time I put her on my bike. Who said she didn’t want to look like a Nazi stormtrooper. I liked that stubborn, opinionated woman better than this dumbed down Stepford version.

  “Right-thinking white children,” Mac repeated. She turned to me. “What do you think, Ripper?”

  “I think I need to sit down and hear Boyd out,” I said. “Make yourself scarce after dinner so the men can talk.”

  “Okay.” She glanced at the opposite end of the table and wrinkled her brow. “Libby looks worn out. I’ll help her clear the table and clean up. She said there’s a doctor and a ranch hand in the back of the house, and she brings them dinner every night. Maybe I could help her carry the food.”

  Nice move, Mac. I was careful not to let the relief show on my face. Sahdev was alive. I’d suspected as much, but it was good to know for sure and to have some idea of where they were holding him. The more time Mac spent with Libby the more information she could wheedle out of the woman.

  “Clear it with Boyd first.”

  Boyd was what passed for the brains of the operation. Well, Jerrilyn, too, but the man I was pretending to be would naturally see another man as top dog.

  While we ate, Dwight and Darryl carried on about the evils of the pre-pandemic American system. Did Mac know that FEMA—the Federal Emergency Management Agency—had planned to set up concentration camps for their political enemies? That the government had a nefarious scheme to merge the United States, Canada, and Mexico into a single nation? That the president intended to seize everybody’s guns? That the United Nations was up to no good, plotting to destroy the concept of private property?

  Had to admire Mac’s self-control while she listened to the nitwits rattle on. Not even a flicker of disdain crossed her face, although every word out of their mouths must have made her want to scream a protest. When Jerrilyn declared the dinner over, Mac jumped to her feet and fled to the kitchen with an armful of plates.

  Boyd and I retired to the front porch. Jerrilyn followed us and dropped with a heavy sigh onto the porch swing. Libby scuttled onto the porch and handed each of us a cold beer. Kyle had said that the ranch had some electricity from solar panels and a wind turbine. Guess cold beer was a priority. I popped open my beer and leaned back into my chair, waiting for Jerrilyn or Boyd to speak.

  “So what do you think?” Jerrilyn asked. She took a long pull on her beer, then belched.

  Careful.

  “I sympathize with a lot of what you say, but I’ve always minded my own business, been a live-and-let-live kinda man,” I said.

  “The old regime has collapsed, and none of us can afford to sit back and mind our own business,” Boyd said. “It’s time to do your part to set the world right, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.” I lifted the beer to my lips and swallowed. “What can we do? Realistically, what can we do that will make a damned bit of difference?”

  “We’re looking to recruit like-minded
men, build up the brigade, make it a real force for good, for stability,” Jerrilyn said. “The Wilcox Brigade can become the core of an army that supports and defends a new, white ethnostate. We’ll keep the peace, keep the lesser races in line. We could use a man like you, if you’re willing to commit to the cause.”

  “Can’t say I’m not tempted.” Couldn’t say how little I was tempted—not under the circumstances—but I sure as hell could think it. I tilted the beer bottle back and forth, watching the liquid slosh from side to side. “Let me give it some thought.”

  “You need to check with your woman?” Boyd asked.

  I snorted. “Mac will do as she’s told.”

  “Fair enough,” Jerrilyn said. “Long as you know that if you’re not with us, we got no place for you here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

  Tuck sauntered onto the porch, beer in hand. He leaned against the railing opposite my chair. “I took Libby and Mac back to feed our prisoners. The boys are tucked in for the night.”

  A weight lifted off my shoulders. Mac saw Sahdev and Bear and could fill me in on their conditions. Bear wouldn’t know her from Adam, but Sahdev was now aware that we were working on a plan to rescue him. Had been two days since the brigade took him prisoner. Hoped like hell he hadn’t thought we’d abandoned him.

  We shot the shit for another hour, then I yawned, stretched, and told them I was gonna take Mac to bed. I found Mac sitting next to Libby on the sofa, with a ball of yarn at her side and a plastic hook in her hand.

  She waved the hook at me. “I’m crocheting a baby blanket.”

  I held out a hand to her. “You can work on that tomorrow. We’re going to bed now.”

  “You’ll need a lantern,” Libby said. “There’s an extra one on the table there.”

  I snagged a lantern and switched it on. Mac hopped to her feet and took my hand. “Libby showed me our room. It’s this way.” She led me toward the hallway, then paused in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder and waving at Libby. “Good night, Libby. See you in the morning.”

  “You might want to get started on that baby tonight,” Libby winked.

  “Or at least we’ll get in some practice,” I replied, squeezing Mac’s ass.

  We walked in silence down the long hall. When Mac halted in front of a door, I checked the hall to make sure we were alone, then leaned over.

  “Sahdev? Bear?” I mouthed.

  “Opposite end of the house. Behind locked doors. Shackled, but otherwise they look okay. Tuck has the keys.”

  “All right. We’ll figure out a way to get our hands on the keys.”

  We entered the dark room. I set the lantern on the nightstand. While I locked the door and jammed a chair under the knob, Mac dropped onto the bed and covered her face with her hands.

  “This is harder than I thought it would be,” she whispered. Not sure if the words were meant for me, or for her.

  I squatted down in front of her. She dropped her hands and met my eyes, her expression blank. When I lifted a hand to touch her face, she pressed her cheek against my palm. “You all right?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied my face, her gaze moving from my eyes to my mouth, then back up again. “You’re still you, right?”

  “Huh?”

  Mac sucked in a breath, then slowly blew it out, like she needed to buy time before she spoke. She pulled my hand down to her lap and wrapped her fingers around my thumb. “When I read my romance novels, I get really turned on by the dominant, oversexed, alpha-male heroes.”

  No surprise there. I’d seen her e-book library, skimmed over a few of the stories, especially the ones about big, bad bikers. We still needed to act out a scene from one of those books. Even though it wasn’t news to me, I was surprised that she admitted getting turned on by dominant men. Usually, she acted like it was a dirty little secret.

  I nodded, encouraging her to continue. She was going somewhere with this confession, but exactly where I had no idea.

  “I found out that I like the fantasy more than the reality.” She squeezed my hand. “I know we’re playing a role. I know that I’m supposed to look dumb and nonthreatening, so it won’t occur to them to keep a close eye on me. I know that you’re trying to impress the men with how large and in charge you are, with how you’re the boss of me.”

  She hesitated.

  “But?” I said gently.

  “But when you casually bark out an order, and it’s clear that you expect me to hop to, I feel really pissed off. And when you look at me with that flat, emotionless face, it scares me. Everything in me rebels, and I want to smack you upside the head. I look at you and I think, Who is this guy? Where’s my Ripper?”

  “I’m right here. Still me. The same Ripper. The man who loves you.” I stood, sat next to her on the bed, then pulled her onto my lap. She clutched my T-shirt and buried her face in my chest. “Truth is, on a mission or in combat, I do expect you to defer to my experience and obey me without question. If I say duck, you duck. If I say hold, you hold. I expect all of my people to obey me without question. But the rest of the time?” I caught her chin and tilted her face up to mine, so she could see the truth in my eyes. “I want my woman standing at my side, not under my boot. A true partner. A woman with a mind of her own. I want you, just the way you are.”

  “I guess that means you’re still you.”

  “Always.” I ran my hand up and down her back, soothing her, reassuring her.

  With a thoughtful expression on her face, she touched her property necklace and rolled one of the alphabet beads between her fingertips. “Can I still wear this?”

  “Always,” I repeated firmly. “It never meant that I own you, that I expect you to hop to, like you said.”

  After a few minutes, she tilted her face up to mine. That adorable little V appeared between Mac’s brows. “Now that I know I don’t like being bossed around in real life, I suppose I’ll have to give up on my wild fantasies.”

  “No fucking way.” I laughed. “I like that side of you. In the bedroom, we can act out any fantasy we like. I can be—how did you describe it—the dominant, oversexed, alpha male of your dreams.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She squirmed on my lap—a motion my dick really appreciated—and I seized the moment.

  “Yeah. I can take off my belt, tie your hands to the bedpost, then, when you’re totally at my mercy, I’ll fuck you senseless.” She swallowed and licked her lips. I smiled to myself. If Mac liked it, I could play rough. “Or I’ll fist your hair, push you down onto your knees, and make you eat cock till you choke on my cum.”

  “Oh...” Her fingertips found my nipple piercing and twisted it.

  Hissing, I reached into my back pocket for my automatic knife. I flicked it open and held up the razor-sharp steel blade for Mac’s inspection. “Maybe I’ll cuff you. Stretch your arms over your head. Attach the cuffs to the headboard in a way that will let me flip you over. Face up, face down, whatever I like.”

  Mac’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, as if the scene was playing out in her mind’s eye.

  “I’ll cut your clothes from your body. Slice them into ribbons. Your pants. Your shirt. Your bra and panties. Lay you bare. Leave you helpless and vulnerable. Then I’ll drag the tip of my knife over your beautiful, unmarred skin. And I’ll mark you.”

  Mac trembled in my arms.

  “Won’t cut you. Not exactly. I know what I’m doing with a knife. Know how to raise welts without breaking the skin. Maybe I’ll carve my name across your tits or your back. Can’t promise it won’t hurt a little. I’d never harm you, Mac, but I will let you feel the bite of my blade.”

  She twisted in my arms and looked me square in the face. Her chest rose and fell as she gasped for air. “Ripper! Holy shit.”

  If she jerked, I wouldn’t risk cutting her with the business edge of my knife, so I trailed the dull side across her soft cheek, over her full lips, and down her slim neck. She swallowed as I traced the blade a
long her jugular. Frozen in place, she held her breath. Goosebumps prickled her arms.

  “Ripper,” she pleaded.

  I met her gaze and pulled the knife away. “You asking me to stop?”

  After a moment, she shook her head, an admission that brought tears to her eyes. And there it was, the contradiction that had plagued Mac since we met. The internal paradox that made her doubt herself. Made her miserable. I folded the knife and laid it on the bed. “What’s the problem, darlin'? You want something you think you shouldn’t want?”

  She nodded, color rising in her cheeks, even though she resolutely maintained eye contact. “When you talked about forcing me to kneel at your feet and about using your knife on me, I got so turned on that I just about blacked out. I’m an inconsistent mess. I want to be strong and weak at the same time.”

  Why did Mac have to be so damned hard on herself?

  “People are driven by conflicting impulses. As long as you step up when it counts—and you do—there’s nothing wrong with your fantasies. Think of it like a pressure valve that allows you to blow off steam. You’re not weak. You’re human.” I smoothed her hair back from her forehead, then cupped her nape. “And it means a lot that you trust me with your fantasies. You can trust me, Mac. I’ll take you to the edge and bring you back safe. Always.”

  The tension, the bitter self-recrimination drained from her face, replaced by a slow smile. “I don’t have enough clothes with me for you to shred the ones I’m wearing, but do you think we could still play around with your knife?”

  Surprised, I arched my brows, more than willing to indulge her. I slid my hand from her neck and wrapped it around her throat. Beneath my fingers, her pulse ratcheted up. “Ms. Dunwitty, I am at your service.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Bear