by Skyla Madi
“There’s so many of them…” Isabelle said, still holding me tight. “This isn’t because you were speeding at all, is it?”
I shook my head.
“Turn off your motorcycle,” a baritone voice demanded. “Now.”
I slowly moved my hand toward the key and turned off my bike. Then the sounds of gravel crunching underneath shoes drew closer, accompanied by a crackly warble from their radios.
“James Creed,” the same, deep voice shouted. “You’re under arrest for—”
“What?” Isabelle shrieked, and the motorcycle shook as she whipped her head in their direction.
I blew frustrated air out of my lips, kicked my bike stand down, and turned. “Under arrest?”
“Don’t fucking move!” they ordered, but I lifted myself off the bike anyway.
Izzy gasped and dropped her hold to grip the seat instead. The six officers stopped, their guns drawn, their beady scowls focused on Blondie and me. I reached inside my cut and around to my lower back and pulled my revolver from my waistband. The officers drew their own weapons, and I was staring down the barrels of more guns than I’d like.
“Haven’t hurt a hair on her head,” I said, my fingers twitching around the handle of my gun. “Jonathan—”
I swallowed my words as half the officers turned their guns on Isabelle. A pang of panic slammed into my gut, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what to do.
“It’s not your town anymore,” the cop in front said, and I focused on him, on his buzz cut, his black uniform that clung tight to his overweight body, and the shiny badge on his chest. “Drop your weapon, get on your knees, and put your hands behind your head.”
“Or what?” I stepped forward. “You’ll shoot me?”
“James…” Isabelle whispered, her voice trembling.
I ignored her. If they wanted to shoot me, they would’ve already. There was an ulterior motive at play here, and I wasn’t going to go down quietly.
“No. I won’t shoot you.” The corners of his lips quirked. “You can come with us now, or we’ll pick you up later. Doesn’t bother me.”
So, they wanted Blondie? I lifted my arm and pointed my Smith and Wesson at Isabelle, the barrel of it pointed perfectly in the space between her eyebrows. The pigs tensed and shuffled nervously, their eyes wide with worry. Isabelle choked, and I did my best to block the terrified noises she made from my head. I had to get us out of here by any means necessary. If I had to shoot her, I would. I think.
“You want her?” I asked, pulling back the hammer until my gun clicked.
My stomach churned at the thought of what I was doing, at the thought of any harm coming to her by my hands or the hands of these fuckers.
The cop at the front, the overweight one with the buzz cut, sneered at me. “Go ahead. Shoot her. The more battered she is, the better.”
I clenched my jaw. They really were gonna use her to bring us down, huh? That had to be the weakest game plan ever. She’d never lie and say I hurt her. She’d never testify against me or Judge or the Devil’s Cartel. I stole a glance at her, and she pleaded silently with kinks in her brow and a trembling lower lip. Would she? Bang! Isabelle’s face twisted in pain, and she howled, clenching her bicep. What the fuck? I lowered my gun, shocked, as blood trickled over her slender fingers. I whipped my head back to the police.
“Shots fired! Requesting back up,” the lardy pig squealed into his radio. Bang! Another shot rang out, and Isabelle shrieked. I snapped my attention to her, to the bullet hole in my goddamn seat right by her bare thigh. “Drop your weapon or my next bullet goes in her spine.”
Without thought, I lifted my gun and shot him. In my rage, I missed my mark, and the bullet tore through the side of his neck. He crashed to the ground, shouting, gurgling, and clenching his bleeding neck. As he squirmed, all guns turned to Izzy, and I was caught in a checkmate. They knew I wasn’t going to hurt her, and I knew they would hurt her. They fucking had me. Izzy whimpered, and her eyes glistened, silently pleading for me to end this standoff. Jesus Christ.
“All right!” I shouted, tossing my gun away.
A thick, heavy feeling wormed its way through my stomach, and I felt sick. I hated myself. I never fucking threw in the towel, but here I was, throwing my gun to the ground and getting on my knees, uncaring that hard pieces of gravel dug into my kneecaps through my jeans. Isabelle mumbled her apologies through tears, and I was yanked by my collar and forced onto my stomach before I could acknowledge her. I just managed to turn my head as the side of my face hit the gravel.
“Easy!” I snapped, creating little whirlwinds of dust with my breath.
Whoever was on me responded by digging their hard knee between my shoulder blades and burying their hard elbow into my neck. I hissed, and they pushed harder. Through the pain, I watched a lady pig pull Izzy off my motorcycle and roughly cuff her. Blood ran freely down Blondie’s arm, turning her pale complexion red and ruining the pretty dress I chose, the one that cost me a small fortune. In the next heartbeat, my arms were wrenched behind me and I was cuffed and lifted to my feet, a cop flanking each side of me. Up ahead, the man I shot was being tended to, and in the distance, the sirens of their approaching backup sang. He’d be okay. I only grazed him, like he grazed Izzy.
“You’ll be all right,” I teased as they marched me past him. “It’s only a scratch, pussy.”
I was shoved forward by a forceful heel of a palm to the middle of my back, and I snickered. This was a giant waste of my time. By this evening, I’d be a free man, and every single one of these assholes, these puppets, would pay with their blood.
Twenty yards out from the police cruisers, Izzy was veered off to the left and me the right. As we approached the back of the cruiser, the door opened, and out stepped the last man I thought I’d see. Jonathan Laurent. I felt my face warp into a scowl so tight my eyebrows ached. I took him in in his dark gray suit and his blue and white tie, and the fucker had the audacity to smirk at me. He sat back here and let them shoot at Isabelle? What the fuck was wrong with him? I shrugged out of the grasp of those holding me and charged forward.
“You fuckin—” I was hit from behind, tackled to the ground, and my face kissed the gravel once more.
“James!” Isabelle shouted, then her voice was muffled by glass as the back door to the police cruiser carrying her was shut.
The asshole on my left buried his fingers in my hair and yanked my head up. He wretched me back onto my knees, and I grunted as Jonathan grinned down at me.
“Not so tough without your gang,” he sneered, the blue and red lights from the roof of the car coloring his silvery hair.
“Don’t need ’em,” I said, breathless. “Uncuff me and I’ll show you.”
His wicked eyes flashed at the challenge, but I knew he wasn’t pondering the idea. Jonathan was many things, but he wasn’t a fighter. He preferred to fight a mental battle, a battle of wits, of cunning. If he needed something physically sorted, he called his pigs to do it.
“You’re going away for a long time.” He glanced toward Izzy’s car. “Your whole club is.”
“Oh, yeah?” I laughed. “You’re delusional.”
The skin around Jonathan’s eyes crinkled as he faked a smile. “Am I?”
“You think she’ll lie for you? You think she’ll betray me?” I shook my head and laughed again. “She’s mine. I made her mine. She has no loyalty to you, the man who threw her to the wolves.” I shuffled closer on my knees. “The wolves have been good to her. Too good.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightened and relaxed as he clasped his hands in front of him, down low. “My daughter’s loyalty lies wherever I want it to. She’s easily bought, easily persuaded. It’s not her fault; she gets it from her mother.” He leaned forward, bringing his face level with mine. “She knew all along what I needed in order to disassemble the Devil’s Cartel. Of course, I’d prefer Damon Judge kneeling in front of me, but she insisted you’d be the easier one to manipulate, an
d she was right.” Delight glistened in his irises as doubt sprouted in my chest. Did she fucking play me? “You didn’t think your time with her was real, did you?”
I pursed my lips and looked over to Isabelle, who pressed herself to the glass window of the cruiser, mortification plain on her face. I did find it odd she wasn’t concerned with her father whereabouts or whether he was dead or alive, but who would? He was a damn snake.
I’d experienced plenty of fake relationships, and fake interactions, throughout my life. There was nothing phony about Isabelle Laurent or the time we spent together.
And I’d bet my patch on it.
THIRTEEN
I Z Z Y
My chest heaves. I’m alone. Trapped in a sparse, beige room with nothing but a steel table and a plastic stool. I glance up from the gray, speckled table surface to the mirrors in front of me. I’ve seen enough Law and Order shows to know they’re two-way. Regardless of who may be watching, I stare at myself in the reflection. This morning, I was clean and cute. Now…now I look like a homeless criminal. My long, blonde hair is a tangled mess, my eyes puffy from crying, and there are dried drops of blood all over me. At least they patched the bullet graze on my arm when I got here—here being Exeter’s only police station. Where’s Creed? Is he here, too? Does Judge know?
A clang in the door draws my gaze, and I tighten as it swings open, revealing a face I never want to see again. Dad saunters across the threshold, proud of himself, with a badge-wearing thug in tow.
“Belle, sweetheart,” Dad greets me, crossing the small room to cup my face in his large hands. He swipes his thumbs down my cheeks and collects my tears. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
He perches on the edge of the table, and the door clangs again, locking me inside with this…this…stranger. I lift my gaze to meet his, and my blood cools in my veins, then I pull my face out of his hold and shove my chair back, creating distance between us. Dad threads his fingers and rests his hands on his lap. Exhaling, he tilts his head and pins me with his blue stare.
“I know you’re upset—”
“Upset?” I shout, my voice cracking. “Upset doesn’t begin to cover it. How could you?”
For a flicker of a moment, sympathy flashes over Dad’s features only to be swallowed up by his resolution. He doesn’t care about me. Not at all.
“Do you remember the story we read together during your freshman year? Faithful Elephants?”
I cut my eyes at him, my gut turning as I recall the story. It’s a true tale about elephants in a zoo in Tokyo during World War ll. The zookeepers were ordered to poison their large and dangerous animals to prevent harm to the general public if a bomb were to detonate near the zoo and the animals escaped. It’s a tale about murder for the greater good.
“Don’t you dare tell me what you’ve done is for the greater good.”
“I made a promise—”
I shoot out of my chair, and the back of my thighs hit the plastic, and the chair falls over, slapping against the concrete floor. “I am your daughter! Not a pawn, not a cog, not bait—”
“I know.” Dad lifts himself off the table.
I tighten my shoulders as he approaches with caution then surrounds me with his arms, pulling me close to his chest. I inhale. He smells different, and his hug isn’t bringing me the same comfort it did as a child.
“I’m sorry.” He kisses the top of my head and holds me tight. “You can fix this, Isabelle. You can help me make it better, help me keep my promise so we can go back to normal—”
Fix it? I shove him, the heels of my palms hitting him hard in the chest, forcing air from his lungs. He stumbles back, his eyes wide. I’ve never felt anger so potent, so thick, in my veins.
“I’m not going to help you. This is your mess. Fix it on your own.”
Dad’s expression shifts, and shadows pool under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks as he lowers his chin. “You’ll make a statement—live.”
“A statement?” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. “About what?”
He takes a calculated step forward, sending chills down my spine. “You’ll tell the town, the whole United States, what you suffered at the hands of those men.”
I frown. What is he talking about? “You were there when the police pulled us over. Did I look like I was suffering?”
He took another step, clenching his hands at his sides. “They kidnapped you, Belle. They hurt you, raped you—”
I balk. “What? No, they didn’t.”
The officer by the door shuffles around the edge of the room, moving closer to where I stand opposite my dad. His dark features are zeroed in on me, his bushy brows furrowed, his lips pursed into a thin line. Hairs lifts on the back of my neck. Is he going to hurt me? I look at my father. His expression is much the same. Agitated.
“They hurt you, Isabelle,” Dad insists, resolute. “Real bad.”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Do I look hurt?”
It hits my face without warning, a fist so hard my jaw is thrusted from its natural position and cracks in my ears. I hit the floor, only just managing to get my hands out in time to catch myself. Pain radiates through my wrists, my face, and down my spine, and I taste blood. It’s metallic and gross on my tongue. I lift my head and peer at the man towering over me, the one Dad brought into the room with him. He clenches his large fist at his side, his knuckles pink. Tears of surprise and pain pool in my eyes.
“What are you doing?” I cry, feeling the right side of my face throb and swell.
“They hurt you,” Dad repeats, and I shake my head, turning my body. “He hurt you.”
He? “James didn’t hurt me. He kept me safe. The Devil’s Cartel—”
Dad’s thug bends and bunches my dress at the collar, I lift my hands to shield my face, and he swats them away with a growl then backhands me in the mouth. I shout as my lip splits against my teeth, and more blood saturates my tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut. The pain that explodes from the impact is sharp and brief, morphing into numbness.
“He hurt you. Raped you.”
Why does he keep saying that? I spit blood on the floor and open my eyes. I can’t see Dad through the blur of my tears, but I keep my stare firmly locked on his fuzzy shape regardless.
“Rape? I begged him to take whatever he wanted from me, and he did, multiple times, and I loved it. Does that sound like rape to you?”
He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth. I’ve hurt him with my confession, but it’s true. Creed didn’t have to persuade me to sleep with him or force it. I’ve been ready and willing from the moment I laid eyes on Creed. Dad must know that. He listened to all my therapy sessions, after all.
Dad nods, a slight movement I barely catch, and I’m hit in the face again. The sound is sickening as something in my nose pops and hot liquid gushes down my face. My head spins, and I try to lift my hands to protect myself, but they don’t budge. Soon, the thug’s violent hands are swapped for brutal kicks, and each boot to my body sends unbearable pain through me. I weakly clench my body as best I can as my ribs are cracked, my organs pummeled, until agony-laced darkness envelops me.
I’m not sure how much time passes before my lids flutter and I catch a blurred glimpse of expensive, black shoes by my face and the hemline of Dad’s luxurious pants. I try to speak, try to tell him to get away from me, but only a whimper falls out. I’m badly hurt, my body silently screaming with every breath I take.
The loud clank from the door clangs around the room, then there’s a crack from Dad’s knees as he bends low and brushes hair from my cheek. I wince at the acute tenderness of my face and the gross feel of my hair sticking to drying blood.
“It’s for the good of the town,” he whispers. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
I shiver, closing my eyes. “I hate you.”
“You don’t hate me.”
“I do. I hate you. Creed will murder you for what you’ve done.”
“You really think he
cares? He’ll be onto a new clubwhore as soon as he’s out of prison.” Dad smirks. “That’s if he gets out after the story you’re going to tell.”
“I’m not doing anything for you.”
“You will.” He flicks my forehead, and I open my eyes. He holds his phone screen in front of my face, but I can’t make out the video playing. “You see that?”
I blink, long and slow, until my eyes focus. It’s a woman tied to a chair. Her head hangs forward, her long, brunette hair dangling in front of her and her beige pants dirtied and spattered with blood. Shadows move around the poorly lit room, and for a moment, a tattooed forearm is all I see. Sighing, my eyelids fall shut, and I doze off, only to be flicked on the nose. I yelp, my eyes shooting open.
“Watch,” Dad demands. “Then you can sleep.”
The man, with the snake forearm tattoo, saunters toward the woman in the chair whose shoulders shake like mine. I glance at his leather cut, at the blurry insignia on the back that I don’t recognize. The man grabs the woman by the hair, and she shrieks as he forces her head back.
“Please,” she sobs, and my skin prickles as ice slides through my veins. “No more.”
I continue to watch the video and the violent events that unfold. It takes me forty-three seconds to realize who the woman in the chair is. Chelsea. A choked noise leaves my throat, and Dad turns off the screen, lowering his hand.
“You’ll make the statement, sit through all the court proceedings, and do exactly as you’re told, or Chelsea dies.”
Dies? I’m going to puke. How did this get so out of control? When did my father become a murderer? I close my eyes as my body violently trembles. My thoughts scatter, and I’m powerless to organize them again. I close my eyes as tiredness zaps me and my consciousness is siphoned. I feel like my bones are crumbling. I don’t want to lie and betray Creed, Judge, or the Devil’s Cartel crew…