Losing It All

by Wilde, Kati

  Crash and Handlebar share a look that seems to say “next time” before heading toward their own stalls.

  “Cherry.” Doc’s voice stops me before I can follow them. “When I’ve finished here, Papa wants to see us up at the farmhouse.”

  Where I’ll receive my punishment, probably. Or be executed, too. Still numb, I only nod.

  Not unkindly, the doctor adds, “Perhaps freshen up first?”

  Because I didn’t fix my makeup after finding Lissa and crying over her body. I only wiped most of the smudged mascara off.

  Papa won’t like that. And I don’t give a shit what Papa likes…but my life isn’t the only one at stake here.

  “I’ll take about ten more minutes here,” he says, which is just enough time.

  Or not enough time. Because Matt’s standing at his stall door, with tension drawing his face into harsh lines, his emerald eyes fiercely bright. His fingers are locked around the bars, but although I see his knuckles whiten, he doesn’t reach for me.

  “Whatever it takes,” he whispers hoarsely as I slowly pass his stall. “Whatever you have to do, do it. Just stay alive.”

  “You, too.” My throat aches as if the numbness is burning away. “I love you.”

  I say it so quietly, I don’t know if he can even hear me. But he knows. Just as I know where that torment in his eyes comes from. My brother has been my best friend for my entire life—and we can hold conversations with simple looks, just as Crash and Handlebar do.

  So it’s that look Matt gives me, the one that tells me how much he loves me, that I hold within my mind as I repair my makeup and head back to the barn’s entrance. Doc is waiting for me just outside, with two guards still serving as his escort—and probably to make sure he doesn’t run off, too.

  These guards aren’t part of Victor’s militia, but the more sophisticated, suit-wearing guards that travel with Papa. I don’t know what hold Papa has over the doctor, but it’s easy to imagine. He looks like the kindly, easily-befuddled father in a family sitcom. The roundness of his pale face is emphasized by his receding hairline and the mouse-brown combover he wears. He’s not much taller than I am, and overall gives the impression of slender softness disrupted by the angular points of his elbows, knees, and nose. A white lab coat tops a blue dress shirt, necktie, and khaki pants, but I’ve never asked if the coat is a uniform, just like my nurse’s outfit is. Maybe it’s something he wears in real life and Papa drags him away from his medical practice on demand. I don’t know. We don’t share personal information. He knows the fake name that Matt gave him—Christina Miller—but calls me Cherry just like everyone else around here. He probably knows that I was a veterinary technician, because my medical vocabulary would give that away. But he hasn’t probed for details and I haven’t volunteered any. The doctor has been nothing but kind and helpful, but I don’t know who or what Papa has threatened him with. And if it’s a wife or kids, then Doc might decide to place their safety over mine—and I wouldn’t even blame him. So I won’t ever confide in him or ask him to help me, beyond what he already has.

  Instead I keep trying to help myself—and Matt. I’ve only been up to the farmhouse once before. This compound is out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by desert scrubland in every direction. The fighters’ stables consist of two horse barns, and the farmhouse is an old white clapboard building. The house is older than the barns, which makes me think that whoever bought this place came into a little money racing horses—hence the track behind the barns—and made those improvements first before running out of money. My grandpa always said that the best way to make a small fortune racing horses was to start with a large fortune. Apparently whoever owned this place before Papa took it over never made enough to upgrade the house.

  Parked near the house are two black sedans, along with the pickup that Victor’s men use to make their rounds around the property. Nevada plates, but I’m not near enough to read the numbers. The truck has Arizona plates. I note the makes and models—just more information to give Matt later, to help him and the FBI take all these fuckers out.

  All of them. There’s more coming. A distant rumble and a dust cloud tell me that the Iron Blood is on its way. The motorcycle club serves as Papa’s real muscle, at least when it comes to the stable and bringing more fighters in. I have no idea how deep it all goes. But for sure there’s the Cage, drugs and guns, and sex trafficking.

  That’s how Lissa got here. She was given a choice: use her body to lure in fighters, or end up on her back with a needle in her arm.

  Sudden tears prick my eyes. Oh God. Lissa. The grief is so hot and sudden that it blasts the numbness away, because the reason the Iron Blood are coming is to pick her up, so she can lure in new blood. But she’s gone.

  “Don’t you dare cry for him,” Doc says sharply.

  Startled, I glance at him. But he’s not watching me. Instead he’s looking out past the barns, where two of Victor’s guards are digging.

  Burying Bravo.

  “I’m not,” I say, my voice raw.

  Doc’s face softens. “Don’t cry for Lissa, either. Her misery is over now. We should all be so lucky to have it end so quickly and painlessly.”

  Lucky? In disbelief I stare at him before pulling my gaze away. I would bet anything that Lissa would rather be miserable and alive than buried out in the desert next to Bravo. But maybe that’s what Doc has to tell himself to keep going. We probably all lie to ourselves all the time, just to keep a spark of hope alive.

  Maybe what I’m doing now—pretending that license plates will ever make a difference. But I have to do something. I have to believe it’ll help, one day. So I look each of Papa’s guards in the face, in case I ever need to identify them later. I try to memorize every distinguishing mark, listen for accents, strain to hear names.

  And I don’t dwell on the fact that I don’t get much. These guys don’t waste words. In silence, they wave Doc and me through the front door of the farmhouse. This is where Victor’s guards come to sleep and relax when they’re off duty, but no one seems relaxed today. Maybe because they were all forced to witness Bravo’s execution—which served as a warning not to make the same mistake.

  Papa’s waiting for us in the parlor, which I suspect is a room used solely for this purpose. Nothing about the other rooms I’ve been escorted through suggests anything other than a country farmhouse, with floral curtains and overstuffed furniture, but the parlor has a completely different vibe, as if specifically decorated to Papa’s taste. Leather and wood abound, reminding me of an elegant study or library—except with no books. Two guards in black suits flank the parlor door as we’re waved in. Another covers the French doors that lead out onto a porch. Victor stands at rigid attention in front of Papa, who’s the only one in the room looking at ease. Wearing a suit without a tie, the neck of his white shirt open, he sits on a wide Chesterfield chair with his legs crossed at the knee and casually holding an unlit cigar.

  I don’t need to memorize his features. Everything about him is indelibly seared into my brain by the terror and desperation I felt during our first meeting.

  Salt and pepper hair. An angular face, tanned and lined but not like my grandpa’s was after working outside for decades. This might be a man who spends his days in a field, but he’d be observing the people working for him and not working himself.

  Papa lights his cigar, observing me through a puff of smoke before asking, “No smile for me, Cherry?”

  I manage an expression that must have satisfied him—or maybe it’s just my obedience that does—because he nods and gestures toward the leather sofa across from his chair. “I understand that you’ve had an emotional morning. Please, have a seat.”

  I comply, making certain to arrange myself in as ladylike manner as possible, with my back straight, hands folded in my lap, my knees together. Doc sits with far less grace, feet braced apart on the floor and leaning forward to pour himself a coffee from the carafe centered on the low table between us. Shortbread c
ookies form a neat semi-circle on a silver tray.

  Oh my god, those cookies look so good. My mouth waters, imagining the sweet, buttery crumble. But I don’t dare reach for them.

  “He suffered minor electrical burns on his testicles,” Doc says.

  “No permanent damage?”

  Shaking his head, the doctor sips from his coffee, then adds, “It wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience for him, but aside from a little discomfort over the next few days, there will be no lasting effects.” His lips twitch. “Though he might step more carefully around Cherry.”

  “Yes.” Papa’s answering smile holds no amusement, but his gaze doesn’t move toward me. Instead it hardens and lands on Victor. “I think everyone would do well to be more careful around Cherry.”

  A dull flush climb’s Victor’s neck. Because it was his Taser that I’d stolen. So Victor won’t be dropping his guard around me in the future. Which means nothing will change, because he never really dropped his guard in the past, either. This morning was a fluke. A singular opportunity that I’ll never see again.

  The only real surprise is that I’ll be seeing anything again. If Papa’s saying that the guards will need to be more careful around me in the future…that means I’ll have a future. Which wasn’t so certain before now.

  It probably wasn’t certain until Doc said that Tusk wouldn’t have any lasting damage.

  Not that it means I get a pass. With Victor properly chastened, Papa’s gaze settles on me and he rises to his feet. “A lady never loses her temper.”

  A million angry replies fly to my tongue but I swallow every one. Wearing a smile, I say pleasantly, “Yes, sir.”

  You fucking sadistic asshole.

  I tense as he comes closer, the lit cigar dangling from his fingers. I hate everything about our positions when he stops in front of me, my face on level with the front of his trousers. It’s not a relief when he grips my chin and tilts my head back to meet his eyes—the cigar still scissored between his fingers, the smoke curling past my eye, that burning tip so near to my cheek. “You’re a good girl, Cherry. And I understand that you might feel as if I’ve broken a promise to you.”

  I don’t respond because I don’t know how to answer that. Disagreeing and agreeing both seem dangerous. Tension holds me in a breathless grip as I wait for him to continue.

  “You must be disappointed. A gentleman keeps his word, and I said to you that you only had to do as you’re told, and you’d be safe. Yet Victor tells me that Tusk was boasting of his eventual prize when you attacked him. Was it temper or fear that propelled you forward?”

  I know what this answer should be, because women are allowed to be weak and terrified. Never angry.

  “Fear,” I lie softly.

  He nods as if that was what he expected and gently pats my cheek before returning to his seat. “You are not wrong to blame me. Truthfully, I never expected any fighter to win ten rounds. So you were to be a tease—an incentive for them to win, one that they saw every day but could not touch.” Briefly he purses his lips, then shakes his head as if in regret. “Though I will not deny him the prize if he wins, I will see that you emerge from it as unharmed as possible.”

  My response is ashes in my mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

  He sighs. “That does not sound genuinely grateful.”

  Fear spikes through my stomach. “I truly am, sir—”

  “No, Cherry.” He holds up his hand to stop me, regarding me with a pitying look. “You think I do not understand? In these immoral times, it takes great effort for a girl to remain chaste, as you have, and you are to be commended. But there always comes a time when a girl’s role evolves into that of a woman’s, and she must relinquish the prize that she’s guarded so carefully. In this past month, I have comforted my own daughter as she shared the same fears before her marriage, uncertain of the man I had chosen for her. Yet she has adjusted very well to her new role and to all of the duties demanded of her. As will you.”

  Oh my god. There’s nothing to say. Absolutely nothing to say that won’t get me in so much trouble. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.

  “And perhaps it is for the best that you will be rid of your virginity. With Lissa gone, you will need to take over her duties in the barn. But that is something we will discuss further when you return.”

  Her duties in the barn. Which means that after Tusk is done with me, I’ll be the one to give the fighters their ‘rewards.’ That new duty might be a punishment for zapping Tusk or might have happened to me after I was no longer a virgin, regardless of today’s events.

  I should have expected it. But to hear my fate spelled out so casually still sends me reeling, so that the rest of what he said makes no sense to me. “When I return?” I echo stupidly.

  Papa doesn’t answer me. Instead he looks to one of the suited guards flanking the door. “Please show our guests in.”

  Members of the Iron Blood. Only three, though I heard far more motorcycles than that arrive.

  But I can barely focus on them. I don’t know why Papa’s announcement slaps me so hard. It truly wasn’t anything I couldn’t have guessed. But it’s as if I can’t wrap my head around it. Maybe it’s shock finally catching up to me. Maybe it’s the horror of realizing how easily they plan to replace Lissa. I know we are nothing to them. Not me, not the fighters—we’re just meat with no value beyond what we help Papa earn in the ring. Intellectually, I’ve known that. But this is the first time I’ve felt it, and it’s as devastating as it is enraging.

  But ladies don’t lose their tempers. No. Ladies smile prettily and make themselves memorize as much as they can about the members of the Iron Blood who just came in, because one day this lady will tell a bunch of nice policemen exactly what these bad men did.

  I haven’t met them before. They come for Lissa regularly but I’m never outside of the barn when they do.

  Helpfully, they put their names and ranks on their leathers vests. It seems stupid for criminals to make it so easy for someone to identify them, but I suppose that’s part of the whole outlaw motorcycle gang schtick. They don’t fear the cops or being caught; they’re above the law or outside the law or simply a law unto themselves—and so certain that they can either silence or threaten anyone who might identify them—that they’ll wear their road names openly and proudly.

  Two men follow close behind the first—the club’s president, Rattler. He’s big and barrel-chested, with a shaved head and graying, scraggly beard. One of the guys behind him is even bigger. He’s bearded, too, but it’s shorter and bushier. They’re all wearing long sleeves, so I can’t see if they have tattoos on their arms, but the bigger guy—the enforcer, Chef—has letters inked across his fingers. RIDE FREE. The third biker is shorter and more wiry than the other two, with a narrow face and close-set eyes. Paladin. He doesn’t have a rank patch below his moniker, so I guess that means he’s just a regular club member.

  But I suspect that in usual circumstances, even a regular member would be one of the alpha dogs in the room. Because there’s a strange vibe between Rattler and Papa from the moment the other man enters. As if the biker’s used to entering a location and taking it over. As if he’s the one who usually makes people scramble. As if he doesn’t defer to anyone…but here, in this room where he clearly doesn’t fit, he has to.

  I never get that sense from Victor. But maybe it’s because of the guard’s military background. He’s used to taking orders.

  Rattler is used to giving them. Yet it’s Papa who calls the shots here.

  “You are ready to ride out?”

  Rattler nods. “Two days’ travel. A day or two to scope out the fighters. We’ll have your new man by Sunday. Where’s the girl?”

  “I’m afraid Lissa has had an accident,” Papa tells him, then gestures to me. “So Cherry will be taking her place.”

  What? I can’t keep the shock from my expression.

  “As bait?” Rattler looks me up and down, then bursts out with a laugh. “You got any
one with tits?”

  “She has a lovely figure,” Papa says without inflection.

  The biker seems to realize how close to danger he’s riding. He stops laughing and pulls at his beard. “She’s pretty enough. But your last girl was smoking hot and had some curves on her. A man could imagine grabbing a few handfuls of her—or of that red hair. The only thing a man can grab there is a few bones.”

  “Cherry will do just fine as a replacement this time.”

  “Cherry?” That stops him for a second. “She’s a virgin?”

  “She is. And I expect her to return in the same state.”

  “A fucking virgin, trying to lure—” Rattler takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’ll take one of our own girls. They know how to suck a dick, at least.”

  “One of your own girls…who can be traced back to your club? Who might go for help? No.” Papa’s voice has turned to steel. “Cherry has reason to do what she’s told. Don’t you?”

  I don’t expect to be a part of this conversation, despite it being about me. So a second passes before I find my voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You see? And Victor will be traveling with her in the van. He’ll watch over her and see that she stays on task.”

  No surprise from Victor. Perhaps Papa already informed him. Maybe to prove that he won’t be outsmarted by a girl again.

  “Whatever floats your boat, boss.” As if shrugging away the whole business, Rattler turns toward the door. “We’ll be waiting outside. We gotta long ride ahead.”

  If Rattler leaving without being dismissed pisses Papa off, he doesn’t show it. Instead he glances at me thoughtfully, but speaks to Victor. “Perhaps a few enhancements are in order. Rattler does know the sort of men who will be lured. And if the men being enticed are men of his calibre… Well. Some men enjoy a perfect filet mignon, and others love ground beef smothered in ketchup and mustard. So give them ground beef.”

  And I’m the ground beef. Or the filet. The past ten minutes have been so surreal that I’m not completely certain what I’m supposed to be.