by K. L. Savage
“Your sister needs me to show up, Whistler. There’s no way around that. She’ll die if I don’t.”
He turns away from me and shouts, swiping the contents off a table. Beer bottles fly across the room and shatter against the wall, and the smell of alcohol invades my senses.
“I’m not risking you,” he spins around and clutches his chest.
“You can’t risk her either.”
“You don’t think I know that? I’ll think of a hundred different plans because risking you is not an option. It’s not. I don’t care if it kills me.”
“Why? It’s the only logical plan. Give me to him and it will all be over,” I explain as if it is so simple.
“Why? Why?” he yells louder. “Because I fucking love you, Charlie.” He sounds so desperate, pleading, and the look in his eyes is one I haven’t seen before.
Vulnerable.
“I. Love. You.” He hits his chest in tandem with his words. “I’m not giving that up, not for fucking anything. Do you understand me? I don’t care if I have to burn this entire earth to the ground or sacrifice myself, risking you is not an option to me.”
“Wesley.” I take a step forward and glide my hands across the top of his, curling my fingers around his and pull the tight grip he has on his cut away. Unclenching his fingers, I press them against my cheek. “Wesley,” I choke out his name through tears.
“I love you, Cupcake. Damn it, please don’t make me give you up. I won’t survive it.”
“I love you too, Wesley,” I finally manage to say back.
He jerks away and grips my face tighter than he ever has, his eyes darting back and forth between mine. His lips claim mine and as his tongue sweeps inside my mouth, I forget where we are and why we are standing here in the middle of the room until someone clears their throat.
Whistler breaks the kiss, and a few lighthearted chuckles surround us. “Please, don’t do anything that will risk me losing you,” he begs, hushed yet trying hard to keep his happiness at bay. Even through the trials of the situation, he manages to find happiness because I love him.
I’ve never had a man feel that way about me before.
“I’ll save you. I’ll save my sister. And I’ll kill Kenneth. I promise, Charlie.”
I believe him and while I understand his wants, there is a part of me that wants to kill Kenneth myself for everything he’s ever done to me.
The moment is interrupted when Princess barges through the door, a stranger in his grasp. Princess has a cut above his eye, and he tosses the man onto the floor. “Found this asshole lurking while making rounds,” he says.
Whistler pulls me behind him, and Mercy pushes by us and kicks the guy to his back, then wraps a hand around his throat. “Who are you?” he asks. “What’s this?” He turns the guy’s arm over and there’s a fresh tattoo of the Scapegoat logo. “One of his grunts?” Mercy throws his head back and the sound is boisterous and anything but funny. It’s ironic― a forced, sardonic laughter. “Oh, you’re a stupid son of a bitch, aren’t you? You realize he sent you here to kill you, right?”
The guy keeps his mouth shut and Whistler grabs his bat from the table, the nails protruding from it digging grooves into the wood. He uses it as a walking stick until he is by the intruder and places the end of the bat against the man’s chin. He applies enough pressure for the nails to draw blood, red drops dribbling down his chin.
“Did you really not think this through? Coming to a biker’s clubhouse in the middle of the day? Kenneth must not have told you what happens when the enemy graces our doorsteps. Let’s give you a proper introduction.” Mercy pulls the man’s arm back and twists it until there is a sick crunch. “You’re going to tell us everything you know, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you,” the guy glowers, spit spraying from his mouth as he speaks.
Mercy stands, lifts his leg, and stomps on the man’s arm, a clear and crisp snap resonating in the room. The stranger screams from the agony and I have to look away. I hide my face against Whistler’s back because the sight of the Scapegoat’s arm bent in two is more than I can handle.
I’ve felt broken bones like that before. I don’t need to see them again.
“How about I break every bone in your body until you tell me what you know? And then if you don’t, I’ll start taking fingers and toes.” Mercy kicks the man in the stomach and flips him to his back, pressing his boot against his chest. “And then I’ll start dropping your body parts in the desert.”
“Actually, Prez. Don’t we have a friend in NOLA that needs to feed his gator? We could always send him the extra parts,” Whistler offers.
“Well, now that you mention it, Whistler, Happy does need some fresh food.” Mercy snaps his fingers at One. “Take him to the room in the middle upstairs. Whistler? Bring your bat. Like you said, we aren’t sacrificing anyone. Not today.”
One and I.E.D drag the Scapegoat up the stairs and Whistler tries to leave. I hold him back. “What are you going to do?” I ask him.
“I’m going to prove a point and send this fucker FedEx to all the flyover states.” Whistler drops his bat onto his shoulder and gives me a grin. “Don’t worry, Cupcake. We’ll talk more, but everything will be okay. I’ll be okay. This isn’t my first rodeo dealing with the enemy and it won’t be the last.”
“I want it to be the last.” I hold onto the side of his neck with my hand and brush my thumb along the faint hickey I left on him when we were at the beach.
I blush at the memory.
“In this life, there is no such thing as ‘the last’ time, Cupcake.” He gives me a peck and begins walking toward the steps. “Go update you dad. He needs to know. He needs protection too and so does the rest of the crew. It’s best if everyone stays here. Strength in numbers.”
I watch him run up the steps until I can’t see him anymore and sigh as I look around. Socks and Anvil are down here, along with Bookie, Birdie, and Tutu.
Everyone acts as if this is another day at the office, but no one knows Kenneth like I do. He won’t rest until he has me in his sights.
And if I’m good at anything, it’s giving Kenneth what he wants.
“Bring Bolt in here,” Whistler says as he secures the Scapegoat.
We aren’t in a room I would call ‘a torture chamber’ like the Kings have. They call theirs the playroom, but this room is an actual playroom with whips and chains and ropes. Right now, Mercy is improvising since we don’t have the room we want built yet. It’s going to be a part of the clubhouse.
So, we have this fucker bound in rope.
BDSM style.
And I’m doing my best not to laugh. His limbs are spread out like a starfish as he hangs from the ceiling. Mercy can turn him and the rope will spin so that the stranger is in front of someone else and they can have a turn.
A violent turn, not a sexual one. Clarification is important to me since we are in a fucking sex room.
Jesus, if the Kings found out about this…
Princess leaves the door open, and I can hear him clomping down the steps.
The Scapegoat doesn’t say anything. He glares at Mercy while Prez smiles. I’m studying the room and the longer I stay in here with a half−naked guy strung up like a deer ready to be skinned, the more awkward I feel.
There’s a bed behind him.
It's draped in silk sheets and the walls are a dark emerald velvet material.
“Prez, you sure you want to do this in here? It’s a nice room,” I mumble out of the corner of my mouth so no one can hear me.
“I know it isn’t conventional, but this room is soundproof,” Prez informs, slamming the door shut when Bolt and Princess come back. “And we need to make sure there isn’t a soul nearby that can hear his screams. That’s why it’s the only room I didn’t have renovated up here.” Prez spins our guest until the rope is tight and then lets go.
The Scapegoat turns into a blur as he quickly spins in a circle as the rope loosens. I fix my stance and practice swinging m
y bat while our captive slows. When he finally comes to a stop, his head sways and his face turns pale before he vomits. The white, chunky foam slides down his chin and chest.
Mercy sighs in annoyance. “You realize I’m going to have to clean that up when it gets on the floor? You can’t handle a little dizziness? No wonder Kenneth sent you here.”
“Kenneth?” the man asks in confusion, slurring his words as his normalcy returns. “He didn’t send me. His father did. He wanted to let you know we are always watching, and when you least expect it, we will take her,” he grins.
“He sent you here to die.” Bolt charges forward and slams two metal rods into the Scapegoat’s thighs. Blood begins to trickle from the wounds and down his legs.
He screams and Bolt’s dark laughter has my fingers curling around the handle of my bat. The fucker is twisted in the head. He grips the back of the Scapegoat’s head by the thick of his hair and attaches a red clip to one rod and a black to the other, similar to when someone charges a battery. “I like my prisoners well done,” he lunges forward and bites at the air.
He steps back and flips a switch on his machine. A low buzz causes the lights to flicker and sparks fly across the wires before our prisoner begins to tremble from the electricity coursing through his body.
Mercy flips the switch again and the electricity comes to a stop.
“Prez, I was just getting started,” Bolt pouts.
“Don’t want him dead just yet,” Mercy says, keeping his eyes on the smoke coming from the rods embedded in his legs. He plays with the knob that adjusts the electrical waves. Turning it to the right will fry the guy. “Where is his father?”
The guy doesn’t say anything.
“Listen, you not saying anything only hurts you. You say something, you get to leave here alive.”
“You’re lying,” the Scapegoat sneers.
“Am I?” Mercy drags a chair from the corner, spins it around, and sits down. “I don’t know what you know about me, but I’m known for my mercy.”
“It’s true. He’s so much nicer than all the other dark−hearted people in the world.” I tap the end of my bat on the ground. “Like me. I wouldn’t let you walk out of here.”
“Mmm, never said he’d be able to walk.” Mercy twists the knob ever so slightly and flips the switch. The jolts hum as they travel across to the rods and spit begins to fly out of our new friend’s mouth. When the vein in his forehead begins to pop, Mercy adds just a little more and Bolts cackles, staring in obsession as the Scapegoat gets electrocuted.
Prez turns the knob to left and ends the torture. “Whistler. Get into swinging position.”
I grin, knocking the tips of my boot with my bat out of habit like they are cleats.
“See, you’re going to want to speak,” Mercy warns, gripping the guy by the neck. “I don’t do well with men threatening to abuse women and your bosses do just that. You work for them, so you can’t be much better. I’m going to ask one more time. Tell us what we need to know and you’ll live or—” Mercy eyes me, giving me permission to do what I’m best at.
I stand to the side and the guys begin to stomp their feet which fuels me. I swing my bat slowly as I practice, and the Scapegoat’s eyes widen when he sees the nails in my bat.
Stepping a bit closer, I grip the handle and zoom in on his lower back, twisting as I swing. The whistle is clear like the wind howling on a stormy day. The loud crunch of my bat hitting him, along with his screams, is music along to my ears. Giving the bat a wiggle to dislodge the nails embedded in his skin, it finally comes free.
He’s screaming, his lower body limp. He was standing on his tiptoes, but now his feet are curled under, scratching against the floor.
Yeah, walking out of here is out of the question.
“I’ll have every single one of my guys ruin you until you’re nothing but fucking bait.”
“Kenneth’s wife knows,” he says. “You want answers, she’s got them.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
Wife.
She doesn’t belong to Kenneth. She belongs to me.
I swing my bat again, in the same spot as I did before, and the guy cries out, sobs actually.
Huh. He must still be able to feel his legs.
“They aren’t married, and we aren’t asking her because she’s been through enough. We’re asking you,” I state, placing my bat under his chin to push his head up so he is forced to look at me. Blood drips thickly from the nails as I meet his eyes.
“Please,” he begs. “I needed money for my family and Kenneth offered so much.”
“Money. Is it money that will make you talk? I have money. If it’s what you need, it’s yours.”
“Aw, so nice of you, Prez,” Princess awes.
“I’m a nice guy.”
“I’ll tell you. I swear, I’ll tell you.” The man breaks.
“Damn, that was fast. I wanted to have more fun.” Bolt grips the rods and yanks them out of the Scapegoat’s thighs. The pain is too much for the little guy to bear and he passes out.
“Damn it.” Mercy stands and punches the guy in the face, which does nothing.
He hangs limp.
“Can’t handle a little roughin’ up and he’s hanging out with drug lords.” Mercy scoffs. “I don’t want to waste time, so I need you to go talk to Charlie and see what she knows.”
“Prez, come on. I don’t want to bother her with this. She doesn’t need to be more involved than she has been over the last few years.”
“The difference is that she’ll know. I want to attack before he has time to fucking blink. I’m not going to sit here and wait for another dead body or video or another one of his grunts to show up. I want to take care of this problem. Now. Do as I say, or we will have problems, Whistler.”
I curl my lip at him and lean my bat against the wall and nod. “Fine, but don’t be surprised if she doesn’t know anything.” I take one last look at our captive and head out the door, annoyed he conveniently passed out before we got what we needed out of him.
Not knowing where to search for Charlie first, I keep left and go inside the bedroom she’s been staying in with me since we got back from the beach. I hear water running from the bathroom, not the spray of the shower, but the rush of the faucet as the tub fills.
The door is cracked just enough I can smell the lavender bubble bath. The hinges creak as I step inside and see her in the tub, her hair up in a messy bun with a few loose strands framing her face. She’s puffy eyed from crying, her cheeks red, and her lips swollen from her nibbling on them with her teeth.
I’m going to have to break that habit. Her lips are too perfect for such abuse.
“Cupcake, what’s on in that gorgeous mind? What’s wrong?” I kneel on the ground and double-check my hands for any blood. When I don’t see any, I wipe her tears away softly.
She flinches.
“I’m sorry,” she says, bringing the bubbles closer to her chest.
“For what, Cupcake.” I snag the loofah on the side and dip it in the water and begin to gently scrub her body, starting with one leg.
She stares up at the ceiling, her head leaning against the back of the tub. It reminds me to buy one of those pillows for support. Her bottom lip wobbles. “For everything. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for me. I should go back and your issues would be taken care of.”
It pisses me off that she thinks like that. Boots and all, I climb into the tub and pull her towards me.
She sniffles and stares at me with bepuzzled brows. “What are you doing? Your clothes…”
“I don’t care about my clothes. I care about you.” The water is hot and helps relieve the stress, but the looming question hangs over my head that I need to ask her. “This isn’t on you. This is on him and don’t forget, my sister is just as much involved in this as you are, so really, I’m the common denominator. If I wasn’t around, this wouldn’t be happening to the people I care about. And I do, babe. I care about
you and her.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her closer to me, settling her on my lap. Her legs wrap around my waist and her arms around my neck. “So beautiful. Anyone who has ever hurt you was a damn idiot and anyone who dares to hurt you again will have to go through me.” The water sloshes as I lift my hand to her neck, then skim my fingers down and trace the swell of her breasts. “I need to ask, what do you know about Kenneth, Cupcake? About the Scapegoats?”
She arches her back and her hands grip my drenched jeans to get more of my touch. I stop skimming her flushed skin kissed by the hot water so she can focus. We need to get out of the tub, but it’s actually more productive for me because these damn clothes are so uncomfortable. Once I get the answers we need, I’ll pick her up and lay her down on the bed if she lets me.
We’ve had sex twice since the beach and each time she’s tied me up and rode me to the high heavens.
I’m not complaining. She can fuck me, use me until she’s spent, and ride my cock until she’s seeing stars. As long as she gets hers, I’m happy.
But damn it, I want to touch her.
She leans her head down on my shoulder and her breath drifts over the side of my neck. “I don’t know anything. I’m sorry, Whistler. He didn’t share anything with me. He wasn’t the sharing type.”
“Anything. It doesn’t have to be anything specific. Did he meet his dad anywhere? Go anywhere for long periods of time?” I push, needing the tiniest clue.
She leans away and stares at the large accumulation of bubbles to the left of us. “He liked to go to the Hoover Dam a lot. He said it is his dad’s favorite place, but that’s it, I swear. I’m not keeping anything from you, Whistler. I’d tell you if I knew anything about their operation or whatever they do. I promise. You have to believe me.” She twists her hands into my shirt and her blue eyes widen as she waits for me to respond.