Mayhem (Deathstalkers MC Book 5)

by Alexis Noelle

  In this house, everything is a guessing game. Over the years I’ve been conditioned to believe that the unknown is always something dangerous. I haven't made a single decision in years. I always knew what was expected; what was not allowed. Being here? Not having that structure? I’m completely lost.

  I go back into the living room and curl up on the couch.

  I’m fine here.

  I’m allowed to be here.

  He won’t find me here.

  I repeat that phrase over and over, until I fall asleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Cutter

  Whip’s call came at just the right and wrong time. I don't know what to do. How to help Jasmine, or give her what she needs. Tucked away in the corner of the room while I watched her sleep, I was torn between wanting to lie next to her and wondering if I should leave her alone. This guessing game of am I too close or too far is exhausting. Once thing I do know from everything I saw my mom go through, that she isn’t just going to be okay. You can’t remove someone from an environment like that and expect them to just be fine.

  I’ve been single for years and yet, in the span of a few hours, I have a woman living with me. And not just any woman. A woman who is hurting and beyond damaged.

  I’m way out of my fucking comfort zone.

  Torch, Whip, and I went back to Jasmine’s house, but the asshole was gone. I wanted to go back and make sure that he knew he was never to contact Jasmine again. To tell him to grant her a divorce and disappear from her life. As tempting as it is to think that this will be the last we see of him, I know this won’t be the case so I have Wrench trying to find him. The man is a super sleuth: whenever we need anything on the computer done, he is our go-to brother.

  Which brings me to now. The present moment. Where I sit in my car, outside my house, waiting to go in. I'm not really sure why. I should have gone back to the clubhouse and found myself a distraction. After dealing with all of this shit, I need a goddamn drink.

  But losing myself in the ways I used to won’t work, because through all this chaos and upheaval, all I want is to be inside with her. I want to help pull her out of the hell she's been living in.

  I want to save her.

  Dylan will come after Jasmine. I know this in the same way that I know mixing beer and tequila will give you a fucker of a hangover. Men like him never let a woman walk away from them. That’s the main reason why we went back there tonight. Until I find him and make sure he can never lay another hand on her again, I won’t rest. I will protect her with everything I have.

  I will keep her safe.

  I don’t know what to expect when I walk into my house, but Jasmine sitting on the couch, her arms wrapped around her legs, clutching her knees to her chest, still wearing the clothes I dressed her in last night, staring straight ahead, isn’t it. Waiting a moment, I watch her.

  Her eyes. They’re all wrong—apart from the fact that the bruising has started to come out properly, and is now darkening from purple into a black ink, leaching across her face. Though still the same color as the day I met her, her eyes look dull, soulless. They are blank, there is no emotion. I have never truly understood the term “The lights are on, but no one’s home” until now. Taking a slow, measured step toward her, I clear my throat to let her know I’m there.

  “Jasmine?”

  Again, no movement.

  “Jasmine,” I repeat gently.

  Nothing.

  I crouch down in front of her and stare intently into her eyes.

  “Jasmine, eyes on me.” As much as it pains me to do so, I word it like a command, hoping that the familiar tone of my voice will bring her back.

  Her lips part, her gaze focusing and landing on me.

  There you are.

  “Where did you go?” I keep my distance, fighting the urge to touch her. Heat rushes to my fingers. I want to pull her into my arms and hold her, comfort her. I want to take away all the pain etched across her face.

  “What do you mean?” She frowns, the action distorting her face as the right side, the side with the most swelling, hardly moves.

  “You were gone. Completely out of it.”

  Her eyes dart back and forth, searching my face. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  I nod. “That’s okay. Did you eat?”

  Her head gives a small shake and she looks away.

  “Why not? There’s plenty of food.”

  She sits upright crossing her arms in front of her protectively. “Because”—she swallows hard, her tongue darting out to the split on her lip—“I didn’t know what I was allowed to eat.”

  The last part is a whisper. “You didn’t . . .”

  Fuck me. This is not good.

  What the hell has Dylan done to this poor woman?

  “Jasmine.” I chance touching her, moving my hand to rest on her leg, but she pulls away like my touch is an intrusion. “You don’t need to ask for permission to eat food.”

  “It’s the rules.”

  Her eyes are downcast, her arms shaking. God, what I wouldn’t give to just pull her to me and wrap her up. It is either that or I call off Wrench and search the streets until I find the motherfucker myself. With neither of these things being an option, I sit and wait for her to continue.

  “I didn’t know your expectations or I would have worked to meet them. I was going to clean, but I didn’t know where things were and I didn’t want to go through your things and mess stuff up.”

  That’s it.

  I can’t do this.

  I jump to my feet, making my way to the kitchen, closing the door behind me and sink my teeth into my fist to keep from growling or punching the wall. I pace back and forth.

  What am I going to do?

  My stomach twists, a hot shiver racing down my spine. Whatever Dylan did, he broke that beautiful woman. That painful, pathetic excuse for shit ripped her apart, destroying what she would have been before, to mold her into his . . . his . . .

  Slave.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat.

  That’s all she was to him. He stole any part of her that was unique, and happy. He took her trust and manipulated it into something ugly, training her to believe that love was something brutal. And she took it. Walked willingly through the flames, and for what?

  Scrubbing a hand down my face, I lean over the counter and take a couple of deep breaths, remembering the fights, the sound of broken glass, the sobs that echoed through the house despite my mom’s attempts to hide them. Being forced into a lifestyle that you don’t want or approve of can break you. It can strip your personality, layer by layer until all that is left is an empty shell. Shattering you until you are unrecognizable.

  My phone rings. “Yeah,” I mumble.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Rough, Whip. Rough.”

  “He broke her, didn’t he?”

  I sigh, moving over to the closed door, listening for signs of movement. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Want me to send Lucy over? If there’s anyone who knows about having to overcome the life you were forced into, it’s her.”

  I think about what he said for a minute. I don't know that Jasmine would trust Lucy, but I don't know if she trusts me right now, either. She may never be able to trust another man after what he put her through. Perhaps having a female to talk to might help. Then again, it might do more harm. I have no fucking clue.

  "That could work. It has to be just her, though."

  "Okay, I'll go fill her in. She’ll be there soon."

  The line clicks and I open the door slowly, my eyes going to the broken girl still huddled on my couch. "Jasmine, come in here please." I try to level my voice. I don't want her to sense the irritation because I know she'll blame herself for it.

  A moment later, she stands at the entrance to the kitchen, keeping her gaze on her feet.

  This is so much worse than I thought. “Look at me.”

  She looks up, her eyes still blank. Her cold stare set
me on edge. Her eyes were as immobile as her body; as if he’d beaten the life out of them, too.

  “A friend of mine is coming over. Her name is Lucy.” I look at her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the dried blood on my shirt, the patches where her wounds had seeped and fused with the cheap cotton. “Would you like to take a shower? Get cleaned up?”

  She nods at me.

  “Do you need me to help?”

  She shakes her head. I want to hear her voice. I want to be able to pull her out of this, but the longer she stands in front of me, the harder it is to imagine that I’ll be able to. “Go ahead. The bathroom is next to the bedroom you were in.”

  She turns but then stops. "What towel would you like me to use? Are there certain things I shouldn't touch?" Her voice is small, her chest heaving up and down.

  Jesus, she needs me to be specific. I can’t leave anything as a choice. Fuck, I hope Lucy gets here quickly.

  I place my hand on the small of her back and she jumps but doesn’t instantly move away. I take that as silent acceptance. We move slowly through the house, her shuffling her feet along the carpet. I can only imagine the effort it must be taking to move right now. I don’t even want to think about all the times when she dealt with this on her own.

  I guide her to the bathroom, getting a towel from the closet. “There’s soap and shampoo in the shower, use those. I’ll grab you some more clothes to wear and put them out on the bed for you. When you’re done come back into the living room.”

  I walk out of the bathroom and try to get control of my emotions. That fucker is lucky he ran. My knuckles turn white, my teeth clenched to prevent me from lashing out as anger flooded my veins like acid, eating away at me from the inside out as I suppress both rage and regret. Regret that I hadn’t killed him while I had the chance.

  I pace the living room and when a knock startles me. I fling the door open. Lucy is standing there with Whip behind her. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see her.

  "She had a glass of wine and I couldn't let her drive herself,” he explains, walking in and slapping me on the shoulder. “One of the prospects is sitting at the house with the kids."

  “All right, well, you and I can let them talk.” I turn to Lucy. “I don’t know how much you’ll get out of her with us here. It’s bad.”

  Lucy places a hand on my shoulder with her mousy brown hair pulled into plaits on either side of her head and her pink T-shirt and jeans, she couldn’t have looked less threatening, something I was thankful for. “He caught me up already. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out. No one is permanently broken. Some people just heal in different ways.”

  The sound of footsteps makes me turn. Jasmine’s eyes dart between all of us, the long-sleeved T-shirt I set out for her, thankfully, hiding the marks up her arms. Her wet hair hangs down the side of her face and she’s brushed it so it covers most of her right eye. The acid gnaws away at me again as I realize that this is likely a practiced routine.

  I walk over and stand in front of her. "My friend Lucy came to talk to you. Go have a seat. I'll be in the next room." She nods at me and then walks toward the couch.

  I pause, not sure whether I should leave her alone. “Go,” Lucy says. “I’ve got this.”

  Whip follows me to the spare room and I sit down on the bed. “This is fucked up.”

  "Well, hopefully Lucy can get somewhere.” He leans up against the tallboy, eyes to the ceiling. “Man, those bruises. Her fuckin’ eye. Jesus, fuck. Did you see her trying to walk—”

  “I saw.” I cut him off, unable to listen to him list the injuries that he’d seen, knowing there were so many more hidden beneath her clothes. Changing her clothes last night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, and I’ve done some pretty nasty shit in my time. Her entire body is a canvas of bruises, welts and scars, ranging in color from pale yellow to black as night. It had taken all of my strength to hold back when I saw that. I’d tried my best to clean the blood off her with salt water, something I’d seen my mom do. She’d been so out of it that she hadn’t even flinched as I ran the washcloth over her skin, cursing the day Dylan Burke was born.

  “When Wrench finds the asshole don't go racing off on your own. You call one of us and we'll be there.” He moves across the room, taking a seat next to me on the bed. "This bringin’ up some bad shit for you?"

  Whip is one of the few brothers who knows my story, and how I got my road name. The fact that he’s able to ask says a lot about him. “I’m trying to separate the two situations, but it’s hard.”

  Neither of us really says anything else. Whip pulls out his phone and messes around on it. I’m grateful for the silence. My head is so full of shit that I don’t think I can hold a conversation.

  There’s a knock on the door and Lucy appears in the doorway. There is no smile on her face. She almost looks like she’s in pain. I wait to hear what she thinks, my knee bouncing, my head and heart assuming the worst.

  “I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s bad. She’s destroyed. She can’t function without rules, and you’re going to have to give them to her. You cannot just leave her here with no direction again—she can’t handle it. As much as you may not want to, you’re going to need to control her, it’s the only way.”

  I stand up, needing to move. There’s too much nervous energy pent up inside me. “How the hell will me acting like her husband help?”

  Lucy shakes her head. “I didn’t say act like her husband, but you can’t give her too long of a leash. You need to give her her freedom back, little by little. Give her a small choice to make each day. It’s not going to be quick, and it won’t be easy. I can’t do it. She’s been controlled by that jerk for so long she needs someone to take his place.” She looks at me. “And that’s you.”

  I let her words sink in. Being this for Jasmine . . . it’s going to be hard, Dylan is so similar to the way my father was. Trying to be that for her will bring up a bunch of shit I have tried to bury. "Thanks, Luce. I appreciate it."

  She gives me a quick hug. Whip offers me a nod, adding, “Anything, brother. Any time,” and they walk out of the room. I wait a moment, hearing the front door open and close, before I blow out the breath I’ve been holding for what feels like hours.

  Am I ready for this? Deep down I know it’s not the same, but am I really ready to be the person I’ve spent my whole life hating?

  Jasmine is still sitting on the couch, her back ramrod straight, her face giving nothing away. For the briefest moment I baulk. Then I catch sight of her eye. Her swollen lip. That fucking cut on her lip. And I realize that just because I have to give her rules, doesn’t mean I have to be like him. I can tell her to do things without following the order up with a fist or a slap. I can show her what it’s like to be an equal. It’ll take time, but something inside me tells me she’s worth it.

  Of that, I’m sure.

  Rules.

  She needs them so I will give them to her. As tiring as it will be, I will lead her through this. I will make it so she doesn’t need to be told what to do. “First rule. Always look at me unless I tell you different. Understand?”

  Her eyes dart up. “Yes, sir,” she says softly.

  “No, you do not refer to me as sir. If you want to address me, you use my name.”

  She nods.

  “Now follow me.” I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge door. “What would you like to eat?”

  Her mouth opens and closes, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Her eyes twinkle, brightening with fear. “I . . . I . . .” Bursts of air leave her mouth. She swallows hard and her skin starts to turn red. She’s panicking.

  I bite back a huff of frustration at the fact that Dylan screwed up her mind so bad that she can’t even form her own opinions. I force down the anger that wants to come out and take a breath before I walk over to her.

  Her gaze meets mine, her teeth chewing her bottom lip.

  “Panic attack?” I ask gently, grazing my thum
b over her mouth, pulling the sensitive skin away from her teeth. If I do nothing else, I will show her that being touched isn’t always associated with pain.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever had one before?”

  “I…” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  I step closer, maintaining eye contact as I lift her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you feel like this a lot?” A stray hair falls forward, covering her face. I move to tuck it behind her ear. She won’t be hiding herself anymore, either.

  “Only when I’m not meeting expectation,” she says, almost like she is reading from a script.

  Watching her like this, I almost need to remind myself to breathe, and even when I do, the air burns my lungs. "How long?"

  “It’s the only way I know. Before doesn’t matter.”

  Fuck that, it does. But I won’t press anymore. Not yet.

  I have to take this one step at a time.

  I will train her to be herself.

  Whatever it takes, however long it takes, we will get back the part of her soul Dylan stole from her.

  I will help her live.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jasmine

  I wake up in Cutter’s bed not really remembering how I got here. I was so exhausted after the panic attack yesterday that I probably passed out really quickly. My stomach grumbles. I need to eat something, but that fear is still there. I don’t really know how or if I will ever move past it.

  I’m lost.

  When you live your life within the lines for so long, living on a blank page is worse than any demon imaginable.

  I walk out into the living room and see Cutter in the kitchen. He offers me a small smile and I walk toward him. "Come here." He extends a hand and when I take it, he pulls me toward him. But my legs don’t quite get the message and I stumble. "You need to eat. I expect you to keep yourself healthy. Do you understand?"