My stomach tightens and a smoke-like numbness spreads in my lower half until I can barely feel the blows.
I’m silent—checked out and taking the beating like the man I was raised to be. But when I feel the point of a sharp knife digging beneath my eye and carving its way down my neck, I roar.
25
EVE
Janelle and I sit in the back of Slade’s blue pickup truck as he drives to the Boss Brotherhood clubhouse. According to two of Slade’s friends, who recently surveyed the scene, the party is raging tonight.
“Okay, so you got it all now, Eve?” Slade asks for the hundredth time.
“Yes,” I reply with confidence. I know he’s worried about me right now. I’m hopped up on a ton of adrenaline and feeling like I can take on the world.
“The club whores should help you, got it? Those girls know all the ins and outs. Find them first and make nice. They’ll point out the important guys. But don’t look threatening or they’ll never let you in.” He sounds like a drill sergeant.
“Right,” I respond at the quick.
Clutching my full purse like a lifeline, I remind myself that everything I need is safely tucked away in this bag—goodies courtesy of Slade—loaded pistol, sharp knife, a handful of condoms, and two vials of pentobarbital, according to Slade it’s a common barbiturate that will incapacitate a man. Of course, I also have my phone, and per Janelle’s orders, a tube of red lipstick to reapply if necessary.
On the flight over, Slade sent me an email complete with attachments of the clubhouse map along with a detailed plan that I’ve since sworn to follow to the best of my ability. Operating under the assumption that Vincent is in one of their holding cells in the basement, it’s my job to go in and get him out of there.
“Slade,” Janelle calls out. “Are you sure me or one of your friends can’t go in, too? I don’t like the idea of her being alone in there.”
“No,” he replies forcefully. “The party is closed to any men who aren’t either part of the club or typical hang-arounds. And your presence may lessen her chances of finding Vincent. It’s more likely the men will see Eve as easy meat if she’s alone and without a friend.”
I turn to Janelle, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
Janelle sits back and purses her lips. I know she’s angry and worried, but there is no room for negotiation.
Slade turns up the rock music, Papa Roach blaring on his speakers. We’re speeding; no one is out on the road right now other than us. Still, I wish I could snap my fingers and just get there already.
The phrase “time is of the essence” pops up in my head, a line I’ve used millions of times at work in relation to parties signing contract agreements within a stated time. I start to laugh, thinking about how ridiculous it is that I ever thought anything in this life could be time sensitive. Compared to this, that part of my life feels like a joke.
Slade turns his head back and forth between the road and the back seat. “You hanging in?”
I laugh harder, tears dripping down my face like thick drops of rain. “I’m f-fine.” I don’t even try to hold in it—I can’t. Unfortunately, this crazy nervous laughter is something I never completely grew out of.
“She does this sometimes. Annoying as hell,” Janelle voices loudly. Slade lets out an awkward chuckle, but unfortunately, it does nothing to stop my hysterical laughter.
About twenty minutes later, we pull into the dark driveway of a wooden ranch house in The Middle of Nowhere, Nevada. I grab the small mirror from Janelle’s handbag and take a good look at the woman staring back at me. I’m not recognizable, not even to myself: blood-red lips, dark-brown eyes rimmed heavily with coal-black liner, and heavy foundation, two shades lighter than my natural skin tone. Contouring has my nose looking miniscule and cheekbones razor sharp. There is no other way to describe my look except to say that I’m changed. I’m about to clean the black mascara that smeared below my eyes when Janelle grabs my hand.
“Don’t touch it. You look like a girl down for anything—it’s perfect.” The anger in her gaze is gone and in its place is confidence. “You got this, girl. Navigating this shit is in your blood. It’s time to channel it now.”
The click of the door unlocking is my cue. I pause to compose myself.
“I’m ready,” I tell them both, voice sure.
“I’ll be waiting by the emergency door out back. Once you have Vincent, text me—”
“I know, Slade. Trust me.”
I turn to go when Janelle pipes up. “Eve? You better come back. I’m waiting for you.”
I nod solemnly before swinging the door open and jumping out. The weather is warm and balmy and the night sky sprinkled in stars. Rows of black motorcycles line the front of the clubhouse like a foreboding fence.
I strut toward the front door full of attitude, bringing forth Blue House-girl-on-the-stoop. My boobs pour out of my slinky red tank top and my skirt is so short, I’m sure any of these guys could see the underside of my ass.
Janelle’s clothes were obviously what I needed for a night like tonight. If she didn’t come with me and bring all this stuff, I’m not sure how I would have made this work. After I changed, she did my makeup in the back seat of the car. She even packed a pair of sandals, if you can call a pair of patent-leather six-inch spike heels with a platform, a sandal. Janelle explained the entire outfit and shoes was from a Halloween costume party a few years ago called “pimps and hoes.” Whatever. My sister turned me into sex on legs tonight and nothing else would have done it. I’m sure our mom would be proud.
The front door is flanked with two youngish-looking guys wearing white T-shirts beneath black-leather vests. They scan my body and I seductively purse my lips while pushing my tits out, making a visual promise. Luckily, after their eyes get their fill, they step aside.
“Come on in,” the taller one says, his voice heavily laced with a southern twang.
I strut by them and walk straight to the bar, the smell of stale beer assaulting me. Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” plays in the background as goosebumps erupt on my arms; I know it in my bones that Slade is right—Vincent is here, somewhere.
I act as though I’m holding back a smile as men turn their heads, rubbernecking to get a good look at me. A huge wooden swastika painted gold and red, hangs on the wall. It catches my eye and sickens me, but also serves to make my mission more real.
Seven years have gone by without Vincent. College. Law school. One man. Other men. But my hope never completely died; there was always a sliver of faith that he’d come back. That he didn’t lie. That our love was real. And now he’s so close. I can’t let him go again—I won’t.
I lean forward against the badly damaged wood—the words WHITE POWER etched deeply within and sticky from spilled drinks. My stomach clenches and I send a silent prayer to Janelle, thanking her for the heavy makeup that’s lighter than my olive skin.
Looking to my left, there is a blonde girl with hair in high pigtails next to me. She’s wearing a triangle American flag bikini top and ultra-tiny jean shorts. An opened beer rests happily in her hand.
“You’re new here.” She takes a swig. “I’m Heather. How did you hear about the party?” She smiles kindly.
“Met one of the guys at the supermarket. Told me to come on down.” I shrug, my New York accent nice and sharp.
“Ohmygod are you from New York City? I love it there! Not that I’ve ever been, but it’s always been my dream.” She bounces up and down excitedly. New York City is always a big hit with girls like these.
I stare at Heather, who may be called beautiful—if not for a wide and deep scar running from her nose to her ear. She caked her makeup for cover, but it didn’t work. Her eyes are genuinely kind, though.
“Where are you from?” I need to keep the conversation rolling.
“Oklahoma. But I haven’t been back there in years.” She lets out a small and awkward smile before taking another long sip. “I’m wit
h Guns. He takes care of me.”
I click my tongue. “I could use that too, if you know what I mean. Haven’t exactly had an easy go of it lately.” I drop my head for a moment, my voice down and out.
“Oh, girl, I’ve been there.” She touches my shoulder in solidarity. “You see that guy over there in the green baseball hat?” She moves closer to me, bringing her voice to a whisper.
I scan the room and immediately spot him. “Yeah,” I reply. “You mean the one standing under the swastika?”
“Yeah. Him. He’s the treasurer. But all the girls say he’s into some crazy kinky shit. You’re not into that, right?”
“No. No way.” I shake my head vehemently.
“Unless you’re real desperate, I would skip him. The guy next to him? That’s Crow.” Both our eyes widen, but for different reasons. I recognize his name from what Vincent told me about his time in prison. “He’s the president and the one to latch onto. Got out of lockup six months ago and I know for a fact he isn’t interested in the club whores. He’s always into new girls who haven’t been touched by any of the other members.” She’s enthusiastic as if she likes the idea.
“Thanks, Heather.” I smile wide. “I really hope he likes me.”
“Oh, he will. You’re exactly his type.”
I stare at her a moment, wanting to take her by the hand and run her out of here. She’s such a nice girl—and so young, too. She shouldn’t be here.
“Oh!” she starts, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s comin’ over here. This may be your shot,” she squeaks.
As luck would have it, the men move to my right. Heather takes that as her cue to leave.
“... bleeding out in the basement.”
I inch closer, pulling out my phone and keeping my eyes trained on it while listening as keenly as my ears will allow.
“Let’s head down in another hour or so. Let him sit in his own piss a while.”
I hear a grunt that sounds like agreement. “Should we send one of the boys in there to watch him in the meantime?”
“Nah. No way in hell he can move.” Dark laughter ensues.
My blood burns hot, but I don’t freak out. Instead, I let out a breath of relief. My mind flickers to Vincent’s face and I vow to be the greatest actress there ever was. That’s my man they’re talking about, and he’s alive. I’m getting Vincent out of this hell hole.
Crow turns forward, presumably to order a drink. He rubs his forehead with his palm thoughtfully as I angle myself in a way so he can see me.
I catch his eye. Raising an eyebrow in appreciation and surprise, he takes a long slow look from my feet up to my face.
I smile, all coy, playing with Vincent’s cross around my neck as I quickly read the patch on his vest for confirmation. Jackpot. Anger streams through me, but also something else—excitement. I want to take this asshole down. I loathe to think about the scar he gave Vincent in the yard, the story still making me ill.
He creeps up to my side and I give him another sexy smirk. He’s tall. Not as tall as Vincent, but still big enough that I have to crane my neck up to see his face. Small brown eyes peer down at me through narrow slits, gazing as if I were a fresh piece of ass he can’t wait to taste. His head is shaved smooth, showing bluish veins along pasty skin and a slightly crooked jaw. A dark swastika is tattooed on the front of his neck along with a set of numbers below. I feel a surge of hatred so strong, it outshines any possible fear.
I slide my tongue slowly across my front teeth, lips slightly parted, eyes trailing his body as though I like what I see. That’s when I notice the collar on his white shirt is stained with what looks like blood splatter.
“Hey,” he says in a raspy voice, leaning a tattooed forearm on the bar. His knuckles are bruised. “Having fun?”
“I am now.” My voice is quiet enough to bring him closer. I need this to happen—quickly. There’s no time to waste.
After a few seconds of eye contact, he turns his head. “Yo, Chub!” he yells to the big guy with a beard pouring people drinks. Chub immediately stops and turns to Crow, waiting for his command. “Natty Light,” Crow simply states.
Chub’s blue eyes widen before turning to a huge trash can and pulling out two beers, wet from condensation, and handing them to Crow.
“Glad you came tonight. Got a name?” He cracks a can, the hiss sharp and quick. I let my fingers cover his for just a moment before taking it for myself.
“Yeah. I’ve got one.” My voice is seductive as I bring the drink up to my mouth nice and slow. There’s noise all around us, but I’m completely focusing my attention on him. I want him to feel like a king right now.
“You gonna give it to me?” His thin lips quirk up.
“Depends on how badly you want it.” I raise my eyebrows flirtatiously and he laughs out loud.
He moves closer to me. “Waiting, sweetheart. And a man like me doesn’t like to wait. Even if it’s from a sexy-as-fuck woman like you.”
“Irina.” My voice is soft as I look up into his eyes. The irony that I’m using my mother’s name isn’t lost on me.
“Crow.”
I hum, the vibration fluttering around my lips.
His smile reaches his eyes. I can feel it—he actually likes me. “So, you ever ride?”
“Nope. I’ve always wanted to, though. Looks like fun.” I cock my head to the side.
It’s a few more minutes of small talk before he takes my hand and walks me out of the party, straight into the quiet white hallway where the bedrooms are located. I grip his damp hand tightly, as though I don’t want to let go. He squeezes mine back, and I know I’ve got him just where I want him.
“Don’t normally bring anyone back here.” His voice is gruff.
Crow pushes open a door. Before stepping inside, I make a mental note that we’re in the third room on the left. The light flicks on and I take stock of the situation. Queen-size mattress on a box spring pushed against the wall. Black sheets and two white pillows. A wooden cabinet in the corner with an old boxy TV perched on top. A small table in the corner.
We’re alone.
The light is dim and yellow.
This is dangerous. Every internal alarm I have in my head is screaming for me to run. Not only is this man a complete stranger, but he has Vincent’s blood on his shirt. Still, my heart tells me to stay clear and straight. Step one, get him relaxed. I go on hyper-focus, bringing forth everything I’ve got.
I purse my lips as my fingers lightly caress my breasts. I let my hands roam over my nipples; they harden under the thin fabric of my shirt. He grumbles like a pitiful dog.
“You want?” I’m all innocence.
“Fuck yeah,” he grunts, voice hoarse from desire. Unbuckling his belt, he pulls down his blue jeans, kicking off his ratty black boxers next. Sitting his pale and scrawny ass down on the edge of the bedspread, his white legs part. I walk to the corner of the room, placing my purse on the small table. Opening the zipper pocket, I pull out one vial of pentobarbital along with a condom.
I turn to him seductively, slowly walking forward with the foil packet in my fingers.
He’s grinning excitedly and hardening; I try not to gag. Dropping down to my knees before him, I come face to face with under six inches of scrawny dick. The scratchy carpet rubs against my knees, keeping me on my game.
“Close your eyes,” I say in a sing-song voice, a request full of promise. I inch my face forward and hold my breath, exhaling as he shuts his eyes. Without any hesitation, I shoot him in the thigh with the needle.
First comes shock — wide eyes and a mouth open in an “Oh.” Anger flashes in his face but before he can act, he drops back onto the bed, disabled.
“Bye motherfucker,” I hiss.
I’d punch him, but there’s no time. Quickly standing, I grab my bag and focus on getting down to the basement. Opening the bedroom door and looking both ways to make sure no one is around, I count the fourth door to the left from the bathroom, which according to Slade’s
map, should be the basement entrance.
I open it. There’s a long narrow staircase—dark and full of shadows. I move onto the first step, shutting the door behind me and praying there are no cameras trained on me. Then again, nothing about this place is high-tech or organized. I’d say these guys are sloppy, especially on a night like tonight when there’s a party going. I shiver as I walk. Nothing but dead silence surrounds me.
What if someone other than Vincent is down here? There could be another man. What if one of the bikers is hanging around? Fear tries to grip me, but I tell it to shut up. Reopening my purse, I take out my loaded gun.
I scurry my way down the steps until I reach the bottom. Light is pouring out from beneath another door. I wrench it open with one hand, my gun lifted high in the other.
The heavy stench of grime and rot coats the air and my stomach twists. Shuffling inside and looking left to right, I keep my pistol up in front of me.
Small room. Old walls. White paint, chipped. Scattered garbage. A random red and silver Nike sneaker alongside an empty Domino’s box. Moving forward, my eyes dart around as I kick trash out of my way. Another door. I open it.
It’s a small dark room. My eyes adjust. The first thing I see is something large, crumbled on the floor. The smell in here is burned copper. Is it blood? Silence is everywhere.
“Vincent?” I run forward, dropping to my knees. My heart stutters. He’s lying in a fetal position. I touch his skin; it’s clammy and cold. There are chains behind him, but thankfully, he isn’t locked up.
His body is unmoving. I bring my hands to his back. “Baby?” My fingers move to my mouth as I stifle a cry. “Vincent...Vincent.” I whisper his name.
Is he dead? I gently push his blood-matted hair away from his face. I must be in shock. My mind isn’t fully comprehending this scene. On instinct, I touch his chest. I can feel a slow and ragged breath—it’s barely there.
Hours ago, I was sitting at an Italian restaurant with Angelo. And now I am in the basement of a motorcycle clubhouse rescuing Vincent, who could die. It’s as though I’m an outsider looking in—there is no more logic to the storyline of my life.
Redemption (Vincent and Eve #3) Page 16