by Lana Grayson
“The bike, sweetheart.”
She refused the helmet. “I don’t do motorcycles.”
I glanced over at Brew. “She’s in the wrong fucking family.”
He shrugged. “Accident when she was younger on Dad’s bike. You still haven’t gotten over that?”
Rose raised her chin. “I can drive myself.”
I lowered my voice. “Get on the bike.”
“Please?”
Something about the tremble in her words and the scars on her arm chewed through me. She jostled the guitar case.
“We need to take this anyway,” she said. “We’re not going far.”
“She’s better protected in the car.” Scotch throttled his bike. He winked at her. “She can sing on the way there. Warm up them pipes.”
She smiled at him. A headache pricked at my temple. I didn’t care if we dragged her behind the damned bikes so long as the kid gave us reason to ride through Ex’s stolen territory.
“Fine. We’ll escort her.”
She hurried to her car. Whatever freedom she stashed in the sedan was all imagined. She was no safer in a car than she was strapped behind me. Not from Exorcist. Not from the debt she’d owe me for doing this. I started my bike and yelled for her to follow me. Brew trailed behind.
Keep hadn’t showed. And, for as much as I loved that son of a bitch, no cause on God’s green earth should have prevented him from watching his little sister sing.
Unless it wasn’t God.
Could have been the devil.
And it wouldn’t be the first time a strung-out, junkie, desperate idiot got in bed with a slick demon. The thought cut through me like a quick dagger.
Someone needed to start watching Keep. Find out where he went. Who he talked to. Where he got his drugs.
If only to prove me wrong.
The ride kept quiet. No traffic after dark. No second glances from people too stupid to test their luck against a full squad in formation. If Exorcist had a lookout, he kept a low profile. But it wasn’t like Ex to work on a Friday night. Too many women, not enough alcohol, and more than one set of teeth to cut his knuckles.
The club wasn’t too much of a hole. Classier than Pixie but not worth Rose’s time. She burst in, little dress dancing around her, guitar in her hands, eager smile and bouncing curls. The manager didn’t look up from counting his register. He pointed her to the equipment on the stage.
She bounded to get ready. The two dozen people clustered around the tables or sharing a drink didn’t even watch the cute girl plug in her equipment or test the microphones. They stared at us.
And the smart ones paid their tabs and left.
Scotch and Gold watched as a group of five slithered out the door. Brew grunted.
“Not going to have much of an audience if this keeps up.” Brew grabbed the prospects and pushed them toward the door. “No one else leaves till she says goodnight.”
Scotch snickered and grabbed a table. “She wouldn’t be happy if she knew you were playing bouncer.”
“She doesn’t have to know.”
I sunk into the seat. A waitress bargained with the manager over who would serve us before a dolled up, forty-something with bleached hair and a kick in her panties approached the table. Scotch had her on his lap before we placed the order. Brew ignored her. I kept my eye on Rose.
She didn’t need a lot of equipment, just a guitar and microphone. She squeezed into a dusty spotlight cast by a half-burnt out bulb. The audience didn’t quiet when she greeted them with a gentle murmur.
“Good evening. My name is Rose.” She shouldered her guitar and strummed a soft note. “I’ll be playing a few songs tonight.”
Nothing. The crowd sipped their beers. Brew checked his phone.
“Where the fuck is Keep?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Left him three messages. Haven’t seen him since this morning. He usually loves when she sings.”
Rose wasn’t discouraged by the club or the lighting or the jackass hooting and slamming his fist on the table while he entertained two disinterested women. The guitar twanged a quick melody.
And she sang like a goddamned angel.
I flinched like she smacked me with the guitar. Brew smirked.
“She’s good,” he said.
“Fucking good.”
It wasn’t my style of music or my preferred entertainment when a girl took the stage, but the soft little song and gentle voice didn’t deserve the club or the bikers listening to her. She was better than the ass slamming the table with a drunken hand and shouting out a request for her to take the dress off.
She ignored the drunk, but the next song flashed her fingers over the guitar in a rush of quick notes. I recognized the song, but not the speed she played it.
“Aw shit.” Brew sipped his beer. “Metallica.”
I frowned. “What?”
“She’s rattled.” Brew’s jaw tensed. The demand for Rose’s dress silenced, but now the man had a new death wish as he shouted over her song for the waitress. “When she gets upset, she plays harder songs.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? She always did. I’d come over to the house, and she’d be in her room all pissed off and messing with Allman Brothers or Hendrix or something.”
“She’s good at it,” I said.
The song wasn’t written for an acoustic. She made it work. Didn’t force the melody. Didn’t strain her voice. Just played like she was one heartbeat away from earning a harp and a fluffy cloud to play it on. Good thing that day was far off.
The jackass thumped on the table. His attention focused on Rose. Whistled too sharp at her.
Brew grimaced. “She better calm down. I know Freebird isn’t the third song in her set.”
Rose missed a note. Her voice trembled before she recovered. The flush of crimson on her cheeks was like flashing red before a bull. I hauled my ass out of the chair and stalked to the asshole waving a dollar bill toward the stage.
The fucker quieted when I approached. The color drained from his fat face. I leaned over the table. My cut fell away and revealed the gun tucked in my jeans. I didn’t bother hiding it. A little respect would be a good thing. If nothing else I’d finish streaking his red hair gray. I pointed to the stage.
“You’re being disrespectful to the lady.” I stared him down, surprised by the venom in my voice. “Shut your fucking mouth while she sings.”
His third beer gave him the courage to scoff and poke my chest.
“Or what?” He snorted. “This ain’t the wild west. You gonna hit me or something?”
I grabbed the beer bottle from his hand and slammed the bottom against the table. The bulk of the glass shattered, and I jammed the jagged remnants to his throat.
“Yeah,” I said. “Or something.”
Now he did the right thing and kept his mouth shut. I flagged a waitress down, tossing the broken bottle onto the table and slapping his shoulder.
“Bring him another round on me.”
I returned to my table. Brew and Scotch laughed, but Rose watched with widened eyes as she ended a song and froze before choosing another. Brew hooted her name. That didn’t help.
It’d be a few seconds before I’d reach her if she passed out and fell. But she surprised me. Tucked the guitar close and had her way with a cover for a whiny pop ballad. Sweet. Soft. Not my music at all, and not the pulse pounding challenge of the thirty year old songs better suited for Pixie than her set list. But anything sounded better than what I normally listened for.
Engines.
Footsteps.
Clips slamming into guns.
Two hours, a few songs, and no interruptions later, I hadn’t taken my eyes from Rose. The damn kid sang like a diva, looked like a kindergarten teacher, and would be tucked in my bed later that night.
Anathema didn’t let gentle girls like her survive for long. Her voice danced with ballads as if she believed the words. And the fucking smile she offered when she played something qui
ck? She dared to shift her hips like she wanted to dance.
And I wanted to see her dance.
Without the guitar.
And to a much different song.
But Rose wasn’t Lyn or the girls at Sorceress. I had my standards. Hers were much higher. I wasn’t about to go ruin some darling co-ed just because I hadn’t rolled my ass out of the gutter long enough to see the pretty little treats society groomed anymore.
Didn’t mean I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like. Turning a kitten into a hellcat, a singer into an entertainer, and a good girl into a biker bunny all started with the woman on her back and good intentions cast aside.
Rose finished her set to mild applause and wished everyone a good night. The manager didn’t pay any attention until she tapped him on the shoulder. He grunted and gestured for her to follow him to the offices behind the stage.
Christ, I didn’t want to imagine what I’d do if he didn’t pay her. Nothing like contemporary pop and a bloodbath to sell her songs on iTunes.
I prepared to break a nose in exchange for her dignity, but Brew and Scotch tensed as Gold was dragged by a bloodied prospect to the table.
Brew swore, but the man tucking a knife a little too close to Gold’s neck shoved him into a seat. The asshole twisted his ugly face to look at me. Two other members of Ex’s crew stormed through the door.
A gun cocked behind me. The cold metal pressed against my skull.
Priest grinned. He hadn’t replaced the teeth I knocked out since the last time he shoved a gun in my face.
“Prez.”
Brew and Scotch motioned to flip the table. Priest shook his head. Gold grunted as his attacker pressed the knife harder against his back. The bastard didn’t look up, but I recognized his shaved mohawk. Tommy. Some slimy ass prospect we didn’t patch in. Apparently, Ex took all kinds, including child molesting ex-cons.
“What can I do for you?” I grunted. The gun jammed harder against my head.
“You’re in our territory,” Priest said.
I frowned. “No. You’re in our territory. We donated a few streets for you to spread your filth.”
Priest practically jerked the gun off into my skull. “You owe us a little toll. Fully refundable, once we’re done with our sweet-ass collateral.”
Brew launched out of his seat. Gold yelled, but I silenced them both with a stare.
“You fucking touch Rose, and I will rip out your goddamned heart.”
“You make a move, and Miss Centerstage gets a curtain call as the homicide on the local news.”
“What do you want.”
“From you?” Priest’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message. “Absolutely nothing. Exorcist got what we came for.”
The gun cracked against the side of my head. My vision fragmented black as Brew and Scotch leapt over Gold and aimed for the prospect with the knife. I collapsed on the floor. Priest slipped away. I reached for my gun, but my vision darkened, lightened, and fucked with my stomach before I could get a decent shot.
A woman’s scream tore across the club, cut abruptly short.
I surged to my feet and pushed aside a cowering waitress and fleeing people from the bar. She didn’t scream again. I kicked the door behind the stage and aimed my gun.
Nothing.
Nothing but a thin trail of sickeningly red blood splattered from where someone cracked a head against a wall. Brew shouted from the back entrance of the club. I tossed the door open only to see the van peel away and the two bikes chase after.
Exorcist’s men were gone.
And the bastards stole Rose.
Only one person ever aimed a gun at me, but Dad wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.
I stared at the monster lining the handgun with the center of my forehead. I didn’t recognize him, but I recognized his colors. The design on his cut and tattoos on his arm were familiar. His vest read Treasurer, but he wasn’t Anathema’s rightful officer. He held the gun with a righteous determination and spoke with the amusement of Hell’s demons set loose in a prison.
“Exorcist is requesting an encore.” His one eye clouded with a ragged scar, but he stared at me with ruthless attention. “Don’t make a sound or I’ll string your guitar with your guts.”
“Wouldn’t tune right.”
He didn’t get the joke. I gripped the guitar’s case. I offered the envelope the bar manager stuffed in my hand without a word, thank you, or contractual offer.
“That’s four hundred dollars,” I said. “Will it buy me a head start?”
The gun tilted. He moved close, took the money, and pressed the gun to my temple.
“You’re gonna have to do better than that, baby.” His eyes drifted over my dress. “Much better.”
My stomach roiled with sickness. “No thanks.”
The gun butted against my head. “You’re gonna learn real quick that Ex doesn’t believe in the word no. Better start practicing nodding with a mouth full of cock now.”
My chest tightened. I screamed and cracked the guitar case up, aiming for the cloudy, sickly scar slicing his face and eye. I wasn’t strong enough to pummel the man, but the blow staggered him. I ran for the door. He caught me after only a few steps. His gnarled fingers bruised my arm, and he tossed me into the wall.
My head cracked against the drywall.
I thought he killed me.
The crash rattled everything inside my head. My brain. My thoughts. My teeth. Worse of all, he shook loose every forgotten memory, every lost fear, every suppressed bit of knowledge that hid within the darkness of my mind.
I knew too much about Anathema. Whatever biker club or motorcycle hobbyists or road enthusiasts they pretended to be during charity runs or while raising money for the children’s hospital existed only in the shadow of the true demon.
Drugs. Theft. Murder.
I remembered the stories I heard from Dad, and I imagined the truth in the rumors whispered when the crimes were too horrible to repeat.
Keep, Brew, Thorne...they were nothing compared to the monsters that lurked within the ranks. They lived life outside society with little regard for rules and laws and standards, but they never targeted innocent people. Their battles never impacted those outside the club.
But Exorcist’s men were not Anathema. Not anymore. They had no rules or conscience. They thought nothing of threatening the family members of their enemies. The bastard threatening me didn’t care that he slammed my bleeding head into a wall. He backhanded my cheek and laughed as I crumbled to the ground at his feet.
The first kick to my stomach taught me to behave. The second offered him a bit of fun. I coughed, but he didn’t let me catch my breath. He hauled me up by my hair and tossed me over his bony shoulder, slapping my ass with utter cruelty.
I hadn’t the strength, awareness, or breath to fight, but I scratched until I earned another smack. Thick tears caught in my eyelashes, and I stuttered over a hiccupping sob as he kicked open the club’s door and pitched me into a windowless van.
My weak shout squeaked as a pained gasp. Not that screaming would have helped. My captor slammed the doors. His scar glowed in the dim light, shining like the threat of a rabid animal lurking beyond the darkness. Even when he thrust the bag over my head and tightened it with rope coiled around my throat, I felt his clouded leer peering over my broken form.
“Sit down and keep quiet.” He shoved me against the cold metal. They stripped the van of the seats, leaving only bare floors and enough room for Scarred to twist my legs where he wanted them. My dress kicked up in my fight. He slapped my exposed thigh. “I said shut your whore mouth!”
Absolutely not. I kicked again, missing where I hoped to hit but knocking the air from his gut. Scarred coughed, and I braced for the return strike. The van squealed to a stop instead.
“Enough.” The hardened voice bore an authority that constricted my last bit of air and stopped the creeping fingers of Scarred from edging closer to the elastic of my pa
nties. “Back the fuck off her. She’s already fucking bleeding everywhere.”
“You saw her. She fought me.”
“Pull her damn dress down before I cut off your balls.”
“Drive the fucking van.”
“Let her go.”
Scarred shoved me away. A sharp edge of metal tore across my shoulder, but I didn’t care. I scrambled toward the commanding voice and braced myself against the driver’s seat. My fingers curled over something heavy. A weapon I couldn’t reach or wield. The wrench might have been perfect to bash against the head of the pervert who wanted to touch me, but I doubted I’d have the opportunity to crack the vulgar intentions from his head.
“Not gonna hurt her, Luke. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“Or hers.”
My captor chuckled. The sound rasped sharp and ugly over the Journey song whining from the radio. “We’ll see what Ex says.”
“He’s not here.”
“Getting a little carried away with that VP patch, aren’t you, Knight?”
Luke gunned the accelerator, and the van roared against the road. He didn’t answer Scarred. I didn’t expect him to. The authority in his voice. The raw confidence.
He sounded familiar. Like my brothers.
Like Thorne.
I huddled in the corner with a swirling head, curdling stomach, and aching ribs, but the sincerity and sanity in Luke’s words soothed me more than any ice pack or safe haven he might have offered.
It wasn’t often anything made sense within the MC world of sin and depravity and savagery, but even the worst of the animals operated under a code of rules, regulations, and rankings. Luke wove power. Not as much as Thorne, but the club respected him like Keep and Brew.
That I understood.
But I didn’t like it.
The nausea pitting my stomach churned against the betrayal. Maybe the other members of Anathema, the ones with motor oil in their veins and leather patched into their skin, could love my brothers, but not me. I’d never trust them again. Not after they forced me into the club, traded me to their president, and then let their enemy steal me from my gig.
Not just my gig.
My life.
Brew and Keep corrupted everything they touched. My work, my apartment, and now my first shot at escaping the world where I needed a pocket full of drugs to tolerate society and an illegal handgun to protect me from humanity. Keep and Brew did nothing but complicate my life and endanger the family.