Broken: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel

by Natasha Thomas

  I’m not going to give you names, or describe the two people that changed my life so dramatically, that made me into the man I am today. There’s no point, it won’t change anything, and I’d prefer not to think about them at all if I can help it. So here goes…

  Getting smacked around, learning to hide bruises, and making excuses for why I couldn’t stand up straight was par for the course when you live in the foster system, and you’re a young kid that’s angry at the world and raging about the unfairness of it all. That shit didn’t bother me, in truth it became sweet relief knowing what to expect from each family I was placed with.

  Some weren’t as bad as others, just love taps in comparison to the beatings I got further down the track. I didn’t know that when it was happening, I was just a kid, I didn’t know that shit was about to get a thousand times worse.

  By twelve I’d been through four foster families, been suspended or expelled from schools all over Denver, and had even done a three month stint in juvie for trying to boost a car with a few friends of mine. I wasn’t apologetic, I didn’t beg for a second chance. Fuck, I didn’t believe in second chances back then, I just needed an outlet for some of the storm I felt brewing, growing inside me each and every day. I was the kid they labelled ‘troubled’, the kid who didn’t ‘react well to authority figures’. And I didn’t, I expressly went out of my way to ignore rules, discipline and authority of any kind.

  I don’t make excuses for what I did when I was a dumb kid, and I sure as shit won’t try and make them now, feeding you a sob story about my dead family and what that did to my fragile psyche. It happened, they were killed, and I had to live with the results of it, but that didn’t make it any less painful than it does now to think about.

  I’d barely turned twelve when I was placed in the final foster home I’d ever see the inside of. I can remember because it had been my birthday three weeks earlier, and I’d spent it in a group home while I was waiting for a new placement to come through. Anyway, long story short, my case worker found me a new home with a man and woman that had already successfully helped to rehabilitate ‘troubled’ kids, and currently had one other boy in their care. I’d later find out that boy was Rob.

  The couple couldn’t have kids, or that’s the story they fed the department. The truth of the matter was the woman was far too vain to allow a child to ‘destroy’ her body, and the man didn’t want to deal with the ‘interference’ to his lifestyle. Not that they ever said as much, but it became pretty damn clear within days of being placed with them.

  If I look at them objectively, from all outward appearances they made the perfect couple. She was a stunning woman. Long dark hair always meticulously pinned and coiffed. A slim figure, but with curves in all the right places, and beautiful skin. That’s one of the things that haunts me the most; her skin. It was a study in irony. How skin so soft, so supple, could belong to a woman as hard and unyielding as her. I’ll never forget her eyes though. Her eyes are what still wake me from my nightmares, start them too. Dark, almost black, and completely and utterly soulless her eyes were.

  The man wasn’t so different either. His outward appearance was what he traded on. His business was perfection, and he wouldn’t tolerate anything less. He wasn’t a big man at an inch or so over six-foot, but to a twelve-year-old he may have well have been a giant. With stylishly, slightly on the longer side sandy blonde hair, ice blue, like glacial ice blue eyes, and a heart as black as the clothes he always preferred to wear described the man I was placed into the care of perfectly.

  He was a photographer, so he was surrounded by beauty day in and day out, he expected the same from his wife, and it wasn’t rare for us to hear him slap her around if she hadn’t made herself up to his exacting standards. They never hit us though, Rob or I, they didn’t need to. They traded on fear, and not in the traditional way you’d define it either.

  This couple didn’t need to beat us, chastise us, or break any or our bones…they’d well and truly broken us before anything ever escalated to the point they’d need to utilize any of those alternatives. They managed to do something the death of my family, the loss of my safe and secure home, and numerous other foster parents had never done…destroy a large piece of my soul.

  I’ve since learned during my time with the club that the most powerful weapon you can wield is leverage. Information might be the key, but the power comes with how you deliver it and what you choose to do with it. I didn’t recognize it as such back then, but I see it for what it is now, and I myself have used it multiple times with varying degrees of success.

  Things didn’t go from bad to worse with this couple, they started off bad and only got worse. The second full night I spent in their home was the night my door creaked open, the woman came in dressed in some kind of slinky lingerie with her husband following closely behind, naked but for his camera draped around his neck.

  That night I learned how to finger a woman to orgasm as I watched her husband jack off, coming all over her stomach when he reached his own climax. He took photos throughout the whole thing, and later I’d learn that family time was spent viewing every disgusting, pornographic image. You’d think that would’ve been enough of an initiation for one night wouldn’t you? Well, you’d be wrong.

  They pushed my head down and forced me to lick his cum off her stomach while she fisted my dick trying to get me hard. It didn’t happen, she couldn’t make me hard, and her frustration was pretty fucking evident when she practically had a tantrum, complaining to her husband I was defective, all men got hard for her. That was also the night, based on her comments, that I found out they were inflicting this same sick routine on Robbie. She said Robbie was a good boy, he got nice and hard for her, that she’d just have to go to him and get what she needed.

  They left me there scared for me, but more scared for the boy I might not know well yet, but that I knew would be my only solace in this fucking hell they called a home.

  The worst part of that whole experience wasn’t even what they did, what they made me do, but it was me half wanting to get hard so she could play out her fucked up fantasies with me instead of the boy I knew had been placed in their care a month and a half ago. I know I didn’t actually want her to abuse me, I mean I didn’t know that then, but I do now. What I wanted was to save a kid from just one more horrific experience he didn’t need to deal with at his age. Fuck, neither of us should’ve had to deal with it, but if I could hold them off once, just once maybe he’d have a night of peace and nightmare-less sleep.

  The days, weeks, months, years that followed consisted of variations of the same theme, only worse…much, much worse.

  In the three years I was there before I ran away, I learned to lick a woman’s pussy while fingering her ass. I learned how to find her g-spot at the same time as manipulating my fingers or dildo until she squirted. I gave more blow jobs and swallowed more cum than a gay player, or any man ever should. I was taught how to fuck a man’s ass with a bullet vibrator while he fucked his wife’s ass mercilessly. I watched him choke, tie up, spank, and dominate her while I was made to jerk myself off on her face. The humiliation never ended. The abuse, the million scenarios they created to use me as their personal fuck toy never ended. Worse still, my life never ended like I wished more often than not it would.

  It wasn’t until the final night I spent in their house, a week after my fifteenth birthday I reached the upper threshold of my ability to cope. That night was worse than any of the others, probably worse than all of the others put together actually.

  I was ready for them that night, I’d mentally prepared myself for the late night visit, or as much as I could prepare myself. I don’t think anyone can really steel themselves against the torture they put me through, but I tried as hard as I could to disconnect from it. Compartmentalize it. Put it in a reinforced vault far at the back of my mind. How did I know they were coming for me? Simple. It was Robbie’s turn the night before, and by the sound of his screams that echoed through
their cavernous house I knew it was bad. What they wanted from me that night would be bad.

  Like always she came into my bedroom wearing some flimsy negligee, and he was completely naked, cock hard and sticking out in front of him. It’s strange the shit you think when you’re in traumatic situations. And that night I can remember thinking; the reason they did this shit is because his dick’s so small she’s not satisfied by it, and it alone.

  It started out pretty routine; lick her nipples, squeeze them hard, (that’s the shit she really got off on, rough fucking), finger then eat her pussy, standard fare. During he’d take photos, either at the foot of the bed sitting in a chair he put there, or standing beside the bed so when he blew it was on her face, or on my back. I fucking hated when he did that. I felt dirty for hours after. Even if I scrubbed my skin red raw in the shower for as long as I could stand, I could never get over the feeling of his filth infecting me, seeping into my skin.

  When I finished her off twice, I was instructed to fist myself, stroke my dick until it was hard. I’d done this before, so I knew the drill. I knew what made me hard fast, because if I hadn’t learned how to do that early fuck knows the lengths they would’ve gone to, to make it happen. Cock hard, and standing there waiting for my next instruction, I felt the man behind me bending me forward while his hand curled around my already softening cock. How I stayed hard I’ll never know, but I did, and I wished I hadn’t.

  He had my cock at the opening of her pussy as he put his hands on my hips making me thrust into her. The slowness of it all fucked with my head. I wanted to get this over and done with, so I could go and throw up, scrub myself, or cry. I don’t fucking know what I needed to do, but I wanted it over, fast. When I was all the way in, and I’ve got to tell you, up until now I’d never been forced to fuck her before just eat or finger her, he rammed himself into my ass.

  I’ll never forget four things from my time with them. One was her soulless, cruel, hateful eyes. Secondly, how black, unrelenting, and repulsive his heart was. Next were Robbie’s screams. I’ll never forget the terror his screams held. How he begged them to stop, to please, please stop. And lastly, I’ll never forget the burning, ripping, tearing agony I felt when he violated me that night.

  I have never felt such extreme physical pain in my life, before or after. My pained screams did nothing to deter them, if anything they made them more aroused. They were sick, sick fucks. I couldn’t tell you how long that torturous experience went on for, I don’t want to think about the long minutes of torment I suffered at their hands. But I can tell you that once he was done, and she’d manipulated herself to orgasm they left me alone like they always did…and that was their biggest mistake.

  Crawling to my bathroom, I showered, cleaned myself up as best I could, and dressed quickly. Feeling the burning stretch with every step, I collected the small backpack I had stashed at the back of my wardrobe, the cash I’d stolen from them over the course of six months, and hid a note under my mattress for Robbie. In the note I told him if he wanted to run to meet me at the bus station a week from now. I told him we’d make it, that we’d find somewhere safe to hide, that we’d be safe away from here.

  I didn’t find out until we reconnected almost five years later Robbie didn’t find the note until I’d been gone for nine days. He thought he was too late, that he’d missed his chance, so he stayed. What he didn’t know until then was that I’d camped out around the bus station, where I could watch it from every angle at a safe distance for an extra week on the off chance he’d show up.

  Milling around the back alleys and abandoned lots in Denver was no picnic, but it was a damn sight better than staying in that hell hole with those motherfuckers. I ate at soup kitchens, showered when I could at shelters and the like, and I was lucky enough to occasionally get a bed at one of the same shelters that let me use their facilities. The nights I didn’t get a bed, I found parking lots were the best place to seek refuge. They had enough spots, and dark corners to hide in while still being able to get in and out any time I wanted.

  The night Priest found me, I was dumpster diving for food. The soup kitchens had closed their lines done for the night and I was fucking starving. I hadn’t eaten for three days by this point, and I was pretty sure that if I didn’t eat soon I was going to pass out. People weren’t generous when it came to teenage boys begging for food. At times I thought if I’d been female I’d have had better luck on the streets in some ways. Not the safety side of things, fuck no. The streets are no place for a teenage girl, but food wise, sympathy wise, yeah I’d have been better off being female.

  Priest’s booming voice asking me what the fuck I was doing startled me, and I toppled into the dumpster I’d been searching. I was stuck, cornered, and freaking out by the time he approached. Something in his eyes, the relaxed stance he took, and the gentle was he spoke told me I shouldn’t be afraid of him, but I couldn’t help it. It was inbuilt for me to be weary around men, around everyone these days.

  He stretched out his hand, helped me out, dusted me off, and took me to a local diner and fed me. He talked about his home town, his club, his family, and his brothers. He told me about what it felt like to ride, to be free in every sense of the word, and I wanted that. I wanted the feeling he was describing, I wanted it so bad I could almost taste it. So when Priest asked me if I’d like a job, a place to live, and a place in the club when I was eighteen, I was on the fence about accepting, but when he asked if I wanted to learn to ride it was a done deal. My mind and mouth engaged and I accepted without hesitation.

  And that brings us current. Well to the part of the story where I ended up with Vic and Sheila anyway. Of course there were hiccups along the way, speed bumps on my road to recovery, but for the most part I was free. I was safe. And I wasn’t alone.

  I wasn’t allowed around the MC or the clubhouse until the day I turned eighteen, that’s why I hadn’t met Lex until then. But the day I did was the day something I thought long dead inside me sparked to life. I hadn’t felt the primal urge to protect someone since Robbie, and the fact this little blonde headed, blue eyed angel brought that out in me was something I’d never deter. It felt like my heart and my soul could maybe one day be healed, and there was no chance in hell I’d risk losing that feeling if I could help it. So I didn’t. I looked out for her. I watched after her. I protected her with everything I was just to ensure I didn’t miss my chance at not being broken anymore.

  Now, when I told you I’d tell you my story and I hoped you’d cut me some slack, I meant it. I told you it’d explain why I gave up on me and Lex being something, and I think it did. If it didn’t, you need to read it again. You need to see me through my eyes, not your own. You need to understand what it does to a person to be treated like they’re worthless, nothing more than a thing for someone else’s entertainment, like you’re not a human being for so long. Most importantly you need to realize why I’m not meant for someone as clean, pure, untainted, and innocent as Lex.

  I wish my past was different, I wish I could erase everything that happened and replace it with something I can only make up in my imagination. I wish I could mold myself into a man that is worthy of a woman like Lex. A man that isn’t still being defined by his baggage, or hang ups. More than that, I wish I could make myself believe I’m good enough for her. That I’m good enough to have a permanent place in her life, in her family. But I can’t, and I don’t think I ever will be able to do that, so I did the only thing I could…I let her go. And with after what I received in the mail, handed to me by the three brothers I respect the most, I believe I made the right decision.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alexis

  “Let’s not try and complicate our relationship

  by trying to talk to each other.”

  - Rotten eCards

  One day out from the showcase at Chasers and I feel like my feet are going to fall off, my back is going to snap in half, and if one more biker asks me for a favor I’m going to scream. As in; hair
pulling, high pitch, wail at the top of my lungs, accompanied by the shit fit of all shit fits scream. All-in-all, just another day in the life of Alexis I’d say. What is adding to my frustration is that my mom is up my ass about why I’m still distancing myself from the clubhouse. My dad is about ready to drag me off and give me a stern talking to. You know the kind I’m talking about; the one where they tell you they’re disappointed in your behavior, and that you need to pull your head out your ass, but they still love you regardless. Yeah, one of those charming little chats.

  Sure, there’s a few more things that may possibly add to the state I’ve worked myself into, but I’ve tried to ignore them up until now. Not very successfully mind you, but I tried nonetheless. And that’s all you can hope for. I can’t help it if my mind wanders to one particularly sexy biker every time I close my eyes. Or that when I wake up from a deliciously naughty dream about him I use his image to get myself off. Both of those things I’m sure play their part in my mounting frustration, but they aren’t the straw that’s about to break the camels’ back. No, that one is much bigger, and much more likely to change life as I know it.

  From the time I could talk, and dad told me I did that earlier than he hoped because when I started I never stopped. I’ve said things as they are. I don’t beat around the bush, and I don’t hesitate in confronting a situation that needs to be cleared up. That held true until everything went down with Glock, and I still haven’t worked up the nerve to try and seek him out again to talk to him. It’s been almost ten weeks now, the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing or speaking to him, and the longest I’ve ever held a secret from anyone too.