Tied Down

by Vanessa Waltz

  “Start fucking talking.”

  A surge of vicious hatred that I’ve never known before consumes everything. I don’t give a fuck about what he does to me.

  “I was on a date—” I gasp.

  “What?”

  “I was on a date with the Italian guy I’m fucking.”

  The look on his face is priceless. Stunned doesn’t quite cover it. Shocked beyond belief doesn’t either.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  I’ve never wanted to tell the truth about anything more in my life. I want to rub it in his face and laugh at his pain.

  “An Italian?”

  “Yeah, I met a guy at a bar and he was Italian—and connected with the mob. You know what, Dad? He was a real gentleman. He told me exactly what he wanted to do with me—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “I went to his house. He fucked me really good—”

  His hand strikes my face. And again. The blows rain on my head, knocking me into the cheap plywood floor. Stars burst in my vision.

  “DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?”

  “No!”

  Mom backs away from him as he raises his fist and glares at me.

  “You—you let one of those disgusting people touch you—”

  “He wasn’t disgusting.”

  “STOP TALKING!”

  “Why should I? Since you care so much about who gets to touch my pussy, maybe I should tell you more about how amazing he was in bed.”

  My father can’t even produce a complete sentence. “FUCKING—BITCH! CUNT!”

  “I let him come inside my mouth!”

  “You sick, twisted bitch.”

  Let the whole fucking club hear about it. I don’t give a flying fuck if they know I sucked Johnny Cravotta’s cock and loved it.

  “I had some fun for the first time in my goddamn life, and you can’t stand it. You’re the one who can’t keep it in his fucking pants, so don’t you dare tell me who I can and can’t fuck!” I scream at his furious face and grab the hair-cutting scissors on my nightstand.

  “SHUT UP!”

  I stab at him with the scissors, but he grabs my wrist and twists it painfully. The bones grind together as he grips me hard and wrenches mercilessly. A sharp pain sears up my elbow and I scream.

  I need to get out.

  A crashing sound pierces my ears and I see Mom cracking my ceramic vase over Dad’s head. His vise grip loosens and I shove him aside.

  “Fucking crazy bitch!”

  I scramble to my feet and grab the baseball bat hidden behind my bed. “DON’T!”

  Bits of ceramic crumble from his head as he dazedly gets to his feet, looking at me with a hatred so poisonous I feel it turning my stomach. “You fucked a goddamn guinea. Some slick-haired, provolone, cock-sucking dago.”

  A small smile twitches on my face at the thought of what Johnny might say if he knew my father called him a dago.

  “I did. And I loved it.”

  Fuck you.

  It’s like waving a red flag in front of an enraged bull. His screams seem to shake the walls, and I tighten my grip over the baseball bat.

  “YOU’RE A FUCKING DISGRACE! I should fucking kill you!”

  He reaches for his hip and I hurl the bat at him. I crash into the door, seized with adrenaline as his screams of fury follow me down the hall. My body smashes into the people hanging outside the door and I shove them aside.

  “Get out of my way!”

  My shoulder slams into someone. She flies from me and crashes on the floor. I skirt around her, sprinting toward the door.

  Something explodes over my head and I cover my face as glass shards sprinkle down. A picture frame sizzles with a small, round hole and I can’t make any sense of it. Then another blast, and a rush of air beside my hand.

  I whirl around and see Dad aiming a gun at my head. Mom grabs his arm, wrenching it, sobbing and pleading. He shoves her aside like a bear batting away his cub.

  The air freezes. My chest doesn’t move and I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull that trigger, to end my life exactly how he ended so many others before mine.

  “Carlos, what the hell are you doing, man?”

  A gentle but firm voice rings out in the clubhouse, and my dad’s head wheels toward Chuck.

  “My daughter is none of your concern.”

  “She’s a member of this club.”

  “Who fucked an Italian!” Red-rimmed eyes turn toward me again. “I can’t believe you let one of those slimy fucks touch you.”

  I find my voice somehow. “They’re not all bad.”

  “OF COURSE THEY ARE!” The gun trembles in his hand. “I can’t look at you without feeling sick to my stomach.”

  Same here, asshole.

  “Carlos, calm down.”

  A gunshot cracks the air, the sound splitting my head in two. I drop to the ground, because I must be dead. He was aiming the gun at me. Then I look over the dirty floor and I see Chuck lying on the floor. Screams hit my ears as the numbness fades. A dark-red pool spreads as Chuck lies in the dust like a dog. His face looks like parchment, that’s how white it is. Glassy eyes search for me as his wheezing breaths echo sharply in the clubhouse.

  The man who was always patient with me looks at me, his hand outstretched. He mouths something: Run.

  Dad looks at him in disbelief. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to.

  My face screws up in pain. “You fucking bastard.”

  The gun aims toward me.

  He meant to kill me.

  I get up to my feet and I burst out of the clubhouse, sprinting so hard that I can’t hear anything but my breathing. I head for those tall iron gates. Julien mans them, and he stiffens when I slide to a halt in front of him.

  “What happened? I heard—”

  “Let me the fuck out!” I bang my elbows on the gate. Any second my dad’s going to come flying out of the clubhouse and fire into my back.

  “I can’t just—”

  “OPEN THE FUCKING GATE!”

  I don’t bother to wipe the tears running down my face. I just smash the bars over and over again. If only I had the strength to rip them down for good. These fucking bars have kept me in for too long.

  “All right. Jesus.”

  He rolls the gate open. It seems to take an eternity for it to open wide enough for me to squeeze through the narrow opening.

  “MAYA!”

  My father’s voice hits me like a spear to my knees, and I fall down. My knee slams into the concrete and I feel the grit digging into my flesh.

  Get up, damn it.

  Shit, I’m so exposed here. Nothing but sheer adrenaline makes me sprint down the road until my lungs and legs burn. I reach town after a quarter of an hour, my lungs so tight that I can’t draw any more breath. Crippling nausea hits me and I retch on the side of the road.

  I need a payphone, but I don’t have a dime on me. All I have is Johnny’s phone number because I carry that folded piece of paper everywhere I go.

  And I have nowhere to go now. No wallet. No money. Nothing.

  Calling him is the last thing I want to do. I wanted to be on my own for a little while, but now that my father’s gone psycho—

  Pain clenches my heart and my chest shakes as I desperately draw in breath. I don’t know if Chuck is alive, but if he’s dead it’s my fault. I goaded my father, and all Chuck ever did was protect me. Hold my hand when we crossed the street. He wiped more than a few tears from my cheek.

  Fuck no. I can’t think about this shit.

  A glint of metal catches my attention, and I bend over to scrape the shiny coin from the pavement. Nickel. It pings on the street as I drop it and walk down the sidewalk of the industrial town built around the fortress. The houses here are all low income, or they were before they were abandoned to rot. Crumbling streets. I stub my toes on the uneven sidewalks and keep my eyes peeled for a fucking telephone booth, or a diner, or something. Then a see a grubb
y little sports bar, and it’s open. I stumble inside the dark room and my nostrils wrinkle at the faint smell of piss.

  “Can I use your phone?”

  The bartender takes one look at my disheveled appearance and shakes his wizened head.

  “Non.”

  I can’t believe this.

  “It’s an emergency!”

  “I don’t serve biker bitches. Va chier.” Go shit yourself.

  I summon all the energy in my chest. “Maybe I’ll tell my father to come to this bar and shove that rifle up your ass.”

  I see him angling toward the rifle behind his bar, and he freezes.

  “His name is Carlos. Have you heard of him?”

  The bartender relents. The threat of my father is too much for him to ignore. He grabs an ancient telephone and slams it on the counter.

  “There. Mange d’la marde.”

  Fuck you, too.

  I pick the phone off the hook and dig into my jeans for Johnny’s card. It’s been folded so many times that I can barely make out the black text. It rings, and I release a shaky sigh.

  “Johnny.”

  “I-it’s me. I really need your help.”

  Arrogance slides into his smooth voice. “You called a lot sooner than I thought.”

  “I’m in deep shit.”

  “What happened?”

  “He found out—he knows. I barely managed to get out.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m in some shitty bar down the hill from the fortress.”

  “I’m coming to get you. Don’t move.”

  My nails dig into the plastic as I watch the door. “What if he finds me? He tried to kill me—”

  “He what?”

  Static crackles between us. My mouth opens, but I can’t force out a single word. Vivid images flash in front of my face. My mom—what’s going to happen to her?

  “Just fucking stay put. I’m leaving now.”

  As soon as the comfort of his voice fades to a dull dial tone, panic ramps up behind my chest. I walk deep inside the bar and then I consider just hiding in the bathroom stall to wait for him. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

  The dingy, shitty bathroom only has a cheap screw and a hook to look at, but it’s amazing how much safer I feel. Even though it’d only take one kick to blast open the door.

  The light flickers on and I notice the gash on my knee, bleeding freely into my jeans. I reach out to grab a handful of paper towels, but the roll is empty. So is the toilet roll. Great.

  There’s another line of blood on my hand, right where Dad’s bullet split my skin open.

  He didn’t mean it.

  He couldn’t have.

  Bullshit, you know he meant it.

  My mind buzzes with a strange numbness as I turn the faucet on. The icy water stings my hand, and fresh blood spills from the wound. I splash some on my knee, gritting my teeth as I clean the dirt away.

  What just fucking happened to me? Did my father really try to blow my head open, or did I imagine all of that?

  “Did you see a girl?”

  Jesus Christ, I’m so lost in my own head that I didn’t hear anyone come into the bar. I know that fucking voice. My heart jumps into my throat as if I’ve been shoved to the edge of a cliff. I flatten myself against the wall as his heavy boots stomp through the bar.

  I inhale my breath, knowing that any second now, he’s going to give me away.

  “Non.”

  “You better not be lying to me, asshole.”

  The footsteps travel down the length of the bar, blood pulsing in my ears as his steps creak closer to me.

  Don’t go in the bathroom.

  “The president is looking for her.”

  “She’s not in my fucking bar.”

  I marvel at the bartender’s irritated voice and wonder why the fuck he’s protecting me. It’s probably just his hatred of the MC.

  He knocks his fist against the bathroom door. “Hey. Open up.”

  Oh fuck.

  I look around for something in this shitty bathroom to use as a weapon, but it’s completely bare.

  “I can hear you breathing. Don’t make me break down this door.”

  Fuck off!

  “Leave my fucking customers alone, damn it!”

  “Shut up, old man.”

  I inhale a sharp breath as another pair of footsteps walks into the bar. Is it him? Please, God, let it be him. A smooth voice makes my heart stop.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  I hear the biker’s leather squeak as he turns around. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “You better watch your fucking tone when you’re talking to me.”

  A beat of silence.

  “I’m looking for the president’s daughter. She ran off.”

  I bite my fist as Johnny speaks in a lilting tone. “Has she?” I can just see the smirk on his face.

  “You know what I think?”

  “I don’t give a shit, actually.”

  “I think that girl is in that bathroom, waiting for you to pick her up.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I need to take a piss, and you’re in the way. Maybe go fuck yourself.”

  The bartender mutters a threat. “I’m calling the police.”

  Johnny’s voice growls in response. “You do that and I’ll fuck you up.”

  “When Carlos finds out you fucked his daughter—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I can hear that little bitch in there!”

  “I don’t hear jack shit, and you’re starting to piss me off.”

  “This is no coincidence.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  The man’s tone wavers. “No.”

  Johnny’s joking voice addresses the bartender. “I think he’s saying that I intentionally banged the president’s daughter.”

  “Well—”

  “Why don’t you get the fuck out of here before I kill you?”

  Another beat of strained silence hangs, and I’m on the verge of shouting a useless warning.

  “All right, Johnny, I’m sorry.”

  Oh thank God.

  The heavy boots scrape the floor and I hear his body push from the door. I sag against the wall in relief. Seconds later my heart slams against my chest as Johnny raps his knuckles on the door.

  My hands shake as I unlatch the nail from the hook and the cheap door swings inward, revealing Johnny’s slim figure. He wears black slacks and a dark-green polo, which clings to his body in a way that makes blood rush to my skin’s surface. A heart-stopping smirk tugs at his mouth.

  “Close shave, hon.” He steps inside the bathroom and his smile falls. “Jesus, look at you!”

  I glance in the mirror as he grabs my face. His thumb gently caresses my neck, brushing over the angry marks where my father choked me. I hiss in pain and pull away.

  “That hurts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His voice sounds calm, but I’m scared of the darkness brewing in his eyes when he pulls back.

  “That piece of shit did this to you?”

  That piece of shit is still the president of the Devils MC.

  “What happened?”

  I’m still racked with nerves, and I don’t want to look at Johnny’s hard-set jaw and tell him everything that happened. My right ear won’t work properly. The gunshot was so loud that listening to him talk is like hearing a voice through a soda can.

  His brows knit together. “We’ll talk about it in the car. Let’s go.”

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yeah. Come on.”

  A warm hand slips into mine and I jump slightly, looking down at it. He frowns at me and walks. I follow him, strangely at ease. We pass by the bar and Johnny digs through his pockets.

  The bartender shakes his head. “I don’t want it.”

  Johnny slams a small stack of fifty-dollar bills. “Take it.”

  “I don’t—”


  “Just take it, old man,” he says in a slightly harassed voice, and the bartender shuts up.

  I follow the pressure of Johnny’s hand into the sunlight. My head jerks up and down the street, looking for a hint of chrome, but I see nothing.

  “Get inside, quick.”

  I stoop down as Johnny opens the door for me, and then I collapse inside the black leather interior. The door slams shut as he effortlessly slides in next to me.

  I am saved.

  “Take me home, Chrissy.”

  Then he slams the partition shut and for some reason blood rushes to my face when he gives me that concerned look.

  “What the fuck happened up there?”

  The cold voice feels like a bucket of ice water dumped on my head.

  Chuck’s hand was reaching for me. He told me to run. And then my own father shot me.

  I bury my face in my hands. If only I had just shut my mouth and kept my fucking thoughts to myself—made up some lie about why I went to Le Zinc—none of this would’ve happened.

  “Maya, I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

  Selfish prick.

  “He knows I fucked someone who was at your restaurant. He doesn’t know who. Thanks for the fucking concern.”

  His hand tenses next to mine and then it snakes over my shoulder. I feel it like stepping in a hot bath. He pulls me into his chest like a rag doll and his heart thumps against my back.

  I can’t remember the last time I was held like this. Even though I know he’s just doing this to placate me, my skin heats like a furnace when his lips touch my cheek.

  “What happened, Maya?”

  “He—he shot Chuck. I don’t even know if he’s alive. Mom tried to protect me.”

  Why am I so calm?

  “They saw me going into your restaurant. He thought I was meeting with you to betray the MC or something.”

  “Jesus.”

  I look up and he irons his face with his hands. Hot, bubbling guilt surges inside me.

  “It’s my fault.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I have to make him understand the full brunt of my guilt. “I pissed him off on purpose. I was just—I wanted to hurt him. I said—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you said. He did this to you.”

  A finger brushes over the choke wounds on my throat.

  It feels as though it was just another day at the MC. My dad guns down a man I actually respected, and I don’t even shed a tear. Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me?