DEVOUR ME: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (The Wicked Angels MC)

by Sophia Gray

  “But instead,” he continued mildly, “all I'm asking you to do is go find an adult video store and pick out a few movies for me. I don't think that's an unreasonable request, do you?”

  Beth shook her head. Her face felt hot, and her eyes were stinging, but she didn't want to cry in front of this monster.

  “Good. It's so much nicer when we agree on things, don't you think?”

  Beth nodded.

  “Now go get my movies,” Bull said. “And please hurry. My dick's starting to get hard, and if I can't plant it in my fist, I'll find somewhere else to put it instead.”

  She went to her car. Once she was behind the wheel, she started shaking like a leaf and the tears spilled out. She sobbed loudly. She felt stupid and powerless, like a bug who'd walked into a patch of sticky tree sap and suddenly found itself unable to move without tearing off its own legs.

  Once she'd calmed down and wiped the tears from her face, Beth looked up adult video stores on her phone and drove to the nearest one.

  Chapter 17

  Hank

  When the end of the lockdown was finally announced, applause rippled through the cell blocks. The doors were opened and the inmates stepped out into the common areas, stretching and catching up with people they hadn't seen in four days. But since none of them had anything new to report to each other, the talk quickly returned to the topic of the fight and its tragic conclusion.

  Hank noticed that the Sinners were giving him dirtier looks than usual, and when they passed him, he often heard muttered threats. Bull assured him that it was just because so many of them had lost money on the fight, but Hank could tell they all shared his suspicion that the fight was rigged—and they seemed convinced that he'd been in on it.

  A few days after the lockdown ended, Hank was sitting in the prison yard with Bull and Speed Bump when Roberto and a gang of Sinners walked up to them.

  Before Bull or Speed Bump could say anything, Hank stood up and offered a hand to Roberto. “I'm very sorry about what happened to your brother. I didn't have a chance to say anything earlier, but he was one hell of a fighter, and what happened to him was a damn shame.”

  Hank saw Bull's bewildered, pissed-off expression in his peripheral vision, but he ignored it. This was the right thing to do, and he was determined to do it, no matter what Bull thought.

  But Roberto only stared at Hank's outstretched hand with his upper lip curled into a snarl, as though he wanted to rip it right off Hank's wrist. “Yo, you can wrap your fucking apology in greaseproof paper and stick up your ass, white boy. I ain't interested.”

  Bull stood up, standing in front of Hank. “Hey, cholo: Our guy won, your guy lost. Get over it, and get out of our fucking faces.”

  “My brother didn't lose no fight. He had a seizure and choked to death on his own goddamn puke. You want to know why?”

  “Not particularly, no,” Bull said, feigning a yawn.

  Roberto's eyes stabbed into Hank's like daggers. “They found heroin in his system. Lots of it.”

  “Well, that ain't no big surprise,” Speed Bump drawled. “Everyone knows how much you Sinner boys love yer dope.”

  “Yeah, except Manolo fucking didn't. He was straight edge, man. He never did a drug in his life. You gringo cocksuckers cheated. You slipped him the dope somehow, 'cause you knew it was the only way you could win.”

  Bull stepped forward until his face was inches away from Roberto's. “We won because the white man is superior to all other races in every measurable way. You don't like it? Do something about it. Otherwise, go find a chalupa to munch on.”

  Roberto's nostrils flared, and for a moment, Hank was sure he'd haul off and punch Bull. Instead, he took a step back and spat on the ground at Bull's feet.

  “This shit ain't over,” Roberto hissed. “All you pasty white motherfuckers better start sleeping with one eye open.” He turned and walked off, followed by his posse.

  Hank waited until they were out of earshot, then turned to Bull. “Let me guess. You doped Manolo's nasal spray, then told me to punch him in the nose so he'd have to use it.”

  Bull let out a derisive snort. “All right, maybe I did. So what?”

  “First of all, I never cheated in a fight in my life, and it sucks knowing I have now. Second, Roberto was the one giving him the spray. You had him feed poison to his own brother, and you made me part of it.”

  Bull chuckled. “For the life of me, Hank, I simply cannot understand why you keep acting as though these animals are real people like you and me. They're just a bunch of mindless spics and coons, man. They kill each other off by the hundreds every day. Who gives a shit about a couple more?”

  “We got us a problem now, though,” Speed Bump said. “If'n they know we killed Manolo on purpose, they're gonna come after us for sure.”

  “Unless we show them what a bad fucking idea that would be,” Bull replied evenly. He turned to Hank. “You're going to have to kill off one of the Sinners. Maybe even two, if you can swing it. I can get you a weapon by lunchtime. That'll send a message to them and let them know not to start any shit with us.”

  Hank shook his head. “No fucking way.”

  Bull raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, as though Hank had suddenly started speaking in a foreign language. “Come again?”

  Speed Bump stepped in, tittering nervously. “Aw, come on, Bull, ease up. Sure he'll do it, no problem at all.”

  “No, I goddamn won't,” Hank said in a steely voice, glaring at Speed Bump. “And the next time you try to speak for me, Bump, we're going to have a real fucking problem.”

  Speed Bump's jaw went slack.

  “I just gave you a direct order, Hank,” said Bull. “Would you mind telling me just what the fuck makes you think you're in a position to refuse?”

  “First, because it's a stupid order. You fixed the fight, you were dumb enough to get caught, and now you want to start a war over it? Because I may not be a lifer like you and Bump, but even I know that whether I kill one, two, or ten of these guys, it won't stop there. They'll come back at you, you'll have to retaliate, and on and on. Second, I didn't come in here to be your fucking hit man. If I get caught whacking a Sinner—which I probably will—then what do I get? A longer sentence? Life, maybe? I told you when I first got here, all I want to do is keep my goddamn head down and do my time quietly.”

  “You seem to be real big on the 'firsts' and 'seconds' of things,” Bull said slowly. “So I'll give you a couple in return. If you don't do this, the first thing that's going to happen is the Knights and the Warriors stop watching your back. The second thing that'll happen is that your girlfriend D'Amato—or whatever the fuck her real name is—will get dimed out to the cops for giving false information on her application, and she'll go to prison herself. And just to give you a little bonus, the third thing that will happen is that wherever she's sent, I'll get word to the Aryans there that she needs to die...slowly, if possible. Do you want me to keep counting, Hank? Or would you agree that my math checks out?”

  Fuck, Hank thought. They found her out. I knew this would happen. I just didn't expect it so soon.

  Bull put an arm around Hank's shoulder. “Look. You're a stand-up guy and a real hardcase, and I respect the hell out of that. We all do. No one wants us to come to a parting of the ways. You're a valued member of our organization, and with your skills, I'm sure you'll contribute a lot. So here's what's going to happen. One of the Knights is going to slip you a shiv in the cafeteria, and you're going to kill a Sinner by the end of the day—you choose, they all look alike to me anyway—and we'll go ahead and forget your little attack of conscience. Sound good?”

  Hank nodded tightly. The truth was, he had no intention of killing a Sinner, and no idea of how he was going to get out of this predicament.

  “I'm glad to hear it,” Bull said. “And no more hissy fits, okay? I own this goddamn prison, and I'm getting a bit tired of making these speeches to prove it. Just do as I say from now on, and everything will be f
ine.”

  Hank highly doubted it.

  Chapter 18

  Hank

  Hank sat on a bench in the gym, lifting a pair of hand weights and trying to ignore the ugly feeling of the shiv tucked in his waistband. The Aryan working the line in the cafeteria had slipped it to him under the tray—it was a sharpened length of metal from a bed frame, with one end wrapped in a strip of blanket for a handle. In Bluebonnet, these weapons were known as “Lullabies.”

  There were plenty of Sinners working out near Hank, and he could feel the hostility radiating from them. All of them thought he'd been in on the plan to kill Manolo, and all of them wanted to make him pay for it.

  He couldn't blame them.

  Still, some of them were so close—and were looking at him so menacingly—that he couldn't help but think of how easy it would be to simply pull out the shiv and ram it into one or two of them before they knew what hit them. The guards were close enough to break up the resulting scuffle almost immediately, and they wouldn't see or report anything Bull didn't want them to. Hank would probably get away with it completely, and he would prove his loyalty to Bull.

  But then what?

  Then it would be open war, with Hank as public enemy number one among the Sinners. And even with Bull's protection, odds were decent that at least one of the Sinners would end up getting to Hank somehow, and he'd be forced to kill them too. And even if he got away with that, it would only be a matter of time before Bull forced him to do something else that was horrible, dangerous, and likely to earn him a longer sentence.

  Hank saw that Raheem was standing among the Sinners, looking small and defenseless, like a pokey little tugboat surrounded by massive battleships. Raheem had a fresh NOS tattoo on his upper arm, and he was looking up at the huge inmates around him with a mixture of awe and terror. Hank knew that even if he were inclined to stab one of the Sinners, he wouldn't want to commit such a sudden and violent act in front of someone so young.

  How long until the Sinners forced Raheem to get a gang tattoo on a more visible part of his body, ruining any chance that he might have a life when he left this place? How long until they forced him to kill someone in here, so he could be a lifer like them?

  This fucking place, Hank thought angrily. You think you can walk in and stay yourself somehow. But the moment those doors shut behind you, that's all erased in the blink of an eye. You become whoever you need to in order to survive, even if it's someone you don't even recognize anymore, even if it's someone you hate. No choice you make is your own anymore. Every path is a dead end—and the more you struggle against all of it, the faster it swallows and drowns you, like goddamn quicksand.

  And you can try to fight against it by lying to yourself, like me clinging to the idea that I'm still a Carnage Warrior in here, no matter what.

  But if I take orders from Nazis, then what the fuck does that make me?

  The hairs on the back of Hank's neck stood up, and he realized that someone was approaching him from behind. He was sure it was one of the Sinners stepping up to take him out, and he set his weights down quickly, his hand drifting to his waistband. If he was forced to kill a Sinner in self-defense, well, then his problem would pretty much solve itself, wouldn't it?

  Assuming the Sinner didn't take him down first.

  But when Hank turned to look, he saw that one of the Shepherds was standing behind him. He was a large black man in his forties with eyeglasses and a stocky frame. Hank recognized him as Dutton Greene, the group's leader.

  “If you're rolling up on me to give me the 'Say no to drugs' speech, you can save it,” Hank said. “I already got it from Bull.”

  “I know you don't use narcotics,” Dutton said to him quietly. Hank saw that the Sinners were drifting to the other side of the gym. He'd seen similar behavior from them before—they knew the Shepherds' reputation for collecting information, and they didn't want anything they said to be overheard.

  “Well, I'm no bible-thumper, and there's too many witnesses for me to even think of appealing my case,” Hank replied, picking up the weights again. “So I don't know what you're here to tell me.”

  Dutton leaned in closer. “I'm here to tell you not to use that Lullaby in your waistband to kill any Sinners, no matter what Bull told you.”

  Hank raised his eyebrows. “Wow, you guys heard about that, huh? I guess you really do have ears everywhere. But if you know that, then you probably also know I don't have a choice.”

  “That's a phrase that a lot of men in here like to use. 'I didn't have a choice.' But the truth is, all men do have a choice to do what's right or what's wrong. They simply ignore that fact in favor of the path of least resistance. It lands them here, and if they keep clinging to that pathetic idea of 'no choice'—if they keep surrendering themselves to what seems easy—then they end up shivved, or lifers, or on death row.”

  “That's very deep,” Hank sneered. “Very poetic. Were you a lawyer on the outside, or a reverend?”

  “On the outside, I was a thief and an addict. It took being sent here to show me that I did and do have choices, every day that I'm still alive. I know you're a biker and a criminal, but I also know you're not a cold-blooded murderer. You can let Bluebonnet make you into one, over and over, until your soul is black and twisted and unrecognizable to you. Or you can stand up and be the man you are.”

  “Look, man, this is all really inspiring stuff, and clearly you know how to sell it. But all it tells me is that you don't know my whole story.”

  “Which part?” Dutton asked. “That D'Amato runs with your MC? That you have a romantic connection with her? That Bull has threatened to expose and harm her unless you do what he tells you to do?”

  A romantic connection with her, Hank thought. Is that what we have? Do either of us even know?

  “Okay, so you do know,” Hank countered. “So what's your big idea? Just 'do the right thing,' even if it means hanging her out to dry?”

  “Butler and Bull enjoy making threats. It makes them feel powerful to know they can intimidate people into doing their bidding without having to lift a finger. But they're slow to act on those threats. They'd rather sit back and rule by fear instead of action. Even if you disobey them, they'll keep teasing her with what they might do long before they actually do anything. Ultimately, they'd rather keep her to boss around than expose her and have to worry about replacing her. And that will give both of you time to come up with another way out of this situation.”

  Hank considered this. “That's a lovely theory. Unfortunately, we're a bit beyond the theoretical here—this is someone's fucking life we're talking about. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I've been here much longer than Butler or Bull, and I've watched them closely ever since they came here. Their behavior patterns are extremely predictable, for those who pay attention.”

  “Fine. But even assuming you're right, what about me? If the Warriors and Aryans withdraw their protection from me, I'm a dead man.”

  “Is that all you're worth, then? The people watching your back? Are you nothing without a gang to belong to? Are you just the sum of your patches and tattoos, or are you a man with an identity of your own? Think back, Hall...you weren't always a Carnage Warrior, an animal traveling in a pack. There was a time when you were defined by more than that.”

  Hank tried to shake off Dutton's words, but he felt them ripple through some deeper part of him, like a stone dropped into a still pond. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd joined the Warriors, and ever since he'd gone from a fresh-faced prospect to a fully-patched member, he'd done everything he could to escape the memories of what had come before.

  He'd never known his parents—they'd practically been kids themselves, and they'd anonymously left him in front of a firehouse when he was just a few months old. His earliest recollections were from the drab, state-run orphanage he'd grown up in. A building full of children with no last names, no roots to claim, no real sense of being wanted or belonging anywhere. Some of the
kids who were older and more cruel formed gangs, and they preyed on the ones who were younger and smaller, like Hank.

  The adults who worked there weren't paid enough to notice or interfere. If any of the victims tried to report these incidents to them, the grown-ups would sigh and shake their heads, saying “Boys will be boys.” They'd chide the victims, telling them that they should work these conflicts out for themselves and that “Confrontation builds character.”