HIS VIRGIN VESSEL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (War Cry MC)

by Nicole Fox

  For Erica.

  When Marco turned around again, his whip was still in his hand. This time, however, it did not just end with a piece of tapering leather: now, those little metal ball bearings–in a group a three–were fashioned on the end. It would no longer be long, clean cuts. No, he wanted to bruise as well as lash. Fracture bone as well as bleed.

  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and waited.

  It was not a whip, but a hand, I felt upon me next.

  He was swiveling me around, so that my back was to him now.

  “Don’t worry, Dominic,” he said, drawing the cold steel of the ball bearings across my back. “I will not kill you yet. That would be too simple. Too…merciful. No, we’re gonna be together a good, long while.”

  “Good, you bastard,” I thought. “Let’s make a day of it, shall we?”

  But I remained silent. I wanted him angry, yes, but not so furious he’d lose control.

  Crack! He struck! The whip flew through the air, connecting with its leather strap in the small of my back. Lighting fast, the rest of the whip followed across my back until the ball bearings, accelerating faster than the speed of sound, finally exploded against my shoulder blade.

  I cried out. I could not help it. It felt as if I had been struck by electricity, arcing down the burning pathway of the whip to a deadly explosion on my shoulder. Just from that single impact, I could feel my flesh swelling, hardening as it puffed up with internal blood.

  From behind me, Marco chuckled. “That hurt, didn’t it?” He asked. “Good.”

  Crack! Smack! The whip cut the air again, this time from above, drawing a red line down the length of my spine and shattering upon my tailbone. The pain was enormous, and though I felt the scream clawing its way out of my throat, I fought it back.

  I could not allow Marco to get bored with me before I figured out what to do. My silence did it: I could hear his disappointed grunt as he struck me again and again, waiting for me to cry out.

  Strangely, as the pain built, I felt myself growing numb to it. Every strike knocked the pain further away, until it and I were floating in different universes. In fact, so distant did it become that, for a moment, I felt myself outside of myself, and looking down at my body, dangling through the air.

  The wrists were purple and swollen. Blood trickled down from where the cuffs had cut into the skin. My chest was savaged red with lines, as if a wild, clawed animal had ravaged me. And yet, my back was even worse: there were the red lines, yes, but also deep, mottled bruises, red and purple and green, where the ball bearings had struck me. I had only seen bruises like that a few times in my life:

  On the body of a fellow Broken Spire, murdered by a rival gang. They had kicked him to death with steel-toed boots.

  Another was my own father. Nearly killed in a motorcycling accident. He’d hit that road at forty miles an hour. Thank God for leather–those bruises would have been skin torn from the bone if he hadn’t been wearing it. When he’d showed me what happened, he’d lit a terror in my young self that made it impossible for me to be near a motorcycle for years.

  And then, five years later, he died in a car crash. Go figure.

  The point is, I had seen injuries like that before. They were injuries that, without care, could spell death.

  “Perhaps it doesn’t matter,” I thought, feeling even the strange image of myself, from outside myself, growing hazy. “Maybe Marco will kill me and then he’ll let Erica go.”

  “No!” Another, stronger voice growled. As it did so, the world came back into focus, and so, too, did the pain. “You must persist! For Erica! For Thunder!”

  I thought of her, sprawled across the white sand of a beach in a beautiful black bathing suit, gesturing to me. “Yes, that would be so nice,” The first voice muttered. “Just think of it.”

  The vision was tempting. It called to me, like a siren on deadly seas. The closer I drew to it, the clearer it became, and the weaker my hold on reality.

  “No!” I thought. “Hang on! Ignore it! Ignore it!”

  “Erica…”

  The voice that uttered that word was real. My jaw was moving, spitting out the word, slick with pain from rusty hinges. Marco paused in his assault.

  “Oh, are you looking for your girlfriend?” He sneered.

  No! I wanted to cry. No! Leave her out of this! But it seemed that my body had the strength only to mutter that one word: “Erica.”

  Marco chuckled. It was a sound like poison gas gurgling up from deep underwater. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’ll see her soon. But first, I am going to break you.”

  He went to his torture table and unscrewed the ball bearings from the tip of his whip. From my place above my body, I could see–I could see–him attaching his next terrible device:

  The fishing hooks.

  He grinned like a demon, drew back the whip, and struck.

  My consciousness faded.

  “This is death,” I thought. Then: “These are to be my final thoughts.”

  I saw a bright light coming towards me. I tried to fight it, to close my eyes, to resist, but it was like fighting sleep after days–weeks, an eternity–without rest. It swept over me, cool and soothing, and then…

  My vision cleared. I found myself blinking and dazzled in a sunlit garden, morning dew fresh on the petals of roses and ryegrass. In the distance, beside a white little cottage with chipping paint and hanging plants, was a paved driveway.

  Three people stood circled upon it. A man and a woman, gray at the temples but full of life and vitality as their over-bloomed yard. And, between, mounted atop a shining new dirt bike, a boy.

  I recognized him. It had been years since I’d seen him, but I recognized him:

  It was me.

  I wanted to approach, but something held me back. A preciousness, a purity in the moment, where someone like me–a cruel man, a criminal, a murderer–should not be welcome.

  The boy tried going forward. He made it halfway down the driveway before teetering and falling to his side. He was unhurt–his thick knee pads and helmet had protected him–but he was still shaken. His mother scooped him up into a kiss, and then his father, after an equally affectionate one-armed-hug, plopped his son right back down on the back and told him to try again. The child did, and this time he made it all the way to the road before toppling over. The happy couple laughed and cheered him as he pushed himself up this time, and hopped right back on.

  Mom, Dad, I tried to say, but the glint of the sun on the nearby frog-pound might as well have been talking. You were both so beautiful before you died. And I…I was beautiful, too.

  At this thought, the vision suddenly changed. In all outward ways, it was identical–the same college, the same dirt-bike, the same gentle breeze through muffled wind chimes–but I still sensed an enormous difference.

  I found it in the laughter of the woman. I studied her closely, and found, to my surprise, that it was not my mother, but Erica, standing there and cheering on the child. And it was not my father standing next to her, but me–as an adult. Gray at the temples, but still me!

  And the little boy…As I gazed at him–saw the cocky, lopsided grin of mine, and Erica’s lovely hair, poking out from beneath the helmet–well, he could only be our son.

  The vision blurred. I thought at first that it was fading, but no–it was because there were tears in my eyes.

  “This is it,” I thought. “This is what I want. Me and Erica. This is the way for me to be beautiful again.”

  Like my parents were. Like Erica is now. Through her…I can be too. And that means living.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dominic

  “Argh…” I snapped awake.

  Immediately, agony coursed through my awareness. I blinked, and felt the drab, lightless room–its walls now splattered with blood–slowly clearing in my vision. I could not see my back, but by the arcing fire and the aching chill, I could tell that much of the skin on my shoulders and spine was fille
ted. I could feel it hanging like shredded meat from long divots in my flesh.

  I listened. There was a steady drip of blood from its trail along my body to the tip of my toes, down through the drain in the floor. Good architecture, I thought dazedly. I did not see or hear La Gancho.

  Then, I heard footsteps. The coward in me wanted to close my eyes, to pretend I was still unconscious, but I would not allow myself that luxury. Though it cost every bit of energy I had, I raised my eyes to look La Gancho in the eye.

  It was not him. It was a man I didn’t recognize. Old and bent, with yellowish-gray hair and a skeletal frame that did not preclude the pot belly sitting at his waist like some perverse pregnancy. Unlike the other Jaws, who wore only varying combinations of denim and leather, this man was dressed, of all things, in a business suit. He was muttering to himself as he entered, and did not seem to notice that I was awake.

  “Nearly killed him, the bastard,” he was muttering. He had a large assortment of bandages tucked under one arm, which were apparently–though I could not believe it–for me. He set them down on La Gancho’s torture table and began roughly winding them around my torso.

  “I can’t believe I’m wasting time on a thing like this…bandaging up this walking corpse just to prolong the torture. And that he’s wasting time on a thing like this…not when there’s money to be made!”

  If I could have moved, I would have raised my eyebrows. “It’s him! The inside guy! The one they call the Egghead! He must be their connection–how they’ve been laundering money so securely!”

  I shifted, grimacing at the pain in my wrists, and spoke to him. “Who…who are you?” My voice sounded like the last few drops of slimy water spluttering out the end of an empty hose.

  He glanced at me, apparently surprised that I was awake or even alive, and then chuckled to himself. “Raymond Blade,” he said. “No harm in telling you that. If La Gancho doesn’t kill you when he returns, infection certainly will.”

  I sneered. “Blade? What, you come to cut my hair then? A little of the top, if you please.”

  For the moment, Blade did not respond, but I did feel his clumsy bandaging grow even rougher. It was agony as the tough fabric slid across my mutilated flesh, but I did not show it. Then, when he was finished, he whirled me to face him and grinned at me.

  “No, Raymond Blade, as in Erica’s boss. I’ve been ogling that sweet pair of tits for years, and even felt the juicy squeeze of her pussy. I’ll feel it again, too, before the day is out.”

  At his words, I felt a terrible rage surge through me–greater even than the agony in my body–and I raised up my legs to strike him in the gut. Aged though he was, I was still slow with blood loss, so he had plenty of time to dodge out of the way.

  He giggled, then wiped his bloody hands on a towel before gimping away. “I can see why she likes you,” he snarled, out of reach. “She just needs a man tough enough to put her in her place, huh?”

  I growled, baring my teeth and trying to lunge for him, but he laughed, wiping his eyes as if this was the merriest thing he had ever seen.

  “Be careful!” He crowed. “You’ll loosen your bandages and bleed out all over the floor. You wouldn’t want to die before the big show, would you?”

  “Big show? What do you mean?” I grunted.

  He leered. “Oh, you’ll see soon enough, Mr. Molina.”

  Though I was powerless to hurt him, my rage was so great that I barked out my words, longing to strike him, if only with my words.

  “I’ve had enough of this!” I roared. “Where are Erica and Thunder? I’ve come here, endured everything you fucks have put me through, and I still haven’t seen her! What kind of businessman are you?”

  Blade smiled. He reached out–over the torture table–and plucked one of the long, serrated knives that La Gancho had left waiting there. With a wink, he slipped it into his pocket.

  “One who makes sure the deck is stacked in his favor,” he said mysteriously, and then slipped, with no explanation, from the room. I heard the bolt click behind him as he fastened me in.

  # # #

  Now that I was alone–truly alone–I felt my full consciousness and focus returning to me. Though every moment was a torment, I used my rage, lit by La Gancho and stoked by Blade, to fuel me, until I felt as cunning and aware as ever.

  I needed–I must–find a way to escape, a way to rescue Erica and Thunder. Obviously, there were lies on top of lies here. La Gancho, at least, was predictable–he wanted above all things to see me suffer.

  But Blade? What did he want?

  “Erica, obviously,” I thought. Well, that was true, but my next realization was, “What man doesn’t?” I had to think about it further. What drives a balding old corporate scoundrel to drop his rules of class and mix in with a motorcycle gang?

  Well, after a lifetime of contending with men like him, the answer was easy as well: money and power. Which meant that, above all things, I could assume that Blade liked to be in charge, even if he lacked the leadership qualities to deserve it.

  “I could use that,” I thought. “I can manipulate him. Maybe trick him into revealing where Erica and Thunder are if I can’t find them. But first, I need to escape these fucking cuffs.”

  I glanced around, looking for something, anything that might help me undo my cuffs, or at least get my feet back in contact with the floor. In fact, so great was the pressure on my lungs by the prolonged, enforced position of my arms above my head that I was lucky that I hadn’t suffocated while unconscious. But there was nothing! The torture table, even if it would have been helpful, was out of reach, and the Crooked Jaws had been sure to strip me completely naked, so I had not even useful little tricks like the Swiss Army knife sewn into the lining behind the left breast. The only other adornments in the room, as I’ve already mentioned, are those stupid, vile, evil little hooks screwed everywhere into the walls and ceiling.

  Wait a minute! I thought. Screwed!

  I glanced up, straining to locate the hook above my head, from which my handcuffs dangled. Yes! I could see it! It was simply screwed into the wood above. I could see the threading biting in for purchase, and the chips where the solid surface of the ceiling had been punctured for its grasp. Its simple metal thread: nothing more than a few millimeters of polished steel, arrayed in ridge after ridge, between me and my freedom.

  It was crazy, I knew–this plan that was forming. Just to test it, I curled into a ball, lifting my knees into my chest and then my ankles up, up, up over my head, like a kid dangling from gymnastic rings. The strength it took was enormous, and I could feel the sticky clogging of the scabs on my back tearing open once again, but, with a grunt of exertion, I was able to plant my bare feet upon the ceiling and push.

  I could hear the wood straining with the force of it, but still, it held. That was probably good anyway. If I fell straight onto my back I probably would have passed out again from the pain.

  The hook, it seemed, really would need to be unscrewed.

  Righty, tighty, lefty, loosey, I thought giddily, and then I began to twist.

  My first task was to get the chain of my handcuffs to snag together, so that when I turned my body, the pressure of the snagged chain forced the hook to turn as well. I did this by swinging my ankles outward in a wide circle, gathering momentum until at last, in a gigantic heave of effort, I bounced my body upward and twisted in midair.

  Clang! The chain caught.

  “Argh!” I couldn’t help but grunt as the resulting bind tightened the cuffs even further on my swollen, bruised wrists. And I couldn’t just relinquish the pressure, either, and fall back into a more comfortable position. No, I needed to lock my hands together, and make sure that the snag stayed strong.

  It was agony. But it was progress.

  Now, from this tortuous position, I was able to begin unscrewing.

  I did it by once again swinging my ankles, but rather than seeking a wide circle, I rocked back and forth, back and forth, until I’d swung
out as far as I could. Then, at the peak of my swing, I’d twist, contorting my body like a cat in midair and facing the opposite way.

  Creak. I heard it over the groan of my handcuff chains and the air rustling past my ears. I worked myself into another arc, and then, at the top of my range, I twisted again.

  Creak.

  The hook was turning!

  I ended up finding a rhythm to it: flex, swing, turn! Flex, swing, turn! It was like sex, except that each thrust of my body brought me a lightning storm of pain, rather than pleasure. Still, either way, it was building to a climax:

  Saving Erica. And Thunder.

  Creak. Agony. Creak. Pain.

  And then! The chipping of wood! I felt the bite of the screw breaking, and, at the top of my arc –