Captive: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel

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Captive: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel Page 5

by Natasha Thomas


  What is with people this week? That’s twice in two days I’ve been told I’m not fit for society and to be frank, it’s starting to piss me off. Before I can snap back at her Marlene lets out a low cackle.

  “Her type,” she says pointing a bony finger at her. “You’re worried about her type?”

  Marlene looks genuinely interested in Emerald’s response and all I can think is this is the end of my promising career as a waitress in a motorcycle club strip joint.

  “Yes actually. She’s nasty,” she wrinkles her nose as she tilts her head in my directions. “All those dreadlocks, skanky tattoos, and her boobs aren’t big enough. That and the fact that she’s cheap and puts out for anyone isn’t the kind of girl we want around the club. She’s old too.”

  Oh my fucking God! Old! I’m about to turn thirty-one, not ninety. Not to mention that Emerald looks even older than I am with all her fake blonde hair, over made up face, and the wrinkles lining the corners of her eyes. I can’t believe she’s saying this shit about me. Actually I can and I don’t like it. Calmly crossing my arms over my chest I wade into the conversation saying,

  “What she really means to say Marlene, is that she’s found out some information about my past and finds it confronting. She doesn’t want me here because every time she looks at me she’ll have to be reminded of what she knows, or think she knows.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Emerald yells. “I just don’t think you’re the image the club is looking to portray. Guys come here to relax, look at something pretty, maybe get a private dance. They don’t come here to have some ex-junkie, club whore flashing her used and abused self all over the place. It lowers the class of the place.”

  I can’t help laughing again, and this time Marlene joins me.

  “Seriously? I lower the class of the place? Can you hear yourself?” I don’t wait for her response before continuing. “Classy is not attacking someone you don’t know, have never met, and haven’t got hard evidence to back up your accusations. Classy is not assuming I’m here to start stripping. And classy is definitely not coming into your boss’s office demanding things of her without invitation, and causing shit you’ve got less than no right to cause. Unless you are squeaky clean, don’t throw stones when they’ll get thrown back and shatter that glass house you’re living in.” I end by throwing my hands up in frustration. Bitches like this are part of the reason I left Denver in the first place. They think they know enough about you to judge you but the reality is that they’ve overheard some snippets of information here and there, putting two and two together and getting nine.

  Clapping sounds as I whip my head back to where Marlene is standing looking pleased, and just a little proud.

  “Well now my little prodigy, I must say I’m fucking impressed. When can you start?”

  The next night I began my first shift as a waitress-slash-assistant bartender at Kitty Kat’s. While I hadn’t had any formal bar training, and hadn’t worked one outside of Vengeance’s own clubhouse bar, Marlene decided that serving alcohol to dozens of intoxicated bikers for five years was more than enough experience to hire me on. I can’t say I love the uniform, but on the upside if covers the basics so I suppose I should be grateful.

  Tight black booty shorts, and when I say shorts I really should clarify and say they are closer to resembling boy short panties than actual shorts, a tight deep purple tank top with Kitty Kat’s plastered in bold lettering across the bust and logo which is a fierce cat’s paw dragging downwards leaving claw marks in its wake, and six inch black platform heels make up the entirety of my new uniform. The outfit isn’t uncomfortable, well except for the shoes they kill my feet by the end of the night, but the looks I get while wearing it are. In the last almost four weeks, and yes I’m still working there it’s a long story, I’ve been grabbed, groped, had my ass slapped, my boobs manhandled and had more penises rubbed against some part of my body than I’ve ever cared to come into contact with. Most of the guys are dissuaded by a hand slap or firm “don’t fucking touch me”, but a couple of times I’ve been forced to call Dagger or Saint over to take out the trash when they won’t take no for an answer. To make matters worse, I’ve barely been sleeping catching a couple of hours here or there when I can, and this isn’t making my increasing hostility towards inappropriate men any better.

  I haven’t told anyone and I don’t intend to, but the letters I’ve been receiving for the last couple of months have started coming more frequently much to my dismay. What’s more disturbing though is that they’ve gone from saying stuff like, “I’m watching you,” and “See you soon,”, to “Watch your back bitch,” and, “I’m coming for you cunt and this time you won’t get away.” To say I panicked at the sight of the first one would be a massive understatement, I was a fucking mess for a week after it arrived.

  At first they were coming every second week building up to once a week on a Thursday. In the beginning I caught the fact they were arriving on the same day every week, but not the significance. It wasn’t until I sat down and wracked my brain that I realised Thursday was the day of the week I finally managed to escape. After that little revelation, post crying jag, I called the closest most reputable security company and asked them to come around and install whatever their top of the line monitored system was. My next stop was to Barlow and Sons. Mr Barlow has been a gunsmith for going on fifty years now, and his sons Mason and Cody are carrying on the family tradition, started by Mr Barlow’s grandfather, beginning their training straight out of high school. At thirty-nine and thirty-six respectively they’re sweet, handsome, charming men that I’ve seen around time and had the privilege of tattooing a time of two.

  Ultimately I bought a Beretta PX4 Storm semi-automatic .40 pistol. I’ve spent time around guns learning to handle, fire, tear down, clean and reassemble them. Boss told me that if I’m going to learn how to shoot one I had to know the ins and outs of my weapon. I practiced with him for hours at the armoury at home, the firing range ten miles out of Furnace, and can tear down my gun and reassemble it nearly as quickly blindfolded versus not. I learnt to shoot using the; Sig Sauer 9mm, Smith & Wesson 629 .44 special, Ruger .380, Glock 30S 10mm, and the Beretta 9mm with Boss stating that I needed a rounded firearms education. Originally I was stand-offish around guns, the thought of hurting someone unintentionally was terrifying. But after a lengthy safety talk and demonstration from Boss and Diesel I felt confident enough to try it out for myself. And I loved every second of it.

  The power. The control. The knowledge that I can defend myself if I need to was heady, it gave me a sense of peace I hadn’t achieved through anything else I’d tried. By the end of my practicing, over and over every day, I ended up a better shot than both of my teachers. Granted I don’t get out to the firing range here in Blackwater often but I do go regularly.

  That’s how I met Mr Barlow, or Al (short for Alfred which he hates), Mason and Cody. They didn’t look at me like I was just some insipid woman playing around with big boys’ toys, they treated me with respect, offered assistance when they thought I needed it, and spoke to me with kindness.

  If I’m truly honest, they’re the most real of the friends I’ve made here, with Al being the only person to know my whole sordid tale. He didn’t judge. He didn’t rail at the system for failing me. And he didn’t look at me with pity after I was done. He simply held me when I cried, wiped my tears away and told me to come for Sunday dinner. So I did what any woman invited to dinner by a wonderful older man, that was kind, considerate and understanding would do, I went. Just like I went the Sunday after, and the Sunday after that. In fact I’ve been for dinner with the Barlow’s every Sunday since meeting them ten months ago, with the exception of the Sunday four weeks ago when I made the grave mistake of going to Lou and Steel’s. A mistake that will not happen again.

  The last edition to my self-made fortress of protection was the cutest, most adorable black German Shepard puppy I named Baxter, Bax for short. I was assured by the breeder, who by rep
utation is one of the very best in five states, that all her dogs are compatible with protection training and should I need her services to do so she would be more than happy to help. I took her up on this three months ago and haven’t looked back. At nine months old, Bax is energetic when he’s allowed to be, calm when I need him to be, and always watchful. So much so he comes across as much older than he is, an old soul trapped in a puppy’s body. He weighs in at sixty pounds now but is expected to reach eighty to eighty-five, if you go based on his parents’ weight at adult size. He’s smart, a fast learner, observant, and has done more for my well-being than the alarm or handgun put together.

  We walk morning and night, I play Frisbee with him when I finish work if it’s too late to take him out, he goes to Sunday dinners at the Barlow’s with me, and has even come to the clubhouse on hog roast occasions. The only thing I question is his assessment of someone’s character, because my dog loves Max. And when I say loves, I mean he ditches me, albeit momentarily, any time he sees Max or senses he’s nearby. Thankfully Max’s hatred of me hasn’t transferred to my dog, if anything Max loves Bax, (I know that sounds ridiculous but it is what it is), just as much.

  So, now I have an alarm which cost me a hefty dint in my savings, a handgun that has taken pride of place in my bedside table drawer, and a dog that is intelligent but is clearly lacking in the section of his brain where he distinguishes who’s an asshole and who’s not. Not to mention said savings is gone, so no escape plan B for me meaning my high security fortress better be up to scratch because I have no doubt its defences are going to be tested soon.

  Unfortunately today is not shaping up to be my day, and it’s only about to get worse. Much worse. Epically worse…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jackson ‘Boss’ Carr

  President of Vengeance MC – Furnace, Colorado

  The only fucking phone call I never wanted to get was one from Addie. Not because I don’t want to hear from her, I do, but I don’t want to answer because she never calls me unless something’s wrong. I call her, and I do it regularly. Whether it’s to check-in, ask her about her day, take her pulse on how she’s handling things down in Blackwater, doesn’t matter, I like hearing her sweet voice, especially when she sounds all excited, and shit. This isn’t one of those phone calls though. This is one that chills the blood running in my veins instantly, making my heart race, and my mind calculate how long it’ll take me and Diesel driving 120mph to get to her.

  After snagging my phone off the desk in front of me I bark,

  “Addie, what’s wrong? Tell me you’re ok.” It might sound like an overreaction to anyone else, but Adelyn is the most independent woman I’ve ever known, and if she’s bitten the bullet to call me something is most definitely fucking wrong.

  “J-J-Jackson, I need you to come down here please,” she says sniffling into the mouth piece.

  That’s another thing, our Addie doesn’t cry. As in, never. I‘ve seen her sparring with Jump, a brother that weighs in around 230 pounds, who accidentally landed a fist to her temple, and she didn’t spill a tear. She’s fucking tough, her emotions more often than not locked down tight.

  “I need more brothers with me than just Diesel, sweetheart?”

  “Y-yes. Can you bring Fury too?” Her voice is hesitant. It doesn’t need to be, there isn’t a man in my MC that wouldn’t lay his life down for Adelyn any day of the week, and twice on Sunday’s.

  “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll round them up, and be on my bike in five. Is there anything I need to know, Addie? Do I need an arsenal, has someone hurt you?” There’s a damn good chance she won’t tell me shit unless I’m standing in front of her prying it out of her. Adelyn’s been that way since Diesel and I first found her shivering, curled into a ball in foetal position on the steps of the clubhouse fifteen years ago. There’s not a doubt in my mind that the tiny woman that will always own a piece of my heart has secrets buried so deep they’ll never work their way out.

  Clearing her throat she says,

  “No, just you and the boys. You don’t need to empty the armoury.”

  It’d be funny if it wasn’t true. Vengeance has what’s akin to a fully stocked armoury available, and ready for situations exactly like this. If I needed to I could hand a weapon to almost every resident of Colorado before running out.

  “You hand tight sweetheart. Go to Reaper, he knows the score. He’ll watch over you till we can get there.” She doesn’t reply. Nothing. If I couldn’t hear her faint sniffles I’d think she’d hung up. “Addie? You hear me?”

  Huffing a loud breath she replies,

  “I heard, but I’m safe to stay home. I’ll lock up tight and wait for you to get here, okay?”

  I don’t like it, and I’d fucking prefer she head down to Skin Fusion letting Reaper keep an eye on her, but I know if Adelyn’s turned down the suggestion there’s a good reason why.

  “You make fucking sure you’re shut up tight, Addie. Doors, windows, fucking skylights if you’ve got them. Check them all. I want you to text me every fifteen minutes. Just an ‘I’m okay’ will do, but I want something from you no less than every fifteen minutes, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She sounds so fucking defeated, so unlike the bright and bubbly Adelyn I know. And it breaks my heart. Tears it to pieces.

  “I’ve gotta go get the guys, and call Priest to let him know we’re riding that way. I’ll be there soon, sweetheart. Whatever this is, we’ll work it out.” Saying our goodbye’s I realise too late that she didn’t answer my question about whether she was hurt or not. All the more reason to get the fuck out of here ASAP.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Max

  “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I will fear no evil for I am the meanest motherfucker of them all.”

  - Bikers Guide to Life

  “What!” I bark into the phone. Today’s already gone to shit, so it doesn’t really matter if I piss off another person or ten, there’s no redeeming the clusterfuck that makes up the last four hours of my life. What started out to be not an altogether shitty morning quickly turned into a day I’d like nothing more than to forget as fast as humanly possible.

  Waking up with my hand on my already rock hard, ready to blow cock was a good start to any morning. Jerking myself off to the memory of Adelyn’s sweet, wet mouth wrapped around my cock while I pulled her dreadlocks to the side watching those plump lips devour my shaft was far from unpleasant. As a matter of fact, it was the hardest I’d come outside when I was buried deep inside her.

  You know what they say though; it’s all downhill from there. And of course it would be. There’s nothing better than getting off to thoughts of a sexy blonde goddess on her knees before you, worshiping your cock, so it makes sense that shit wouldn’t stay that good. I didn’t for one second think it’d turn to a shit fight from hell though.

  Toby got the flu two days ago, and is still out with it. Fucking asshole forgot to reschedule all his appointments too, so that meant lucky me along with Kendall, and Adelyn had to pick up the slack. Not that I’d mind usually, it’s just that the last three and a half weeks have been even more strained at the shop without adding extra shifts, longer hours, not to mention adding Adelyn and I in close proximity to the mix. That was pure torture. There was nothing I wanted more than to reach out and touch her. Run my fingers along the silky smooth skin that lines the inside of her thighs. I wanted to lick the long column of her throat, nip at the sensitive spot below her ear, and make her moan for me.

  Burying myself inside her would be the pinnacle of perfection. Somewhere I wanted to be more than my next breath. But I couldn’t. There was no way I could separate myself from what I’m starting to feel for her, and still be able to fuck her, make her cum for me. I’ve never had that problem before. The women I took to bed were simply that; women I fucked. Adelyn is different. And if I was being honest, it was already too late. I’m skating the edge of a slippery slope that’s heading nowhere good. Wit
hout a doubt I know that if I spend any more time with Adelyn than is absolutely necessary I’ll be admitting my feelings to her in less than a day. And that is not something either of us need.

  After I was the asshole to end all assholes the morning I left Adelyn’s house, it took me less than half an hour to realise my mistake. Shit, I can’t even call it a mistake, it was more than that; it was a fucking cruel, and unnecessary. There isn’t an hour that’s gone by since I haven’t wanted to apologise, beg her to forgive me. But did I? Fuck no! That’s what a reasonable adult would do, and I’m nothing if not unreasonable.

  I’ve asked myself a million times why I said that shit to her. Why I practically accused the most amazing woman I’ve ever met of being a slut. Worse still, a slut with a sexually transmittable disease. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  In my defence, and I know all too well I shouldn’t bother trying to justify what I did, but truthfully it was the only thing I could think of to do that might buy me some time to rebuild the walls threatening to break open with all the emotion she bought out in me. Could I have done it in a nicer, more considerate way? Fuck yes. Could I have explained to her it was better for her, better for me, not to take it any further than that one night? Abso-fucking-lutely.

 

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