Owned by the Biker: Desperados MC
Page 15
Winston is still talking when he opens up the passenger door in the back row of the limo. Isabella smiles at him and goes to step inside, but at the last moment, she realizes that the limo isn't empty.
“Wait,” squeals Isabella, scrambling backwards. A hand lands between her shoulder blades. Winston shoves at the princess, and the man in the limo grabs her by the wrist and pulls her inside.
Chapter Thirty-One
Isabella screams.
She thrashes and twists about, but Winston slams the door shut behind her. One of her heels falls off, laying alone on the sidewalk.
“Let go of me,” bellows Isabella. “I don't know who you are, but this is unacceptable! Let me out! Let me out of here!”
“Be quiet,” snaps the man. The limo is dark. The windows are tinted on both sides. There's a light in the top of the car, but it isn't turned on. “There's no point in yelling. It's just going to give everyone in here a headache.”
Isabella shouts again. She struggles to sit up, pressing herself against the passenger side door. Her hands scrabble with the door handle, but it doesn't budge. The door is locked. Tugging at the little nub that should open the door does nothing. It's locked from up front.
The light clicks on. It's low and slightly yellow. Strange shadows are cast over the inside of the limo. The man next to Isabella is all broad shoulders and slicked back hair. Even the scar running along the side of his left jaw does nothing to detract from his appearance. If anything, it adds to the bad boy appearance that Isabella has come to love.
For a moment, the sheer terror leaves Isabella unable to figure out who he is. But when he opens his mouth to talk again, Isabella knows who he is.
It's Slade, the man that she had gone home with at the gala just a few weeks prior. The man that had left bruises on her lips and ants within her skin.
“You're louder than I remember,” muses Slade. He's holding a gun, but the silver barrel is just resting against his white-washed, jean clad thigh. “And far less composed. Is being torn away from your lover that upsetting to you?”
Isabella demands, “What are you doing?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
“Let me go!”
“No,” says Slade simply. “I'm not going to. Why would you even try asking me that? If I've gone to all this work to get you out here, why would you shouting at me make me change my mind? No, Isabella. I have a lot of things in mind for you. This is going to be a very exciting, interesting ride I have in store for you.”
Isabella tries to make herself as small as possible. She pulls her legs up onto the seat, leaning back against the door to try and prevent the man from touching her. Winston gets in the driver's seat, starts the engine, and pulls the limo smoothly out of the driveway. He pushes open the dividing window so he can talk to the two of them.
Winston asks, “Are we still following the plan?”
“We are,” says Slade easily. He pulls a small, white rag out of his jacket pocket and starts wiping down the outside of the gun. “I don't see why there's any reason to change something, when things have worked out perfectly so far.”
Winston nods. He adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see into the back seat better. “I was being serious about the traffic, Princess. We should get off the main road in no time flat. You won't have to be cramped up in here for that long.”
“Please,” whimpers Isabella. “If this is about money, then you have things all wrong! My parents, they would never pay you any sort of ransom! Not now...”
Slade laughs. It's a deep, welcoming sound. “Of course not! They would never pay to have a whore released back into their kingdom! Why, I'm sure they're going to be grateful over this. I've read the papers—your papers, that is. I've seen how the reporters in Davaria are handling this. I've seen how much they have lost their faith in you.”
He continues, “It's funny. I started off trying to think of ways to discredit you and blame that on him, but I ended up not having to. You took care of that all on your own. Clearly, your parents aren't trying to protest the reports and the headlines. They aren't even allowing you to fly home with them. To me, that means that they simply no longer care whether you arrive back in Davaria or not.”
“They do care,” insists Isabella, but the lie is heavy on her tongue. “They care! It's just against policy to pay any ransom!”
“No, it isn't,” says Slade lightly. “Believe me, I've already looked that up. Appearances aside, I'm not an idiot. I know how to look into the policies of a country.”
“They haven't given up on me!”
“They have.”
“No! No, they still care!” Isabella shakes her head. She's crying, hard. The tears leave hot streaks on her cheeks.
Winston says, “You might want to remind her about the note.”
“Yes,” says Slade, sounding bemused. He abandons the absent-minded cleaning of his gun in favor of pulling a crumpled-up piece of paper out of his jacket. He shakes it out and starts reading off of it. “Due to previously discussed circumstance, we will be returning to Davaria ahead of schedule. Our flight has already been placed, and I expect that you are ready and waiting, on time, for it. We will be leaving very early tomorrow. The fact that you aren't in your room now only farther proves to me, and to your father, that we cannot waste any more time in this dreadful country. It has corrupted you. It has broken you, and it has fouled you.”
Winston is laughing. The sound is low and awful, like glass being raked down something metal.
“Thankfully, some men are desperate. Thankfully, some men will take even the foul. Tomorrow, we leave for Davaria. Upon our return home, you will meet with a man named Sir Calbert Eisenhower. He will be, should all go according to plan, your new suitor.
You will carry the baby to term. Upon its birth, a wonderful family in Castrao will take him as their own. The news will be made aware of your miscarriage. You will be distraught, and you will hide away for as long as we can manage.” Slade pauses, just long enough to give a chuckle of his own.
He continues, “After a year, you and Calbert will have a child of your own. This one, should your behavior have been rectified, you will raise as your own. As per our arrangements, you will wait two years and have another child. Calbert requests very little from you. As he knows and understands your proclivities, I have no problems agreeing to the few things that he does want, among which are three sons and at least one daughter. You should have no problems meeting those requests.”
“Stop it,” whimpers Isabella. She presses her palms over her ears. “Please, stop it!”
Slade ignores her in favor of reading off the last line of the note. “I can only imagine that this arrangement will work just fine for you. It is far less respectable than having a single crown heir, but I do not see that you are capable of reigning yourself in so this will have to do. And that was from mother dearest. How lovely.”
Isabella blanches. “How did you get that?”
“If you really want to hide away your dark secrets,” muses Slade, “you should find somewhere besides the bathroom trash can to put them.”
“You were in my room?”
“Several times. For your status, it's hardly as nice as I was expecting. Where are all the golden doorknobs?”
“Don't be ridiculous!”
“You're the only one being ridiculous,” says Winston. The limo makes a too sharp turn. Tires slam into the curb.
Slade slaps the back of the seat. “Watch where you're driving!”
“Let me go,” insists Isabella. “If you let me go now, I won't tell anyone what's happened here. I'll tell my parents that the limo had a flat tire and we missed the flight.”
Suddenly, Slade's face twists into a sneer. He grabs his gun and points it at Isabella. “Don't be such an idiot! I'm taking you for a reason! If tarnishing your good name isn't enough, I'll just have to do something else!”
“Enough for what? Just tell me,” begs Isabella. “Tell me what you want!”
“I want you to suffer,” says Slade. “I want to make Gabe suffer.”
Winston turns on the radio.
Pick a pack…
It's a recording of Isabella singing. The young princess can hardly stop herself from crying much harder. Winston starts laughing. He says, “You sure are something of a song bird!”
“I'm not,” wails Isabella. “I don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here!”
Slade says, “You don't need to understand. You just need to do what I say. Don't worry, darling, it won't take us long. But, really, this is your own fault.”
“How?” Isabella scrubs at her face. Her eyes are burning. Her chest is aching. This is horrible! This is awful! This is even worse than having to marry Sir Calbert, than having to bear three sons and a daughter.
This is horrible.
But worse is the fact that Isabella doesn't even know why. It's not for her fame. It's not for money. It's not even to try and get media attention.
Slade rolls his eyes. “Do you really not know?”
Isabella shakes her head.
Winston says, “Just tell her, Slade. I'm all for making things rough on the girl, but this is just cruel. Besides, don't this pretty little voice of hers just sway your scarred heart?”
“No,” says Slade. “It doesn't. But I suppose that it can't hurt.”
“Please tell me,” begs Isabella. “At least tell me why you’re doing this?”
“Because you’ve stolen Gabe’s heart.”
“Gabe? What does he have to do with this?”
“Honey,” says Slade, rolling his eyes. “I’m only interested in you because of Gabe. Last time, I thought that just getting you to sleep with me would be enough. We could even the playing fields a little bit, right? But that didn’t work. You were so damn determined that you already had a boyfriend. A boyfriend!”
Slade laughs.
Winston laughs, too.
Isabella feels like her skin is about to burst into flame.
Slade continues, “So I had to re think things. Once that picture came out, I knew exactly what the problem was. He wasn’t just looking to sleep with you. The damn fool had fallen in love with you. And I just can’t let that happen.”
“Why not? What does any of this have to do with you?”
“Everything,” says Slade. “It has everything to do with me. That fool has been in charge of the Desperados for far too long! He’s getting sloppy, and he isn’t taking us near as far as we could go, near as far as I could go!”
Winston adds, “We’ve tried to get him to leave before, but it didn’t work. He just got pissed off, and then he got even more stupid.”
“So I decided that if I couldn’t make him leave, I would make him regret not leaving. Isabella, I’m truly sorry you had to get involved in all of this.” Slade gives the young princess a sickly sweet smile, the sort that means everything and nothing, all at the same time. “I really, really am. But if I’m going to make Gabe back down, if I’m going to make him realize that he’s wrong, I’m going to need to use you for it.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
On the other side of town, Gabe is sitting in a very familiar bar. It's small and dark, filled with strangers drinking like long lost friends, eating grease laden fries that someone prepared in a back room kitchen. Someone has just turned on the jukebox. The song is loud, up-beat, and almost blaring.
Gabe hates it.
It reminds him too much of that first day. Even now, he can picture it.
The woman that just entered the bar is nothing like the usual customers, with their leather-clad thighs and wind-swept hair. This woman looks like she just stepped out of a taxi and into a different world, with pale skin that looks almost sickly in the yellow bar light and blonde hair so pale it appears almost white.
Heels clack against the ground every time she takes a step. A pale blue skirt hangs about her legs, riddled with intricate stitching, these strange loops that never seem to end. A pale cream jacket has been shrugged over her shoulders, and she clutches tight to a designer handbag.
Isabella had been beautiful. She was always, always beautiful. The princess was a walking portrait, carved from marble and silk.
Gabe closes his eyes, letting his face press against his palms. He groans, loudly.
From the other side of the counter, Bethy gives a low sigh of her own. “Seriously, Gabe? Stop that.”
“I'm not doing anything,” snaps Gabe.
Bethy scolds, “You're doing plenty, and you know it! I can't believe that you're being so stupid over this!”
“I'm not being stupid!”
Bethy slams one hand down on the top of the bar. “You are, and you know it!”
“She made her choice,” spits Gabe. He's been friends with Bethy since they were just kids. Most of the time, they get along perfectly. But now, in this moment, he just wants the woman to leave him alone.
Bethy just wants to help. She can see a broader picture, can understand a different spectrum. Her own parents come from old money. A lawyer father, a neurosurgeon mother and here she is, running the Hornet's Nest—a beat up bar on the outskirts of a small Georgia town.
She could have been something great. Fame and money run in her blood, and they would have easily kept Bethy afloat until she was done with med school or law school, until she was ready to forge her own pathway to fame.
The problem is, Bethy doesn’t want fame. She isn't a shy girl, but even when she was just a young thing, this had been her dream.
“She's still young,” says Bethy.
Gabe counters, “She's your age!”
“And I'm still young,” says Bethy. “I'm young, Gabe, and so are you. Damnit, boy, life is hard enough when you're poor. When you have people expecting something out of you, it's even worse. That poor girl, she's probably torn every which way.”
“No, she's not. Trust me, she's only concerned with one thing.”
“She's keeping that baby, and she's kept trying to stay in touch with you. That means that she's torn every which way. Try to imagine being in her place.”
“I wouldn't go to another country if I was in her shoes!”
“Bullshit. You would have no idea what to do. You've been raised your whole life on a pedestal, with lights shining on you and cameras in your face. Someone's put your life down on a script, and you've spent twenty some years reading off of it. Suddenly, you’re pregnant. You’re in love with someone that your parents don't approve of—don't give me that look, Gabe, because I saw those pictures. That girl is in love with you.” Bethy pauses, just long enough to lean forward. Her arms slide across the top of the bar. She says, “She's lost, Gabe, and she's damn confused.”
Gabe runs his hands through his hair. “And you think I'm not?”
Bethy looks at him, long and stern. “I think that you have more life experience than she does, and you need to help her figure out what she's supposed to be doing.”
“And what's that?”
“Not taking off to some other country, for one. Not letting another man raise your child, for another.”
Gabe demands, “How am I supposed to do that?”
“By showing her that being without her family isn't going to be the end of the world,” answers Bethy. “I know you, Gabe. You're not the sort of person that just sits around and lets the world be swept up away from you. You're an action man. So why aren't you taking any action?”
“Because I don't know what to do,” admits Gabe.
“Talk to her,” says Bethy.
“I've tried that!”
“Don't talk at her. Talk to her. Find out what you can do to help make things easier.”
Gabe groans. “You're not going to stop talking to me about this until I get up, are you?”
“Not even for a moment,” says Bethy with a laugh. She reaches out across the counter and ruffles Gabe's dirty hair. “It's best if you just go head out there now and try to talk to her.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
He tears in, motorcycle admittedly a bit unsteady. Gabe isn't drunk, but he also shouldn't be spinning around like this. He stops the motorcycle, puts the kick stand down, and nearly falls over when he tries to get off of it.
Gabe makes a beeline for the suite. He knows where Isabella is staying, has climbed into that window twice now, has helped her climb out of it just as many times.