Owned by the Biker: Desperados MC

by Ashley Hall

  There's a tree just outside of the window. Gabe makes short work of scaling it, leaning out, and wrapping on the window.

  Silence.

  The lights are still on.

  Gabe knocks on it again. Someone moves around inside of the suite.

  He knocks harder.

  A rather unhappy looking maid appears in the window. She pushes open the window and says, “No cameras allowed. Please leave.”

  Gabe blinks. He's certain that Isabella has already stated that there is no housekeeping while they're staying in the hotel, at least not until the late night hours while everyone was away for dinner. “I don't have a camera.”

  “No recorders.”

  “I don't have a recorder.

  “No cell phones.”

  “Is this Isabella's room? She, uh, she was staying here.”

  The maid sighs, this long and drawn out sound. She shakes her head, looks over her shoulder, and spits out something in Romanian. Someone else in the room starts laughing.

  “Shit,” says Gabe. “I didn't climb up the wrong tree, did I?”

  “No. The Princess left this morning. She is going home. You must go home, too,” says the maid. Then, just like that, she closes the windows.

  The words sink into Gabe's mind. They make his world spin, his stomach twist. It's suddenly like everything is growing dark from the outside in.

  Climbing down the tree is an insurmountable feat. He nearly falls. When he hits the ground, the biker sinks down to his knees. “No,” moans Gabe, distraught. “No! This can't be right! She wouldn't leave without saying anything!”

  Wouldn't she?

  No, that wouldn't happen. Isabella is torn, just like Bethy had said. Which means, which means she would have tried to tell Gabe that she was leaving!

  Hit with a sudden splurge of inspiration, Gabe jumps to his feet. He races out to the parking lot, tripping over his own feet, and staggers to the motorcycle. His head is still spinning. His mind is split in two. What could have changed things? What needs to be changed?

  There are so many questions and too little answers.

  Gabe flings himself onto the motorcycle. He revs the engine and takes off. The tires spin for a moment. They leave dark streaks against the pavement. Someone in the lobby gives him a dirty look when he rips past the main room.

  The streets are mostly empty. Gabe spins and rips through what little traffic there is. The airport is on the other end of town. He's only been there once or twice, as he has never really had the money for a ticket.

  Someone else yells at him when Gabe cuts them off, nearly laying down his bike in an attempt to get out of the way of a speeding taxi. Gabe slams into a parking spot and hops off the motorcycle. He races into the lobby of the airport, shouldering his way past this person and that, until he can slam his hands down on the front desk.

  The attendant gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Hello. I'm afraid that you're going to have to go back to the other side of the lobby and get back in line.”

  “I'm not here for a flight,” pants Gabe, chest aching, lungs protesting. “I just have a question.”

  “You'll need to get to the back of the line.”

  “It's about the royal family.”

  The woman gives a big sigh, like she's heard that question countless times before. “Alright, sir. I'm going to just give you a brief rundown so that I can get back to my job and you can get on to the next hot track news story.”

  Gabe isn't a reporter, but he doesn't argue. He just leans closer to the desk, trying to hear over the din of the airport lobby. He nods and says, “Thank you so much.”

  “The Princess was scheduled to fly out alone. Her parents left on an earlier flight. She was to be in first class, but not on a plane by herself. The plane left early this morning, without the Princess.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she never showed up. Her parents have already been notified. They say she must have overslept and are planning on getting another flight under way for the young thing tomorrow. You should try back then. Now, if you'll step aside and mourn your loss of tabloid fame on the other side of the lobby, that would be appreciated.”

  Numbly, Gabe listens. He slips to a dark corner of the lobby, back pressed up against the wall.

  If Isabella has checked out of the hotel and she didn't make her flight, where is she? Feeling lost and confused, Gabe stumbles back into the parking lot. A ticket has been pinned to the handle bars of his illegally parked motorcycle.

  “Fucking shit,” snarls Gabe, ripping off the piece of paper. “What a piece of fucking shit!”

  “Watch your language,” snaps a mother, as she bustles past with her two children.

  Gabe flips her off. Just as he’s about to get on the motorcycle, his phone goes off. Trembling fingers pull it out of his pocket.

  It’s Slade.

  Gabe’s expression sours even more. He almost doesn’t answer the phone. When he does, there’s so much venom packed into his words that he can almost taste the hate, can almost feel it rolling off his tongue and taking on a physical form in the world.

  He demands, “What do you want?”

  “Now,” says Slade. “Is that any way to speak to your best friend?”

  “Slade, I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit. Tell me what you want, right now, or I’m going to hang up on your pansy ass.”

  “Wow, Gabe. I’m honestly disappointed in you. I thought that you would be more excited to hear from me, considering I’ve got the answers to your problems.”

  “What are you going on about?”

  There’s a crackle of static. Slade answers, “I know what you’re looking for.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snaps Gabe. “Spit it out, Slade. I mean it! I don’t have the time for this bullshit.”

  “Actually,’ muses Slade, “you have all the time in the world for me. Here, let me show you why. Just wait a moment.”

  There’s a rustle of fabric and the static sound of air flooding the speakers of the cell phone. Gabe wedges his own between the side of his face and his shoulder, swings a leg over the motorcycle and sits down while he waits.

  It feels like there are ants crawling over his skin. Gabe can’t remember the last time that he was this anxious. He can’t shake the thought that something bad may have happened.

  Finally, Slade says, “Here. You listen to this and tell me what you think. Listen to this and tell me that you don’t have the time for me.”

  Suddenly, a new voice floods the speakers. “Gabe? Gabe, is this really you? Please, you have to—”

  A yelp fills the phone, accompanied by the sound of flesh striking flesh. “That’s enough,” says Slade. To Gabe, he asks, “Do you have the time for me now?”

  Gabe can barely keep his fingers curled around the phone. In a harsh voice, he whispers, “What did you do?”

  “I did what was required,” says Slade. “And now, you’re going to do what’s required, too.”

  And in that moment, Gabe realizes something.

  Bethy was right.

  They are just young. They are young and scared and faced with too many choices.

  Only now, Gabe doesn’t have the option to pick one over the other. Instead, he tries to remember how to breathe, and asks, “What do you want?”

  Slade’s smirk is visible through the phone. He says, “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sometimes, bad things happen to good people.

  That's something Gabe's mother used to say. She would sit him down on the kitchen chair when he came home beaten from school and tell him, “Honey, sometimes bad things happen to good people. That's just the way of the world, darling. It's not good, and it's not right, but it's how things go.”

  Back then, he believed her.

  Mothers always tell the truth in the eyes of a babe. But then, as is often the case, Gabe began to grow up. And he didn't think he was a good person most days, because
he'd fight and kick and scream, because he fought for his life, tooth and nail, as his mother grew sick and couldn't work, as the bills piled up and he sold drugs on the street corner to keep a roof over their heads and stole to keep food on the table.

  He wasn't a good person.

  He wasn't a good person, and bad things still happened. Time passed. His mom died, and the house was sold, and Gabe forgot all about that day. He forgot about most of the things that his mother had told him.

  But now, sitting in the beat up hotel room, Gabe can't help but remember them.

  “Bad things happen to good people,” mutters Gabe, staring at the cell phone. The screen is cracked. He needs a new one but can't bring himself to fork out that money.

  The call log is still up. The last time Slade got in touch with Gabe was almost an hour ago.

  Wait for me to get in touch with you. If you don't listen to everything that I have to say, Gabe, I'll kill her. Do you hear me? If you do one thing wrong—if you don't follow my every order—I'm going to blow out her pretty little brains, and that's going to be the end of it.

  She's too good for you, Gabe, my brother. She's far too good for you. I can't understand how you managed to bag a broad like this. Not to worry, though, you don't have to keep up the good act for much longer. I know how hard that is for you, acting like you care about other people so often. You must be simply exhausted.

  Just go sit. Sit in the Flamingo Inn and wait for me to call you again. Do you have that?

  Gabe had, of course, listened. There wasn't much else that he could do. And now, an hour later, it's still all that he can do. He sits there, waiting, as the clock ticks by.

  It takes three hours for the phone to ring again. Gabe jumps to his feet when he answers it. “Tell me what you want.”

  Slade laughs. “You're impatient, aren't you? And here I thought that you'd be happy to have a break from the Princess. She's certainly a handful. A bit on the prissy side, eh?”

  “Don't fuck with me,” snaps Gabe. “Just tell me what you want, Slade.”

  “I want you to meet with me.”

  “Where?”

  “There's a beach near here. Cassidy Cove. Have you heard of it?”

  Gabe makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. “You know I haven't!”

  “Well…I suppose that you're going to have to try and get directions. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes? I can—”

  “No,” says Slade, in a too patient voice, “you can't. You're not going to be able to get there for at least an hour.”

  Gabe demands, “I want to speak to her. Put Izzy on.”

  Slade hums. “I'm afraid that I can't do that. Her mouth is a little preoccupied at the moment.”

  Something cold washes through Gabe's veins. His heart stops, just for a moment, and then sluggishly comes back to life. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “You're a smart man,” says Slade offhandedly. “I'm sure that you can figure it out.”

  “Slade, I swear to fuck, if you lay a single hand on her—”

  “You'll what? Kick me out of the Desperados? You have nothing to threaten me with, Gabe. Think about that. Understand that. And then quit talking and start driving.” Slade hangs up then. The click of the call dropping is louder than it should be.

  Gabe drops back down onto the edge of the bed. He rakes a hand through his hair and tries to remember how to breathe.

  “Okay. Okay,” says Gabe, even though no one's around to listen. “This is fine. I've dealt with worse shit. And I'm not alone, either.”

  He pulls up his contact list. Gabe starts a group message.

  Get ready to ride. Meet at the Cassidy Cove. Don't jump in until I say so. Slade's finally gone off the deep end.

  Then he gets up, shoves the phone in his back pocket, and grabs the keys for his bike. Bad things happen to good people, but Gabe has not been a good person in years. Nothing bad's going to happen, not to him, at least.

  Not to Isabella, either, if he has any say in the matter.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Cassidy Cove is just shy of an hour from the Flamingo Inn. Gabe gets there in half the time, and he lingers in the almost deserted parking lot. It's late in the year, far past the point for beach bunnies and family vacations. In fact, it's the sort of place that wouldn't have any of those things to begin with.

  The water is sleet gray, only broken up by the crashing waves. White foam crests them, slamming into the shoreline. Trash litters the otherwise golden sand, these broken up beer cans and forgotten soda bottles, these pieces of life that have been thrown aside and forgotten.

  A straggling shale cliff rises up in the distance. It looks like, once upon a time, it might have been a grand thing. But over the years, weather and human ignorance has nearly destroyed it, bringing it down to this pathetic stretch of gray stone, this half-hearted thing that is ignored more often than not.

  Gabe parks his bike, then he takes a deep breath and waits for back up to arrive.

  # # #

  While Gabe waits, Slade continues to be a very busy man. He's set up on a section of beach that lays in the shadow of the crumbling shale cliff. His boots are caked in wet sand and so are the legs of his jeans.

  Isabella has been stripped out of her nightgown. She's in nothing but her underwear at this point, the bra discarded and the ponytail ripped free. A thick rubber ball gag has been wedged into her mouth, forcing apart painted pink lips. Tears still run down her cheeks. Her breasts heave with every gasp.

  Slade finds great amusement in the sight. He walks circles around her, trailing his fingers over her shoulders and the back of her neck. “Tell me,” he asks. “Do you think he's actually going to show up? Better yet, do you think he's going to come in here all on his own? That's what I told him to do.”

  It isn't.

  In fact, Slade left out that comment on purpose. He wants the rest of the Desperados to be here. He wants them to see what a real leader looks like.

  Isabella whines behind her gag. Spit bubbles up around the red rubber ball.

  “I don't think so, either. I think he's going to show up here with the whole gang.” Slade laughs. He tugs at Isabella's hair. Then he kneels down in front of her, hands resting on the shoulders of the young princess. “What do you think I should do when he gets here?”

  Isabella pleads to be let go with her eyes.

  Slade ignores her. “Should I just sit here and wait?”

  Isabella nods her head.

  “Really? That seems a little boring to me,” says Slade. “I don't know if that's going to give off the right impression.”

  His hands slide down, moving to cup Isabella's breasts. The zip tie-bound princess tries to get away, but it only results in her falling flat on her back. She's been tied up in a crude mockery of bondage, with ropes wrapped around her breasts and looped around her neck. Zip ties dig into her wrists. They wrap around her ankles, too, but the ropes keep her knees bent and her legs spread into an awkward and near painful diamond shape.

  She shakes her head and starts crying a new. Slade straddles her hips, pinning her on her back. “Easy now, pretty girl. We don't want you getting too worked up before your little boy toy shows up. We need a good show for him, after all. We need to let him know exactly what he brought down on you.”

  Isabella screams behind her gag. She twists and writhes, but it does nothing but press her lithe body harder against Slade.

  He grabs at her breasts again, fingers latching onto her nipples and pulling—hard. It's less about getting either of them off and more about getting Isabella visibly worked up. Slade is rough with her, doing his best to leave fingerprints on her sensitive flesh. Once he's satisfied that she looks defiled—even though she has not been, not really—he gets up and hauls her back onto her knees.

  Then, slowly, he cuts the ropes until the only thing still holding Isabella captive is the zip tie around her wrists. He takes the gag out, too and then pulls out a
gun.

  Slade presses the barrel to the side of her temple. He says, “One wrong move, and I'll kill you. Understand?”

  “Yes,” whimpers Isabella. “Yes, I understand.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  One by one, the rest of the Desperados show up. They come in groups of two and three, these raging motorcycles that rip across the land. A short, pudgy man parks right beside Gabe. His wild red hair is pulled back into a bun. He pulls off his sunglasses, revealing a thick scar over one eye.