“Sorry.” He looks on with unease before awkwardly approaching to set a pile of things down by my side. “It’s freezin’ out here. You sure you won’t come inside the house? You can have the guest room all to yourself, I won't bother you.” His hand clasps behind his tatted neck and his brow pinches.
“N-n-o, I can’t.” He probably even had a real bed for me to sleep in. But if I’ve learned anything over the last year, it’s that nothing like that ever comes for free. I can’t stand the thought of being touched, ever again. No thank you, my sorry ass will stay right here in the barn with the critters.
“Jesus. Okay, well, here. Some shit to wash with too. I ain’t gonna force you to do nothing, Luna, you can stay here as long as you need.” He rubs his neck harder as his intense blue eyes look deep into my hollow grey ones.
“Why? Why help me?” It blurts out from my cracked lips in more of a croak, my need to get a bead on his motives driving the attempt. For all I know, he is just as big of a scum bag as those other assholes. A pang of regret shoots through me the minute the thought comes across.
“Serious?” His face lifts in surprise as if I had just slapped him, then it begins to darken in a way that inspires fear deeper than anything I have yet to experience, and that is saying a lot.
“Dead.” I flatly reply, refusing to be afraid or to deal with bullshit. The chances of me ever successfully escaping that prison had been slim to almost none. I’ll be damned if I waste another minute playing games.
“Jesus Christ. Even I ain’t that big of an asshole.” His hands drop and he abruptly turns, and walks out the little side door.
Did he really just walk out? Why do I care? Before I can ponder it further, he comes back into view with another tray full of food. He gives me another one of the oddest expressions before setting it on my lap in a clattering of silverware and dishes.
“I’m havin’ someone come here tomorrow to check you out, whether you like it or not. I think you might have been knocked around in the head and can’t make good decisions.”
A protest sits on my lips but is quickly dismissed by one look from him. Asshole. He grunts, and tips his head to me before leaving, closing the door behind his retreating figure in finality. Great.
Leo
“Yeah, need you to come check her out. She won’t leave the barn, and I ain’t tryin’ to drag her into town against her will. Thought about it though.”
Stitch's voice rapid fires too many damn questions across the crackling, shit connection my cell gets out here.
“Wow, calm your tits. I don’t know none of that shit,” I warn him, uncomfortable with what he just asked, my boots stomp up the porch of the house, reinforcing my feelings on the matter.
“Leo, you are fucking hopeless. You sure I shouldn’t just come tonight?” Stitch urges.
“Fuck no. I already scare the piss out of her, let her rest. She's been through hell by the looks of it, and is still kicking, one night ain't gonna do her in.” I knew that look in her eyes from a personal level. It was that drive to survive, a willingness to cut anyone down in your path to do so… all laced with a special band of personal pain driven hell. You have every intention of doing things one way but your demons handcuff the fuck out of you when you try. I could see she that she wanted to come in, she doesn’t look like she’s known comfort in quite some time.
“She still in the barn?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re cruel, man. Well, that isn’t anything new, but damn.” He blows out; probably got one of them cancer sticks in his mouth.
“Fuck off.”
“Love you too, sugar tits. See you tomorrow.”
I hang up the phone and shove it back into my jeans as I head into my second favorite place in this world, my home. Even my own damn dog would rather be out there in the cold. What the hell is wrong with everyone? Hell, I may not be the most approachable person, and I’m used to spooking folks; even like it, if I am being honest. But making that little thing shake like a field mouse doesn’t sit right with me at all. The details of her story may have gone unspoken, but I can take a good fucking guess based on that trash I shot off my property. The club has been keeping tabs on those hillbilly pieces of shit for a while now, but their new side business in slave trade over the last few years or so has rubbed us the wrong way. Sure, we aren’t the cleanest bunch, running guns and drugs and shit. But we sure as fuck don’t mess around in sex trade. That shit ain’t right. Taking girls against their will, keeping them doped up so they can be easily stripped of their say-so. My sorry ass won't be seeing heaven either; the blood on my hands will never wash off, but fuck. That there is the devil's work.
Shucking off my jacket to hang by the door, I toe my boots off and wade into my cave. This place has been my refuge since I bought it. It never feels like I get to spend enough time here, but thankfully my jobs for the club dim out over the fall and winter and they give me a break, allowing me to hole up. It may be a simple home, but it’s mine, and is far from military life or club life. Love my brothers, Blue and Silver saved my ass by giving me a cut, it gave me something to live for. That doesn’t change the fact that I sure as fuck can’t stand people, let alone all them bitches chasing biker dick. To each their own, I never have been one to judge; I just don’t like it for myself, easy pussy that is. Sure, if I get desperate enough, I’ll get drunk and hate fuck one, but that doesn’t happen often.
Grabbing a glass of water, my tired bones head into the bathroom and strip off my dirty work clothes, tossing them in the hamper. Flipping the knob on the shower, I stand in front of the mirror while the water heats up to my perfect “Satan licking your asshole” degree. Well, that’s what a few of my closest have named the temperature when they’ve stayed here. It fits, so I use it. My eyes roam over my tatted, fucked up body as my mind tries not to race with all of the stories behind each scar… and all of the horrific things I’ve done attached to most of them. Muscles bunch and flex as I rotate my arms, looking at myself. The Beast, the Mercenary, the Soulless One, Tin Man, Whip… I could go on with the pet names I’ve been given over the years. Squinting at my reflection, not recognizing the man standing there, my hands flip open the medicine cabinet to a line of plastic pill bottles. One by one, I ceremoniously open them, take the dose out, cap it, and put it back. By the end of the line, I have a handful of my good-boy pills. Opening my mouth, I slam them back without water, swallowing the mass whole. Post traumatic stress disorder, intermittent explosive disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, depersonalization disorder, generalized anxiety, insomnia, and the list of random shit the military docs rambled about, went on for days. How about this for a diagnosis– you brain wash a fucked up kid from the streets to become a ruthless mercenary, and when his time in the service was up, thanks to a few situations that got out of hand, you turn your back without a second thought.
Anger bubbles through me as I feel my insides clench and revolt against the numbing medicine I force myself to take… that the military still makes sure I follow through with, as they don’t want a liability on their hands. It doesn’t matter that I am medically retired from them. They knew the truth, they made me this way. Slapping back the shower curtain, I jump in and let the hot water burn my desensitized skin. The fire running across my flesh helps bring my vision back into focus. My eyes remain fixed on the tile as I stand there and take the beating from the scalding water like a well-deserved punishment. This process is lengthy for me, many minutes have to tick by for me to be able to move again when this shit seizes me up. If I’m not careful, it will overtake my head and fuel the savage mode the world doesn’t need. My heart rate picks up as the tension in my neck and shoulders warms before slowly releasing. The light mist rolls in to fog my brain as well. Perfect, the meds are kicking in so that I can get back to my tasks.
Methodically, the good soldier returns as I am able to soap and meticulously go through the rest of my evening routine before lying down spread eagle across my king size bed. Grabbin
g one more pill off the nightstand, I chew it and swallow for faster effect, the bitter taste assaulting my senses. Instead of counting sheep, I usually try to think about what work needs to be done with the horses until the last pill dulls my senses enough for my three or four hours of sleep. However, no matter how much I try to picture all of the mundane things I normally use to bore myself into slumber, all I can see is her. Luna’s eyes have haunted me these last two nights; every time my eyes close, there she is. It wasn’t her obvious beauty shining through the damage inflicted on her that hooked me. It was the pain there mixed with heavy betrayal, loneliness, and the fire. She may act like she isn’t too fond of herself at the moment, but she has a spark there that tells me she’s got a lot more to her than the state she is in. That battle is all too familiar. We are all more than what our stories on paper say we should be. Cool air from my overhead fan soothes my hot and irritated flesh as I slowly drift off with the image of those haunted grey eyes that remind me of the moon refracting down over the river just off of my property.
CHAPTER 3
Luna
My hands white knuckle grip the steel of my cage as my cries become gurgles, choked in the back of my raw throat. Blood drips down my forehead that has now come to rest on the cold, biting metal. Tears flow, making new pathways down my dirt stained face as his hefty form works his tiny dick in and out of body, against my will. I can’t fight back any more, there’s nothing left in me. Defeat washes over me each time he pushes into my bleeding flesh; my vision swims as I try to come to terms with the fact that is now my life, this is now my reality. The other girls that got brought in at least got drugs, white powder up their noses and needles in their arms. With that shit in their system, they can pretend it’s all a terrible, horrifying dream. But no, not me. He likes it when I’m fully aware, when I fight back, he likes making me bleed and scream. I fall for his tricks every time. Even when I try to tell myself to play dead, don’t fight back, just take it until he rolls off and leaves… then the fight in me takes over. I can’t help but standup for myself, even after all of these months, numerous concussions, and broken bones… it doesn’t matter what he does to me, I won’t take this hell lying down. He may break my body over and over, but he will not shatter my will. Maybe this is why he does this; maybe he wants to try and fracture my mind and will without the help of any of that powdery stuff he makes the other girls sniff. That could be part of his game, pieces to the puzzle of what drives his insanity. Not sure what makes sick fucks want shit like that, or like this. Just because we studied it in school doesn’t mean I understand what really makes them like this, what makes them seem to feed off of the violence and terrible acts. Well, that was until tonight.
When he came into my cage, that was the first time I had fully noticed his eyes, they looked possessed. The pupils weren’t dilated or pinpointed like folks on different types of drugs, his eyes took on this whole demonic appearance, and they didn’t even look like his normal shit brown. They were all black, very little of the whites could be seen. Something else, something sick and twisted possessed him to do stuff like this.
He fists the back of my hair and slams my head into the metal I’ve been pushed up against as his disgusting seed releases into me and a roar erupts from his barrel chest. Thankfully, the hazy blanket of nothingness seeps in and caresses me into its arms, as my body goes limp, saving me from the revolting reality for just a bit as I slip into the abyss. But alas, instead of unconsciousness, I find myself stuck in a type of purgatory. Removed from my body, it’s still obvious that he’s moving me and doing other things but my vision is gone, and my hearing is replaced by a horrendous buzzing. I try to move, try to scream, but nothing comes out, there is a disconnection between body and mind. The anger builds inside to a volcanic degree as I beat on invisible walls, trying to do anything and everything to break free and protect myself as something cold and foreign pushes against my anus.
A terror filled scream wakes me up; I don’t even realize right away that the horrifying sound is ripping from my own gasping chest as wet shit pours from my face. My hands violently slam into the crunchy hay as I scurry into the corner of the stall that has become a makeshift home. Steel is on me in a heartbeat, jumping up from his watchful spot at the end of the pile, invasive snout nudging into my face and neck as he lightly whimpers. My trembling hands find their way into the comforting fur as I will my heart to come back down from my throat. Methodically, I pet the dog while shifting my focus to slowing my breathing. This dog brings a whole new meaning to pet therapy. As my hand strokes down the silky coat, I take a breath in, pause, and slowly exhale. I’ve gotten good at blanking my mind by concentrating on breathing. Funny how these memories work, it’s usually never a perfect recollection like that. They normally filter in as bits and pieces, most of the time not making sense, but every once in a while I get slammed with a full on dream or potent recall.
Steel settles down in front of me and we stay like this for so long, the night begins to fade away as chirping birds welcome the new day on their own command. Can’t tell you how long that was because my concept of time is greatly distorted. There isn’t a clock here in the barn.
My butt starts to fall asleep and I contemplate getting up, but my body doesn’t trust that my head has the best perception of what’s really going on. What if this safe place is a dream, and I really am lying in a coma back in my cage. At any moment, the current environment that I think is reality could wave out of focus, leaving me splayed on the cold, cracking cement. Can’t tell ya how many times I prayed those damn cracks would open up and swallow me whole. I probably have a ton of brain damage from all those damn hits to the head. My brittle mind latches onto the recollection of those cracks and fixates as the sound of a vehicle crunching up the driveway rebounds in the back of my mind. Not thinking much of it, I continue to see that Alice chick from Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole just like I had hoped would happen to me many times.
The sound of the side door opening startles me from my trance as a beam of sunlight temporarily blinds me, backlighting two figures as they approach. A scream begins to work its way up my throat but freezes when I realize it is Leo, and another man. The new addition has a long beard. His sleeves are rolled up, showing lots of tattoos that seem weird if you just looked at his jovial, rosy cheeks. Kindness fills his face as he stops about a foot away from my pallet and drops his tall, athletic body down to a knee. I can’t breathe. I’m pretty sure that my body has literally forgotten how to do it.
“Um, name’s Stitch. Whip tells me you need some tending to? What’s your name?”
I blow out the strangled breath that has been caged in my chest and suck back another as the blankets rise up around my shoulders.
“Stitch, she ain’t up for this.” Leo crosses his thick forearms over his chest as he looks on with a pinched brow.
“Man, she needs some medical attention for sure. Give her a minute.” Stitch ignores Leo and sets down a black, military looking bag I hadn’t noticed him carrying when he walked in.
Time ticks by as I focus on my breathing and stare wide eyed. Stitch quietly waits, giving me all the time in the world, and Leo begins to pace by the door.
“Luna.” Sputters out of my mouth with extreme focus.
“Beautiful name. Luna, I’m a paramedic. Not sure if you know what that is but I’m trained to at least give you a brief look over. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to borrow your arm to take your blood pressure and a few other measurements. We want to make sure everything is ticking along as it should.” He holds up the blood pressure cuff for my inspection.
They were probably right about me needing some sort of medical attention. My skin crawls at the thought and puts me on verge of hyperventilating. Those of us who were favorites and had to stay locked up at the trading house did receive medical treatment occasionally, mostly for broken bones and back alley abortions when needed. Thankfully I never needed the later, just an occasional arm or leg cast and a few
Stitches. The master did make sure we were vaccinated for pneumonia and flu, at least that’s what they told us it was. For all we knew they were experimenting by putting other crap in our bodies. It’s hard to ever believe people like that. As for Doctor Asswipe, he was as scummy as the rest of them and found some disgusting and creative ways to get off when taking care of us. He knew he wasn’t allowed to fuck us, but that didn’t stop him from getting what he felt was owed. Even as a kid, Doctors bothered me for some reason. That piece of shit just magnified my unease into a pure, hate filled disdain.
Not wanting to drag it out any further, and know that they have a point, my face shifts away from him to rest upon my drawn up knee as I offer out an arm in silence. He gets to work taking my blood pressure, and other vital signs. It was nice that he tried to dumb down the shop talk so that I could understand, but he really didn’t have to. The basics were something I’ve experienced personally or observed many times in clinicals. His thoughtfulness was appreciated, and didn’t go unnoticed. Stitch is trying to keep as much physical distance as possible while carrying on with his job. My fear of men is blatant; every brush of Stitch’s fingers on my skin makes my insides revolt. Mind over Matter, Luna. Something beeps, and numbers light up on his little portable vitals machine sitting in his med pack.
“Well Luna, your blood pressure is a little low, and your heart rate is a bit too high. Think you are dehydrated. That means you don’t have enough water in your body. Are you okay with my putting a special…”
“Yes, you can put an IV in me, and give me fluids. I know mostly what those numbers mean,” I blurt out, and catch Leo’s mouth falling open momentarily. Gone was my weak stutter, back was my sass, just like that. Perhaps these semi familiar medical grounds leveled the playing field, giving me some pep.
Winter's Absolution (Obsidian Blades MC Book 1) Page 4