Rock Bottom

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Rock Bottom Page 5

by Manda Mellett


  “I know that,” I say firmly. “Ridden with a club sixteen years.”

  His eyes sharpen. “Which one?” he asks fast.

  I don’t hesitate. “Satan’s Devils.” No point hiding it. The tat on my back would give that away fast.

  “Wait here,” he says to me, and to the prospect, “Keep an eye on him, Squirt.”

  “Sure thing, Fester.”

  As he wanders off into the building I bite my tongue, wanting to know who decides the handles here, hoping to fuck they don’t try and rename me. Then I wonder if I’ll stay alive long enough to find out. I focus on being content that, for now, I’m still breathing.

  The next person to appear after a few minutes at least gives me a nod of greeting as he approaches. “Krueger. I’m the VP,” he announces, holding out his hand.

  Taking it, I need no explanation of his name. He’s Freddy Krueger to a T. All he needs is a striped sweater. I hide my grin.

  “Hear you’re looking to join us?” His voice is gravelly.

  “Fuck yeah.” Now I put some emotion into it. It’s easy to hear the longing in my voice.

  His eyes widen, then his brow creases when they narrow again. “Just the fuck like that? Brothers don’t jump clubs easily. Gonna need an explanation if you’ve been a Devil for as long as Fester tells me.”

  I spit on the ground. “Fuckin’ assholes. Brother gets into trouble, they cut him off.” I only have to remember what they would have done to me for my face to burn.

  He waves his hands, showing he wants more. “If you’re a troublemaker, why the fuck would we want you? Better start talkin’ else I might decide you’re easier to deal with dead.”

  “Look, I didn’t do much. Got into a bit of trouble gamblin’.” I don’t tell him I stole their funds. “Fuckin’ straight assholes didn’t give a damn.”

  His eyes crease with suspicion. “Okay. So here it is. Man doesn’t turn up here and ask to join their club’s enemies. Not unless they’re stupid or lookin’ for info. I’ll give you one fuckin’ chance. Step into the clubhouse, and if you can’t convince us, well, you won’t be steppin’ back out. Not breathin’ anyways. Or you can turn around and run back to your club sayin’ you weren’t successful.”

  I pull myself up straight. “Can’t go back. They’ll end me.” I spit again. “Motherfuckers.” Looking into his eyes, I make another attempt to persuade him. “Bunch of sanctimonious assholes. Walkin’ so far the other side of the line they don’t give a man a second chance once he’s got himself into trouble.”

  A sneer appears on his face. “I heard rumours the Devils had gone against getting their hands dirty. Pricks probably don’t even know how to fight anymore.”

  While suppressing down the thoughts of the likes of Peg and Blade, I nod. “You’ve got that right, Brother. We used to have boxing matches. Fucking ol’ ladies put a stop to that.”

  He moves fast, his hands grabbing my tee while his leg shoots out, curls around mine, and before I can react has me on the ground. As I ruefully rub the back of my head where I banged it, he glares down. “Ain’t got to the place where you can call me Brother. Not yet anyways. Perhaps not ever.”

  I could take him with one hand behind my back. But I don’t. I lie there, at his feet. When he doesn’t make another move I take it as unspoken permission that I can stand.

  He takes another full minute to decide. “Okay, I gave you a chance. Be it on your own head. Best come inside and see if you can sweet talk Chaos.” After half turning away he swings back and jams his finger into my chest. “On my part, I don’t trust you.”

  I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t trust a stranger appearing out of the blue either.

  As I follow him inside, hearing the door clang ominously shut behind us, my mind’s whirling. Chaos. Chaos Riders. Wouldn’t surprise me if I’m being taken to see the prez. Might as well start at the top.

  The clubhouse is small, but surprisingly clean, the typical bar along one side, a pool table off to another. Tables with mismatched chairs, and the unmistakable smells of stale beer and male sweat. Unlike the Devil’s clubhouse, this is on more than one level, and Krueger leads me up some rickety wooden stairs which creak so badly I hope they will bear my weight as I ascend to the next floor. At the top, he points down the corridor. “Offices and the officers’ bedrooms are up here. Members bunk in the bunk house behind this building. Prospects sleep where they can.” The information he’s sharing starts to make me think I might have a chance of being accepted here. Though, then again, it doesn’t matter what he tells me…not if I’m going to end up dead.

  He knocks on a door and pushes it open when a voice from inside calls out permission to enter. Stepping back to let me through, he closes it behind me then walks to take his place alongside another man standing behind the desk. The man sitting must be Chaos.

  Seconds tick by while no one speaks. We’re all examining each other. Krueger exchanges looks with the others, then points to the man seated at his side. “Chaos, our prez. Buff, our sergeant-at-arms.”

  “Rock.” I introduce myself with a chin lift.

  Chaos jerks his chin while the other two pull up chairs and seat themselves, and I’m left standing, feeling like a school boy summoned to face the headmaster. The prez stares at me for a moment, then instructs, “Turn around. Pull up your shirt.”

  I do so, exposing my full back patch tattoo. I give them a chance to study it, my skin crawling as though I can physically feel the touch of their eyes.

  “Never want to see that again,” Chaos informs me. I shrug my tee back into place and turn back around. “If you do get patched in, you get that covered with our colours. Until then, you keep it hidden. It’s offensive. I see it again, I’ll burn it off myself.”

  Making a mental note never to go shirtless, I nod.

  Leaning back in his chair, Chaos folds his arms. “Right. So give me your story.”

  I tell him. All of it. No point hiding anything, except perhaps for the fact I stole. When I finish, Chaos glances at his companions and has a conversation consisting of raised eyebrows and chin lifts. It’s a moment before he starts speaking again. “Don’t make no difference you’ve been with another club. You haven’t done anything to make us trust you. But you could be useful to us.” He leans forward, his eyes fixed on mine. “You stay, it’s on one condition. I want all the dirt on the Satan’s Devils. You understand me? There ain’t going to be no holding back. You’re going to spill every detail down to how often Drummer takes a shit. You getting me here?”

  I nod eagerly. “They’re nothin’ to me anymore. Didn’t have my back when I needed it. All the years I called them brothers, and they were going to send me out bad for one fuckin’ mistake. There’s no loyalty left.”

  “Hmm.” Chaos glances at Buff, who considers me for a moment, then gives a sharp nod. When it’s his turn, Krueger does the same. “Okay. Here’s the score. You start at the bottom as a prospect. Ain’t gonna be wearing our patch until you’ve earned it. You hear me?”

  Might not like it, but I expected it. A man’s got to earn trust, and prospecting, showing you’ll do all the shit, is the only way of doing it. “I know the score,” I tell him, pulling my shoulders back. “Until every man here knows what I’m made of, I’m at their beck and call.”

  “Too damn right. You don’t come to church. You don’t get to know our business. Prospects don’t go with the whores.”

  I raise my chin. Again, expected. And while I reckon my dick is going to get very familiar with my hand, I don’t protest. “Agreed.”

  Another moment of silence, another exchange of expressions, then Chaos sits forward. “In any other circumstance we’d have taken you out back and killed you. But you’ve got something I need. Information. And I’ve got something you want, brotherhood. I’ll do right by you, give you the same chance as any prospect. But one step, Rock. One fucking step out of line and you’ll wish you’d let the Satan’s Devils kill you. I won’t take you out quick, though you’l
l be begging me to. You’ll be praying for a fuckin’ bullet. It will be a slow, agonising demise, I promise you. You’ll plead for death long before you take your last breath. You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,” I try it out, though after sixteen years it’s hard to address a man wearing a different patch by that handle, “Prez.”

  “Not so fast.” Now Chaos has a twisted grin on his face. “First you’ve got to pass our initiation.”

  Chapter 5

  Becca

  “Rebecca! Come inside now.” I start at the angry voice coming from behind me, and the use of my full name. Grimacing apologetically to my new neighbour, I skip back to the front door.

  “Mom! I was just talking to the girl who’s moved in next door. She’s twelve, only a few months younger than me. She goes to school and has loads of friends there. Can I go? It sounds fun.” I know my words are tumbling out one after the other, but I can’t seem to stop them. “She goes to church, but it’s different from ours. Can we try that one?”

  “Rebecca!” Mom snaps, ushering me inside. “We go to our church because we enjoy Pastor Gardner’s sermons. Other churches warp the Bible. And you get a perfectly adequate education at home. We teach you everything you need to know.”

  “But, Mom, they use textbooks. You just use the Bible.”

  I don’t read the warning signs. “That’s not good enough for you anymore?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not saying that, just that it would be nice to have a change.”

  “Stop talking back, Becca. How often do we have to tell you about contradicting your parents? Now go to your room, and I’ll be speaking to your father when he gets home. There’ll be no more talking to the girl next door. She’s not good people for you to mix with.”

  I’d been excited to meet someone my own age, someone new. Someone with different ideas and outlook. I go to my room disappointed and remain there until my father comes home, knowing tonight’s lesson will likely involve a strap meeting my backside.

  But when Dad returns from work he’s got another man with him. To my surprise, it’s Pastor Gardner, the new pastor at our church. I don’t take to his sermons, don’t understand some of his teachings, but my parents like him and seem to hang onto his every word. Tonight, it appears, he’s staying for dinner, as Mom scrambles to find an extra plate. At least that makes me view him favourably, the strap delayed, or hopefully, put off completely.

  “Excellent pot roast, Mrs Salter.”

  Mom blushes. “Please, call me Anna.”

  The pastor nods as he helps himself to a second serving while I’m trying to eat what I’ve already got. He puts down the ladle and looks at me critically. “Dave’s been telling me about your daughter.” His eyes might be on me, his attention is not.

  “Yes, this is Becca. Rebecca,” Mom replies, her mouth thinning, presumably remembering our disagreement a few hours ago.

  “You were right, Dave. She is exquisite.” He nods to my father, then addresses me for the first time. “I’ve seen you in Sunday School, haven’t I? And in the Bible and prayer meetings during the week?”

  I glance at my father, who raises his chin. “Yes,” I reply, meekly.

  “We’re bringing her up to be a good Christian girl,” my father confirms.

  “And she’s what, thirteen now?”

  I’m perplexed as to why he wants to know my age, but again, my father agrees.

  That might have been the first, but certainly wasn’t the last time Hawk came to dinner. Over the years he’d became a regular visitor to our home. Sometimes he’d be alone with me and would grill me on the scriptures. The parts he thought I ought to know. At first I was flattered, the other kids jealous at the attention he gave to me in our Bible classes. As the years passed, though, I noticed a different expression when he looked at me. It was only later I realised it resembled the way he’d looked at the meal my mother had prepared. With greed.

  Now I’m caught in his trap.

  By the light coming in through the small grill, I make another mark on the wall, taking a moment to tally them. Fourteen here, plus the seventy-five from when I was kept in Phoenix. Eighty-nine in total. That’s almost three months I’ve been kept chained up.

  For the first few weeks I was imprisoned on the biker compound in my home town. Two weeks ago I was moved here. The awful journey saw me blindfolded and transported in the back of a van with no idea where I was being taken. When we arrived the covering over my eyes had slipped and I got a quick glimpse of an old, run-down farmhouse, but no more than that before I was ignominiously carried in through the front door and down steps to a cellar. My location might have changed, my accommodation and treatment has not. Immediately after we arrived a cuff was again put around my ankle, the dreaded chain refastened around a sturdy support.

  I’d have to be blind not to know who is holding me captive. Some of the men I see have Chaos Riders MC on their leather vests, others simply the word Prospect. That’s all I know about the people who are keeping me for Hawk. My marks on the wall let me know how long I’ve been here and, unfortunately, how long I’ve got to go. Another thirty-three months, unless Hawk gets out early for good behaviour. I can’t see how I can survive. My body has suffered, weak from lack of exercise and decent food.

  Does he know the way his wife is being treated? Does he care? While I don’t like to acknowledge it, part of me thinks that he does. Knowing I’ve no freedom to enjoy and that I’m incarcerated in the same way as him probably gives him some reparation for being locked up himself. Punishment for the part I unwittingly played in sending him down. Thinking back, he’d never treated me as anything other than a possession, and as such, me being held on ice for his enjoyment when he’s released makes sense. Just like an old coat you’d throw into a closet and forget it’s there until you need it.

  I lie back on the filthy mattress, remembering that day, the last time I saw Hawk. Before he’d left to go to court his friends, members of the Chaos Riders, had arrived. Men who I never thought a well-respected pastor would have known, let alone have dealings with. These rough men had, with his blessing, taken me away and brought me to their compound. Since then I’ve been as much a prisoner as my husband. It’s ironic. Hawk’s also incarcerated, but I expect he’s being treated much better than me. Don’t they have TV’s in prison? An exercise yard? He might be locked in a cell, but he wouldn’t be kept chained twenty-four hours a day.

  He’ll have access to a bathroom, not a filthy bucket which is only emptied once in the morning. He won’t have gone without a shower for almost three months.

  I gave up screaming and shouting after the first few days. If it caught anyone’s attention they just turned their music up louder. Realising it was futile, I’d stopped.

  I’d told Hawk I’d wait for him. I lied. Somehow he’d known, and made sure I’d be around when he got out. It doesn’t escape me that no one knows where I am. Am I only being kept alive so he can kill me with his own hands when he’s released? My treatment suggests it.

  I’m dead if I stay here. For three months I’ve tried to escape. I can’t open the lock that keeps my ankle shackled, and the only man I see is the one who refuses to talk. I wait, biding my time, hoping for something to happen, though I’m unsure what I’m expecting. I’ve got thirty-three months to achieve my freedom. Lately though, my optimism of getting out has been fading, correlating with how quickly my body is growing weaker.

  Initially I’d hoped my treatment would improve. I’d stopped protesting and complaining or pleading to be set free, hoping my good behaviour would be rewarded. When it wasn’t I knew I’d lost any value. Doesn’t anyone miss me? But there isn’t anyone to care. My parents will trust Hawk to have made the necessary provision for me, and I have no friends who’d wonder about my whereabouts or miss me.

  When I’d first met Hawk, the striking older man with the strangely attractive flash of white hair, I had no idea how much influence he was going to gain over my life. I was a young teenager,
initially thrilled that I’d caught his eye, and preened when he gave me special attention, little jobs to do at Bible class which weren’t given to anyone else. For five years I lived in ignorance of his intentions. My marriage was a complete surprise. Our coupling was just a bodily function, the moves mechanical. As his wife I had duties to perform, one of them obviously sex, which, for me, was painful. Uncomfortable at best.

  After our wedding he allowed me to see the real man, the one neither my parents nor anyone in the church would suspect. He quoted scriptures which suited his purpose, justified all that he did with excerpts from the Bible. My subservience was demanded, my service of him justified. That he led a second secret life was obvious. I’d suspected another woman, but it wasn’t until the police had contacted me that I realised I’d been on the wrong track. They’d wanted my help in building their case, and I would have given them every assistance, but I knew nothing. All I could say was Hawk was someone other than the pastor he showed to the outside world. If they had anything concrete they suspected him of, they never told me.

  Hawk had been arrested for a misdemeanour. I’ve been caught like a rat in a trap. My only hope is that the police will keep investigating, won’t be satisfied with the conviction they got. But even as I’m praying he’ll never be released, I worry it won’t just be his key that’s thrown away. If he’s not going to be freed, there’ll no longer be a reason to keep me alive. Or protected.

  Hawk is possessive. He liked to dress me modestly, but in a way that showed off my curves. Even at church he’d parade me around on his arm, showing other men what they couldn’t have. It’s that jealous trait that’s stopped me from being molested. If something happens and Hawk doesn’t get out, this biker gang will no longer have a reason to keep their hands off.

  I’ve been through every emotion since I’ve been imprisoned. Fear of what might happen to me, disgust at the conditions I’m kept in, anger with my parents for placing me in this position, and sadness at the waste of my life. I’m twenty-one, I should have a future to look forward to. Instead, every minute ticking by is one less off my short life. Unless their treatment improves, it will be a miracle if I see my twenty-fourth birthday. Sometimes I think I won’t even see my next.

 

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