I’ve lost weight, my hair has started falling out. My skin is greasy and atrocious. I’ve sores on my back, ass, and thighs where I lie or sit for too long. And the mattress stinks of sweat and often feels damp.
Forcing myself to my feet, I start doing stretches, compelling my tired, complaining body to exercise. Touching my toes, I almost lose my balance and fall over, the lack of good nutrition having its effects. I shake out my limbs and concentrate, pushing through my daily routine. When I finish, I collapse, trying to get my breath, relishing the brief rush of endorphins.
Footsteps descending the stairs have me looking up. They sound different. There’s more than one person. A key turns in the lock—making me wonder, and not for the first time, why do they bother locking the door when I’m chained up?—and two men step in. The first very familiar, the man who usually brings me my food and empties my bucket. The second? Well, he’s tall, quite broad. Muscular arms, one with tattoos emerging from the short sleeve of his tee. As my eyes travel up, even I grimace at the sight of his face. It’s covered in bruises. There’s a cut crudely stitched together running from his scalp to the corner of his right eye. The way he favours one leg suggests he’s in pain. He looks in a worse state than I am.
He’s wearing a leather vest, just like the man I know only too well, and when he turns around, like him, he too has a patch with the word Prospect on it.
What gives me hope is the brief flare in his eyes when they settle on me, but it’s quickly extinguished.
As if he’s not surprised to see a woman chained in a cellar, he simply turns to his companion and asks, “So what do we do here, Squirt?”
“We do nothing,” Squirt sneers. “From now on this is your job.” He passes the newcomer a small brown bag. “Put this in her reach. But watch for her claws.”
Yes, I’d attacked him once out of pure frustration. To his credit he didn’t retaliate, but had become wary about coming close.
He waves his hand, a silent instruction for me to move over. As he issues his non-verbal instruction I obey and make room for him to get to the bucket. I’ve never stopped him taking it away, the threat of him kicking it over and soaking the mattress with my faeces and urine enough to make me stay clear.
“Take the bucket upstairs and empty it.”
The new man throws the bag at me. When Squirt passes him a bottle of water he rolls it within reach, then picks up the bucket.
“When it’s empty, bring it back down. You do that once a day. You bring down more food and water in the evening. Oh, and if she tries to plead with you, to beg, just ignore her. Don’t get into a conversation.”
“Got it.” He’s got a deep voice, a velvety sound that’s more pleasant than any others that I’ve heard. “Food twice a day, bucket emptied mid-morning.” He pauses for a moment. “Clean clothes? Showers?”
“Nah, Rock. We don’t bother with that.”
No, they don’t. After the time that I’ve been here, I don’t smell myself anymore.
A quick glance my way, then the new man, apparently called Rock, disappears with Squirt. The door is locked and I’m left on my own once again.
It appears I’ve got a new jailor. But from what I’ve seen he’ll be no better than the first. He barely looked at me, didn’t seem to see anything unusual in the conditions I’m living in. I quickly regret my initial sympathy for the bruises on his face.
A few minutes later the door opens again, and my bucket is returned. Rock doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look at me. I was right. They’re all made from the same mould. He’ll be no help to me. If I’m going to get out of here I’ve got to wait for them to make a mistake. At least drop a pin or something so I can try picking the lock.
Time goes slowly in the cellar and the days are boring, so I hold out for the only thing that breaks the monotony and wait until my stomach growls before, at last, giving in I open the bag. A ham sandwich. It’s dry and stale, but I force it down with sips of water. I had tried going on a hunger strike. But probably knowing if I was going to die Hawk would want to do it himself, they didn’t let me get away with it. Once they realised what I intended, Squirt had come down with a scary looking man who’d held my mouth open while the prospect forcibly pushed food in. I had no option but to chew and swallow, or choke.
I wasn’t brought up to be brave. My family had kept me secluded. I hadn’t a clue how to cope or what I could do. Everything about this situation is beyond me. In the past I’ve had to make no decisions, only followed direction. Now I’ve no one else to depend on, it’s hard to think for myself. I try to contemplate, What would someone else do? But don’t come up with any answers.
The evening comes, and this time Rock enters alone. He doesn’t even move far in from the door, just throws a bag to me and rolls a bottle of water across. Is he too scared of me? Hell, that’s a joke. I do my best to look at him accusingly, lumping him in with the rest of these unfeeling men. But my expression has no effect on him. I don’t know why I bothered, when within seconds he’s gone. I’m left alone once again.
Three more marks on my wall. And still Rock hasn’t spoken or replied when I address him by name. I don’t waste my breath now. He’s as bad as Squirt. Maybe it was because he’s older I’d hoped for some sympathy, but no. Hawk must have got to him too.
The days go by, passing tortuously slowly. Then one day, the thing that I most dread happens, only for the second time since the Chaos Riders had taken me, my body obviously completely out of kilter. I wake with a familiar stickiness between my legs and cramping in my stomach. The first time I’d felt relief. Though I still had the implant, the idea of becoming pregnant with Hawk’s baby filled me with horror. But my pleasure at the evidence I wasn’t expecting soon disappeared when I’d plucked up the courage to ask Squirt for sanitary items. He’d laughed, and on this rare occasion, spoke to me, telling me he was a man and it wasn’t his job to supply female shit. He’d told me to stuff toilet tissue up my pussy.
This time I don’t even bother to ask.
Embarrassed, I try to fold the soiled paper so the blood doesn’t show, certain I’d get the same dismissive answer from Rock were I to ask for something that obviously threatens his manhood. I curl into a ball, trying to ease the pain, knowing any exercise today will be beyond me.
It’s times like this when I’m at my lowest and feel like I’m nothing more than an animal trapped in a cage.
Rock enters, presumably at the same time he does every day—I’ve no watch or clock to know for certain. A bag lands beside me, I don’t bother turning. I hear the slight thud as a water bottle is put down, then the clank of the bucket’s handle. Then…
“Oh fuck!” A moment passes, then rough calloused hands touch me.
“Get off me!” I flail with my arms, catching him on his face. Strong hands grasp my biceps, trapping me as he pushes me over onto my back.
Don’t let him rape me.
Then I grasp it’s not desire I see on his face, but concern. “Fuck, woman. Stop strugglin’. You’re bleedin’ and I need to find out where from. What the fuck have you done to yourself?”
I don’t need his exploring hands finding the answer, so I hiss out. “I’ve got my fucking period, asshole.” I don’t swear. I didn’t even know that I could. My shock at my profanity pales into insignificance at his unexpected reaction.
He lets me go immediately and sits back on his haunches. Looking me over from head to toe, and then around the area I have access to. It’s not very large. His hand wipes over his cheek, ruefully rubbing the additional bruise I’d just given him. Then his eyes alight on my face, then move down to where my arms are now wrapped over my stomach. “Sore?”
Stunned, no one has cared enough to ask how I am since I was brought here, I automatically nod.
“Hey, Allie, one of the sweet butts in my last clubhouse, she suffered with cramps. Got fuckin’ miserable with them. Sorry you’re going through this.” His eyes meet mine again. “What can I get you?”
He’s asking what I want? Surprised, I take a chance. “I need tampons.” But I’ve no hope he’ll meet my request. To my astonishment, he raises and dips his head.
“Sure you do. I’ll get them. Any preference?”
Dumbfounded, I tell him the brand I prefer. And then go for broke. “Some Advil?”
“You got it.” His hand reaches out but stops in mid-air.
Was he trying to touch me? I must be suffering Stockholm syndrome, so lonely and lost, ready to welcome anyone’s touch, but I find myself wishing he had.
He stands, and for some reason I feel bereft, particularly when he shrugs and looks apologetic. “I won’t be able to come back down until tonight. But I’ll bring you what you need then. I wish I could do more.”
I don’t want him to leave. “Why not? Why can’t you come sooner?” He’s the first person who’s spoken to me like a human being.
He waivers, then turns toward the door, takes a step, then comes back. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Becca.” It’s the first time anyone’s asked me.
“Becca,” he repeats as though trying it out, and something loosens inside me that someone’s called me by name. “Look, they’re watchin’ me, okay? I have to be careful if I want to get my patch.” His intense stare seems to burn into me. “Trust me, alright?”
This time when he steps away he leaves, shutting the door behind him. As I hear the key turning I gaze at the ceiling in disbelief. Trust him? To do what? Save me? But if they’re watching him there’s probably not much he can do. Or, perhaps not right now. That patch he’s chasing sounds important to him.
There’s one thing for certain. If it’s him I have to pin any hope on, and let’s face it, he’s all that I’ve got, I won’t be doing or saying anything that will give him away.
Chapter 6
Rock
Their initiation ceremony had been brutal. I could have taken their sergeant-at-arms or enforcer on easily had it been one on one. But with Buff and Wreck coming at me together, I did as well as I could, but it hadn’t been long before I was down. They carried on until I was unconscious, coming round to find a wound on my head amateurishly stitched up, little skin on my head or body that wasn’t bruised, my nose broken, two teeth knocked out, and my knee dislocated. I counted myself lucky not to be dead, but on trying to move, suddenly wished that I was.
Every movement hurts and causes me to groan, but when I force my eyes to open it’s to find I’m lying in a queen-sized bed that’s not long enough for me, in a small room with a TV on a dresser and a closet beside it. As I pull myself up, my feet feel something lying at the foot of the bed. Groaning as I pull it toward me, I find it’s a leather vest with a prospect patch lying beside it, along with a handy needle and thread.
Allowing myself the first smile of the day, I awkwardly bend until I can reach it, then realise I won’t be going far until I do something about my knee. I remember watching Doc when Tongue had once dislocated his. He’d got him to flex his hip, then straightened his leg and pushed his kneecap back into place. Hoping I’m making it better and not causing worse damage, it takes me a few attempts—not being the easiest thing to do to yourself—and I’m gritting my teeth to stop the scream escaping. But at last I feel a pop, and it’s located right again.
Breathing heavily, I start sewing—as much to give myself something to do as to try and take my mind off my various pains and injuries. Also knowing, though, they wouldn’t look on me favourably if I left the room without proudly displaying my new insignia. My job completed quickly, I realise I need a piss. Badly.
I’d been spoilt at the Satan’s Devils compound, my suite there total luxury compared to this. It’s immediately plain there’s no convenient en-suite bathroom. Gingerly, I pull myself out of bed, slide on my new cut, and, with a heavy limp, go to find the facilities. At the end of the corridor I find what I want, a large enough bathroom with three showers, two sinks, and a stall. I go to the urinal, unsurprised to see my urine coming out tinged with red.
As I zip up, a sudden wave of all that I’ve lost washes over me, my lowly status setting me back sixteen years to when I last was a prospect. The pain I had to let them inflict has me finally grasping, this is it. The lowest I can get. I’ve reached rock bottom. All that I thought I’d accomplished taken from me, the love of my brothers lost.
I look in the mirror, then quickly away, not wanting to examine the damage to my face. There’s only one way to go now. And that’s upward. The Chaos Riders have accepted me into their ranks. Now it’s only a matter of time until I get them to trust me and become a fully-fledged member of a new motorcycle club. A new set of brothers. It’s the best I can hope for.
I take a deep breath, well, as deep as I can until the sharp pain suggests I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs, draw myself up as straight as I can, and walk out of the barn that seems to still be in the stages of being converted into rooms for the Chaos Riders. I enter the clubhouse with my head held high, proudly displaying my new cut.
Krueger, Buff, and Wreck are standing by the bar. They turn at the sound of my footsteps unevenly clanking across the floor, beckoning me toward them, nodding with approval as they notice I’m wearing my cut. I reach the bar and put my hand out to balance myself.
With a heavy slap to my shoulder which has me leaning my full weight forward, gasping with pain, Krueger laughs. “Welcome to the Chaos Riders, Prospect.” Then he waves to the man who’d been standing on the veranda when I first arrived, fuck it seems like a hundred years ago. “Squirt. Got you a helper. Show him the ropes, will you?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Wreck, the enforcer, must notice me favouring my right leg.
“Dislocated knee,” I manage to get out.
He smiles, as though proud of his handiwork. “Squirt. Find something to bind his knee, then put him to work.”
Knee bound, I try to keep as much of my weight on it as I can bear, determined not to show weakness. The bar work is easy, learning what the different members like to drink slightly harder. I’m not yet trusted with keeping watch, presumably in case I let enemies slip by. But as the days pass and my leg and other injuries start to heal, I feel less pairs of eyes burning into my back. I’m starting to earn their trust.
Although the accommodation is far more basic, in some ways this clubhouse is better than the one at the Satan’s Devils compound. For one thing, there’s not an old lady or a kid to be seen. But in others… Well, as a prospect, the services of their women aren’t available to me, and I’ve discovered I wouldn’t be interested if they were. There’s enough clues that the women aren’t here by choice, nor being recompensed for their services. The men are rough with them, dragging them literally by their hair out to the bunkhouse, or fucking them in the open. It seems their only desire is to come themselves, uncaring whether the woman is satisfied or not, and in most cases, they’re obviously not. Blowjobs are forced, men laughing as they make the women choke. During the day the women are hidden out of sight. At night they’re brought in from the barn where they’re kept, the front door locked to prevent any escape.
Manning the bar alongside Squirt, he nudges me and points to a woman being forcibly fucked by two men on the pool table, while another is shoving his dick down her throat. “Won’t be long until I’m patched in and I’ll be having me some of that. I can’t fucking wait. You too, I expect?”
“Yeah, Squirt. Nothing I’d fuckin’ like better.” I feel dirty even saying the words. I like my women warm and willing. But I’ve noticed a couple of members don’t partake. George is one of them, a man called King another. I was relieved to realise it’s not obligatory.
I keep waiting, but Chaos himself doesn’t start to quiz me until the first week’s gone by. I’m pleased when I’m eventually summoned to his office. This time, I’m invited to sit.
“So, Rock. You’re settling in well. Have to say I admire the way you cope with all the shit.”
I’ve been trying hard enough. All their
bikes are spotless.
“I had my doubts about you.” He folds his arms over his chest, his keen eyes watching me.
“I’ve thrown in with your lot,” I tell him, honestly. “Want to make my home here. Not going to fuck my chance up.”
“I hear you. I thought you might have been a plant at first, but you’ve been giving us your all.” He pauses, raises a hand and scratches his bald head. “Can’t be easy with your first time prospecting well in your rearview. But the brothers tell me you do anything without complaint.”
I smirk. “Wiping George’s ass was going a bit far.”
He chuckles. “Hear you did it though.”
I had. I nearly puked. “I’m not a kid like Squirt. I know how this game goes. If I want my patch, and I do, I can’t make any mistakes. I do whatever I’m asked.”
Chaos nods. “Can tell you’ve got experience. And, I have to admit, I’ve taken a liking to you. Respect you. Hear some fuckin’ sense coming out of your mouth, unlike some I could mention. We’re still setting up here, got more members coming in in a couple of weeks.”
I’m burning to ask how many, but I don’t. As a prospect it’s none of my business, and I’m not going to fall into any verbal trap.
He leans forward and places his elbows on the desk. “At the rate you’re going, you might get patched in early.”
I sit up straight, showing my interest. “I’m all for that.”
Having dangled the carrot in front of me, I’m not surprised by what he says next. “Time to show your loyalty, Prospect. I want to know everything you can tell me about the Satan’s Devils. Their compound, their armoury. How many men they’ve got. Where their weak points are. I don’t want you to leave anything out.”
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