by Callie Hart
“You want me to turn on the overheads?”
“No. Would only draw attention. Dark is better.”
I’m regretting my words two seconds later when Cade is falling over sideways, crashing into me, hissing under his breath. He goes down hard, almost taking me with him. The zippo skitters out of his hand, skidding across the roughcast concrete floor, though the flame remains lit, guttering and then strengthening again.
“What the hell, man?” I grab hold of Cade by the shoulder, trying to pull him up in the half dark. He grunts, and then there’s the sound…the sound of a second person moaning? What? No one else should be in here. No one else should even know we have people in the basement. My hand’s reaching for the gun in my waistband when Cade swears loudly.
“Fuck, no. Damn it, it’s fucking Carnie.”
“Carnie?”
There’s more moaning. Cade gets to his feet, moving his considerable bulk out of the way, and then I can see Carnie too in the meagre light being thrown off by the zippo. Sure enough, he’s flat out on his back, a two-inch long gash along his right temple. His eyelids flicker open, but even from here I can see his eyes themselves are not working properly, don’t seem to be focusing on the men standing over him.
“What happened?” Cade demands. “What the hell are you doing up here, passed out cold, man?” He shakes Carnie hard, which seems to do the trick.
“Uh…I was…fuck. I was…heading down to take some food to Mother and the other one. I opened the padlock on the hatch and he…he sprang out. He had a broken chair leg in his hands. He must have hit me over the head with it.”
When I first walked back into the clubhouse and Cade told me Ryan had been killed, it took me a beat to process what he was saying to me. Took me a minute or two to comprehend what he was telling me. Not so this time. As soon as the words are out of Carnie’s mouth, I’m in fight mode, already predicting what will come next. Dreading it with every fibre of my being.
I grab hold of Carnie by the collar of his cut, pulling him off the ground so my face is in his. “How long? How long ago?” I yell.
“I don’t…I don’t know. What time is it?” Carnie’s still struggling to string words together. Means he was probably hit over the head pretty hard. That also means he could have been out for a considerable amount of time, too. I let go of him and he drops to the ground like a sack of flour.
This cannot be happening. It just can’t. “Fuck!”
Cade draws his gun and sets his jaw. He knows what this means, too. Raphael Dela Vega is an unhinged bastard with no sense of self-preservation. He won’t have fled the compound. Not yet. He’s been fixated on one thing and one thing only for a long time now, and he won’t leave here until he’s gotten what he’s been dreaming about.
He has been dreaming about Sophia.
FIFTEEN
SOPHIA
When night falls over the desert, it suddenly feels like the world ceases to exist. Out there, beyond the lights and sounds of the compound, all drunken shouting and the furious roar of motorcycle engines, there’s nothing more than a sea of black ink and an endless void that stretches for as far as my mind can imagine in every direction. No, there are no roads or general stores. No dive bars, and no all-night diners. The compound feels so very isolated and alone. It kind of freaks me out.
My body is still humming from Rebel’s ministrations when I get up and draw the blinds on all the windows. God knows where he’s gone. I didn’t really get a chance to ask him before he fled the cabin, looking very pleased with himself. He knew exactly how cruel he was being when he decided not to stay and have sex with me. Can’t have been pleasant for him, either, but still… the guy is evil.
I’m grinning like a moron as I think this, though. Grinning so hard my face hurts. He’s turned me into some sort of pathetic teenager, which is ironic because I was never like this back then. In high school, I was driven by the need to excel in my schoolwork, and definitely not to pursue the attention of boys. And now here I am, turning my back on my studies in order to be with the most unsuitable person on the face of the planet.
But, in saying that, maybe he’s not the most unsuitable person. If just that one thing about him were different, he would be prime take-home-to-meet-the-parents material. He’s intelligent. He’s a gentleman (for the most part). He was in the army. He went to MIT, for fuck’s sake. But then the kicker…he’s also the head of a motorcycle gang. What would Mom and Dad say if they knew what I was doing right now? A pang of guilt sideswipes me out of nowhere as I really take on board what they probably believe has happened to me by now.
They have to believe I’ve been murdered.
There isn’t a way in this world they would ever believe I just decided not to come home when given the opportunity. So I mustn’t have had that opportunity. They must think I was stabbed or shot, or worse, that I was raped and beaten to death.
God, I am the worst person on the face of the planet to leave them wondering like this. My heart feels like a lead balloon sitting heavy in my chest as I find new, un-shredded clothes to put on.
I should call them. I should just stop being such a fucking coward, and I should tell them I’m okay, even if I end up hurting them by not going back to Seattle. Straight away. Not going back to Seattle straight away. I will have to go back at some point. Don’t I? I can’t hide here forever.
The t-shirt I’ve stolen from Rebel’s closet is clean and soft and smells deliciously of him as I pull it over my head. My moral compass starts spinning, then. Why can’t I stay here for a while? At least until everything with Ramirez dies down. I have excellent grades. I could always go back to college next year if I want to. There may even be a college in New Mexico that—
I can’t help but smile as I hear the cabin door creak open. He thought he was such a smart ass when he high-tailed it out of here, leaving me on the floor, needing so much more of him. And now look. He’s back within ten minutes, no doubt ready to teach me a lesson. I get half way through pulling the t-shirt over my head, but then there are hands on my hands, stilling me. I’m half naked, only my head and shoulders covered by the soft, dark material. Something about that is so kinky. I’m essentially blindfolded for all intents and purposes. He could do anything to me and I would never see it coming.
“So,” I say breathlessly. “You changed your mind. Will this be part of my punishment?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His stubble grazes me across my shoulder blades, my skin immediately turning to goose bumps as he places his lips against the curve of my neck. Slowly, his hands travel from mine down my arms until they’re hovering just above my breasts. I want him to touch me. I want him to touch me so badly. I arch my back pressing my breasts upward, catching my breath in my throat, waiting for him to gently slide his palms downward, following the swell of my body.
However, when he does move his hands down, it’s not gently. He takes hold of my breasts, grabbing with rigid, calloused fingers, and then he squeezes so hard I’m momentarily blinded by the pain.
“Ahhhh! What…what the fuck? No! Stop!” For a second, through my confusion, I think that this is the real punishment Rebel was talking about and I am frightened. Very, very frightened. And then it hits me. There’s no way Rebel would ever handle my body like that. Like he hates it and he wants to hurt it. I may not have been with him for years and years, I may not know what his favorite color is, or what all of his childhood stories are, but I know he would never do that to me. Never in a million years.
Which means…
Terror is a living, breathing thing, snaking its way through my insides.
Oh, god, no…
Oh, god, no.
My whole body locks up tight when I hear the sound of very familiar, very evil laughter in my ear. “Oh, I knew you would have such a pretty little cunt. I knew you would love me pinching your perfect titties like this.”
Raphael.
Raphael is here, with his hands on me, touching me. Hurting me. I try t
o drag in a breath but it’s impossible. My ribcage feels like it’s in a vise and I’m never going to wriggle free. My brain eventually connects my difficulty to breathe with the fact that Raphael has wound one of his arms around my chest and is squeezing tightly.
The next three seconds are a blur. I tear the t-shirt away from my head, which leaves me completely naked. Better naked than blind, though. I thrust my elbows backward, slamming them into Raphael’s body, contacting with his side and his arm. He doesn’t let go, though. If anything, his grip grows even tighter.
“GET THE FUCK OFF ME! LET ME GO!”
“I won’t be letting you go, princess. Not this time. This time you’re mine. Struggle, bitch. Fight me. Come on…make me believe it.” I can’t see his face but I can hear the sneer in his voice. He’s loving the fight almost as much as he hates me. Because he does. He despises me. He’s the sort of man who hates all women, purely because of their sex. I know nothing I say is going to get me out of this situation. I’m going to have to fight my way out of it, and I’m going to have to be smart about it, too.
I’m gripped by panic and fear, but somehow my brain is still working. Through everything that’s happening, feeling trapped and ultimately terrified, I manage to form one coherent thought: stop giving him what he wants.
I fall limp in his arms.
“Que—?” He’s shocked at my response. Me deciding to play possum was the last thing he must have expected. I’m sure he knows that’s exactly what I’m doing too, but now he has to do something with me. He has to put me down or spin me around or…or something. I know it, and he knows it, too.
“You think you’re so smart, huh, Puta. So fucking smart. You always think you’re one step ahead of me. Well, you’re not.” I realize he’s right when he quickly shifts his hold and wraps one of his arms around my neck, applying pressure. Fuck. He’s going to try and choke me out.
“Don’t worry, princess. You’ll be asleep soon. I’ll have so much fun with you while you’re sleeping. And when you wake up, you’ll be all tied up and begging me to knock you out again. Won’t you? Won’t you, you little fucking slut.” He braces his muscles, tightening everything as he pulls back, applying even more pressure against my windpipe. My head is already spinning. Pinpricks of light dance in my vision, floating around like drunken flies. My arms feel weak; they feel them as I scramble at his arms, trying to prise them free.
That’s not going to work. Too weak. Too dizzy. No strength. Can’t…
I reach further back, fingernails clawing at the ripped material of his shirt, searching for…searching for god knows what. My heels hammer against the floorboards as Raphael lifts me higher, putting even more pressure on my neck. I have seconds. Mere seconds to get out of this, or it will all be over. I will pass out, and I will never want to wake up again, knowing what he will have done to me while I am out cold. My fingers suddenly hit something fleshy, something soft. His face.
I keep scrambling, scratching, trying to claw at him, but it’s not working. It’s not working. Raphael starts to laugh again—a maniacal cackle that sounds unhinged. I’m on the verge of losing consciousness, but the madness in that laughter gives me the strength for one last push. One last grapple at his skin.
I feel something wet and moist underneath my fingertip, and I know this is it, my final chance. Raphael tries to swing his head around, to move away from my hand, but I butt my own head backward, cracking my skull against what feels like his nose, and then my index finger is digging into that soft area of flesh I touched a second ago.
Not bone. Not cheek. Not chin. No. My finger is digging right into his eyeball, and Raphael is screaming.
I know I’ve done some serious damage when he drops me like a hot coal and clutches both hands to his face. The world is suddenly in Technicolor; my head feels like it’s splitting apart from the brightness and loudness of it. Blood thumps through my veins, charging full tilt as I try and crawl away from him.
“PERRA DE MIERDA!” Raphael stumbles into the wall next to him and then punches it, leaving a smear of blood on the plasterwork. I can’t tell if it’s from the action of actually hitting the wall or if it’s from his eye. A river of blood runs down his face, and his left eyelid is swollen shut, puffy and oozing fluid. With only one eye open, he sees me on the floor and lets out a howl that chills me to my very core.
I should have moved quicker. I should have been on my feet and running as soon as he let me go. I couldn’t breathe, though. I could barely see straight myself.
He falls on me, grabbing hold of my ankle and dragging me across the room toward the bed. “You should not have done that, you fucking psycho,” he growls. “Are you a good catholic girl, princess? Are you?” He slaps me hard across the face, landing the blow across my ear. A high pitch whine buzzes through my head. When the sound dies down, Raphael is screaming obscenities at me, shoving his face in mine, spitting everywhere.
“I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born. I’m going fuck you raw. I’m going to make you hurt. You’ve brought this on yourself.” He hits me again, snapping my head around with the force of his blow. With his right hand he presses my head down into the floorboards so hard I can feel the skin above my eyebrow splitting open. It feels like my skull is about to crack open. With his other hand, Raphael begins to fumble with the belt around his waist. It doesn’t take much to imagine what’s coming next. I screw my eyes shut, trying to think, trying to figure this out. Trying to find a way out of this. It’s when I open my eyes, the sound of Raphael’s fly unzipping snapping me back to reality, that I see my salvation, though.
I don’t have long.
I reach under the bed.
I stretch.
I stretch so hard it feels like my shoulder is about to dislocate.
I close my fingers around cold metal.
And then I’m twisting as best I can with my head being pressed into the floor, and I’m stabbing and I’m stabbing and I’m stabbing.
I only stop when Raphael Dela Vega slumps over me, a heavy, dead weight, pumping long, hot jets of arterial blood all over my naked body.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” I shove him off of me, and then I’m clambering to my feet, backing away, backing up until my shoulders hit the wall and I can go no further. Shit. Shit! I clamp both of my hands over my mouth, trying not to see the mess I’ve made of Raphael. I want to look away, but I can’t. My eyes are locked on the shiny pair of scissors—Winchester Gun Company—that are sticking out the side of his fucking…out the side of his fucking neck.
I pitch forward and brace my hands against my knees, and I throw up.
I don’t stop until I feel hands around me. I think for a second that it’s him. I think it’s Raphael, that I didn’t do the job properly. I start flailing, arms and legs everywhere, fighting for my life. And then I smell that smell. The one from the soft t-shirt. I smell that smell, and then I know everything will be okay.
Rebel crushes me to him, and the world turns black.
SIXTEEN
REBEL
Sophia sleeps in one of the bedrooms in the clubhouse most of the next day. When she’s awake she showers over and over again, crying continually. I stay with her. I don’t really know what to do to make her feel better. This is all my fucking fault. I allowed that motherfucker to remain alive and breathing on Widow Makers’ ground. I should have put a bullet right between his eyes the moment I saw him standing there, but I didn’t. I allowed him to live, and so in turn I allowed him to attack Sophia. She’s hurting and she’s in pain, and it’s all because of me.
The third time she wakes and lumbers heavily to the shower, I sit on the edge of the double bed, sheets twisted up and practically knotted from where she’s been tossing and turning, and I hold my head in my hands. There’s nothing I can do to fix this. She wanted her freedom. She didn’t want to be watched over twenty-four seven, but I shouldn’t have listened. There shouldn’t have been a moment of the day that I wasn’t by her side, especially wi
th that piece of shit festering away in the basement.
I allow myself a moment of weakness, and I think about Laura. It was the same with her. I turned my back for five minutes, and then she was gone. What the fuck is wrong with me that I keep letting this happen to the people around me. They always seem to get hurt. A part of me wants to shut the club down. These people that have followed me out here into the middle of nowhere, who for some reason trust me to know what I’m doing, have misplaced their faith in me. I keep proving that, time and time again.
And Sophia. She has to go back to Seattle. Like, yesterday.
Just the thought of what I have to do makes me want to head directly downstairs, grab a bottle of Jack from the shelf above the bar, get on my bike and then find somewhere quiet where I can drink myself into a stupor. There was a time when I probably would have done that, but I can’t now. I have a responsibility to the woman quietly tearing herself apart in the shower.
I walk numbly down the hall, take my flick knife out of my back pocket, and then I twist the lock on the bathroom door open from the outside. The room is so full of steam, I can’t see my hand in front of my face.
“Soph? It’s me. It’s Jamie.” I speak loudly, so she knows I’m there. The last thing I want to do is surprise her. “Jesus, have you even got the cold tap turned on, girl? It’s like a sauna in here.” I know why she’s scalding three layers off skin from her body, though. She feels dirty. She can still feel his hands all over her body.
This, sadly, is not the first time I’ve had to take care of a woman who’s been mistreated by a man. It is the first time that I’ve felt like I’m dying myself, though.
From behind the steamed up glass shower screen, I can make out the small shape of Sophia, curled up in the corner of the tiled shower. “Can you…can you just…”