HOGTIED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Satan's Chaos MC)

by Nicole Fox

  I shifted, grimacing at the pain in my wrists, and spoke to him. “Who…who are you?” My voice sounded like the last few drops of slimy water spluttering out the end of an empty hose.

  He glanced at me, apparently surprised that I was awake or even alive, and then chuckled to himself. “Raymond Blade,” he said. “No harm in telling you that. If La Gancho doesn’t kill you when he returns, infection certainly will.”

  I sneered. “Blade? What, you come to cut my hair then? A little of the top, if you please.”

  For the moment, Blade did not respond, but I did feel his clumsy bandaging grow even rougher. It was agony as the tough fabric slid across my mutilated flesh, but I did not show it. Then, when he was finished, he whirled me to face him and grinned at me.

  “No, Raymond Blade, as in Erica’s boss. I’ve been ogling that sweet pair of tits for years, and even felt the juicy squeeze of her pussy. I’ll feel it again, too, before the day is out.”

  At his words, I felt a terrible rage surge through me–greater even than the agony in my body–and I raised up my legs to strike him in the gut. Aged though he was, I was still slow with blood loss, so he had plenty of time to dodge out of the way.

  He giggled, then wiped his bloody hands on a towel before gimping away. “I can see why she likes you,” he snarled, out of reach. “She just needs a man tough enough to put her in her place, huh?”

  I growled, baring my teeth and trying to lunge for him, but he laughed, wiping his eyes as if this was the merriest thing he had ever seen.

  “Be careful!” He crowed. “You’ll loosen your bandages and bleed out all over the floor. You wouldn’t want to die before the big show, would you?”

  “Big show? What do you mean?” I grunted.

  He leered. “Oh, you’ll see soon enough, Mr. Molina.”

  Though I was powerless to hurt him, my rage was so great that I barked out my words, longing to strike him, if only with my words.

  “I’ve had enough of this!” I roared. “Where are Erica and Thunder? I’ve come here, endured everything you fucks have put me through, and I still haven’t seen her! What kind of businessman are you?”

  Blade smiled. He reached out–over the torture table–and plucked one of the long, serrated knives that La Gancho had left waiting there. With a wink, he slipped it into his pocket.

  “One who makes sure the deck is stacked in his favor,” he said mysteriously, and then slipped, with no explanation, from the room. I heard the bolt click behind him as he fastened me in.

  # # #

  Now that I was alone–truly alone–I felt my full consciousness and focus returning to me. Though every moment was a torment, I used my rage, lit by La Gancho and stoked by Blade, to fuel me, until I felt as cunning and aware as ever.

  I needed–I must–find a way to escape, a way to rescue Erica and Thunder. Obviously, there were lies on top of lies here. La Gancho, at least, was predictable–he wanted above all things to see me suffer.

  But Blade? What did he want?

  “Erica, obviously,” I thought. Well, that was true, but my next realization was, “What man doesn’t?” I had to think about it further. What drives a balding old corporate scoundrel to drop his rules of class and mix in with a motorcycle gang?

  Well, after a lifetime of contending with men like him, the answer was easy as well: money and power. Which meant that, above all things, I could assume that Blade liked to be in charge, even if he lacked the leadership qualities to deserve it.

  “I could use that,” I thought. “I can manipulate him. Maybe trick him into revealing where Erica and Thunder are if I can’t find them. But first, I need to escape these fucking cuffs.”

  I glanced around, looking for something, anything that might help me undo my cuffs, or at least get my feet back in contact with the floor. In fact, so great was the pressure on my lungs by the prolonged, enforced position of my arms above my head that I was lucky that I hadn’t suffocated while unconscious. But there was nothing! The torture table, even if it would have been helpful, was out of reach, and the Crooked Jaws had been sure to strip me completely naked, so I had not even useful little tricks like the Swiss Army knife sewn into the lining behind the left breast. The only other adornments in the room, as I’ve already mentioned, are those stupid, vile, evil little hooks screwed everywhere into the walls and ceiling.

  Wait a minute! I thought. Screwed!

  I glanced up, straining to locate the hook above my head, from which my handcuffs dangled. Yes! I could see it! It was simply screwed into the wood above. I could see the threading biting in for purchase, and the chips where the solid surface of the ceiling had been punctured for its grasp. Its simple metal thread: nothing more than a few millimeters of polished steel, arrayed in ridge after ridge, between me and my freedom.

  It was crazy, I knew–this plan that was forming. Just to test it, I curled into a ball, lifting my knees into my chest and then my ankles up, up, up over my head, like a kid dangling from gymnastic rings. The strength it took was enormous, and I could feel the sticky clogging of the scabs on my back tearing open once again, but, with a grunt of exertion, I was able to plant my bare feet upon the ceiling and push.

  I could hear the wood straining with the force of it, but still, it held. That was probably good anyway. If I fell straight onto my back I probably would have passed out again from the pain.

  The hook, it seemed, really would need to be unscrewed.

  Righty, tighty, lefty, loosey, I thought giddily, and then I began to twist.

  My first task was to get the chain of my handcuffs to snag together, so that when I turned my body, the pressure of the snagged chain forced the hook to turn as well. I did this by swinging my ankles outward in a wide circle, gathering momentum until at last, in a gigantic heave of effort, I bounced my body upward and twisted in midair.

  Clang! The chain caught.

  “Argh!” I couldn’t help but grunt as the resulting bind tightened the cuffs even further on my swollen, bruised wrists. And I couldn’t just relinquish the pressure, either, and fall back into a more comfortable position. No, I needed to lock my hands together, and make sure that the snag stayed strong.

  It was agony. But it was progress.

  Now, from this tortuous position, I was able to begin unscrewing.

  I did it by once again swinging my ankles, but rather than seeking a wide circle, I rocked back and forth, back and forth, until I’d swung out as far as I could. Then, at the peak of my swing, I’d twist, contorting my body like a cat in midair and facing the opposite way.

  Creak. I heard it over the groan of my handcuff chains and the air rustling past my ears. I worked myself into another arc, and then, at the top of my range, I twisted again.

  Creak.

  The hook was turning!

  I ended up finding a rhythm to it: flex, swing, turn! Flex, swing, turn! It was like sex, except that each thrust of my body brought me a lightning storm of pain, rather than pleasure. Still, either way, it was building to a climax:

  Saving Erica. And Thunder.

  Creak. Agony. Creak. Pain.

  And then! The chipping of wood! I felt the bite of the screw breaking, and, at the top of my arc –

  “Ah!” I broke free, and tumbled through the air!

  So sudden was the release of pressure on my wrists and shoulders, and so enormous the relief that surged through those tortured joints and muscles, that I had no awareness to spare for landing and crumpled to the ground in a clumsy, bleeding, painful heap.

  “Ah hah!” I cried in triumph, unbothered by my slipping bandages and bruised bones.

  I was free!

  Feeling energized, I bounded to my feet, remembered I was supposed to be quiet, and tiptoed to the torture table. There, I found something that at once both filled me with joy and horror:

  A pair of pliers.

  “Thank Christ he didn’t use these on me,” I muttered as I plucked them up and began attacking the chain of my handcuffs with them.
It was difficult, but at long last, I was able to snap the metal apart, and my hands–as least comparatively–were unbound.

  What next?

  I would have liked clothing, of course, but one has to take what they can get in situations like this. For the time being, I was clothed in blood.

  That meant, of course, that my next course of action was to try to break out of this room. Hopefully my clothes were stored somewhere right outside it.

  I went to inspect the door: it was a simple tumbler lock, easy enough to pick. I imagined that La Gancho was not too worried about the security of this room: most of its occupants would not even be in a state to try.

  I plucked another item from the torture table–a long handled pick with a tapering, needle-like point, rather like a large dentistry tool–and within minutes had the lock opened.

  “You really have a nice collection of toys,” I muttered, tossing the tool back onto the table as I chuckled. It was all I could do–otherwise, I’d be engulfed in horror.

  Carefully, I pushed open to door, glanced around, and stepped outside.

  I saw no one. Perhaps the Crooked Jaws were busy on their heist. I hoped that the Broken Spires, at least, had sense enough to continue with their plans. They didn’t need me for it. They were a well-trained, disciplined group. And a major distraction outside of the compound might be exactly what I needed.

  My bared feet chilled by the cold concrete floor, I crept onward.

  I had never been this far inside the Crooked Jaw compound before, so, despite my predicament, my surroundings fascinated me. The whole place was dank, cold, and dark, and put me in mind of rats scurrying down deserted hallways. That would be the only way one could move in this place: to slither and sneak, muffling footsteps with hoarse grunts of fear and disgust. The difference between this place and the Broken Spires hang out was enormous. Ours was a bachelor pad, of course. It was not pretty or particularly well-organized. But it was warm, and had places of comfort and relaxation. Beer for guests and lighters and ashtrays on every table.

  Still, the ugliness of the place did have its advantages. Twice, I heard people approaching, and was able to hide in time because the pounding of their boots on bare cement floors gave me forewarning. Unfortunately, I could not tell who they were–I did not think them La Gancho or the mysterious Blade.

  I did hear one of them mutter, however, the word, “Prisoners.”

  My heart leaped. He must be talking about Erica and Thunder!

  I stayed ensconced until they were safely out of earshot, and then quickly bolted down the corridor where they had emerged. I had to be careful, and time everything just right. Though I tried to avoid it, I realized that I had been leaving bloody footprints on the floor wherever I walked. Someone was bound to notice.

  I would only have one shot at this.

  Silently, I tiptoed down the hall until I came to a door that was different from the others: it was heavy, bolted steel, while the rest were flimsy office doors. A massive lock–one that could easily be handled from the outside, but could keep a rampaging elephant within–guarded the door. There was a small, barred window offering a view inside. Carefully, I slid my cheek against the edge, and peered inside.

  It was a small, dingy dungeon, though one much “nicer” than where I had been confined. It had a cot, a chamber pot, sink, and a drain. It was much more brightly lit than the abandoned hall, so it took a moment for my eyes to focus beyond that. And yes! There they were! Erica and Thunder, their arms wrapped around each other as they leaned side-by-side upon each other on the cot…

  My heart went cold.

  I could see the pair of them. Thunder, bruised but steady. Erica, terrified but passionate, her long white arms wrapped around his neck as her lips touched his skin.

  “I told you she was a whore.”

  I whirled. La Gancho, standing there, a long black gun held in his good hand, grinning at me. I hadn’t noticed him, distracted as I was by the sight of the woman I loved, wrapped around my best friend.

  “Argh!” I leapt, catapulting myself through the air, not caring that I was naked, not caring that he was armed. All I wanted to do was to strike him, cause him as much pain as he caused me. To bite, tear, claw, kill.

  But he was not alone. Two more Crooked Jaws stepped out from behind him. They were strong, well-fed, and uninjured. And their bodies were sheathed in tough, motorcycle leather. My punches were padded. Theirs fell directly on wounded, bleeding skin.

  Within a minute, I was down. Rope bindings were fastened even tighter over my wrists, squeezing the metal cuffs I had not been able to break further into my flesh. I grunted and bucked, trying to shake them off of me, but to no avail.

  Just then, Blade emerged from the shadows.

  “Can you just kill him already and move on?” He complained. “We’ve got business to attend to.”

  The Crooked Jaws hoisted me to my feet, so that I was glaring straight into the eyes of La Gancho.

  “All in good time,” he replied. “I’ve waited years to get revenge on the man who stole my hand from me. Tie him up! And then, bring me that little slut.”

  The Crooked Jaws sprang to obey him, dragging me back to the room full of hooks while the others unlocked the door to Erica and Thunder’s room. I wanted to scream, to warn them, but I found that all my strength was gone, drained out of me by the sight of the two of them in each other’s arms as surely as La Gancho’s whip drained me of blood.

  They threw me back into a room, into some fresh hell I could only guess at.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Erica

  I had done it. I had set something in motion that could never be taken back. And I believed that Blade had bought it. There was distrust, now, between Blade and The Hook–a distrust which just might pay off, before the end of all this.

  I should have known then that distrust can work both ways.

  Hours after our confinement in that terrible prison, someone besides Blade entered the room.

  “La Gancho,” I snarled, pushing myself into a sitting position. He grinned at me, his hand held out in front of him, twisted and bony as a skeleton’s. “What do you want?”

  Outwardly, I displayed no fear, but inwardly, I prayed that he had not come to rape me. Not yet. My plan wouldn’t have time to work yet.

  “Straight to the point,” he chuckled. “I can see why Dominic liked you.”

  “Liked?” I wanted to blurt out. “What do you mean, liked?”

  But I knew better than to take the bait. Instead, I remained silent and glared back at him.

  This must have disappointed him, for he waited several long moments until, at last, trying again.

  “He was here, you know, demanding I free you,” he murmured. As he spoke, I noticed something black and shiny, tucked under his arm. He kept stroking like one would a cat.

  “That sounds like Dominic,” I spat back. Where was he going with this?

  “But when I told him what the cost would be to free you–his life, actually–he decided that it would be too much, and he tried to run away.”

  “Ha,” I sneered back. “You liar. Dominic would never run.” That, at least, I knew. I was not sure if he loved me enough to give his life for me–I wanted to believe it, and yet I could not be sure–but I knew for certain that he would never run away from evil, sniveling cowards like The Hook and Blade.

  The Hook grinned.

  “I thought you might feel that way, so I brought you proof.”

  He took the bundle he was holding and unfurled it before me.

  “Dominic’s jacket!” I gasped.

  There is was, his shiny black leather, the worn lapel that I knew from resting my cheek upon it, the scuffed zipper, and a squashed box of cigarettes poking from the left pocket. They were his brand.

  “Dominic’s jacket,” The Hook mocked. Then, he hurled it into my arms. At first, I thought that this was a tiny act of mercy, until he sneered, “Take a closer look, bitch.”

  I gr
ipped it, relishing its cool firmness in my hands. But then, I noticed something else…a stickiness. I took my fingers away and gasped to find them red with blood.

  “No!” I murmured, then began frantically searching further. I found it within moments: a small, perfectly round hole at the center of all the blood, punched out of it as if with a bore.

  The Hook leaned close to me. “In case you’re too much of a goody-two-shoes to recognize it, you bitch, that’s a bullet hole.”

  “No!” I cried again, plucking and tugging at the tear as if I could mend it with the desperation of my hand.