I just had to get through the next two days. Then Michael would be gone overnight, and Kinsey and I could disappear.
Despite the pain in my body, I felt a lightness I hadn’t in a very long time. Sneaking out of her room, I headed downstairs and grabbed an icepack and a glass of wine. Flipping on the television, I settled in for quiet night, since I had at least two hours before Michael returned from whichever whore he visited to ease the ache of his erectile dysfunction.
I giggled quietly, then forced myself to stop. This was why I got hit. At least, why he hit me in the face this time. He didn’t need a reason to hit me, but me laughing at the fact he couldn’t get it up forced him over the edge and I paid the price.
I’d figured out early in our marriage that if I didn’t seem scared, he couldn’t perform, which meant he left me alone most nights. I’d rather be beaten than have his dick anywhere near me.
I shuddered. God, twice was enough.
Sipping my wine, I channel surfed until I could barely keep my eyes open. Rather than hauling my butt up to bed, I settled myself on the sofa...awakening with a gasp when a smooth hand pressed against my cheek.
“Waiting up for me, sweetheart?” Michael crooned.
I stood without response, not wanting to be in a vulnerable position. He was a mess. His suit askew, his hair unkempt, dirt on his hands. Completely unlike him. I didn’t ask him why. Honestly, I didn’t want to know.
“I’m sure you’re wondering where I’ve been,” he said, pulling a folded manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “I have a little gift for you.”
God, I hated manila offerings from him.
I clasped my hands in front of me and shook my head. “I’m good, thank you.”
He dropped it on the sofa. “I’m going to clean up. Take some time to read that, then I’ll meet you in bed.”
I stood frozen to the spot as he left the room, staring down at the envelope, knowing that whatever was in this was going to hurt. Taking a minute to bolster my courage, I took a few deep breaths, then opened the envelope. I was wrong. This didn’t hurt me. This destroyed me.
Dropping the photographs of a broken and beaten Knox on the floor, I fell to my knees and covered my face, unable to stop the sobs from wracking my body. I didn’t know if he was dead...and I didn’t want to know. I had only a few minutes to grieve, as I was suddenly dragged up by my hair and my head tipped back to meet the eyes of Satan.
“Whatever you have planned, sweetheart, cancel it. As you can see, I can get to your loved ones anytime, anyplace. Never fear, darling. He’s not dead. I made sure Harlan didn’t quite go that far. But if you leave, I will kill him...along with your beloved brother, so reconsider.” He released me by shoving me onto the sofa. “I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself and then you can come upstairs and undress for me. Slowly.”
He walked away again, and I died a little more inside.
* * *
Redeeming the Biker’s Past will be here soon!
Copyright ©2018 – Trixie Publishing, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States
18+ for language and sexual situations...
Burning Saints MC outcast, “Minus” Vincent, has been summoned out of exile by the Club’s President for reasons unknown. Upon his return, he finds himself tempted by forbidden fruit of the past that has only gotten sweeter with time.
Christina "Cricket" Wallace knows exactly what kind of life she wants, and it's far from the chaos and mayhem of an outlaw motorcycle club. She’s worked hard to get where she is, and she won’t let anyone keep her from getting there...especially her over-protective biker brother, or the sexy as hell Club rival she thought she’d never see again.
As Minus and Cricket pursue their own roads, they find their paths intersecting in a violent and passionate collision that will forever change their futures.
Minus
Don’t pass out.
This was easier said than done, considering the crippling pain in my head. I couldn’t focus on anything in the room, and began to drift into darkness.
Don’t... pass out.
I forced my eyes open just as I felt another blow from the phonebook. My vision was blurred, and a wave of nausea hit me. I tried to stay as lucid as possible, focusing on anything around me that may help me escape. I had to stay sharp if I was going to find a way out of this. My host had been letting his fingers do the walking upside my head for some time now, and I wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer.
Don’t fucking pass out.
“Come on, hero, don’t make me beat you to death. We could wrap all this up right now if you just tell me what I need to know.” His words swam in my head, barely cutting through the ringing in my ears.
It took every ounce of strength I had to form the necessary response and I almost lost my breath as I said, “All you need to know...is that...you hit...like a bitch.” I spit blood and bits of my fractured molar onto his boots.
Another blow, this time to the back of my head, and it felt like he’d taken a running start this time. My chin connected with my sternum and every muscle in my neck burned from the whiplash.
“He said you’d be tough, and he was right,” my torturer said. “He also said you’d be mouthy.”
I’m sure... he did.
“I’d agree with him there,” he continued, wiping sweat from his brow. “But he also said, you were smart, and that I’m just not buyin’ that. You see, if you were smart, you’d tell me where the girl and the book are.”
“It seems you... have me at a disadvantage, sir,” I said, my words slurred. “You seem to know so much about me, but I know... so little about you.” I paused and then smiled wide. “Other than the obvious fact that you’re a dickless rodent that can only get off when you’re torturing people while fantasizing about having sex with your sister.”
He must really have a sister because I felt the full impact of the phonebook, from AAA Carpet Cleaners to the Zywicki family. The chair I was tied to toppled over, and the zip ties that bound me cut deep into my wrists with searing pain. The side of my already pummeled head hit the floor, and within seconds I was out like a light.
I’m not sure how long I remained unconscious, but for a moment, I remember wondering if I was dead.
When I came to, I was once again sitting upright, but was no longer tied to the chair. In fact, I wasn’t in a chair at all. I was in the passenger seat of a car that was hauling ass through the Portland night.
“Hang on! Stay with me!”
As soon as I heard her voice, I smiled. It probably looked more like a deranged grin given the current state of my face, but I couldn’t help it.
Once again, she’d found me, and once again she’d saved my life.
Minus
One month earlier...
“This is bad news, man.”
“Well, hello to you, too,” I said as I shoved my tattered duffel bag into the back of Clutch’s ’71 Barracuda.
“Hey, watch the interior, or I’ll leave your ass on the curb,” he said.
“Still in a relationship with your car, I see. It’s nice to see that a committed couple in this day and age can make it after all.”
Clutch flipped me the bird. “Fuck you, Minus. What are you driving these days, a tractor? Hey, if you’ve got any of that cowboy shit tucked in your bottom lip, you’d better spit it out before you get in.”
“Why? You hopin’ to kiss me later?” I asked as I slid into my seat.
“See! You’re even starting to sound like one of them good ol’ boys,” Clutch said.
“Yeah, well I’m still smarter, taller, and better looking than you.”
“You checkin’ me out, Minus? You make some other big change while you were gone that I should know about?”
I smirked. “Sorry, Clutch you’re just not my type.”
“Hey, man, how am I supposed to know what you’re into these days? Just look at you! You’re wearing
fucking cowboy boots. For all I know, you’re carrying pearl handled six shooters under your jacket,” he said, pulling away from the curb and into the flow of airport traffic.
“From what I’ve heard, all of Portland is in beards and cowboy boots these days,” I replied.
“Yeah, a lot has changed since you’ve been gone. Then again,” he paused, “a lot of shit is exactly the same,” he said, throwing me sideways glance.
I said nothing, but we both knew very well what he meant. When I left town six years ago it wasn’t under the best circumstances, to say the least.
“Don’t get me wrong, brother, it’s great to see you back home—”
“This isn’t home,” I interrupted.
“Which leads me back to my original point,” he replied. “It can only be bad news that the not-so-prodigal son is back in town.”
“Please, brother, this warm welcome is all just a little too much. You’re gonna embarrass me.”
“Don’t get cute with me, motherfucker, you know exactly what I’m saying,” he replied.
“Oh, believe me, I know all too well. Back in Savannah I’m a Yankee, and here I’m a redneck. I’m a man without a fuckin’ country, but here I am, nonetheless.”
“Yeah, but why are you here?” Clutch asked.
“Because Cutter asked me to be here.”
“See. Bad fuckin’ news.” Clutch exclaimed.
“How is that bad news?”
“Since when is it not bad news when the Prez sends for you?”
I laughed. “Sends for you? What are we, wiseguys? He called me, and asked me to get on the next plane to Portland, so here I am. To be honest, I thought you’d know what’s going on.” I paused dramatically, and sweetened my tone. “What with you being the new Sargent—”
“I knew it. I fucking knew you’d hear about it, and that you’d bust my balls.”
“Sargent Clutch. Ooooh, that does have a nice ring to it.”
“I’ll kick you right the fuck out, and you can walk the rest of the way in those shit kickers,” he deadpanned.
“Hey man, in all seriousness, congratulations. It’s a big deal, you making Sargent at Arms, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, man. We all miss Rusty, but after he died the club needed someone to step up, and I guess Cutter thought it should be me.”
“I’m sure he was right,” I said.
“Bullshit. You know goddamned well if you were still in town, it’d be you wearing the Sargent patch.”
“Well, then it’s a good for you I’m not still in town.”
Clutch and I grew up together in Portland, back when I still went by my given name, he was known as Nicky, and together we were known as nothing but trouble. We were both orphans who had been taken in, and educated by the Catholic church. A handful of us kids were fortunate to receive scholarships to private schools in the Portland area, and Nicky and I attended St. Mary’s Academy together; that is, until he was kicked out during our sophomore year of high school.
I loved school, especially anything to do with reading. I inhaled novels, biographies, textbooks, anything I could get my hands on. I was a straight A student, and didn’t hassle the nuns or the administrators too much, but I was also a very angry kid with a smart mouth, and a profound (perhaps overly sensitive) sense of justice. Seeing anyone bullied or treated unfairly threw me into fits of pure rage. This, coupled with my size (I was already pushing six feet), made me the perfect candidate to serve as the unofficial school bodyguard. Because of this, I found it easy to make friends, and (more or less) fit in with whatever crowd I found myself in.
Nikolai Christakos, not so much.
Coming up in Portland in the “Naughties,” Nicky had two things going against him. First off, he was Greek. These days Portland is more of a melting pot; with a sort-of ‘college town’ vibe where just about anybody can do their thing without being hassled, but this was not the case back in the days when we were coming up. It wasn’t uncommon back then to see a pickup truck flying a rebel flag, or walk several blocks before seeing a face that was neither Anglo nor Saxon. Portland was still pretty dominated by a culture of white boy, blue collar types. The Pacific Northwest was, after all, built on logging, shipping, and paper mills, and the dot com bomb had yet to drop, so the good ol’ boys would readily come to town lookin’ for trouble.
Nicky was dark skinned, but not black, tough, but not into sports, anti-social, but not a loner. To put it mildly, he didn’t fit in anywhere, and him being Greek somehow seemed to be the central cause of this. Secondly, Nicky would fight anybody, and mean anybody; Teachers, students, cops, hell, I saw him take a swing at a priest once. Unfortunately for Nicky, that priest was a former golden gloves boxing champ. He’d also apparently not read the “turn the other cheek” part of the Bible in seminary and hit Nicky with a stiff jab, causing blood to pour from his nose, which is still just a little crooked.
This kind of thing was simply commonplace where we came up. Since I got along with just about everybody in the neighborhood, I always looked out for Nicky. I made sure he came with me to parties and football games. The kinds of places where young people meet other young people. I thought it would be good for him, but without fail, some jackass would mouth off to him, or he’d hit on someone’s girl, and then it was on. Bloody lips, loose teeth and black eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went, so eventually the school kicked him out, the church had enough by that time as well, so he was out on the street. I was his only friend, and I knew that if he was out on his own, he’d get himself arrested, beat up or killed within weeks, so I left school, and he and I moved to downtown Portland together.
Being broke, we bought old, beater bikes to get around town, which lead to fixing those bikes, which lead to fixing bikes for other people, which eventually lead us to the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club, and our current lives as Minus and Clutch.
“Hey man...ah, we’ve got a quick stop to make before we go to the clubhouse,” Clutch said. I could tell by the shift in his tone that I wasn’t going to like where we were headed, and I was right.
* * *
Cricket
“Don’t Even think about it, asshole!” I yelled out to the motorist attempting to merge into our lane. My Uber driver flinched and reflexively cupped his right ear. “Don’t take your hand off the wheel, you’re gonna let him in! Don’t let him in!”
I was a fraction of a second away from grabbing the steering wheel, and literally attempting to back-seat drive, when my long-suffering coachman shot me a look, and said sternly, “Lady, if you’re going to do that again, I’m going to have to let you out at the nearest safe stopping place.”
“I’m sorry,” I grumbled. “I really am, I’m just very—”
“Late,” he finished my sentence. “Yes, I know. You’ve explained this many times since I picked you up.”
He’d clearly lost patience with me, and I couldn’t blame him. This poor guy was just trying to do his job and I was sucking him into my vortex of chaos.
“I’m so sorry, it’s just that I’m meeting with someone I haven’t seen in a really long time, and I’m not even sure why I agreed to meet with him, and I know it’s going to get me into trouble with my brother who’s being a big jerk, but I know he’s just trying to protect me. The problem is, I don’t want his protection, and I hate being late,” I said, sheepishly pausing to take a deep breath, now embarrassed by my outburst.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got a brother and he’s an asshole, too, what can you do?”
“My brother’s as far from an asshole as you can get,” I snapped.
“Sorry.”
I sighed. “No, it’s okay. I sound like a bitch...or a lunatic. Omigod, I sound like a lunatic bitch. I’m so sorry.”
I was even more nervous than I thought. I hated that my older brother, Hatch, could still make me feel like a little girl. I knew he was going to be furious with me, and I suppose he’d have good reason, but I still didn’t like the fact that soon he
’d likely be sitting me down and scolding me for making decisions that were mine to make. I’m an adult and I didn’t need his permission or blessing to visit a family member if I wanted to. It’s true that he’s had to act more like a father than a brother to me, and the fact that he’s seventeen years older makes it worse, but I really wondered if there was ever going to be a time when he’d start treating me like an adult; like his equal.
But what the hell does my uncle want?
When I was a little girl, my dad, my uncle, and their buddy Crow used to ride with the Dogs of Fire motorcycle club in San Diego. They’d been asked by the club’s president to start a new chapter in Portland and we were all going to move, but then my mother got sick and everything changed overnight. When she died, my dad was never the same again. She was his heart and soul, and once she was gone, he went off the rails; eventually ending up in prison.
My uncle and Crow went to Portland as planned, but it seems they had very different ideas of what a motorcycle club should look like. Crow stayed with the Dogs of Fire, and over time, became the club’s national president, and my older brother Hatch currently serves under him. For the most part, the Dogs have always been clean club, consisting of ex-military types, with few local troubles, and a good relationship with law enforcement.
My uncle Cutter, however, along with a group of dirt bags and petty criminals, started the Burning Saints, and they blazed a much more violent trail. Since then, I’d seen very little of my uncle over the years, so why in God’s name I’ve been asked to meet with him is anyone’s guess.
“Okay, here we are,” my driver said as we reached our destination. I could swear he was trying to hide the sound of relief in his voice.
“Thank you again, and sorry for the... um... backseat driving. I promise I’ll leave you a glowing review,” I said, slinking out of car.
Moments later I found myself standing in front of a place I never thought I’d be, and took a deep breath before pushing the talkback button on the security box in front of me.
Minus
Stealing the Biker's Heart (Dogs of Fire: Savannah Chapter, #2) Page 22