Before the End (Beyond Series Ultimate Glom Edition)

by Kit Rocha

  Maddox had shown her the speakers that lined the walls, but Six still had a hard time believing that such bone-rattling sound could come from those tiny, unremarkable boxes. The O'Kanes took these luxuries for granted, but some days she felt as slack-jawed as the drooling morons hovering around the bar.

  "God, this place is insane tonight." Trix dropped a tray on the counter and took a deep breath. "At least it's slowing down--for now."

  For now, Six agreed silently, carefully not looking at the stage. As soon as the crowd broke free of Rachel's spell, they'd be eager to get back to drinking--maybe even more enthusiastically now that Trix was behind the bar. The newest member of the O'Kanes was everything Six wasn't--voluptuous, fashionable, gorgeous--and she spent every night drowning in admiring gazes and generous tips without doing anything more seductive than smiling as she poured whiskey.

  Six tried to smile, but she felt like a stray dog showing her teeth in warning, and the men seemed to agree.

  She swept up a rag and rubbed at a spill on the counter. "I should probably stick around until it clears out. If this keeps up, Dallas'll have to schedule extra help on the nights Rachel dances."

  Trix shook her head as she eyed the stage. "She's making mad money, you know that? She doesn't play to the crowd, either. She ignores them, and they get off on it."

  A stripper cocky enough to ignore a crowd in Sector Three would have to be quick with a knife to avoid some frustrated bastard determined to fuck the bitch out of her. Of course, a lot of dancers at the Broken Circle did wiggle and preen for the audience. The girls who got away with being above it all had one thing in common--intricate tattoos around their wrists, with the gang's symbol front and center. Everyone who belonged to Dallas wore those cuffs, and nobody in Sector Four would lay a finger on an O'Kane.

  Six rubbed her thumb over her own unmarked wrist before glancing at Trix. The other woman had already taken ink, which put her beyond danger. "Are you thinking about doing it, too?"

  "What, dancing like that? I'm a little more old-fashioned, I think." Trix began to line up fresh shot glasses on the bar. "You ever hear of something called burlesque?"

  It was stupid to feel defensive when Trix wasn't the kind of person to poke at her ignorance, but Six still tensed. "No. Sounds fancy."

  "It's kind of like the stripping, only not about getting naked. It's about the show, the spectacle..." She seemed to be struggling for words. "The joy."

  If you believed the O'Kane women, everything up to and including fucking each other on stage was about the joy. And maybe it was, but it wasn't Six's kind of thing. "I'd put on a show if Dallas would let me in the damn cage. Can you imagine how much I could make betting on myself? The odds would be crazy."

  Trix started at one end of the line of glasses and poured them full of whiskey, straight down the row. "If it's what you want to do, make it happen. Fight for it."

  Easy for Trix to say. She was official now, a member of the gang in her own right, but Six was still...hell. A prisoner turned reluctant ally turned awkward guest. "I guess I could," she hedged as she bent to retrieve more shot glasses. "But it's not that important."

  "Suit yourself."

  Across the room, Rachel writhed on the floor and kicked her filmy panties--her last remaining scrap of clothing--off the side of the stage. As if it broke some sort of enchantment, the far more familiar hoots and shouts echoed through the room.

  Even safe behind the bar, Six shivered. This was the part that twisted her guts until nausea made the room swim. Rachel was naked, her pale skin bare and vulnerable under the colored lights. Her tattoos did little to harden her soft curves, and every inch of her was on helpless display as she taunted the men by tracing her fingertips up the inside of her thigh.

  The shouts got louder. Tension and anticipation built until the air grew heavy, and Six found herself struggling to take even breaths, to keep herself from dragging them into her lungs like each one could be her last. She busied herself with a second line of shot glasses, placing each glass precisely, its rim an equal distance from those on either side.

  On the stage, Rachel moaned in pleasure.

  A glass slipped through Six's fingers, and she lunged to catch it before it hit the floor. Ducking behind the counter spared her the sight of a gleeful Rachel with her fingers in her pussy, or rubbing her clit with so much enthusiasm you'd think getting off for three dozen strangers was the best fun she'd ever had.

  Getting off. Actually getting off--no faking, no games. Six had done lots of things on stages. She'd been the entertainment, both willingly and unwillingly, clothed and naked. She'd fucked and stripped and bit her lower lip through floggings that left her body scarred. But she'd never, ever given those bastards the satisfaction of one unguarded moment, of one glimpse at her.

  Rachel would work herself to screaming release right there in the middle of the Broken Circle. She wouldn't think twice about sprawling, naked and open, her heart and soul as recklessly displayed as her body. Every time she did it, she pushed a little further, came a little harder...

  And Six had to choke back horror as the watching men lapped it up, taking something that should have been for Rachel alone.

  Trix bent and pulled the shot glass from her shaking hand. "I'll handle things here. Go, if you want."

  Six hadn't even realized she was still crouched behind the bar, and embarrassment joined the ugly jumble of revulsion and fear turning her inside out. "I can stay," she whispered, knowing it was a lie Trix could hear, but she couldn't help it. Pride wouldn't let her escape easily.

  "No, you can't. And that's okay." Trix tilted her head toward the back exit. "Go on. I've got this."

  Grateful, Six squeezed the other woman's hand and abandoned any pretense of dignity. The thick wooden door was marked STAFF ONLY, and she didn't look at the stage as she shoved through it, spilling out into a dark hallway. Doors to either side opened into extra rooms, closets used for storage as well as the small office where Rachel kept records of beer and booze sales.

  A staircase to Six's right led up to the second floor and the employee lounge, but she skipped it and plowed straight for the exit, needing the fresh night air more than pitying looks from whatever dancers might be awaiting their turns on the stage.

  She burst through the back door and into the comforting shadows of the parking area. In spite of the crowd inside, the lot was half empty tonight, with only two rusting cars and a cluster of motorcycles near the entrance.

  She studied the bikes out of habit, looking for the familiar marks that would have indicated friend or foe in Sector Three, but nothing stood out. Nothing would. Most of the enemies of her old life were dead, and even the survivors wouldn't venture here, into the lion's den. Now that Dallas O'Kane ruled sectors Four and Three, she was as safe within the walls of this compound as it was possible to be in this life.

  That was the story, anyway. Her racing pulse and queasy stomach weren't buying it. She sucked in a few deep breaths, forcing herself to calm through stubbornness alone. The fear and panic were still there--they always were--but it had been a long time since she'd let herself give in to them. The O'Kanes were making her weak already, as soft as some city twit who had time to whine about her feelings.

  In Three, fear was everywhere. You lived with it or you died from it, end of options--and that was if you considered dying a viable option. Six never had.

  As soon as her heartbeat steadied, she stopped to get her bearings. Two large buildings loomed out of the darkness; to the east stood the warehouse where the O'Kanes held their weekly cage fights, and to the south sat the garage where Dallas stored his collection of lovingly restored cars. The living quarters lay beyond that, but that wasn't why she headed in that direction. Instead, she slipped through the gate and then through the side door of the garage.

  The knot of tension between her shoulders unraveled when she saw the familiar figure bent under the hood of his car. "How's the work going?"

  "Not bad." Metal clanged
against metal as Bren straightened. "Finally got the carburetor rebuilt."

  The words meant little to her. She'd never seen a working car up close before Bren had shoved her into one. "How long before you can drive it?"

  "A while. It runs, but not well, not yet." His grease-smeared forearms flexed as he wiped his hands on a rag. "How was your shift?"

  "Busy." Habit drove her fingers into her pocket to check the tightly rolled wad of bills, tips she'd managed to score from the perverse bastards who got off on being scowled at. "Rachel did her thing again."

  "I know."

  If she tried to talk about the panic that had sent her running, he'd listen. He'd watch her with those eyes that saw everything and probably understand parts of her she couldn't. It was too much exposure for one night, so she sidestepped the moment by hoisting herself onto the worktable. "Is it hard to learn how to drive?"

  He tossed aside the rag and pulled two beers from a bucket next to the table. "Depends on how good you are at turning off your brain and letting your body do the work."

  From anyone else, the words would have sounded like a lewd, clumsy come-on. From Bren, it was a straightforward answer, one made all the more ironic by how her body reacted to him any time she was foolish enough to turn off her brain. She was painfully aware of his graceful movements, of the appealing, subtle shift of muscle under skin as he held out a bottle.

  "You should know," she retorted, taking care not to let her fingers brush his as she accepted the beer. Maybe her tart tone would cover her confusion. "If I could stop thinking, maybe I'd actually beat you in a fight one of these days."

  A rare smile curved his lips. "I've had years of training when it comes to fighting, and decades of practice on the not thinking."

  Those smiles were dangerous, and not only because they made her tingle. They were dangerous because she couldn't not smile in return, her lips tilting up to ruin her scowl. "That just makes you old. I will put you on your ass next time."

  "That's what I like to hear."

  "Sure, grandpa. Tell me that after I beat you."

  He laughed as he leaned against the table beside her. "Cruz and Trix have their ink, but they've still got to drink in, make it official."

  Rachel had explained the process in vague terms, something about having a new member do shots of all the O'Kane liquors before welcoming them into the gang. It had taken Six a month to realize Rachel hadn't been keeping gang secrets--that really was all that happened. No beatdowns for the men, no spreading your legs for the women. Just booze and celebration.

  A few dozen city blocks separated this compound from Sector Three, but she might as well be on the moon. "It's an O'Kane thing, I guess," she said carefully, unable to keep her gaze from his wrists. Dark ink swirled around his muscled forearms, stopping above his broad hands. The gang's signature cuffs, proof that he belonged.

  "An O'Kane thing," he echoed in agreement. "Do you want to go?"

  "Am I allowed?"

  Bren shrugged. "You'll go with me, like Jasper and Noelle's party."

  Maybe it was that simple. Dallas O'Kane was the most powerful man in the sector--one of the most powerful men in their world--and Bren was part of his inner circle. Rules didn't seem to apply to him, or to her when she was with him.

  Which didn't answer his question--did she want to go? "How much like Jas and Noelle's party will it be?" she asked, her cheeks heating at the memory of how quickly that celebration had turned into a shameless fuckfest.

  "More like a fight night," he hastily explained. "People might be getting it on in the corners or grinding on the dance floor, but it's not-- I mean, it's different."

  Six covered her embarrassment by nudging his leg with her boot. "So, no wall-to-wall fucking?"

  "No, just people drinking and having a good time."

  "Okay. It sounds fun." She nudged him again, more for the excuse of contact than anything. He'd encouraged her to ask for physical affection when she wanted it, but she liked sneaking in teasing touches. Liked knowing she could, and that he wouldn't hurt her for taking liberties. "Thanks for including me."

  "You're not a guest." He watched her intently. "This is your home."

  Home. Longing hollowed out her chest, a craving for a concept she could barely fathom, because it started with safety. "I don't know if I've ever had a home before."

  Bren nodded. "A lot of people here haven't. You're not alone."

  She knew what he meant--that she wasn't alone in being overwhelmed--but the words resonated more deeply. Maybe it was because her panic from earlier had faded under the quiet warmth of his undemanding presence.

  Or maybe she really was getting soft.

  Some part of her trusted Bren, for better or worse, and that made his words true on every level. Closing her eyes, she leaned in until her shoulder touched his. She wouldn't be able to ignore her body's shiver of reaction forever, but tonight she focused on the satisfaction of friendship. "No. I'm not alone."

  "So, how 'bout it?" He hesitated. "I can't skip the party, but you could, if you wanted."

  She considered it for a moment, balanced the loneliness of being the only person on the compound not celebrating against the awkwardness of being the only outsider at the party.

  Except no one treated her like an outsider, not with Bren around. "I'll come. I want to."

  "Good. Trix'll want you to be there."

  Something he'd been careful not to mention until after she agreed, just as he'd kept any hint of encouragement from his voice. Smiling, she clinked her beer against his. "Then it's a deal. As long as I can scowl at Ace if he tries to make me dance."

  Bren downed half his beer in several long swallows. "Scowl at Ace for whatever you want. He probably deserves it."

  "Yeah, but he probably likes it, too." At least he'd stopped tossing her those flirtatious smiles, the ones that were all charm and dirty promise--and all the more alarming because she didn't think he did it on purpose. "But he's not so bad anymore. Did you tell him to stop hitting on me?"

  "Might as well tell the sun not to shine, sweetness."

  She laughed. The sound was so foreign it still startled her sometimes, another way her body turned traitor around Bren. The warmth and the tingles and the smiling and now laughter. Low and a little rusty, but it was real. "Are you almost done working?"

  "Yeah." He pulled down the metal rod propping up the hood and let it slam shut. "Want me to walk you to your place?"

  "Sure." She slid off the worktable and tried not to let her gaze linger on his shoulders. This was always the most dangerous time, when she was loose and relaxed enough to remember a time when sex had been more good than bad, when she'd appreciated a man with a hard body and beautiful shoulders.

  White looked good on him, especially with all the engine grease. His T-shirt clung, the sleeves stretching wide over flexing biceps. Aside from his O'Kane cuffs, his arms were free of ink, but a black swirl curled up his neck from beneath the fabric, hinting at the tattoo that covered his entire back.

  She loved watching him fight in the cage, watching all those muscles move together so perfectly she thought the prissy bastards in Eden must be at least partly right about their God. Only a higher power could have created something as graceful and stunning and deadly as Brendan Donnelly.

  He turned and caught her staring--he must have--but he didn't call her on it. Instead, he finished off his beer and held out his hand. "Come on."

  Exhaling, she slipped her fingers into his. His hands still bore smudges, the kind that would rub off on her skin as tangible proof of contact. She knew she'd stare at it later, at the dark grease on the back of her hand that marked the spot he'd rubbed his thumb over, and she'd remember the way it felt. This jolt, the way his touch shivered along her nerve endings as if her instincts couldn't decide if he meant blissful safety or delicious danger.

  Her gut already knew. Her body was safe with Bren, but her mind, her heart, her soul... Hell, Wilson Trent had shattered her into a thousand razor
-edged pieces, but Bren could grind those shards into dust.

  If she had half a brain left, she'd run.

  Chapter Two

  Slums were slums, no matter where you went.

  Bren ducked a low-hanging clothesline and marked the progress of the footsteps behind him. Quick, too light to belong to someone his size. Nervous, like a scurry.

  He stifled a sigh and slowed. He knew better than to wear his normal clothes on an errand like this. He didn't dress fancy, but O'Kanes could afford quality. Forget the silver he wore or the cash in his pocket, his leather jacket alone could feed a desperate kid for a month.

  He should know.

  The scuttling steps drew closer, and Bren spun in time to intercept the arm swinging at him. Dirty steel flashed, and he twisted his wrist with a jerk, flinging the knife into a pile of trash heaped against the nearest wall.

  His attacker was just a girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, but she looked older under her dirty, matted hair. The features youth should have softened had been starved into sharpness, and her eyes were flat. Not hard, not quite, but dull. She stared up at Bren, who could have snapped her neck like a twig, but no fear materialized. No worry, but no hope, either. Like it didn't fucking matter what happened to her, she was finished either way.

  That was what decided her fate. "You need to pick your marks better. Cash is worthless if you're too dead to use it."

  She bared her teeth at him, but even that gesture of defiance stirred no emotion in her exhausted gaze. It was a challenge born of stubborn habit, like her words. "What, you some kinda do-gooder?"

  "No." He didn't release her. "But I know a place you can go."

  Suspicion tightened her features. "If you're a pervert, you're too far east. The cribs are on the other side of the city center."

  Her conclusion was too logical for him to find it amusing. "No, no sex. I'm on my way to visit a friend. You can come with me, get something to eat."