Death Layer (The Depraved Club)

by Celia Loren

  “Fuck,” I groan.

  I am literally chained to Bane’s bed.

  “Kinky,” Bane observes with a smile.

  He is still stretched out on top of me, the pressure of his massive body alarming. His lips are almost touching mine, his eyes as cool and intense as ever. I arch my back subtly to try to increase the distance between our faces, but regret it: the movement launches my breasts into his chest and his hips rock instinctually into mine in response, a shock of heat radiating up my sex.

  A startled moan escapes my lips at the feeling of his hardness between my legs and my breath catches in my throat like a butterfly in a net.

  Bane closes his eyes and his face settles into a frown that almost looks pained. When his eyes open, that original question is back. I can’t look away, once again a deer in the headlights, and suddenly his hot lips are searing mine.

  For a moment I forget the chains, the club, and the world, and I melt into him. Bane is all man, cut angles and muscles and heat, but when his tongue presses under mine and sends a shockwave of radioactive heat through my brain I suddenly remember who and where I am.

  I remember the chains.

  “No!” I jerk my chin away, panting, and squeeze my eyes shut. “No, stop. Please.”

  Bane goes rigidly still, and I feel his withdrawal both physically and energetically. After a suspenseful moment, he rolls off me with a grunt and snaps off the light.

  “Have it your way. Fucking cock tease.”

  In the dark I hear him punch the pillow a few times before settling in.

  Chapter Eleven

  I awake to the sound of a turning key to find Bane kneeling over my chest, fiddling with my cuffs. His thighs and, yes, the bulge of his crotch, are right in my face. Can’t say it’s the worst way to wake up, but it draws a sharp gasp from me.

  “Ow,” I groan. It’s my new favorite word because literally everything hurts.

  Bane looks down and displays that lopsided, cold grin.

  “Good evening, princess,” he grunts. “Having second thoughts?”

  He chuckles and does a playful hip thrust in my direction that almost makes me laugh. There’s no end to this clown’s confidence. Or arrogance.

  “How can I ever forgive myself,” I mutter.

  Bane arches his eyebrows. “I don’t care for your sarcastic tone, Red. It stings just like a boner with no release. Anyway, time to get up. It’s party time again and you’re going back to the clubhouse. We’re gonna play it cool like nothing happened last night. Nobody else finds out about your little date with the drainpipe or my little stakeout in the alley. Got it?”

  “Fine,” I sigh, rubbing my chewed-up wrists.

  Bane’s eyes narrow as he sweeps an inspecting gaze over my body. He bends over to his nightstand, opens a drawer, and drops a tube of Neosporin on my belly. “Rub this in, don’t need you going septic.”

  “So you’re a gangster and a hypochondriac,” I yawn. “A man of many talents.”

  Bane shoots me a look. “You’ve got three minutes. I grabbed some clean clothes for you from Tink. You feel about the same size.”

  Bane winks and holds up a flimsy black dress. His grin is maddening, but with no real choice I snatch the lingerie out of his hands.

  “Thank you, Bane,” he squeaks in falsetto, imitating me. “’You’re such a nice, sexy, thoughtful biker.’” He lowers his voice exaggeratedly. “You’re welcome, Red. You’re not such a horrible frigid bitch yourself.” He checks his watch and smacks me on the ass, making me yelp. “Now move. I’ve gotta be downstairs in an hour.”

  He stalks over to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Somehow the only response I can manage to say is, “Gangsters have schedules?”

  Bane reappears, giving me a death stare. His eyes remind me of my father when I was in trouble as a kid, and I shudder to imagine what Bane would do if he didn’t get his way. Without further protest, I stretch out of bed and move to change clothes. He’s watching every move as I start to roll his t-shirt over my head. I feel myself flush all over with heat, blushing.

  “Turn around,” I beg.

  Bane raises his eyebrows but doesn’t move, a playful gleam in his eye. Leaning against the doorjamb, he makes it clear he’s not going anywhere. The toothbrush barely obscures his shit-eating grin.

  “Fine,” I hiss.

  Turning my back to him, I try to put on the dress without removing the t-shirt. It’s awkward and I get my arms stuck a few times, but I manage. Pulling the skirt down to cover my ass, I finally shimmy out of Bane’s shorts, feeling slightly victorious that I got through it without showing him much. When I turn back around, Bane’s eyes are inscrutable. He rinses quickly in the bathroom and marches back to me.

  “Vamanos,” he says.

  His calloused hand is on my shoulder as he steers me ahead of him through the hallway, and we’ve not gone seven steps when Coco springs out of her doorway. Clearly she was waiting for us.

  “Bane,” she groans, “Baby I don’t know what happened! That sneaky bitch—”

  “Hey!” Bane’s bark makes Coco squeeze herself into the wall, like a dog afraid of a belt. “If she’s a bitch I guess that makes you her asshole, cuz she sure licked you.” One of Bane’s massive hands is still closed around my collarbone, but his free hand drives an accusatory pointer finger into Coco’s chest. “You got sloppy drunk last night Coco, so I just figured I’d just take her with me for safekeeping. Can’t trust you. Anyway it gets awful lonely in that big old bed of mine, you know?”

  His cold grin sends a shiver down my spine. My mouth drops open. I don’t know if I’m more surprised that Bane is lying and sticking up for me, or that Coco is buying it and looking at me with something like fear. I don’t have time to contemplate it, though, because the palm of Bane’s hand gives me a shove and we are marching downstairs, back towards the dank and smelly bar area.

  Coco’s cries of “Bane, I’m sorry! Fuck!” fade behind us.

  The Death Layer clubhouse is fitfully stirring to life. It must be nighttime but there aren’t many bikers around yet: just a few sweetbutts and the band setting up. Fresh sawdust is strewn over the mopped floor, but the room still smells like liquor with a trace of vomit. With a sinking heart, I see that Amy is chained behind the bar again. Her face is black and blue, and there are welt marks on her bare chest and belly. Guess we both missed the window last night. Fuck.

  Numb, I turn and take a mechanical step in Amy’s direction to join her in tending bar, but Bane jerks me back and holds me close to his chest.

  “Nope,” he grunts.

  That scent of his aftershave washes over me again—musk, pine, leather—and I feel the hard washboard of his abdomen steering me like a rudder from behind. I quicken my steps to separate my back from his front, but he stays close and lets me feel each powerful stride as he brushes against me. The man is a tank.

  Between the sight of a battered, defeated Amy and the raw sensation of Bane’s hard body herding me, it begins to click in my brain that there may be no escaping this place. That, or I just need to work harder.

  Bane is shoving me up on the bandstand. “Yo Carver,” he shouts.

  A young, lanky man with dreadlocks straightens from the amp he was fiddling with and cranes his neck our way. He blinks at us with watery, dazed eyes. I notice the back of his leather vest has the Death Layer colors but instead of the top rocker saying the club name, “prospect” is spelled out in big capital letters.

  “Hey Beast,” Carver stammers, “What’s up, sir?”

  In answer, Bane grabs the bewildered kid by the sides of his vest and throws him off the stage. He crashes into a table and rolls to the floor, yelping.

  “You’re fired,” Bane announces. “You sing like a dying cat.” Bane shoves me forward, glaring around the stunned circle of band members in challenge. “Got a new singer for you today, boys. Play nice for a change.” His threatening eyes rest finally on me. “Any questions?”

  We all shake our heads qu
ickly, and with a smirk in my direction Bane stomps off the stage to plop himself in a chair at a nearby table. Carver scurries away and out the door of the clubhouse, dreadlocks limp. I feel briefly sorry for him, but then remember I’m onstage in lingerie and feel myself blush bright pink.

  The band and I stare at each other like kids on the first day of school. Finally the dude wearing the electric guitar steps forward and gives me a terse nod. He looks young like Carver, but his head is shaved bald and his vest doesn’t say prospect. He must be a full member.

  “I’m 8-Ball,” he says. “This is Chunk on the drums and Judge Jefferson on the bass. Can you even sing?”

  His skeptical face makes me jut my chin. Can I sing? Who the fuck does he think I am?

  “You know Aerosmith’s ‘Cryin’’?” I demand. When 8-Ball and Chunk nod, I step up to the microphone. “Then try and keep up, boys.”

  It only takes a few bars for 8-Ball to smile and nod at me, and we all sort of exhale and jam. I’m in my element, almost having fun—it feels a lot like the bar gigs I’d always do downtown except for the tiny, miniscule detail that I’m a prisoner. The bar begins to fill up and I loose myself in the music for a bit, shutting out reality.

  Somehow 8-Ball, Chunk, Judge Jefferson and I manage to scramble and bluff our way through two entire sets without getting any bottles or syringes thrown at us. That probably has something to do with the fact that Bane is making a point of whooping it up from his watchful perch in the front row. I get the feeling not even the bikers of the Death Layer Motorcycle Club would dare boo if Bane is cheering.

  “Take five, jerks,” 8-Ball grunts after the ending power-chord to the Scorpion’s ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ fades. “They just let the dogs in downstairs, so one more set before fight-time. We’ll do some Allman Brothers and Steppenwolf and call it a night.” He gives me a little grin. “Not bad, sweetbutt. Just don’t quit your day job.”

  8-Ball winks suggestively toward Bane, and the boys snicker. My cheeks flush red again as the band disperses to their liquor bottles.

  I cross my arms, unsure where to go. There are muscled, drunken bikers everywhere and I don’t exactly feel social. Across the room I can see Coco and Amy working behind the bar. Coco is glaring my way and if looks could kill I’d be dead meat.

  Wincing, I look away, and notice that Bane is in deep conversation with a grizzled gray-bearded biker. On the wall of club member portraits, I match the beard to the picture of the Sergeant at Arms, a hefty man with a stiff face and bushy eyebrows. He and Bane are both gesturing wildly until Bane smacks the table with a balled fist. The bearded guy stands up in disgust and lumbers off with a withering backward glance in Bane’s direction.

  Maybe Bane’s claim that he’s out of favor with the club is actually true.

  Break is over. Judge Jefferson is plugging himself back in and Chunk, whose pudgy figure explains his nickname, is huffing his way up the bandstand steps. Without thinking I lend him a hand, drawing a surprised, “Thank you.”

  “Ramblin’ Man,” orders 8-Ball.

  We’re not halfway through the song when wilted, dreadlocked Carver scurries back in the room, making a beeline for Bane. He crouches, shouting into Bane’s ear, and I see the bigger man’s face go white.

  Bane grabs Carver’s vest and pushes him back onstage, motioning at me.

  “Let’s go, Red,” Bane shouts.

  Mid-lyric and confused, I hesitate. “What?”

  This wins a curse from Bane and he wraps his arms around my legs, tripping me.

  “Hey!” I shout. “What? What did I do? Bane!”

  While the band continues to play, Bane swings me over his shoulder and carries me out of the room like a caveman to a chorus of shouts and catcalls from the bikers. As the stairwell door closes behind us, I hear Carver’s caterwauling take over the speakers.

  “Why? I thought I was doing I good job,” I protest, fear clenching in my belly like a solid mass. Is he going to punish me for something?

  “Not everything’s about you, princess,” Bane mutters.

  He hauls me down a couple of flights and into an elevator that plummets to the depths of the earth, along with my stomach. Safe in the confines of the elevator, Bane drops me to my feet. My body begins to tremble uncontrollably beside him.

  I can guess where we’re going.

  “Bane,” I whisper, “What’s happening?”

  He turns troubled eyes to me. “Just a little hiccup at the D.L. Club I gotta straighten out.”

  “Well that clears everything up.”

  This elevator isn’t the one I remember from my last adventure at the D.L. Club. The doors ding open on an unfamiliar floor lit with florescent bulbs and painted antiseptic beige. Bass beats throb in the floor below my feet and I can hear muffled voices, screams, and laughter. I’m guessing we’re right above the club in some sort of staging area.

  “Come on,” Bane orders.

  His hand closes around my wrist and he drags me behind him like a laundry bag. We pass a few rooms that look almost like doctors offices. Ahead, the sound of painful whimpering is drifting through an open door. My stomach clenches.

  Oh god. Now what?

  Sure enough, that is the room Bane drags me to. He bursts inside, startling a small group of bikers in latex gloves leaning over a stainless steel table.

  “Step away from that dog!” Bane bellows.

  Everyone, including me, blinks at him in surprise. A man that I recognize as Smokey rolls his eyes and impatiently snaps off his gloves, tossing them in a bin. Jack is leaning against the wall smoking, a smug grin on his face. Something feels off.

  “For fuck’s sake, what is this, a PETA intervention?” Smokey shouts. His eyes flicker over me. “Get her out of here, Bane.”

  Bane repeats, “Step away from that dog.”

  “She’s done, Bane. Too much damage.”

  “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you fucking people!” Bane roars. “What kind of shit are you trying to pull? You stole my dog and put her in the fucking ring? I should kill all you fucking bastards right now. Slowly. With a fucking rusty knife. You got not right to hijack my shit! Not my bike, not my dog, not my girl. You’re crossing the line, assholes. I’m a dues-paying member of this goddamn MC, not some prick D.L. customer with an overdue tab who you can extort and fuck with.”

  Smokey capitulates under Bane’s vehemence and shifts sideways, revealing a bloodied pit-bull in full snarl sprawled on the table. Sympathetic pain stabs through my gut: there’s a deep laceration in its chest and bite marks all around its face and neck. I think I can see ribs through a gash on its side. One paw is crushed and almost seems detached.

  “Oh god,” I breathe.

  Bane shoves Smokey out of the way and drags me behind him to the table. His hand is surprisingly gentle as he reaches out to carefully scratch the dog’s head.

  “Hey Jenny,” he coos. “Hey baby girl, it’s alright now, Daddy’s here. It’s gonna be alright baby girl, yes it is.”

  The mean, frightened snarl turns instantly to a pleading whimper and the pit bull’s tongue weakly shoots out to lick Bane’s fingers.

  “Call the vet,” Bane demands.

  Jack shakes his head. “Nothing to be done, Beast. Look at her, that foot’s gone.”

  “She’s my dog, motherfucker!” Bane shouts. “Not the club’s. Somebody call the goddamn vet.”

  Jack’s voice is gravelly and steady. “You shouldn’t have brought her on the premises.”

  “What are you talking about? I live here! I pay you fucking rent!”

  “This isn’t a fucking pet spa. If a dog’s in the building, it’s gotta fight to earn its keep. If it can’t fight, we put it down. I’m tired of your fucking bleeding heart bullshit.”

  Smokey steps up and presses the handle of a Glock into Bane’s chest. “End her misery,” Smokey says with a pleased smile. “Or we’ll do it.”

  Bane’s jaw clenches. He snatches the gun from Smokey and points it
at Jack.

  “I’m tired of you fucking around with me, Jack,” Bane hisses. “We both know what this is about. You don’t like that I make my share with the legit fights and drugs alone and you’re trying to bury my stream, force me into trafficking. So help me Jack, you’ll never get me to buy and sell people or kill innocent dogs. So unless you’re willing to murder a brother in cold blood, we’re at checkmate.”

  Jack’s face is five shades of purple. “You’re the one pointing a gun, brother.”

  “Jenny is my dog, not the club’s dog, asshole,” Bane shouts. “Raised her from a pup. I’ve got a license for her and everything. So I’m taking her home. Red, pick up the dog.”

  “What?!” I squeak, startled. “Me? Are you crazy?”

  Bane whips furious eyes and the gun barrel over in my direction and I jump, my insides turning cold.

  “Ok, wrong question,” I stammer. “You’re totally fucking crazy.”

  “Pick up the dog, Red, and carry her to the elevator. Now!” Bane takes a deep breath and adds as an afterthought, “Please.”

  I look from Bane’s stony face to the barrel of gun and to the dog, unable to decide which of the three is most likely to kill me. It’s a real toss-up. The dog and I lock eyes and something fuzzy and protective stirs. This creature is hurt, threatened and scared just like me. And—fuck—I love dogs. It breaks my heart to see her suffer.

  I take a tentative step closer, forcing my breath to be steady and calm, and slowly lift my hand within sniffing distance of her nose. She starts to growl, looks over at Bane for support, and sniffs. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until she licks my hand and I let out a sigh of relief. She’s accepted me.

  “Good girl,” I whisper. “Come on, good girl. It’s okay sweetie.”

  “Touching,” hisses Smokey through clenched teeth.

  Ignoring him, I carefully wrap an arm around Jenny’s bottom and back and scoop her towards the edge of the table. She’s a good size, maybe 60 or 70 pounds, and hurt bad. The best way I can figure to pick her up is just to hug her on to my body.