by Jo Raven
“Jason Vega. You’re such an attention whore.” Simon Gomez chuckles, a sound that raises the hairs on my arms. “Whore. Did you catch that? Oh man, that was funny. Wasn’t it, guys?”
He straightens, and two tall shadows by his sides turn out to be men, his usual thugs, big and beefy and ugly as fuck. They laugh drily, at his command.
The door is open now, but my lungs still feel a size too small for my chest.
“What do you want?” I manage. I try to sit up, but Simon puts his boot on my chest and pushes me back down.
Shit.
“What I want. So nice of you to ask.” His boot presses down, cutting off my breath. I grab his boot, try to pry it off me. “Having a good time, Jason? Did you also have a good time last night, fighting off my men and defying my orders?” He presses down harder until I think my ribs will break. “You filthy whore. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Can’t fucking breathe. I gasp, try to suck in air, and fail. My chest burns, my ribs hurt. I can’t get his damn boot off me.
“Fuck. Off.” It’s barely a hiss, the last of my air.
Holy shit, I can’t pass out, not with them over me. The thought of them manhandling me while I’m out is freaking me out just as bad as the locked door did before.
Darkness is edging in again, blurring the sides of the room.
“Why did you fight my men?” Simon asks, bending over me. “Who’s Chet Storm to you?”
Chet Storm? “Nobody,” I form the word, no breath left for sound. The blackness is spreading over everything, and the only thing left at the center is Simon’s ugly mug.
I’ll be so fucking pissed if he’s the last thing I see before I die.
His boot eases up. It takes me a moment to realize a trickle of air is entering my lungs. I gasp, start struggling again. He laughs.
He fucking laughs, and his thugs join him again, cackling and whooping. Fuck them. I hope they choke on it. I bet they’ll want an Oscar for their performance, too.
Dickheads.
“I hope you don’t expect any of this after your little stunt.” Grinning gleefully, Simon lifts his foot off me and fishes out a small plastic bag filled with white powder from his pocket. He dangles it in front of me like bait.
My mind goes blank, then red-hot with need. I lunge after the bag as he steps back, leaving me to fall on my face, still woozy and out of breath.
“Damn you,” I whisper.
“Enough small talk.” One of his goons grabs me and lifts me up like a ragdoll. No small feat, considering I’m as tall as he is. “Boss asked if you know Chet Storm,” he barks in my face, spitting like a mad dog.
“Never heard of him before,” I croak.
Not a lie. I assume that’s Raine’s father, but I never knew his name.
And I still look longingly after the small plastic bag, need singing in my blood. Fuck, I’m in such big shit.
The Neanderthal thug shifts his hold to one hand on my shoulder, grips my jaw with the other and turns my face back to him. “How do you know him? What’s his connection to the Chicago families?”
Oh fuck. Mafia. “I don’t know.”
I never see the punch that lands into my stomach, but I gag and twist, trying to curl around the pain but unable to, what with gorilla-face holding me up and all.
“Think again. Maybe it will come to you.”
Another punch, and a hard shake. Jeez. I hope his shoes are real expensive and that they’re his favorites, cuz I’m about to puke all over them.
Then I wonder whether it’d be wiser to relax in his hold to minimize the damage—or fight him and hope he knocks me out quickly so I won’t have to deal with the rest.
But my fear of getting raped while unconscious won’t let me do either thing. I can’t pretend to relax, and I can’t hope to get knocked out. Fucking joy. At least the pain’s taking my mind off the drugs. It’s all I have right now. I cling to it as the gorilla pounds me again, and again, asking the same question, as if that will trigger my memory.
Maybe it works, I think fuzzily, as disjointed images dance through my mind—another basement, another man punching me, kicking at me, cursing me—but the pain always brings me back to the here and now. This basement, this man. This clusterfuck.
My story doesn’t change. I don’t know who Chet Storm is, I was just passing by the alley, I don’t know anything about the mafia.
He thinks pain will break me? I’ve suckled on pain as a baby. It’s all I know. If anything, he’s fueling my stubbornness, grounding me more.
Until they shove me down on the floor, on top of the scratchy blanket, and drop their pants.
The panic returns, and I just hope that my memory will be game in erasing this day from hell for me. Blacken it out, delete it, push it down so deep it never resurfaces.
What’s one more lost fucking memory, right?
Chapter Twenty-One
Raine
DeathMoth, Rafe’s and Dakota’s punk rock group, has a rehearsal today at Collateral Damage, and we’re taking advantage to check the technical aspects—mics and speakers, deciding if to place a raised stage or not, where the cables will go.
I’m taking notes, nodding as the technician explains things to me. In theory, I’m in charge of this event, but Megan has more or less taken over the organization.
Just as well, since I can’t remember a word the technician has told me and my notes consist of depressing doodles. My mind hasn’t been on work ever since the night Jason helped save me from the attack in the alley.
The last time I saw him. I’ve gone looking for him, every morning before work, every evening after, but he’s not to be found at his usual spots. I tried tracking down the people I sometimes see him talking to—a lanky guy, a girl with spiky hair—but it’s as if the ground opened up and swallowed them all.
I shiver.
Rafe gestures at me, and I realize he’s been calling my name.
Shit.
“Excuse me,” I tell the technician and head toward the group.
Rafe Vestri is dressed in worn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, the silver hoops in his ears glinting, his short blond hair standing up in spikes. He’s hot. All the Brotherhood members are hot.
Not like Jason, though.
Dammit, and now my thoughts are back on him, when I should at least pretend to listen to the owner of the shop where I work.
“You got the arrangement of the stalls handy?” Rafe is asking, toying with the sticks in his hands, his set of gleaming drums still vibrating from their last session. “I wanna check where Soul Stain are sitting.”
“Beside Zane and Ocean.” Thankfully I know this much, and I have the plan in my pocket. I pull it out. “Then we have some jewelry and clothes stalls to ensure the crowd mingles, and then the stalls of the other Damage Control inkers.”
He takes the plan from my hand and frowns at it. “Okay, this looks good. Jesse and Micah are coming back tomorrow from Chicago. Talk to them to see how they wanna be seated. And, Raine?”
“Hm?” I blink at him, obsessed with the fact that Jesse Lee will be back soon, and I can finally ask him about Simon Gomez.
And about Jason.
“What’s going on with you?” Rafe asks. He grips my arm, and I consciously don’t shrug him off. Rafe’s a big guy, tall and super muscular, much stronger than me. “You know you can talk to us, right? To me.”
Somehow the thought of bending our heads together and having a heart-to-heart isn’t something I can see in my mind’s eye, no matter how well he means.
“I know,” I lie.
“Something’s weighing on you.” He gives me a long look, as if he can read my mind, his amber eyes cat-like in the low lights. Creepy. “You’ve been here for a while, and you go out with us for beers and shit, but you always keep your distance somehow.”
“Sorry.” I take a step back and his hand drops to his side. “I’ll focus more. I know I’m here as a favor to my brother, and—”
“Whoa.
That’s what you think?”
I stare. “But…”
“We hired you because you gave a hell of an interview. You have the right skills, and are pleasant to customers. And you’ve been doing a good job of it, too. Until these past couple of weeks.” He leans closer, eyes narrowed. “We’re worried about you, Raine, not angry. We want to think we’re a family, not just a shop. If you need help with anything, we’re here for you. Got it?”
“Got it,” I whisper, and think about what Ocean said. That these guys have my back, our back. That we’re not alone.
But if dear old Dad brings in the mafia… If it all goes to hell, will our friends not back away? I wouldn’t blame them. They have their girls and kids to worry about.
Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.
Gary calls in the evening, as I finish up work at the movie theater. I know because I demand to know who it is, not because I saved his number in my phone or anything.
Awkward.
“So, hey,” he says with such a cheerful voice it hurts my ears. “I’ve been thinking about you. You haven’t returned my calls or messages, so I hesitated to do this. I mean, is it okay? That I called again?”
“Um, sure.” Should I apologize for not calling back before? Or be pissed he doesn’t seem to be getting the hint? “Look, Gary…”
“Before you say anything, hear me out. Please.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and swallow a sigh. “I’m listening.”
I mean, I walked out on the guy in the nice restaurant where he’d invited me for dinner. Least I can do is give him a few minutes of my time.
“I really like you, Raine. You’re hot, you’re intelligent, you’re funny.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, stare at it. Is he talking about me? Laying it a bit thick, aren’t you, Gary?
My impression at the restaurant was rather that he was embarrassed to be seen with an uncivilized animal such as me. Though he seemed to be down for wild, hot sex with this bad boy, anyway.
When I put the phone back to listen, he’s saying, “…another chance. A coffee, maybe? Nothing committing. Just to chat and get to know each other more.”
Right. Should I give it another try? He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. Polite. He wasn’t bad looking, either. He was…
Not for me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Sorry, Gary.”
A silence.
“I see.” Another silence, shorter this time. “Is there another guy in the picture?”
“Maybe,” I admit.
Holy shit. The moment the word leaves my mouth, I realize this isn’t a lie to soothe Gary’s pride. There is another guy. If only I can find him and talk to him.
“We could be friends,” he says, his voice subdued. “We could—”
“Look, I got to go. Thanks for calling. And good luck.”
Days pass. The wound in my side has scabbed over. My worry has gone up a few more notches. Jason is a no show. Again. Where the hell is he?
With a customer, of course. What did you think, dickhead?
Or something happened to him.
I tell the twisty feeling in my gut that he’s fine. It was pure luck that I happened across him so often the previous weeks. Doesn’t mean he should hang around in case I pass by. Maybe he’s avoiding me, after I was such an ass to him last time.
My phone chirps with a message, and I check it quickly, not even sure why. Not like Jason has my number. Not like he’d text me if he did.
Christ, Raine.
The text is from Jesse. Says to join him and the guys at Halo, their favorite bar.
I consider refusing. What I really want to do is keep cruising, keep looking, and to hell with logic. That feeling in my chest won’t let up and I don’t think I’ll be good company tonight.
Then again… Jesse will be there. What if he has Jason’s number? What if he knows where Jason is?
That cinches the deal. One last pass, checking every corner, every shadow, and I swing the truck around.
Time to finally get some answers.
“Simon Gomez.” Jesse spits out the word like a broken tooth. “What about him? He was released from prison, went back to terrorizing the streets. He’s an MC leader, who’s controlling everything and everyone crossing through his area.”
“Drugs?” Shane asks, tilting his head to the side and taking a sip from his beer.
“Drugs, weapons, human trafficking, sex, you name it. Question is, what’s your dad got to do with the damn MC and the Mexican mafia?”
Good question. “He was involved with shady types back in Milwaukee,” Ocean says. “Then he and Mom skipped town, remember? And nobody heard from them in three years. Now he’s back and who knows what he’s been doing during all this time?”
I nod and take a long gulp from my beer. God, I need something stronger.
“Let me tell you about Simon Gomez,” Jesse says and worries at the label on his beer bottle, green eyes shadowed. “He assaulted me many times when I lived on the street. He’s like a dog with a bone when he gets obsessed with something. And for a while, that was me.”
A cold shiver dances down my spine. Jesse’s normally a super confident, happy-go-lucky guy, but telling this tale seems hard on him.
“Once he smashed a bottle over my arm.” He turns said arm over, displaying a jumble of scars half covered in ink that I noticed a couple of times before. “Jason… Jason Vega, we used to work the streets together. He found me, and helped me, added me to his gang and decided I was his to protect. He insisted I report Simon, after what happened, but I chickened out for years. When I finally did, I managed to get him behind bars. Thing is…” He pushes the bottle away and runs a hand over the dark buzz of his head. “I was afraid for a while that he’d come after me once he was released from prison. But he never did.” Jesse frowns. “I asked Jason about it, if Simon ever gives him trouble these days. Jason says he doesn’t.”
“Then what’s his connection to the Club?” I ask.
“Jason’s?” Jesse narrows his eyes at me. “The Club is Simon’s HQ. Who said Jason has any connection to it?”
I wince. “I—”
“You talked to Jason,” Ocean says, clenching his bottle in his hand so tightly I’m surprised it hasn’t shattered yet. “What happened, R?”
I shake my head. “I need his phone number.” I turn to Jesse. “I’m sure you have it. I need to talk to him.”
“What for?” Ocean scowls at me. “You don’t get to harass him.”
“I won’t harass him. Jesus, Shun.” I push away from the table, my heart pounding, a mixture of shame and anger churning in my stomach. “I just need to talk to him.”
“You hate him.”
“I don’t hate him! I like him.”
Ringing silence greets my statement.
“Since when?” Seth asks, those shrewd dark eyes on me.
“I fucking knew it,” Micah crows from the other end of the table. He lifts his beer. “Go get him, tiger!”
“Fuck you. I like him, I don’t…”
I don’t love him.
My heart starts pounding harder. Now where is that coming from, huh?
I sit back down.
Ocean is staring hard at me, as if he can find his answers on my face. “Fine. I have his number, and I’ll give it to you. But first, have you seen him lately?”
Something in his tone makes me sit up from my slouch. “Why?”
“Because he won’t answer his phone, and he hasn’t come around to pick up the money I give him every month. I’m worried. I even checked with the police in case they picked him up, but nope.”
I don’t say anything. Shit. Jason stopped taking the money.
Ocean is staring at me. Waiting. Silence stretches between us, straining and aching.
In the end, it’s Jesse who asks the question. “You’ve met with Jason. Recently.”
Okay, not really a question, but still. “Yeah.”
“When?”
<
br /> “Last time was the night I met Dad. He helped me escape from Simon’s men. I haven’t seen him since.” I lift my hands when Ocean opens his mouth to speak, his eyes shooting daggers at me. “I looked for him. Couldn’t find him.”
“If I’m here now,” Jesse Lee says, his voice rough, “if I’m sane enough to lead a normal life, I owe it to Jason. If you as much as touch a hair on his head…”
We did a lot more than just touching, I want to tell him, but that’s not the point. “I wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Have you talked to Josie?” When I shake my head, he goes on, “She’s one of his gang. Girl with spiky short hair. I’ll explain to you where she hangs out.”
My brother who’s been silent all this while leans in again.
“Why should I believe you suddenly like him?” he asks, his voice deceptively quiet. “All this time you were so damn angry at him for no good reason, wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t talk to him—”
“I was wrong, okay? I think I just couldn’t understand…” Fuck, why do we need to have this convo now, with everyone listening in? “…why he got under my skin.”
“And now you do?”