Savage Saviors: The Complete Boxset (Savage Saviors MC)

by J. C. Allen

  “You, I thank.”

  He tucked his withering cock back into his dress pants and left me there to sort through the payment.

  I wasted no time immediately heading for the adjacent toilet and vomiting my guts out, trying to clear the smell of latex from my mouth.

  You know what’s sick? I distantly thought that Rock would be proud of me for not getting anything “offensive” on the dress or the necklace, but then I remembered this was Rock I was thinking of and he’d likely slap me around just for upchucking after the five-round boxing match the back of my throat had just endured.

  I’m not sure what was more profoundly saddening and disturbing—that I was probably right about Rock, or that I’d ever given thought to trying to make that sociopathic, narcissistic, arrogant asshole anything but deprived of life.

  Not that that is ever going to happen.

  So, suck it up—sadly, literally—and get through the night. Then, tomorrow, maybe Derek will come around.

  I touched up my lipstick a little, realizing that the latex had claimed a good deal of it in its pistoning fury. Sighing, I threw the condom away in the bathroom’s trash, curious what somebody might think if they spotted it there atop the small hill of wadded-up paper towels. Then again, for all the drugs that would be here, along with all the other illegal stuff, this was probably not even going to register on most people’s radar.

  I stepped outside, and within just ten seconds of coming back to the first floor, I had someone grabbing my arm. I resisted instinctively, but the man who grabbed me, a thick black man with the nicest suit yet, stared me down.

  “You a whore or not?”

  It wasn’t the same John who had given me that line a couple of nights ago, but it echoed in unison with his in my head. Even here, even in a so-called classy event, I could not escape who I was.

  It was just like any other night.

  “For you, baby, I’m whatever you want me to be!”

  It took way too much energy not to sigh in exasperation at the act that grated on my sense of self—whatever remained about that.

  That, and at the fact that this was seriously like every other night.

  Why the expensive dress? Why the jewelry? Why the charade?

  I knew what Rock had said, some bullshit line about wrapping the presents properly, but every poor kid knew that a solid wrapping job couldn’t make a pile of rocks as appealing as a brand new PlayStation.

  Everyone there clearly knew what I was. I had a growing stack of bills that proved that much.

  And not a single one of them had stopped to say “nice dress” or “lovely necklace.” I’d spent two-thousand dollars of Carrion Crew money and two-hundred of my own for nothing. I might as well have been walking around under a flashing neon sign that read “Still a Hooker!”

  No one here is like Derek.

  But, sadly, then again, no one period is like Derek.

  Worse yet, I could almost hear, in those gossipy whispers, the men who had every intention of using me agreeing that it’d be better if I’d just been “in uniform.” Of course, none were stupid enough to say so out loud, lest it get back to Rock, but that didn’t mean they weren’t present all the same.

  Then, nearing the end of the first hour, I actually heard one man say, “Who you trying to fool dressed like that? Like we don’t know what you’re really here to do?”

  And with his words came the familiar quote vibrating in my head.

  “You a whore or not?”

  It’s self-evident by now, don’t you think? “I think, therefore I am.” “I suck, therefore I whore.”

  As the hours went by, the men became more aggressive. Word must have spread that I wasn’t wearing any underwear—one of Rock’s last-second rule additions—because many men had little to no shame reaching down and grabbing me by the pussy.

  If I got lucky, the men had too much fake self-respect to do that and instead preferred to grope my breast or smack my ass. But they were in the minority, and part of me sickly wished they would just go all the way and grab what they wanted to do.

  But for whatever moral reasoning I had against this, whatever thoughts I had on the matter, I damn well had to keep my mouth shut. Per Rock, not only were we obligated to let this happen, we had to encourage it. This meant that, when a man in his sixties who bore an uncomfortable likeness to the Monopoly guy decided to reach under my dress and slip a bony finger inside me, I not only couldn’t haul off and smash in his leering, liver-spot riddled face, I had to actually bend over, lean into it, and bat my eyelashes at him like a bad porn actress.

  I was in the middle of asking myself why I was going through with this—why I didn’t just step out of his reach and, without making a scene, get as far away from the awful, probing effort as I could—when the question was answered.

  “Having fun?”

  Rock’s voice rang uncomfortably close to my ear, like he had reached in and twisted my ear drum. The old man must have felt just as uncomfortable as I did, because he removed his finger and quickly walked away. No one wants to interact with the host.

  I didn’t let the thoughts go too far, though, because I feared Rock’s seemingly psychic abilities to read into my mind. I instead just went with a blank mind, as if the knees of my brain had collapsed, as Rock’s arm grabbed mine with a harsh firmness and led me to a corner.

  “Where is she?”

  The venomous aggression in his hushed, hissing words was enough to make the taste of latex seem desirable. No answer would satisfy him—I could only hope to not anger him as much as possible. I blinked, startled by his tone and the broad nature of the question.

  And then, I made a mistake.

  I spoke.

  “Wh-who…?” I began, then decided there was only one person he could mean. That, and if I’d already said one word, more weren’t going to kill me.

  I think.

  “Crystal? I… I don’t know? We got here almost an hour ago and went straight to work. She must be with someone…”

  Rock gave no expression, which I suppose was about the best reaction one could hope for. I didn’t dare assume that just because we were in public I was safe—if he wanted to hit me, he had plenty of rooms and hallways he could pull me into.

  “So,” he said, amused at his own interrogation game. “You’ve made some men happy.”

  I nodded and moved to retrieve my purse obediently, preparing to hand over what I’d earned so far.

  “Yeah,” I said, not sure if he’d seen the nod or not. “Quite a few, actually.”

  “Not here!” he scolded, catching me with his eyes when I was only halfway through unzipping my purse. “Nobody here wants to see a whore passing over money! Put that away!”

  I did so quickly that I probably tore a couple of the bills with my purse. As much as that would get me in trouble later, that was a much better fate than trouble now at this event.

  “So… answer my question, then. Where do you think she is?” he said, his voice returning back to some degree of normal.

  Some. It’s all relative, anyways.

  “I’m really not sure,” I said, my voice quivering at the prospect that an unsatisfactory answer would lead to cruelly satisfactory punishment. “Most of the Johns have been taking me into the private rooms on the second floor. If she’s doing as well as I’ve been doing I, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in one of them now.”

  It was of great relief that one of his patented, drop-me-to-the-floor slaps did not come.

  But I’d hoped for a peaceful encounter much too soon.

  “Most of the Johns?” Rock asked.

  I felt like a witness in front of an expert lawyer, except I could not plead the fifth, there was no judge, and the lawyer could also be my executioner at any moment. Quite the fair system I had here.

  “O-one of them took me to the bathroom,” I explained, stammering a little—nervous—and not really sure why. It’s not like whether I answered the questions smoothly or nervously made a
damn bit of difference.

  Rock sneered at me, letting the silence fill the air between us. It was as if he wanted me to break. He wanted an excuse to take me to a room and do something to me.

  I wanted to say I thought fuck him. I wanted to say that he would not get such a chance. I wanted to say I spat in his face and ran for the hills and found green.

  But Rock’s presence and my mental state made me weak. I was coming dangerously close to breaking—somehow. What made it worse was knowing I wouldn’t realize I had cracked until it was too late.

  “He took you there, you say? You sure it wasn’t the other way around?” he probed, and I made myself sick with the realization that I preferred the Monopoly Man’s “examination” over this one.

  I almost spat back at him, almost broke, but at the last second, I bit my lip. I bit hard—my teeth were probably visible, given that Rock gave me a mocking glare—but it gave him no ammo, no excuse to hit me.

  Not that he needed one. But at least, in a sick way, there was a usual cause-and-effect. It just was better thought of as a strong, statistically significant correlation than an A-to-B cause-and-outcome.

  “Just remember, Kellerman.”

  I almost fainted in surprise. He only used my last name in reference to my brother. This message…

  It was not going to be good. And it didn’t help that he used the same tone of voice as he always did when he called me “whore.”

  “This is about more than just money. Anything with a pussy can make money selling it, understand? Your loyalty, your obedience, is what matters most here. The money you bring in is a rain drop in the bucket compared to the ocean you’re in this to repay. And while you brother might think that his incarceration represents some sort of freedom from our reach—some sort of easy out from paying his remaining debts—I want it known that we, and by that I really mean I, we are extending a mountain of generosity towards your family in giving you this opportunity. If I feel for even one instant that I’ve made a mistake in giving you this chance, then I will not hesitate to retract the offer and follow my baser instincts in this matter. Do you know what I mean by that?”

  That was a bold-faced fucking lie. This was only about money. Rock only cared about money. If a hotter girl came along that Rock felt could make more money than me, he would grab her in a heartbeat and I’d be dead.

  But my youthful looks made me a prized… possession. Fucked up just to think. It saved me from where most of the girls wound up, at least so far.

  But, shit, if I had to play along, I had to play along.

  “That you’ll,” I said, gulping. “Kill me?”

  And that was a stupid response. Duh.

  But to my surprise, Rock just laughed, and oddly enough, it didn’t seem that mocking. Oh, to be sure, it was mocking, but Rock genuinely seemed surprised at my answer.

  This was shortly followed, though, by a condescending tsk-tsk, ending any chance that I had put him in a good mood.

  “No, whore,” he said, bringing it back to my usual name. “I can kill you whenever I want. And without much loss to show for it, I might add.”

  I’m replaceable. No secret.

  “No, what I meant by that is that, should I feel that your loyalty or your earnings are not up to my satisfaction, I will have it arranged that your brother will be killed. Then I’ll see to it that your family is killed, your friends, neighbors, and anyone that might have at any time meant a thing to you. I’ll even see to it that all of their pets are killed, as well. I will create a mountain of death in your name, whore, until I feel I’ve paid the debt that you’re here to pay in pounds of meat. And then, and only then, will I finally kill you; when the weight of what you brought upon everyone in your life is, on its own, enough to make you want to kill yourself.”

  The words hung there, ugly and heavy and awful, and then he gave me a big smile.

  I’m not sure what was sicker, his words or the fact that I’d heard something to this effect so many times it had little effect on me. Kill my brother? OK, sure, he deserved something. My parents? Yeah, go ahead. Pets? They’re probably passed on by now anyways.

  Fucked. Up. This life.

  “So just don’t make me regret it. Make sure that your effort and your loyalty are never brought into question, alright?”

  He paused then, letting his eyes wander to my exposed cleavage. I opened my mouth to acknowledge him, given the feeling that we were in free speech now.

  Then, a moment later, he let his hand follow his gaze, first cupping my left breast over the thin material of the dress, then actually slipping past it to fill his palm with my flesh. He squeezed three times, hard—earning a flinch from me with each one—and then, without any hesitation, pulled the material aside to expose the breast to any in the room who cared to look.

  I didn’t dare put the dress back in place. I knew better.

  He smiled at that, nodding even. It was one of the first acts of approval I’d seen from him. If you can even call it that.

  He left my breast out in the open for what felt like an eternity. I clenched my eyes shut, fighting back tears and trying to hide the rest of the world from my sight, wanting to believe that it might actually hide me from them. I felt three sharp impacts—“love taps,” he might call them—just over my nipple, and a second later the material of my dress was slipped back into place.

  “That’a girl,” he cooed, starting to walk away from me.

  I was alone, shivering, doing my best to fight back tears, lest that make me less attractive as a whore.

  15

  Derek

  Eve…

  She’s working with Rock?

  And I told her my name?!?

  I took her out?!?!?

  God…

  Why…

  The swirl of emotions in my head left me a turbulent fucking mess. I hated Eve, I hated Rock, but most of all, I hated myself for being so stupid and so fucked in the head that I willingly took a girl I only had a passing curiosity of out and told her my name.

  That… if Roost was here, all of the goodwill he would’ve given me for knowing this had happened would’ve vanished. He would have mocked me in that twang of his, and I would have deserved every goddamn bit of it. If my father were alive, he would have justifiably slapped me.

  I tried moving about the place as they talked, trying not to draw too much attention, but I was withdrawing into my head far too much to be fully conscious of my surroundings. I was fucking ruining myself.

  It wasn’t like she was even that attractive. It was just like a mystery puzzle to me—the dichotomy of a beautiful whore, of an intellectual whore, of my own drive for death and to do good in the world. Only because of this perfect combination had I ever even thought it a good idea to spend an evening at Waffle House with a whore.

  And never once did I ask myself the question I should have, given how Rock had made it a point to make prostitution and hookers much more easily accessible.

  What if she works for the Black Falcons?

  Well, now she does. And you’re fucked for it.

  I don’t care how well disguised you are, she better not see your mug while you’re here. Women have a way of seeing right through you.

  I had to stop cursing myself out to remind myself of a very, very, very important fact.

  I’d found Rock.

  Whether or not a whore had tricked me or not, whether or not I’d been blind before, whether or not I was an idiot didn’t matter. If I was an idiot, I was an idiot with a chance. A chance that had eluded me for over two years.

  But because of how I walked around and how he moved, he wound up moving to the stairs. I cursed my bad luck, but then realized it wasn’t really bad luck. If I truly had a death wish, going upstairs didn’t mean anything, would it? I’d die, but I’d get a clean shot at Rock and he’d have no one around him.

  I had to exert a ton of effort not to pat the gun in my pants, knowing doing so would draw attraction of even the laziest of eyes.


  And so, pretending to be a little bit intoxicated despite not having so much as smelled any of the alcohol, I made my way for the stairs.

  I found myself pretending that I was a tourist in a particularly crowded museum, treating each sight and spectacle as something worth lingering on a bit longer than I otherwise would, the better to deflect unwanted attention. I took meticulous care in side-stepping other guests, stepping aside and so that an older-looking couple could take to the stair side-by-side.

  I was cool.

  I was classy.

  Yeah fucking right.

  I was losing my fucking mind!

  I got to the top of the stairs when I saw the back of the man who had sternly told me to go downstairs. He was talking to someone. I heard his voice carry.

  Rock.

  “…make sure all guests have a drink,” he said. “We… good decisions for us.”

  His voice was muffled, overtaken by the occasional chatter behind me or the general ambiance of the music. But I was hearing enough.

  “…take party… hall in short order. There, we… you watch. Don’t trust…”

  The man motioned in some fashion, and I quickly whirled back down the stairs. This was stupid, and I felt like a kid too scared to face his fear.

  But I kept finding excuses not to die. I guess that’s what it was. Maybe I was just a goddamn little bitch.

  Or maybe my mind was even more fucked by what I had realized about Eve.

  I hurried down the stairs, turning the corner as quickly as I could before someone found it suspicious that I was moving at a fast pace. I didn’t see Rock’s face at that moment, but I could picture what that ugly fucking mug looked like.

  Scar over the right eye, burn marks on the cheek, bald head, sociopathic brown eyes—and without a bullet hole in his brain.

  I paused just as I got to the other side of the bottom of the stairs. My hand lifted with the intent of grabbing my gun… but I then passed it off as me going to scratch my face.