Ruthless (Dark MC Romance)

by Vanessa Waltz

  “This should be a club decision. We need to vote on it.”

  Crash’s lip curled and I didn’t bat an eyelash. I wasn’t going to back down on this.

  “Get Tank. He’s outside.” He brushed past me, his shoulder knocking into mine.

  Another body sidled up next to me and nudged my ribs. “You’re on his shit list now, buddy.”

  Spike. “Clean my fucking boots, prospect.” I gave him a smile to let him know that I was joking.

  Tank was outside with some of the others working in the garage. I knew that he was hurting for money because his old lady passed away, leaving him with two kids to feed. He wouldn’t be hard to convince.

  “Tank, come in. We need to vote on something.”

  The old man with long, shaggy hair dusted off his hands and followed me back inside. The members trailed inside the office room, which held a long, wooden table surrounded by chairs. Crash sat at the head of the table, twisting the gavel in his fingers. I sat down on his left. The leather-padded doors slammed shut.

  “We’re here today to vote on whether we should start dipping our hands in Red distribution. It’s a new drug—highly addictive and profitable. It also carries an eight-year prison sentence for possession. All of you know that I’ve been trying to sway the club in a more legitimate direction away from drugs and guns. It keeps us safe and it keeps us out of jail.”

  Crash glowered at me as I leaned forward. “Spike and I found a couple Tigers with a box of this shit. I think it’ll benefit the club if we seize control of distribution now. If we don’t, we’re allowing the Tigers more room to expand.”

  “Let’s vote. Nay.”

  “Yea,” I said.

  Tank rubbed his forehead. “Yea.”

  “No.”

  The last vote settled on Max, the treasurer. “Yes.”

  Crash slammed his gavel on the table and stood up abruptly. He gave me a dark look as he swept from the table and I followed him outside.

  “Come on, Crash. It won’t be as bad as you think it will be.”

  I grabbed his arm and he whirled around, his face beet red. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Vincent.”

  I let him go as fire raged inside my chest. “It’s Cain.” Why would he use the name the sisters of Christ’s Cross gave me?

  There was something in his eyes that I recognized in my victims but seldom felt myself: fear. He’s a beast who lost his fangs.

  JULIA

  The moment that dead-eyed, pale bastard left me in the dark I laughed to myself. This is supposed to be torture?

  Boredom rapidly settled in. I wasn’t tired so I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t hear a goddamn thing; I couldn’t even hear the sound of my breathing. So I coughed. Nothing. Hey! I said it out loud—or I thought I did. The headphones blocked out everything.

  I couldn’t see, feel, or hear anything. Just blackness suffocating me, making me question my own existence.

  I had no idea how long I was in there, chained to the bed. In my head, I counted but gave up somewhere around nine hundred. I struggled in my restraints, desperate to scratch an itch on my belly that drove me insane, and then I was screaming so hard that I felt the vibrations, felt my raw throat. Nothing. There was no stimulation.

  Fuck. I hate this.

  My body felt like it was suspended in space, floating in the abyss. Maybe this was what death was like. Or Hell. There was nothing but the nonstop chatter in my head, which grew more and more panicked. I dwelled on my past. Bryan got shot over and over, his head jerking to the side as his skull vomited dark blood. I was back on the kitchen tiles, staring at a widening dark pool. Then I snapped out of it and I was still restrained on the mattress, still trapped in my fucking head in the sea of black.

  When is he coming back?

  The wish alarmed me slightly, but my mind seized on it.

  I hope he comes soon. He’ll come soon. It’s been too long. Just a bit longer. Any minute now.

  How long had it really been?

  The thoughts repeated over and over and I was sick of myself. I jerked against the restraints because it was something to do, because I felt the slightest friction when the cuffs dug into the foam. I imagined him coming back in.

  The lights flared on and Cain crept back inside. I couldn’t remember what he looked like so his face looked like Bryan’s, but crueler. He had pale hair. His unnaturally white teeth grinned as he showed me a six-inch blade, which he dug between my ribs. I choked as if it really happened—maybe it did. I could feel liquid pouring from my abdomen, but it was cold.

  PLEASE LET ME OUT! PLEASE!

  I moved my lips and screamed, hearing absolutely nothing. I was dead. I was in Hell. This was my punishment for all of the terrible things I did in my life. Bringing Bryan into my fucked up life was no doubt the worst thing I ever did. My nose was blocked and wetness streaked down my cheeks.

  I deserve this.

  Something exploded above me and I shut my eyes as pain stabbed them. Was this real? Was there light behind my eyelids? Rough fingers grasped my cheek and ripped off the blindfold.

  Joy soared inside me as I felt his hands on my face. I opened my eyes cautiously and a blinding whiteness stabbed them. The headphones lifted from my head and I sobbed with relief. I could hear my shaking, sore voice and the air moving through the ventilation, and a man breathing next to me.

  “I’m sorry, Julia,” he said in a gravelly voice, “but it was necessary.”

  “What happened? Where am I?”

  I remembered vaguely a man called “Cain” imprisoning me in this chamber, but it was hard to separate that image from the confusing blur of everything that happened. Or didn’t happen.

  He made a deep sound in his throat as he reached for my wrists and released them. I sat up as he uncuffed my feet. “You’re unraveling a lot faster than I imagined.”

  Strangely weak, I leaned forward but he caught my shoulders in his hands and I felt something stir in my body as he pulled me into his chest. My eyes opened and watered at the bright steel that surrounded me.

  “It’s overwhelming to have it all back, isn’t it? Doesn’t it make you wish to have them back on?”

  I was overwhelmed. His arm wrapped around my waist, his fingers teased the edge of my shirt and grazed over my skin. Every small feeling was magnified a thousand times, as if all of my senses were on overdrive. I stood up to get away from him, but almost immediately missed his warmth. I kept my vision towards the ground—it was a lot less painful. Then I saw a glimmer in the drain and I remembered. My ring.

  Whirling around, I saw the handsome, pale man sitting calmly on the mattress. His pale blonde hair was almost shoulder length. He was probably Swedish, but his accent was American.

  Who cares what the fuck he is. He’s a monster.

  I remembered everything he did to me and blood rushed to my face.

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  I backed away and yanked on the doorknob, twisting it. I pounded on the door and screamed at the light upstairs. Maybe they would hear—maybe they would take pity on me.

  “There’s no help for you out there.”

  His horrible voice echoed around me, filling me with dread. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  I turned around to look at the pale ghost standing in front of me. His black MC cut contrasted horribly with his skin, making him look even less human. A smile formed on his lips that had absolutely no warmth behind it. He reminded me of how I used to feel around Bryan.

  “The sooner you accept that you’re mine, the more motivated I’ll be to save your life.”

  He’s lying.

  His gray eyes looked up and down my body with a lustful expression that I knew only too well. How many men had I reduced to putty in my hands after a few minutes of attention? Perhaps he wasn’t a monster.

  He’s just a man and all men can be manipulated.

  If I let him fuck me like I let Bryan, what was the difference?

&
nbsp; “I’ll give you whatever you want. Just tell me.”

  I could see the way my words affected him. His endless eyes remained blank but he kept approaching me as if he couldn’t help himself. “I want everything. Everything.” Like a moth to the flame, he stopped in front of me and seemed to inhale my scent. To him it was intoxicating.

  I gazed into his terrifyingly still eyes and leaned forward, trembling. My hands lightly gripped his waist and my thumbs stroked the hard abdominal muscles. When he didn’t object, my lips fell against his and I waited for him to respond. I even teased my tongue across his bottom lip and caught a slight taste of whiskey. He smelled of cigarettes and alcohol, but his lips were sweet. I kissed him gently and then I applied a bit more pressure, my lips grabbing his. He pushed me away from him, his colorless face slightly pink.

  I smirked at that and suddenly his palm whirled out of nowhere, striking me hard against my cheek. I fell to the side as Cain looked down at me, furious. That wiped the laughter from my face. My cheek blazed.

  He slapped me. What the fuck?

  “I don’t tolerate disrespect, Julia. You will bury that fucking ego of yours, or I will make you.”

  My heart throbbed and I gazed up at him in horror. I couldn’t pin him and it made me nervous. He was completely different from any man I ever knew. Every man had a weakness, but he seemed impenetrable.

  “You’re going to want and need me before long, but I will not be manipulated by you. The next time you try that, I’ll whip your sweet ass until it’s raw.”

  Then he bent to the floor so that he was level with me, my equal. His hand shot out. I screamed, expecting another blow, but he grabbed the back of my head and twisted his fingers in my hair. Then he wrenched forward and suddenly his hot, sweet mouth was all over mine, kissing me the way I always wanted to be kissed—as though I were irresistible.

  Somehow I felt myself leaning into him, enjoying the kiss. I hated myself for how my body responded to him. It was the ultimate betrayal. His rough hand slid under my blouse and enveloped my tits with his heat. My back arched as he gathered my flesh. Fuck. I was sickened with myself. How could I let him do this? Wasn’t he part of the club that wanted me dead?

  Suddenly, he pulled away, leaving me hot and bothered. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small bag of white powder that made me recoil. Breathing hard, he laid a mirror on the floor and dumped some of the powder onto it.

  “No.” I said it so softly that I doubt he heard me.

  What was the point? If I was really going to give myself to him, I might as well abandon all hope for myself. My veins burned with the need to have that powder snorted up my nose, filling me with confidence. I moaned as he leaned over with a paper straw in his hand and snorted a line. He sat up and smiled at me, any resistance I had extinguished in his eyes. The battle was almost over.

  He pressed it into my hands, leaving me staring at it. It was more deadly than any gun in my hands could ever be.

  “No,” I said to him. “It took me years to get clean.”

  “Who gives a fuck about being clean? Do you have somewhere to be?” Cain's pupils were already dilated. “Go on, sweetheart. Life’s too short to live it straight-edged.”

  His hand rubbing my back told me that he was going to fuck me after I did a line. Violent feelings surged in my stomach.

  I can’t handle this.

  My head bowed to the inevitable, straw inside my nose, seeking that beautiful, crystalline powder. I inhaled, sliding the straw up. A small bump of energy lifted me immediately. I smiled as I felt it running through my system, an overall feeling of well-being. Then energy surged through my veins and I felt confident—on top of the world.

  “Good girl,” he whispered, his lips on my ear.

  All of the pain dropped away and I felt no fear. Wavering as I sat up, I looked at him and felt like I was falling. I relapsed. The bastard made me relapse.

  “Are you going to fuck me now?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

  Good question. I thought about all the times Ace took me against my will. Hell, even Bryan. He knew damn well that I didn’t love him, but he used my body anyways. All of them were the same. What could he possibly do to me that hadn’t been done already?

  I shrugged at him.

  “You’ve given up.” He exhaled suddenly, looking disappointed. “Fine. I’ll tie you back up.”

  “No!” I exploded, leaning forward to grasp his hands. “Please, don’t! Don’t do that to me again!”

  My screams bounced in the room as he dragged me back towards the bed, tying me back in his torture device. I thrashed within his grasp and a satisfied smile stretched on his face. My stomach turned when I realized that he liked it when I struggled.

  I promised him everything—that I would be good, I would listen to what he said. When that had no effect on him, I promised him money, millions of dollars. I knew it was useless, but I tried anyway. He laughed, his horrible voice boiling my blood.

  After I was tied up and blinded, he uttered another phrase before slipping the headphones back on, “Sweet dreams.”

  * * *

  It was even worse this time because cocaine raged through my veins, giving me boundless energy that I couldn’t use.

  I won’t take it again.

  Still, I thought obsessively of the little bag that Cain left on the floor. It was ironic. Wasn’t I waxing in nostalgia about my days in the club, when cocaine sat in small heaps on Ace’s desk, and when sin and lust dominated my life? I yearned for it.

  Well, now I was here. Tied up so that I had no choice but to obsess over how my life had gone so wrong.

  Mom was a prostitute. Dad? Who the fuck knew. My grandmother tried to raise me the best way she knew how; unable to see how the streets grew seedier with each year.

  Down St. Catherine Street in an old part of Victoria, the billboards lit up graphic displays of wanton sin. Prostitutes prowled the sidewalk, leaning into car windows. On St. Catherine Street, seductive wails of saxophones drifted from the casinos and clubs whose doors (when opened) poured out colored smoke and bubbly laughter.

  Between the clubs were darkened alleys with broken green glass and dreams. Children lurked there, puffing earnestly on cigarettes, red-faced.

  I used to gaze into the rectangular posters of famous women who wore little red dresses and rouge with pursed lips. I stared at the posters for hours, as if memorizing each detail would make me turn into the women when I lined up my makeup like toy soldiers on the sink at home and practiced.

  Sometimes, I caught glimpses of these fierce women (they all blended in together) climbing out of yellow cars, their glittering heels swinging out of the seat. During the summer, the doors would be propped open to abate the heat and I heard their sad, low voices. I closed my eyes and listened. And imagined.

  When I was home alone, at night, I’d turn the dials on the television and look at the distorted shapes on the forbidden channels. Warbled, disjointed sounds of pleasure boomed from the garbled speakers. One day, I’ll have a boy like that. He would wear black suits—or perhaps a leather jacket, his pockets full of fifty-dollar bills. I saw them slipping the notes into the women’s waiting hands.

  It was years later before I understood what it meant. All of the glamor and mystery surrounded the motorcycle clubs. They were so generous. They held charities for children and I remembered how they let me hop on their bikes. They bought all the kids on my street ice cream every Thursday.

  I found a boy hanging around my school near the back where the junkies would hang out. He was eighteen. I was thirteen. He had large, dark eyes and an expressive mouth that was always fixed into a scowl, but he looked beautiful to me. I went to his house and remembered how cluttered it was: there was a maze erected from the pile of clothes, papers, books, and garbage. Surrounded by the piles of memorabilia were his parents, zonked out on a couch. A trail of smoke was rising from their finge
rtips.

  “Come,” he said, tugging on my fingertips.

  His room was littered with clothing; wet rags that were starting to smell, and dusty bottles of beer covered the coffee table. Some weren’t empty. He picked one of them at random and swigged the last dregs into his mouth.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  He sunk into the couch, dragging something metallic towards him.

  Once inside the equally filthy bathroom, I rummaged through my purse, peering at myself through my compact mirror (the bathroom mirror was dusty). I applied another layer of lipstick, brushed my hair, and grinned at myself.

  I was shaking.

  He called for me and I obeyed, re-entering the bedroom. He was cutting up something and waited for me to sit beside him. I obliged and took the proffered straw.

  The white powder was neatly separated into two lines. I flushed, having never done coke before, but I couldn’t show him that. Be cool. Just do it.

  He rubbed my neck as I bent over and aimed my straw at the start line. I inhaled sharply and it burned. Exhilaration rushed through my veins. My dreams were not only possible—but laughably simple. I rattled off a list of my dreams to the boy, who no longer intimidated me. He bent his head while listening and snorted the coke, wiping the fine dust of powder under his nose and brushing his teeth with it.

  Then he leaned over her with a coked out, deadened look that I recognized and his rank breath billowed across my nose. I cringed as he grabbed my breast, and suddenly I realized that I wasn’t ready for this at all. It was too late.

  Just leave! I screamed. Go!

  Too late. His thickness split me open, leaving me crying out in pain. It wasn’t pleasant—it wasn’t glamorous. It just felt dirty. Afterwards, he kissed me and I left his house with that unpleasant, wet feeling lining my panties. Still, I convinced myself that I enjoyed it. I was grown up now, and the girls at school would be impressed.

  My eyes burned in the dark. It didn’t bother me anymore, what upset me the most was that I still had no idea what I wanted in life. What little was left of it.