Fighter: The Devil's Highwaymen Nomads #4

by Claire C. Riley

  This wasn’t the first time I’d been kidnapped, and unless he planned on killing me—which I doubted, because then he wouldn’t get paid—it probably wouldn’t be the last time either. I could survive the bruises, the vile words, the threats of violence and rape. I didn’t fear it, because I’d grown up surrounded by it. But the humiliation of peeing myself was a new one, even for me.

  I’d lived my life on a bed of violence and survival, but this man had ignored all of that in favor of a new kind of torture, and I had no idea and no plan for how to cope with it.

  There was no way my daddy was coming for me. He wouldn’t risk his own exposure to save me, his only daughter. And he wouldn’t back down from threats against me or the club either, I realized. The only way I was getting out alive was if I got myself out of there. You would think that sort of knowledge would break a person, but it only made me stronger.

  Stronger because I had to be.

  I’d always had to be.

  The sound of the man’s boots on the stairs somewhere in the house set my teeth on edge, my nerves trembling in my stomach in anticipation of what he would do next. I listened hard, trying to work out if he was coming up or going down.

  Up, I finally decided.

  The burning shame that he would be coming into the room and would smell my pee, again, made my cheeks flame red and my chest go hot.

  The door handle turned and then the door pushed inwards. And there he stood, staring in at me. He was wearing a plain leather cut with no T-shirt, his muscular chest covered in smears of grease like he’d been working on a car or a bike. I’d looked for any club patches but there were none. He knew what he was doing. His mask, a scrap of black material, was tied around his face. He scratched lazily with one hand at his sweaty chest, and in the other he held a small plate.

  My stomach rumbled at the realization that it was food.

  I couldn’t work out how long I’d been there by then. Two days? Three? All I knew was that I hadn’t eaten since I’d been there, and I’d peed myself twice in that time. And despite having only that one bottle of water poured down my throat when I woke up, my bladder felt full again. I had no idea how that was even possible, but it was a fact.

  “Hungry?” he asked from the doorway. His hand went to the plate and he plucked something off it before pushing his mask up and popping into his mouth. He sucked his fingers, his gaze on mine the whole time, and I likened him to a lion and me to an antelope as he chewed on whatever it was in his mouth.

  Devouring it.

  Feasting on it.

  My throat felt dry and my stomach rumbled in response. My head was thumping from…well, from everything. From the anxiety of being there, the worry of what might happen to me when this man realized my daddy wouldn’t pay for me, the hunger that twisted in my gut, and the anger that tore through my body at the unfairness of life. A groan of hunger left my dry throat involuntarily.

  His mouth twisted and he started to turn away. “Fine, I’ll eat it then.”

  “Yes,” I mumbled. Because if I was going to survive this—if I was going to escape—then I needed to eat. I already felt weak, and who knew when he’d offer me food again if I didn’t take it this time. “Yes, I’m hungry.”

  I wondered if he’d laugh and walk away regardless. If him offering me food was just another form of torture. Another way to try and break me.

  Maybe he didn’t even have any desire for money from my daddy.

  Maybe he’d planned to kill me all along. To prove to Daddy that he wasn’t untouchable.

  It was a real possibility.

  But then, just as I thought he was going to walk away, he turned back around and stalked toward me, coming around the side of the bed and dragging a chair that was against the wall with him. He pulled it right up to the bed and sat down in it and then placed the plate down on the bedside cabinet next to me. I glanced across, seeing mac and cheese on the plate. I loved mac and cheese, and my stomach grumbled even louder.

  He chuckled and reached behind me, propping my head up with the pillow. He smelled of sweat and oil. I recognized the scent from the bikers in my father’s club, but there was something sweet smelling beneath the musk of this man. Something citrusy, that smelled clean and fresh, despite the smell of sweat from him, and pee surrounding me.

  “Ain’t got no silverware,” he said as he sat back down and picked up the plate. He scooped some of the food up with his fingers and my mouth watered in anticipation. I opened my mouth like a baby bird waiting for a worm from its mother. His hand hovered above my mouth before dropping the cold mac and cheese into it, and I chewed and swallowed not caring that it was smeared over my chin and lips. I opened my mouth back up for more. He scooped some up from the plate and his hand hovered over my waiting mouth. His face was serious, his eyes watching my every move. I licked my tongue out across my lips and groaned again at the taste of cheese sauce.

  His mask twitched and he hummed in appreciation at me; greedy, at his mercy, willing to do anything for more of this food. My cheeks flushed with shame at how weak I was being. I looked between his dark brooding eyes and the food in his hands. I felt hot, tempted by the Devil himself, weak. I needed to break the contact between us, the energy that flowed from him to me that was stealing all and any power I still had.

  “You washed your hands, right?” I said, my voice hoarse from screaming and thirst.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re layin’ there covered in your own dried piss, half starved, and wondering if I’ve washed my hands?” he drolled.

  I nodded stubbornly. “I don’t want to catch anything from you.”

  He shook his head and the spell between us was broken once more. His mask twitched, and I had no doubt that behind that scrap of material he was smirking at me. He moved his hand away from me, shoving the material to one side so he could suck the mac and cheese from his thick fingers.

  I imagined his fingers in my mouth, forcing themselves between my lips as he tipped my head back and I opened my throat to him…

  What was happening to me?

  He scooped up some more of the mac and cheese.

  “What are you doing?” I said, my voice coming out strangled in self-pity. I hated how pathetic I sounded.

  “I didn’t wash my hands. Who knows what kinda germs I’ve got. And it don’t seem like you’re particularly hungry so I’ll just go ahead and eat it myself.” He shoved the food into his mouth and I would have given anything to be his tongue or his teeth right then. To have that food in my mouth, sliding down my throat.

  “Wait, no, please!” I begged before I could stop myself. “Just go wash up quickly and then feed me.”

  I hated him.

  But I hated myself more.

  He glared and scooped another handful before shoving it in his mouth and then standing up so abruptly the chair fell down behind him.

  “What did I tell you?” he said calmly, his tone cold and calculating.

  I shook my head, too hungry to be scared of him. “I don’t know, you said a lot of things,” I replied tartly, wishing that I could cut my own stupid tongue off.

  “I said this wasn’t a hotel. And in case you were uncertain, let me make this real fuckin’ clear for you one last time: this ain’t a hotel, and it ain’t a happy little home. You don’t tell me to fuckin’ wash up, woman. You take what I give you and you accept it like a grateful little bitch!” He leaned over me and I willed the bed beneath me to sink away from him. “I own you,” he growled darkly, black eyes staring into my soul like they could tear me in half.

  My nostrils flared in defiance. “No man owns me.” I gritted my teeth because I’d rather starve to death than let him think that he did.

  He laughed loudly, darkly, so much so that his laughter rumbled through my entire body, sending shivers of fear and something else—something I wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet—down my spine and straight to my core.

  He scooped up the last of the food and sucked it off his fingers greedily and
I whimpered. He leaned down abruptly, catching me by surprise, and pressed his mouth to mine. He didn’t try to pry my lips apart and kiss me. Instead he pressed his lips harder against my lips, to the point of pain, until I whimpered again. His hand cupped between my legs and I bucked against his unwanted touch until he finally released my mouth.

  “I own every part of you, right up to me saying I’m done with you,” he growled, removing his hand and storming away from me.

  I let out a heavy breath as the door slammed shut behind him, my chest heaving as I struggled to pull air into my lungs. My tongue involuntarily swiped out over my lips, lapping up the cheese sauce he’d left on them.

  I stared at the closed door for thirty minutes, praying that he’d take pity on me and come back with some more food, but he never did. Instead, the slow beat of some rock music sang out from somewhere outside the house.

  My stomach creased in hunger, the one mouthful not even nearly enough to quench the pains. I felt my chin tremble, but I bit down on my bottom lip to stop myself from crying. My shoulders ached something crazy from being in the same position for so long, and I shuffled on the bed to try and get some movement to them.

  I wouldn’t break. I couldn’t.

  I was a Benite, and we weren’t made of flesh and bone, we were made of ice and stone.

  No man owned me, and no man would break me.

  My daddy hadn’t, his brothers hadn’t, and this man wouldn’t either. I hoped.

  If I died there, then I’d die headstrong and fierce.

  *

  The lights were off when I opened my eyes, the blackness almost suffocating as it surrounded me. I felt drowsy, sleepy, and weak, the unmistakable scent of pee in the air meaning I’d probably peed myself again while sleeping.

  I was too tired, too hungry, and too sore to care, so I closed my eyes and sank back down into the pillow. I was almost back asleep when the sound of a Zippo lighter flicking open caught my attention.

  I frowned and opened my eyes, seeing the man’s face lit up fleetingly as he lit a cigarette next to my bed. His mask wasn’t on, and I finally got to see the man behind the mask, if only briefly. My heart stuttered in my chest, fear and desire drenching me.

  Sitting there, shrouded in darkness with a small flame of light spilling from the Zippo lighter and bathing his features in yellow, he reminded me of a fallen angel as dark shadows grew behind him until he was surrounded by them, with just the glow of the flame in front.

  He was handsome. A man made from marble and cast out of hell. And yet he was equally terrifying. His eyes were downcast, and the strong scent of liquor and weed hung around him like a thunderstorm waiting on the brink.

  I wasn’t sure whether to speak or not, so I decided to take in as much detail of him as possible. Surely, at some point, that might help Daddy work out who the man was. And once he knew who he was, he could work out how to make him pay. If I made it out of here alive.

  The angel from hell took another drag on his cigarette, his features illuminated once more. A small frown played on his face, his full lips wrapped around the end of the cigarette, and I could imagine those lips, that mouth, could be twisted into a beautiful smile, if he wanted.

  Another life, perhaps.

  Because in this life, this man clearly had no reason or desire to smile. To spread love and happiness of any kind.

  In this life, all he wanted was to hurt people. To hurt me.

  He stood up slowly, swaying a little, and I realized he must have been drunk. He looked worried. His eyebrows pulled down like he was deep in thought.

  “If you let me go now, my daddy won’t even care,” I whispered at him.

  He paused, half falling into the wall, and turned back to look at me. My eyes had adjusted, and I could make out the hard angles of his jaw and the shadow of his beard across his chin.

  “Just drop me off somewhere and go. I’ll tell him I went away for a few days. He’ll never even know,” I continued. “I swear to God, I’ll keep my mouth shut about all of this.”

  “You’re just embarrassing yourself now, Penny.”

  And I hated how good my name sounded on his wicked tongue. How each syllable seemed to have been made just for his mouth to speak. And I hated that he knew I was lying to him.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  He rolled his shoulders, and I watched the muscles in his back move and stretch as I swallowed. “’Cause I do my homework on every job.”

  “So that’s all I am to you? A job?”

  “What else would you be?” he replied indifferently as he started back across the room.

  “I’m a person,” I ground out, the words sticking in my throat. “I’m a person, and you have no right to do this.” My voice shook and I bit down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying.

  “A job’s a job until it’s done, and we’re nearly done here.”

  He opened the door and sighed in the darkness.

  “And then what?” I asked, almost too terrified to ask him.

  “Then we’ll see. Go back to sleep.”

  “Why were you watching me?” I asked.

  He hung his head, and I wondered whether he’d answer or just walk away. I was betting on walking away, since he didn’t owe me an answer. So I was surprised when he looked back over his shoulder and replied.

  “Go back to sleep, Penny.”

  And there it was again—my name on his lips and a pull in my chest.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” I said. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  He closed the door behind him, ignoring me, and I listened to the lock slide back into place. I stared into the darkness, frustration and worry burrowing deep into my soul. The camera light blinked from the corner, and I wondered if he was watching me right then. That perhaps somewhere in the house, the dark angel was sitting watching me, wondering if there really was any way out of this situation, or if perhaps he’d have to kill me in the end.

  After all, a job is a job until it’s not. And I had no doubt in my mind that if my daddy hadn’t paid for my freedom by then, he didn’t plan to pay at all.

  And once the dark angel realized that, I was useless to him.

  Perhaps that was what had led him to drink. To let his mask slip. To let himself open up enough to talk to me. He knew that time was running out too.

  He knew he’d have to kill me soon.

  ~ 9 ~

  Penny

  White noise blasted from a speaker somewhere in the room, waking me with a start. I looked around, trying to see what was going on, but wherever the speaker was, it had already been hidden before I’d gotten there, because the room looked exactly as it always had.

  I shook my head, wincing in pain as a killer headache bled through my skull. The white noise was all around me, echoing through my throbbing skull, and I wondered what kind of game he was playing now. What did he even hope to gain from this? I shook my head and closed my eyes, letting my thoughts drift to another place, another time. Anywhere that wasn’t there. But I didn’t have an awful lot of good memories to hold on to—just small pockets of happiness in an otherwise unfulfilled life.

  I was a Benite, but I wasn’t anything special—not to me, my daddy, or his club. It had been the same for my mom too; she’d been a piece of ass until she’d gotten herself knocked up with me and my daddy had had to claim her. It hadn’t stopped him from treating her like dirt though. So much so that I was two years old when she couldn’t take it anymore and left him and me. I didn’t remember much about that day, barring that it was the day my daddy had started putting a guard on me at all times. Part of me thought he feared her coming back to snatch me from him, but the other part of me wondered if it was to make sure that I didn’t run from him too.

  My daddy didn’t love me, but I was his, and what was his stayed that way until he decided otherwise. I’d learned that from an early age. And so had my best friend. My only real friend.

  “I’m hungry!” I screame
d into the air, deciding I had nothing to lose but my voice. I was feeling dizzy and nauseous, but there was nothing in my stomach to throw up. I sobbed, unwillingly, before gritting my teeth against the noise. I refused to cry. That man didn’t deserve my tears.

  My vision was blurry, and light-headedness made my head spin. I groaned loudly. “Please, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done to you, but please let me go. I’ll pay you whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  And I would and could. I’d been hiding money for years, because one day I intended to get the hell out of that town, away from the Vipers and my daddy, and go find my mom.

  “Please,” I begged again, my voice cracking.

  I clamped my mouth shut as dizziness washed over me and more nausea climbed my throat, my mouth filling with a little liquid in preparation for spewing. I felt hot and shaky, my muscles aching and twitching.

  I closed my eyes and whimpered again, willing away the hypotension I could feel building in me. I hadn’t eaten or drunk in days, and the stress and strain on my mind and body, the loneliness of that place—it was all too much.

  I felt the darkness sucking me under as the white noise mercifully cut out. I wanted to cling to the sounds in the room—the footsteps, the voices—but I couldn’t. I needed to sleep. I had to sleep. It was all I could do to keep myself alive right then.

  Sleep and pray, although praying had never gotten me far in this life, so I doubted any god was listening to me now. It was worth a shot though.

  “Dear God,” I mumbled, “please let me be okay. Let me live…” Pain clawed at my insides, and my head spun. “Let Scratch be okay too. And my mom, wherever she is.”

  And with that I passed out.

  *