by Renee Rocco
Dazed and dizzy, I roll off the saturated mattress and crash to the floor with an excruciating thud. I push to my hands and knees and spit out a mouthful of water. The noxious combination of ket and noz nauseates me. My blood is lava and my intestines feel tangled in tight cords. With no clue how long I’ve slept, I don’t know how much more I’ll suffer the drugs’ effects, and when my head finally stops spinning, a familiar, grating laugh guides my gaze across my ten-by-ten prison.
The single, overhead fluorescent bulb shines on Lyle, who’s standing on the other side of the bars. Asshole has an empty bucket in one hand and a black, side-handle baton in the other. “Awesome, you’re awake.”
“Dickhead,” I mutter as I scrape myself off the floor.
Usually, the sweltering dungeon reeks of rotten air. Not today. Today it smells like a goddamn fresh summer breeze. An excruciating tease of sunshine to chase away the gloom. I inhale the sweet aroma, grateful to noz—my best and worst friend—for having healed my cracked ribs.
“Look lively.” Lyle jerks his head at the shadowed corner by the door.
I squint at the subtle silhouette, my dick shriveling between my legs. Back in Mayhem, I’d fuck just about anything warm and willing. But this isn’t Mayhem, and I’m sure as shit not willing.
“Got yourself a lady caller.”
Explains the perfume.
I scrub a hand over my stubbled face. Swipe the curtain of dripping hair out of my eyes. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my dirty black shorts and walk to the back of the cell. My body’s cumbersome, the muscles taut beneath healing flesh. I won’t be right for another day or two, but every hour will be an improvement. As I slide down the wall, I’m in no mood to entertain some entitled bitch here for a thrill.
My vision clearing, I address the silhouette. “Please accept my declination, but I’d rather drag my dick across concrete than fuck you.”
A vein pops and throbs in Lyle’s forehead. The guy makes it too easy. All it takes is a bit of backtalk to rile him—and using words beyond his limited vocabulary. Anything larger than two syllables stumps his dumb ass.
“Sass off again, and I’ll make sure punishment’s next on the list.”
No shit.
Punishment is always next on the list.
Lyle tosses the bucket and lifts the baton. Hope he’s not trying to intimidate me, because it won’t work. The baton is second only to the cattle prod for Lyle’s preferred means of dispensing “discipline.” He’s already broken more than a few of my bones with it, and I’m positive he’ll break a few more before this place and I are done with each other.
Bring it, asshole.
I’d prefer a beating than to spend the next few hours with my cock in this woman.
“You thought I was asking?”
I drop my head back against the wall and crook my right leg up. With my arm draped over my knee, I tsk and gesture to the soaked mattress. “You wet the bed, Lyle. What would your boss say if his client’s only option was the floor? But whatever, man, it’s your hide, not mine.”
Lyle isn’t merely a coward. He’s a weaselly brown-nose who lives up Crane’s ass. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks Crane for permission every time he needs to take a dump. Predictably, he gets pissy and bangs the baton against the bars. The crack of polycarbonate against metal amplifies the ket, sending a shock wave through me. I gnash my teeth and ride it out, imagining Lyle’s insides on the outside.
“You best think long and hard about giving me attitude, boy.”
“Or what, Lyle? You’ll call in more guards to hold me down so you can beat the shit out of me?”
Lyle snarls, the barbaric act all wrong on him. Swap out the tactical gear with a wet suit and he’d easily pass for a stereotypical surfer. He even has the scruffy, bleached-out hair and perfect Florida tan. If it weren’t for his sadistic streak, I’d wonder how this stereotypical dude got involved with a man of Crane’s stature.
“How’s about I shove this baton up your—”
“Enough.”
Damn it all if the quiet command doesn’t put Lyle in his place with a remarkable quickness. “Pardon, ma’am. You sure you don’t want one of the other ones?”
Intrigued despite myself, I strain to glimpse the woman who, with a single word, cowed the pompous prick.
“I’m positive.” The voice, husky-feminine and whisper-soft, reminds me of warm mountain nights and strong whiskey. “You may go now.”
By Lyle’s expression, I wonder if the woman sprouted a second head. “No can do, ma’am. I got to chain him first.”
“You will not put chains on this man.”
Flustered, Lyle shifts from foot to foot and white-knuckles the baton still gripped in his right hand. “But, ma’am, I got my orders. Atticus don’t take kindly to clients.” Then to me, “Ain’t that right?”
“Fuck off, Lyle,” I drawl.
Hate to admit it, but he’s right. Hell no, I don’t take kindly to the rich bitches who come here to rape me. So far, six have been brave enough to buy me for the night. Six too many. Four were married. One was barely above legal age. And one woman was so old, I took it easy on her, worried I’d crack her brittle bones.
So much for me being heartless.
My role as an enforcer for the Unholy may make me a killer, but as a rule, I don’t hurt the innocent. None of us do. And I’ve never put my hands on a woman in anger. Full stop. Abigale Shaw raised me with respect, but I’m hanging on to my humanity by a thread. A frayed thread. Came alarmingly close to going psycho on the last woman who willingly—stupidly—had herself locked in this cell with me. Don’t know how much longer I can be raped and not push back, though.
“Not a request.” Her words are three bullets that strike their target.
Lyle bows his head, muttering, “The boss ain’t gonna appreciate this.”
Who the hell is powerful enough to contradict Crane’s precious rules?
The question gets answered a second later when she emerges from the shadows, a queen among commoners.
Sonofabitch.
I roll my eyes because, of course, it’s her.
The woman in white from last night’s event.
I’d spent most of the day drifting in and out of sleep to avoid the liquid agony scratching against my nerves. And she was there with me the entire time, in my dreams, an angel who’d helped me forget—albeit temporarily—that I’m living in a nightmare. Shit, if I’d met her anywhere else, I’d be all over her. Peeling off her brown dress to discover what secrets lie hidden beneath the drab fabric. Her sexy voice all breathy in my ear as I use every part of me to light her the fuck up.
Shame the reality of her is such a disappointment.
Most women would blend into the background with their hair tied in a knot at the nape of their neck and without a drop of makeup on their face. Not her. The woman is a hauntingly exquisite work of art, with full pink lips and smooth, porcelain skin. She’s sculpted bone structure with a perfect nose and incredible green eyes. The defiant march of freckles across the bridge of her nose only adds to her beauty. She can go ahead and dress herself like someone’s grandmother, but nothing can diminish the force of nature buried beneath her cool exterior.
Again, I can’t shake the feeling that I know her face. Seen it before. The drugs still got their hooks in me making it impossible to pick through my memories to where the hell I’d know anyone connected to David-fucking-Crane.
Lyle looks about a breath away from making the sign of the cross as she marches toward him, her functional shoes clacking over concrete. His submissive reaction takes the edge off my anger. Oh yeah, you bet your ass I’m enjoying the hell out of this show. All I’m missing is a bowl of popcorn.
Her expression changes to one of perplexity, but her tone is pure ice. “And who is going to tell him, I wonder? Surely, not you, Lyle. You may be a pretentious worm, but I’ve never pegged you as stupid.”
Bravo.
If I had the energy, I’d give
the little general a standing ovation.
Lyle throws me serious side-eye. I antagonize him with a wink. I’ll pay later for the front-row seat to his humiliation, but man, I wouldn’t miss this for anything.
“I’m concerned for your safety, is all. I’ve seen what Atticus can—”
Her humorless laughter silences Lyle mid-sentence. “He’s wounded and on ketaphrin. What harm can he possibly do to me in his condition?”
I lift a brow at her ridiculous question. She’s so small, so delicate, I can snap her neck with one hand, and yeah, I won’t hurt her, but nor I will be a willing participant in my rape. She has to work for it, and I sure as shit don’t plan on being delicate with her. The women who came before her left worse for the wear—except for the older lady. They came looking for an animal, and that’s exactly what I gave them.
She’ll get the animal, too.
“I know, ma’am, it’s just—”
“This conversation is finished.” Her voice is so cold, I swear the temperature in the cell drops at least ten degrees. “Test me, and I promise you’ll be this man’s next opponent.”
The blood drains from Lyle’s face. His eyes widen, and he slaps a palm against the wall to hold himself steady. “My apologies, ma’am, I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course you didn’t.” She clasps her hands together, her expression serene—as if she didn’t issue Lyle a blatant death threat. She squares her shoulders and stands straight as a rod. It’s a miracle her spine doesn’t snap. “Please unlock the cell.”
Lyle fumbles like a little bitch as he pulls at the retractable key ring hooked to his belt. “If anything happens to you—”
“I’ll be fine.”
Lyle points to a red button on the wall inside the cell. A single press ends a client’s…session. Two presses signals an emergency and brings a horde of guards and a whole lot of hurt. “You hit this if you need me.”
“I’ve been briefed on the procedure, Lyle.” Her tone is hilariously patronizing.
He fits the key in the lock and, with a turn of his wrist, gives me the perfect opportunity to bust free…
…and get about ten steps into the Hub before guards would descend on me and beat me half to death. A torture session would follow, ending with a double dose of ket. Yeah, no. Instead, I stay put, a good little prisoner, and remind myself the day is coming when I’ll kill these fuckers.
Every last one of them.
The woman strides into the cell with the grace of a queen. Lyle locks her in with me, but she seems unfazed at how close she is to danger. “Thank you, Lyle. Now leave.”
Dismissed, Lyle bows his head and mumbles something I can’t quite hear. It’s something she chooses to ignore. He shuffles out of Elite with the door slamming behind him. The lock slides into place, leaving the woman alone with me. To her credit, she finally looks worried.
Hesitancy replaces her haughty attitude. She keeps herself glued to the spot near the bars, the subtle wringing of her hands the only tell she’s not as calm as she appears. “I’m sorry Lyle threw water on you.”
God, her voice is soothing. A raspy whisper that’s sexy as hell, and like the traitor it is, my dick sparks to life at the oddly intimate sound. I get another noseful of her sweet summer scent, and my muscles relax just enough to ease the painful pull against my bones.
“It is what it is.”
“He’ll answer for it,” she promises as she mottles the skin of her knuckles. “Please don’t make me regret forgoing chains.”
“Tell you what, sweetheart.” The drugs slur my words, but I put enough nasty in my tone so she can’t miss my animosity. “Don’t make me fuck you and I won’t make you regret skipping the chains. Deal?”
“Fair enough.” Her quick agreement is unexpected. “Are you hungry? I can have food brought in.”
A thick T-bone, grilled to a perfect medium rare, sounds about right. Rooster and his woman, Sadie, throw epic barbecues. They usually end sometime late the following afternoon, with most of us passed out cold from too much liquor, too much food, and too much sex. Last one they hosted at Sanctum ended with me having to drag Jester home after the happy idiot wrecked his Honda CRF450RWE. Damn, we had a sweet time—one that might as well be lifetimes ago.
“Can’t eat on ket.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.” I sneer.
I track her measured steps, her determination impressive. A glance at the soaked mattress draws her perfectly arched brows together. “I’ll arrange for you to have a fresh mattress.”
What game is this one playing? It’s obvious she’s got pull, but it doesn’t explain why she gives a good goddamn if I’m hungry or if I’ll sleep on a wet bed. Cautious of her motives, I study her, an uncomfortable suspicion picking at my brain. Everything about her is familiar. I’d remember if we’d met. She’s too damn beautiful to forget. So, why the hell can’t I shake the feeling that I’ve seen her before?
Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Fact that she’s here makes her a giant piece of shit.
“Don’t bother.” I leave out how the guards will piss all over a new one and force me to sleep in the fresh puddle.
And I’ll owe her if she arranges for me to have a new bed. Thanks, but no thanks. My body is my only currency, and I refuse to use it to pay off a debt—not even for items as valuable as a hot meal or a clean mattress.
I try not to appreciate the gentle sway of her hips beneath the dull dress as she crosses the cell. Or admire her audacity when she hitches her skirt and sits across from me. In a surprising gear shift, there’s something vulnerable in the way she steeples her legs and wraps her arms around them. The woman has been nothing but steel until now, so this one-eighty throws me. But when she rests her chin on her knees, it bothers me because it’s like I’ve lived through this situation before with her.
I shake off the déjà vu and nod at the doorknob of a diamond and wedding band set wrapped around her left ring finger. “Husband not giving it to you good enough, so you came looking for a dirty thrill with a filthy man?”
The flecks of gold in her green eyes seem to flare, and I resist the urge to flinch under her silent reproach. Christ, I’m no better than Lyle, crumbling under the weight of her displeasure.
“I thought I made it clear I didn’t come for sex.” There’s enough frost in her tone to freeze the Atlantic Ocean.
“No?” I spit. “Then why the hell are you bothering me?”
“I’m hoping we can talk.”
“I’m hoping you’ll leave.”
Liar.
If she leaves, her honeysuckle scent goes with her, and what will remain is my own stink.
I hate how I crave to know if her skin is as soft as it seems. But here the fuck I am, itching to glide my hands over her, imagining her beneath me. I want to taste her. Explore the secrets hidden beneath that hideous dress. Wrap her legs around my waist and slide my dick—
Yeah…let’s stop this train of thought before it leaves the station.
She casts a glance around the cell, but there’s not much to see. The bed with its disgusting mattress. A sink and toilet combo—sink’s broken. Metal hooks embedded in the cement floor where they latch the chains when they restrain me. Nothing else. Not even a blanket.
When she settles her attention back on me, her icy regard is a physical touch grazing my sweat-slicked skin. “You’re a long way from home.”
The fuck?
That’s a hell of a remark considering her focus is fixed on my tattoo.
Can’t miss the damn thing. Unholy is written larger than life beneath my collarbone. Word runs shoulder to shoulder. Every Unholy gets the same ink the day we’re bled into the gang. So, yeah, I’m marked, but we’re not known this far south. Yet there’s recognition in her eyes as she studies the tattoo.
Hope and foreboding collide and coil in my gut. “Now how the hell would you know where I’m from?”
She shifts her gaze to my face, and the co
il tightens. Her eyes are suddenly too green. Too familiar.
Too haunted.
I’ve known exactly one other person with those eyes. Eyes that have seen too much misery. And when she turns her head and looks away, as if she can’t bear the burden of my scrutiny, the air is sucked clean out of my lungs. My mind spins as I gape at the puckered circle of skin on the side of her neck.
The old burn is the size of a cigarette.
Hell no.
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
It’s not her. Can’t be. Jamie’s gone. Long gone. I followed the trial, and no, I didn’t expect her to come running back to Mayhem after her acquittal. With her father dead, the girl had no family left in town. But I expected a phone call, a letter. Shit, I’d even take a fucking smoke signal. Something. Anything. Instead, she went to live her with grandmother and then… Nothing. She disappeared. Vanished off the face of the fucking planet.
Took me months—okay, years—but I finally gave up and moved on. Forced myself not to think about the scarred girl with the sad eyes.
But Jamie’s last day in Mayhem comes crashing back like a freight train to the brain. I see her, sitting next to me, her chin on her knees with the sunlight turning her brown hair to fire. The image superimposes itself over the woman across from me.
Gotta be the concussion, because no fucking way can Jamie Ellis be here. No way can she magically appear in this hellhole, married, and be all friendly-like with the prick who’s holding me captive.
But she is here. I can see her. Smell her. She’s as real as the bars holding me prisoner. The reality of her—of my Jamie—sitting across from me, snaps that frayed thread in my brain.
Before I can stop myself, I spring forward. Her gasp bounces off the walls as my weight knocks her backward. She slams against the floor, and I land on top of her. A flood of pain shoots through me like daggers stabbing my nerves. Damn ketaphrin. Doesn’t matter. I deal with the agony as I stare at the face of a ghost, searching for the girl who crushed my heart.
And I see her. She’s there, simmering beneath the icy exterior of the woman pinned beneath me. She’s reflected in the golden glitter in the woman’s melancholy eyes. In the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. And in the faint scars left behind by Billy Ellis’s sloppy fists. I remember when those marks were new. I was the one who helped wipe away the blood. Who brought her bandages. Who held ice packs to swollen flesh. I was there when she pretended she was fine. But I saw her pain. How important it was for her to show the world her strength. My brave, unbreakable girl. And when she rested her head on my shoulder in the aftermath of a particularly brutal beating, her absent tears fucking shattered me.