by Sassie Lewis
Chase pinned him with green eyes, so like his sister’s. “There’s something going on that you’re not telling me. . .”
The roar from the other side of the room had them all spinning to protect their leaders.
“You slept with my fucking daughter‽”
Well, shit.
Chapter Sixteen
Sir studied his new acquisition. It wasn’t to his usual standards, but it would still fetch a hefty sum. The word was already out; the buyer showing great interest. He’d give it a couple more days to build a little more momentum before putting the item up for bid.
His phone rang. “What?” he answered on the second trill.
“I’m assuming you got the package?” the informant asked.
“I’m looking at it right now. I think it will sell quite well.”
“I want forty percent.”
Sir ground his teeth. “We agreed on twenty—”
“That was before things went to shit.”
“That is not my problem. I pay you to do a job, if you did it poorly that’s your concern not mine.” He went to hang up.
“Forty percent or I tell them who you are,” the voice said.
Sir laughed. “You have no idea who I am. You only know me as a voice at the end of the line. Do you really think it was me who met you in person?”
“No, I didn’t. And that is why I followed ‘that’ person until they lead me back to you.” Sir’s growl of frustration echoed through the room, yelps and whimpers answered his outburst. “How’s that forty percent sounding to you now?”
“Fine,” he snapped before hanging up.
The walk to his office took him past another of his new acquisitions. As he stopped to inspect it, it scurried to the back of the cage without making a sound.
“That one tore me up with its claws.” Fred silently stepped beside him.
“I was on my way to find you,” Sir said. “Our informant has become greedy and may know too much.”
“Clean or dirty?” the natural-born killer asked.
“Dirty. It can be a warning to any other who thinks they can fuck with me. And Fred, set up the auction for Friday.”
Chapter Seventeen
“You fucking what?” Chase pushed him against the wall, but Blake shoved him back and faced his president.
“I warned you not to send me here. I warned you months ago to find someone else to babysit her,” Blake spat the words. “Did you think I told you time and time again to get someone else to protect the princess just to be fucking difficult? Honestly, Quin, tell me you didn’t have any idea that that girl drove me fucking wild?”
“You’re fucking dead to this club, Blake. Fucking dead. I was a father making sure his little girl had the best protection there was.”
Blake snorted. “You’re no fucking father. Lately you’re not even a fucking club president. You spend most of your time fucking club whores and drinking ‘til you pass out.” He knew he’d gone too far even before Quin dived across the coffee table. He didn’t fucking care, he needed this. Needed to vent the tension that had been building between them for months, so he welcomed the fist which connected with his face.
Quin didn’t pull back on his punches, and neither did Blake. This was club life, and although a fist fight with their president wasn’t a regular occurrence, Blake knew Zane and Chase wouldn’t interfere and neither would his grandfather; they simply stepped out of the way when the fight got too close to them. The furniture littered around the space limited Blake’s movements and allowed Quin to get a few more punches in than he would have normally been able to.
The pound of flesh meeting flesh was music to his ears. Sweat beaded Blake’s face, his knuckles tingled as skin split, but his heart rate stayed an even, steady beat. It had been too fucking long since he’d been in a good fight, and unlike Danil, Quin was a fitting partner. The older man met him punch-for-punch, then with a sweep of his leg, Quin knocked him off balance. Blake’s head swam with blackness when the tender spot from his fight with Danil connected with the floor; momentarily disorientated he didn’t react quick enough. Quin landed, knee’s first, on his chest, and held a knife at his throat. The sting had Blake reaching for his own blade. The question, did he want to take it that far? slowed his hand.
Shit. If he drew his knife Quin would take it as a direct challenge.
Fuck!
Blake wasn’t a man to go down easy. Hell, he hadn’t been bested in a fight in years, yet Quin had put him on his ass in minutes. He blamed his slow reaction time on worrying about Becca. The point of the blade pressed deeper and the slight sting decided for him. Quin was his club brother, his president, the father of the woman he loved, and there was no fucking way Blake would die without a fight. Die without Becca knowing he loved her. With that one thought, the tension in the room spiked and the familiarity that had made Blake hold back dissipated.
This was what he was good at. He was Hell’s Exiles enforcer. He was a killer. And unlike Zane, with his gadgets and sniper rifle, Blake killed at close range. With lightning fast speed, he flipped Quin off, retrieved his blade, and once again stood, towering over all others in the room.
Calmness, he only found when faced with the prospect of spilling blood, washed over him. His muscles relaxed and his focus became hyperaware. Every movement and sound, down to the hitch of his opponent’s breath, beat at him like a hammer. This was what he did.
This was his Zen.
Unwilling to make the first move against a man he saw as family, Blake waited. Quin lunged, but with a twist of his body Blake dodged the move, bringing his own blade up, more in defense than to kill. In the back of his mind, he realized he was still holding back, still not wanting to fully challenge his president, to kill his soon to be father-in-law, and Blake paid in blood for that hesitation. His brain cataloged the damage while his body continued the fight.
The scent of blood expelled that need to hold back from his system; in the space of a microsecond, Blake no longer saw Quin as Hell’s Exiles president, or the princess’s father, he saw a target. Unlike a fistfight where you hit with as much force as you could, a knife fight was like a dance—swipe, dodge, swipe, retreat. This is why Becca is so good with knives. Every move she makes, is like she’s dancing.
Blake’s breath came in even, shallow pants, as his president proved why he was the top man. Blood dripped from Quin’s chest, but like him, the small wound didn’t slow his movements. The slash to his thigh hurt like a bitch, but he kept on his feet and spun back toward Quin, raising his arm as the older man brought the blade down. . .
The loud retort, followed by the unmistakable scent of gunpowder, had him spinning on the spot, forgetting about the fight, and ready to protect the man he himself was prepared to kill.
Quin’s knife sank deep into Blake’s shoulder.
“What the fuckin’ hell are you doing, Vanessa?” Chase charged passed him. The force of the shove mixed with the pain in his shoulder, had Blake stumbling on his feet. Fuck, being stabbed sucks as much as being shot does.
Looking toward the bedroom door, he watched Chase try to take the gun from his woman’s hand. His focus was drawn back to Quin as the other man prepared to launch at him once more. The gun sounded again, and Blake had to wonder if the crazy bitch realized she had half a dozen guns pointed at her?
“Don’t kill him, Quin,” Nessa screeched. Racing across the room, she barged her way through the men with the force of a linebacker.
“Get the fuck out of here, Vanessa,” Quin growled at her, while Chase finally snatched the gun from her hand. “This is club business, and you’re not part of the club.”
If his blood hadn’t been dripping down his arm, Blake would have found the look that crossed the little warrior’s face comical.
“Well, seeing I’m part of your family and I now have your,”—the girl was bat-shit crazy, she poked a very pissed off Quin in the chest— “insignia tattooed on my ass, I say that makes me part of your,”—she po
ked him again— “club.”
“You’re not my goddamn daughter, Vanessa. Now get the fuck out of here.” Blake didn’t miss the flash of pain that crossed Nessa’s pretty face, before she hid it behind a sneer.
“Fine, I might not be your fucking daughter, but if you want your real one back, you can’t kill him. We need him to help find her. And if you want your real daughter to ever speak to you again, you won’t kill the fucking father of her baby.” She threw a plastic stick at Blake before turning to the others in the room. Her scream of “Get the fuck out, all of you!” was lost to him as he stared at what he held in his hand.
The fight hadn’t sped his heart, but holding a tiny piece of plastic sent it galloping in his chest. Emotions he’d never dealt with before threatened to drown him.
Soft hands touched his chest and he, Hell’s Exiles enforcer, ex-mafia enforcer, flinched. “You okay, Blake?” Nessa’s voice had him looking up. “Umm, you might want to wipe those cheeks, big guy, before the tough guys give you a hard time.” She gave him a sweet smile.
Blake lifted a hand to his face; it hurt from his fight but what shook him was finding that the wetness on his cheeks wasn’t blood but tears. His voice croaked when he spoke, “We have to find her. Find them.”
“Let’s get you patched up, then we’ll get my sister back,” she said.
“I’m going to be a dad,” he blurted, he’d known it could have been a possibility, finding out it was reality shocked the shit out of him, and caused more wetness trickled onto his cheeks.
“I know. Now come on, you’re bleeding all over the place.”
He followed Nessa toward the bedroom. . .
“This isn’t over between us.” Quin’s voice stopped him, but he didn’t turn to face his club president.
“Figured as much. But can it wait until after we’ve found my woman?” Blake asked.
“As long as you know you’ll be marrying my daughter the moment she’s found.”
“I was already planning on it, Quin, even before I found out about this.” He held up the little stick, before tucking it into his pocket for safekeeping.
Her head pounded, her stomach churned, her mouth felt like she’d been sucking on cotton wool, and whatever she was laying on was as hard as fucking concrete.
What the hell did I drink last night?
Something niggled at the back of her mind. Something telling her alcohol wasn’t the cause of her current state. Awareness rushed at her, and a few things became apparently clear: she was hung over, but wasn’t; she wasn’t at the casino; and the hard-as-fuck bed was, in fact, concrete. Cracking open her eyes, she quickly closed them again and willed away the need to vomit.
Jesus Christ, why did she think opening her eyes was necessary? Oh, that’s right, she needed to figure out where the freaking hell she was. Memories kept pushing at her, but with the way her head was throbbing, nothing was getting through, the only thing that was going to help her at this point in time was ‘seeing’ what had happened to her.
Gritting her teeth, Becca popped one eye open. When the world stopped spinning, and her focus actually worked, she braved opening the other one. She hadn’t tried to move anymore of her body, the eyes alone had left her panting and wanting to stab whoever had brought her here. Here being a small room with two walls made of the same rough concrete that decorated the floor, and with jail-like bars on the other two sides.
Shit.
It took a few minutes to get to an upright position, well, as upright as she could get, with her back against the bars and her ass remaining familiar with the hard floor. She thanked whatever deity made her choose to wear a pantsuit for the first time in forever. Normally when working, she’d wear cocktail dresses; the more skin she showed, the easier it was to distract her marks. Memories flooded to the forefront of her brain. . . “I’m going to kill the motherfucking-ass-licking-shit-head when I get out of here.” The outburst had her groaning as the world sped up its spinning. Biting her tongue, she held back the vomit that threatened to expel.
Counting to ten and blowing out a deep breath, Becca let the world settle, it’s spinning slowing to a normal resolution. . .
“The dizziness will stop soon,” a child-like voice whispered, drawing her attention away from her revolting stomach, and had her head turning to the space behind her. In a cage much like hers, a girl no more than eleven, crawled toward where Becca leaned. “Here. It’s not cold but. . .” The little girl shrugged while pushing a bottle of water between the bars.
Becca’s hands shook, but she managed to uncap the water and take a deep mouthful. The liquid helped quench some of her thirst and remove more of the fuzziness from her brain. “Thanks.” She pushed the rest of the water back toward the little girl.
“You can have it. They’ll bring more soon.”
At the offer, Becca drank more and wondered who they were. When she’d all but finished the refreshing liquid, she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Evie.” The little girl sighed, pushing closer to the bars and resting her head against Becca’s. Her white blonde curls mixed with Becca’s jet-black hair made her think of that evil chick from 101 Dalmatians.
“Hey Evie, I’m Becca. Do you know where we are?”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head, and her little bow lip quivered.
“It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll figure it out.” The water had cleared her mind completely, her senses picking up the fact that Becca and Evie weren’t the only two in cages.
Wrapping a hand around the bar, Becca raised on unsteady legs.
“Please don’t leave me.”
“Shhh, I’m just going to over there.” She pointed to the front of her cage. “I need to have a look around, and I can’t do that from back here.” At Evie’s nod, Becca used the bars to keep herself steady, and made her way to the front of her cage. Evie mirrored her moves. Opposite them was a large open space with several shipping containers, a couple of vans, and what looked to be an office that sat above it all. Tilting her head back, Becca realized the roof to her cell was only plywood. A look down showed her the bars were bolted into the concrete floor. Motherfucker, it would have been nice if she could have just pushed out of her cell. She turned her head left then right. . . “Crap.”
“I can fit my head through the bars,” her new little friend whispered. “What are we looking for?”
Dropping down to the still crouching girl, Becca reached a hand through the bars and pushed back the curls covering a pair of crystal blue eyes. In a word, she was stunning. “I want to know how many people are here. I can hear moaning, so I think there are more girls like us, but I also want to see if there’s” —she bit back the curses wanting to flow out— “bad guys. Do you think you can do that?”
Instead of popping her head through the bars, Evie scurried to the back of her cage, beckoning her to follow with a wave of her hand. What she showed Becca was amazing. The little girl had been recording the comings and goings of every person she heard or saw in a way only a child would understand, by scratching images onto the concrete wall. Turned out there were four guards that came to the cages, one she said was really scary. There was something wrong with his face. Four other women, but she thought one of those might only be a teenager. The little girl even knew how often and when the guards come around. “This is brilliant—”
“Look who’s awake.”
Evie tucked herself into a tight ball, and whimpered while Becca spun to face their visitor. Well, wasn’t he a handsome devil? She’d seen scars before, but nothing like this. He stared at her with dead eyes; if he was waiting for a reaction, he wasn’t going to get one. It had been a hell of a year, and she was all out of fucks to give. “And who might you be?”
He tilted that scarred head. “Most people call me Fred.” Those dead eyes stared through her, and it was then that Becca realized she was dealing with either a sociopath or psychopath. She’d met a few of them over the years. Hell, her granddaddy bordered on being a sociopath
, so she was used to dealing with their ilk. They saw the world differently—lived by their own rules, or by the voices in their head that directed their actions. She scanned him up and down, and wondered exactly what flavor he was. Then what he was wearing registered in her brain and laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because I don’t have a crucifix.”
He didn’t blink, just kept staring straight through her. “I don’t understand.”
“Your name is Fred, you’re scarred to the shit-house, and you’re wearing a freakin’ red and black shirt.” She tilted her head and studied him closer. A small smile now accompanied those dead eyes. “Let me guess, Fred isn’t your real name, but you think of yourself as a modern-day Freddy Krueger. Have a thing for knives, do ya?”
“Yes, but I’m not allowed to play with you. Sir has other plans.”
“Is he your Master, too?” she asked. After all, Blake had been teaching her about the lifestyle, lucky for him, he’d never asked her to call him anything but Blake, she would have stabbed him otherwise. And she wouldn’t think about the fact that she and psycho guy had the same affinity for sharp, stabby things.
“I do not understand.”
Yeah, she was getting that Fred didn’t understand a lot of things, still, she was amusing herself by messing with him. “You know, in the bedroom, when he ties you up and spanks you? Do you call him Master, or is it just Sir?”
Those dead eyes glazed with menace, and Becca’s miss-wired brain finally worked properly, goosebumps broke across her flesh as fear skittered down her spine.
His lips kicked up in a smile, and his nostrils flared; a predator smelling fearful prey. “Sir is just a name. I do not fuck him. But maybe when Sir is finished with you, he’ll let me play. I think I would enjoy watching the spark of life leave your eyes as I fuck you.”
