by Kate Kessler
It was obvious she was being kept for something, but what? Since she’d been moved from Cody’s only one guy had touched her—the one who told her she was an even better lay than her aunt. The one whose dirty fingers she could still feel on her skin. If she was just going to be a fuck toy, more would have used her by now. Wouldn’t they? Her stomach churned at the thought. She wasn’t going to get used up like that. She just wasn’t. She’d kill herself first.
What would Killy do?
She wouldn’t waste any more time being a victim or waiting around for someone to open the door, for one thing.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, trying to get blood flowing, trying to wake herself up. Her aunt was right—anger was good. Anger pushed her forward, even though her thighs still held a tremble and her eyes burned. She moved the piss bucket a few feet in front of the door. Then she reached up and pulled the chain for the light. The room went pitch black. That was okay—she’d learned her way around. Slowly, she positioned herself behind the door and took off her shirt. She shivered in her bra as she wrapped the fabric around her hands.
“Can someone please help?” she cried out. “I’m bleeding!”
Footsteps approached. Anticipation tightened her stomach as the knob turned.
“What the fuck?” There was a splash as the bucket overturned. In the light from the hallway, Shannon saw the outline of a woman about the same size as herself. The woman swore, distracted by the overturned bucket and the piss on her shoes.
Shannon pounced, wrapping her shirt around the woman’s throat and pulling tight. She staggered through the wet of her own urine and didn’t care. All she could think about was getting free. The woman clawed at her hands, but she didn’t let go, even as her skin tore and burned and blood began to flow.
The woman slowly sank to her knees. In the light from the hallway her eyes bulged as she gasped for breath. Hurry up and pass out, Shannon thought. She was going to run out of strength soon.
Finally, the woman collapsed. She went limp so fast Shannon almost fell with her, but she managed to catch herself just in time and saved her shirt from getting soaked with piss. She pulled the shirt from around the woman’s neck and tugged it over her head once more, then crept out into the hall, her heart pounding hard. She wasn’t stoned or tired anymore. Aunt Killy would be proud of her when she heard what she’d done.
Breathing hard, Shannon hurried down the hall, peeking around the corner before she moved forward. She didn’t know where she was, but she’d worry about that once she got out of the building. It was a shit-box of a house—even worse than the New Britain party pad. There were dishes piled in the sink and open boxes of Chinese food on the counter. It smelled like it had been there for days. She gagged.
Off the kitchen there was a living room to her right and a porch to her left. A guy snored on the sofa in the living room, passed out in front of the TV. It wasn’t the guy who raped her, or she’d be tempted to stop and shove one of those beer bottles down his throat. Or up his ass.
She ran to the porch, her hands shaking as she grabbed the doorknob. She was almost free. It turned and she wrenched the door open. She almost expected to find bikers on the front step, but there was no one.
Shannon ran.
The bar didn’t even have a sign stating its name. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places, the legality of which was dubious at best. The parking lot had a few cars in it, though, and several bikes. Killian stared at it warily as she got out of Dash’s car. He had insisted on driving and she couldn’t be bothered to argue.
“Is there a back exit?” she asked.
Dash nodded. “His ride’s right there, though.”
She glanced at a familiar chopper with ape-hanger handlebars and almost comically extended fork. Yeah, Brand wouldn’t leave without that. It was parked by itself—even the spots around it were empty, as though no one dared to go near the sacred ride. Killian walked up to it, braced one boot against the frame that leaned slightly toward her, and gave a hard shove.
The chopper wobbled, then toppled. Dash winced at the sound of custom metalwork grinding against asphalt.
Killian met his gaze. “If I had a dick I’d piss on it.”
“He deserves it.”
Yeah, he did, so she didn’t protest when Dash unzipped and did the honors for her. Then he spit on it, too. One thing that Dash had never stood for was violence against women. His mother had been knocked around by his old man, and he made a point of always being respectful to the girls who hung around the club. She knew he’d slept with some of them—not because he’d talked, but because they had. There’d been times she wanted to rip their tongues out of their vacant heads. She had not wanted to know what Dash was like in bed.
He opened the door for her. Inside the bar, they were listening to Sabbath—back when Ozzy was still up front. The sound system sucked, but no one was there for the music. A few guys playing pool in the front corner paused their game as Killian and Dash walked in. Dash lifted his chin at one of them, who immediately turned and whispered something to his companions.
The few tables scattered throughout the place were full—mostly the sort of people who conducted their business in the shadows. The place didn’t appear to have any particular affiliation, but then maybe it just wasn’t advertising.
Five men and a woman sat at the bar. The woman watched them—Dash—with a predatory gaze. His pretty face was a liability sometimes, always snagging attention. It didn’t help that he seemed to be the sort who got better-looking with age. It was only when you looked into his eyes that you got a sense of the man he was and realized he wasn’t a gazelle but a fucking lion. If he noticed the woman staring, he didn’t let on. Killian appreciated that his loyalty and attention were all hers.
In the middle of the bar, a man sat with his back to them. He had a lean build with broad shoulders and shoulder-length blond hair. His arms were inked from fingertip to shoulder—mostly gang and prison tats. The patch on his back—almost as worn and scuffed as his leather vest—proclaimed him one of the SOBs.
Killian stared at the back of his head with narrowed eyes. Thirteen years ago, when she was seventeen, the SOBs had started causing trouble with the Crows. Eventually, that trouble became a war that led to a lot of bloodshed. Jason had eventually been a casualty of the war. A victim. Killian considered herself to have been a sacrifice—along with several others.
She remembered the night, earlier on, when she and a few of the other old ladies had been hanging out at a local MC hangout, waiting on their boys, who were off conducting “business.” No one tried to stop the SOBs who showed up and came for them. Some of them actually cheered on the SOBs who raped them, and they all watched. Killian had split her knuckles trying to fight them off, and suffered a concussion for her trouble. She’d fought several Sons but only one had actually shoved his cock inside her and jeered as she struggled and swore at him, spitting blood in his face.
Afterward, Brand bragged about raping her. Told everyone how sweet her pussy was. It drove Jason just about crazy, but what had driven Killian almost insane was seeing Brand’s face that day when he shot Jason.
She’d wanted to get her hands on him for years, and now here he was, sitting at the bar nursing a bottle of tequila. It didn’t matter that the Crows had managed to get him gangbanged in prison, because that happened months after Jason’s death, when Brand had been arrested on different charges. She’d been promised retribution, but she never got it, because she’d never been able to get it herself.
And now Pete Symes, aka Brand, had put his hands on Shannon. Defiled her.
Killian’s hands curled into fists. Her jaw clenched as rage bloomed, hot and insistent in her stomach. She took a step toward the bar, and then another until she came at it at a full-on run. Pushing herself off the ground she came down with a sucker punch right to the back of Brand’s head. His head bounced off the bar. The people next to him jumped off their stools.
Blood covered his fac
e when he looked up, dazed and pissed. “What the fuck?” he demanded. Then he saw her and grinned. “Hey, sweetmeat. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Gunmetal glinted under the bar light. Killian didn’t think. She grabbed the weapon as he drew it, then used her body weight to push his arm up and back before smashing her head into his face. His nose made a crunching sound she heard despite the loud music. Killian pulled the gun from his hand and tossed it toward Dash. He caught it. When another guy tried to intervene, Dash stopped him with a punch.
Her distraction allowed Brand to take a swing, his knuckles biting into her jaw. She shook it off and punched him in the throat.
“Arrrrghh!” he roared, shaking his head and spraying blood. Some of it splattered on Killian’s face. He caught her in the midsection with his shoulder and lifted her off her feet, slamming her against the wall just a few feet away. Her head rebounded off the paneling, stars dancing before her eyes. She managed to stay upright thanks to the wall. A few feet away she caught sight of people leaving. No one wanted to be there if the cops showed up.
“You know I like girls with a bit of fight,” he growled against her ear. “I expected your niece to be more like you.”
She managed to duck as he swung and drove her fist under his ribs as hard as she could, twice.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” she promised as she punched him again.
He grinned at her, blood pooling between his teeth. “No, you’re not. You couldn’t kill Rank and you won’t kill me. You don’t have the balls.”
She swung at him. He dodged, but she got him with a shin to the ribs. Doubled over, Brand lunged at her, pinning her to the wall once again. Pain burned up the length of her left thigh, so sharp she cried out. A quick glance showed a gash in her jeans. The cocksucker had cut her with a broken bottle. Then he threw her onto a table. She crashed to the floor as people dove out of the way. She grabbed the legs of a chair and brought it up with her as she forced herself to her feet. She swung hard, the back of the chair connecting with Brand’s face. He staggered back as she tossed the chair aside. Killian took the opportunity to kick him in the chest, knocking him back again. Then she charged him, taking him down to the sticky, dirty floor, her knees on either side of his shoulders as she drove her knuckles into his face.
“Where is she?” she demanded. When he didn’t respond, she stopped punching, grabbed him by the vest, and hauled him up. His head lolled. “Where the fuck is she, asshole?”
“What are you going to do?” he asked, spattering blood and spit on her face. “Kill me? Won’t change that I fucked her. Just like I fucked you.”
Killian grabbed the knife from her ankle and held it up. “But it will make me feel better.”
“Not here,” came a voice from above. It was Dash. Killian looked up at him. Aside from the guy behind the bar they were the only ones left inside.
“I haven’t called the cops,” the bartender told them. “But I can’t guarantee no one else will.”
“Help me take him outside,” Killian said. She rose quickly to her feet, ignoring the rush of blood down her leg from the cut in her thigh. It burned fresh, the pain throbbing in her veins and inside her skull.
Dash dragged Brand to his feet. With a nod to the bartender, he shoved the biker toward the back of the building. Brand started running. Killian took off after him as fast as she could, grabbing the back door seconds after he burst through it. She staggered out into the night and the back parking lot, swearing.
Brand stood just a few feet away, his hands up.
Killian’s gaze moved past him, to the parked car and the women in front of it. One of them had a gun pointed at Brand’s head. It was Jackie. She was dressed all in black, and she looked a helluva lot tougher than she had at Dash’s place earlier. The other two were Nikki and Faith. All three of them had been there the night the SOBs came. All three of them had been denied their payback by club politics, told to let the men handle it, told that it was club business. Old ladies weren’t considered part of the club, but rather club property.
“Hey, Killy,” Jackie said in that rough voice. “You brought us a present.”
“You do this?” Killian asked Dash when he joined them. He grabbed Brand by the arm so he couldn’t escape.
“First blood’s still yours if you want it.”
She’d gotten first blood. And as much as she wanted to cut Brand’s dick off and stuff it in his mouth, she wanted Shannon more.
“Where is she?” she asked again.
Brand cast her an anxious glance. “Where the fuck do you think? She’s at the fucking clubhouse.” He shook his head. “You know if you kill me you’ll start another fucking war.”
“Aw, honey,” Jackie began with a cold smile. “We’re not going to kill you.” Nikki chose that moment to pull a very large, very sharp-looking knife out of a sheath on her thigh.
“Dash, sweetness, bring that little weasel over here, will you.”
“Man, don’t do this!” Brand exclaimed, struggling against Dash’s grip as he walked him over to the women. “Don’t let them cut me!”
Dash didn’t respond. He shoved the biker against the trunk of the car. Faith quickly pressed the tip of a needle against Brand’s throat and pushed the plunger. “To make him a little more compliant,” she said with a smile.
When they started unbuckling his jeans, Killian turned away. Dash glanced at her. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I need stitches in my leg and I need something to eat.” She started limping toward the side of the building. “I need to find Shannon before Brand makes it back to the clubhouse.”
“I’ll take care of your leg. Then we’ll figure out how to confront the SOBs.”
“This isn’t your fight,” she reminded him. Jesus, her leg was really starting to hurt.
He grabbed her arm and placed it across his shoulders, taking the brunt of her weight. “It became my fight the moment you stepped foot in my shop. You know that.”
“I do, and I’m sorry.” She would admit that much. He grunted in reply, and she knew they were good. What she would never admit was that she’d done it on purpose.
“Can’t you sew any faster?” Killian demanded.
“Can’t you fucking stop talking?” Dash shot back as he shoved the needle through her flesh once more. They were in his bathroom, Killian sitting on the vanity in her underwear as he took care of the wound in her thigh. He’d injected the site with lidocaine and epinephrine to numb it and slow the bleeding, but her thigh was still sticky with blood. She’d never admit it, but she was a little light-headed, too. Despite their attempts to stanch the bleeding on the way home, she’d lost a fair bit between the bar and Dash’s place.
She couldn’t charge into the SOB clubhouse like this; they’d take her down with a backhanded slap. She didn’t have much time before they found out about Brand. What then? Would they use Shannon to retaliate?
“If they hurt her because you gave that bastard over to Jackie…”
He cut her off with sharp glance. “Watch where you sling that shit, Kill.”
Killian had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something she knew she’d regret. He was right. Before handing Brand over to the other women, she’d been ready to cut him herself. She was just…agitated.
Instead of talking, she watched him work. Funny, it didn’t even seem like her flesh beneath his hands. She couldn’t feel anything except for the tug of the thread.
“I should have killed him,” she lamented when the silence became too heavy. “Ten years ago. None of this would be happening if I’d just had the balls to finish him.”
He tied a stitch. “Shannon would still be with that kid who looks like Vanilla Ice.”
“K-Fed.”
He shrugged and slid the needle through again. “Whatever.”
“If I’d stayed out of prison, I would have been around to steer her away from guys like that.”
He shook his head. “She’s a teenager—they’re a
ttracted to trouble. If not K-Fed, it would be someone else.”
“Anyone ever accuse you of being a pessimist?” Jesus, did he honestly think that would make her feel better?
“Not recently,” he replied, snipping the last of the thread. “There. Let me put a bandage on this.”
Killian yawned and leaned back against the mirror. “If I go after Wex right now, he’ll kick my ass.”
“He won’t kick anything. He’ll just kill you, or hand you over to Rank.”
She pressed her hands to her face. Fuck. She’d forgotten about the blood. Now it was all over her face, too. “Can I use your shower?”
“Sure. I’ll have a bandage ready for when you get out. You need me to get you anything?”
“You got an extra T-shirt and boxers?”
He stared at her for a moment. “You’re actually going to take my advice and get some rest?”
She hopped off the counter with a shrug, taking care to land on her good leg. “You’re right. I go after Shannon like this, I’m going to get killed. I need some food and some sleep and some honey.”
He arched a brow. “Is that a euphemism?”
Jason used to make fun of him for using big words—they all did. Back then it had been funny; now it was just a stark reminder that he’d always been smarter than them. “No. It’s for my leg.”
“Right. It helps with healing.” Of course he knew about it. “I’ll get it—and the clothes. You go ahead and shower.”
Any other guy and she’d worry about him surprising her while she was naked and vulnerable, but not Dash. He was a gentleman to a fault. Not long after Jason died she’d shown up on his doorstep wasted and needy and practically got down on all fours in front of him. He took her to bed, all right—and left her there alone. Made her breakfast the next morning and told her not to apologize. He was a fucking saint.
