Chaotic Anger: The Seven MC Book 1

by Breck, A. R.

  My dress splashes to the floor silently, leaving me naked in a pair of black heels.

  His hands are filled with objects I choose not to look at, in fear of what I may find. I lift a foot to unstrap my heels when Santiago raises a hand. "Leave them." He drops the items to the floor, each item against the tiled floors a punch to my terrified heart.

  Lowing my foot to the ground, I stand there naked in terror as Santiago takes a step closer to me. He stops only a few inches away from me, until the toe of his shiny leather Italian shoes brushes against the front of my heels. His proximity is too close. I can feel his dark eyes boring onto the crown of my head as I stare at the floor.

  His hand reaches up, his pointer finger tracing the underside of my breast. “I knew you would be special. I knew it the first moment I laid eyes on you. Standing up on that stage as scared as a little lamb.” His voice grows raspy, and it makes my stomach jump to my throat.

  I hold my breath as he brushes my nipple.

  “You talk about going home. This is your home. I don’t want to hear you speaking of it again, do you understand me?”

  I swallow, my words and objections lodged beneath my fear. My objections want to break free and be heard, my lips opening with the need to speak them. But terror like fingers keep them in their grip, choking them and letting them die in my throat.

  “Yes.” I choke instead.

  “You are mine. I brought out more than I need, as you can see.” His hand waves over the pile of items on the ground, where I see a pile of black leather, feathers, and what looks to be like a baton. A sex toy might be in the heap, but I glance away and back to my feet before the sobs barreling at my chest break free. “But before we get too in depth with training, you need to learn to listen. You need to obey. You no longer have a voice here. You will speak when spoken to, otherwise those pretty little lips of yours better stay closed. Understood?”

  “Yes.” I garble through a mouthful of tears. The ground blurs and I blink quickly to rid the flow of tears, but they flood to fast to stop. A tear escapes, and I watch as it falls to the ground, crashing into the ground in a silent splash.

  “Good. Now, look straight ahead.” He orders.

  I raise my eyes from the ground, sniffling through my nose and looking at the dark wall behind him.

  “You are to always look straight ahead. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t look at your fucking feet. Look ahead, and nowhere else.”

  “When I call you into this room, I want you naked and kneeling. Your hands should be folded behind your back. If you do not listen, you will be punished. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” I say, my body blanking and turning numb.

  “Show me.”

  I get down on my knees, lacing my fingers behind my back and keeping my gaze at the wall ahead of me. My knees ache as they dig into the cool, hard ground below me. My chest quakes in fear. I want to go home.

  He growls under his breath. “Beautiful.” He walks around me, brushing my hair over my shoulder and letting his fingers linger along my spine. My stomach rolls and another rack of shivers breaks out along my body. “I knew you would be perfect. You were made for this, Ivy.” There’s a sexual gravel in his voice that wasn’t there before, and my stomach knots with the unknown. His heavy cologne circles around me, and a building nausea makes my mouth dry.

  “Stand up, now.”

  I do as I’m told, almost tumbling to the floor when I lose my footing in these heels. I’m still not used to wearing them, and I imagine myself looking like a baby deer on wobbly knees.

  When he palms the area between my legs, my eyes widen and swing to his.

  Nis nostrils flare as his free hand flies across my cheek. So hard that my head cocks to the side. “What did I say? Do not look anywhere but in front of you, Ivy.”

  I slowly bring my head forward and stare at the wall. My face burns and tears freely flow down my cheeks now as his hand goes to a place where only I have been.

  His middle finger presses, slipping beneath my folds and I swallow down a gag. “Are you a virgin, Ivy?”

  I give him a barely noticeable nod.

  I can see the broad smile break across his face from the corner of my eye. “Even better.” He murmurs, almost to himself.

  He circles me again, like a wolf examining his prey. I feel vulnerable naked, touched, and abused.

  “You will do well, Ivy. With a little training, you will realize I’m not all that bad.” He winks and starts walking towards the chest at the end of the bed, almost like he forgot something. Rifling through the chest, my body freezes to ice when I see him from the corner of my eye as he lifts up a small dildo.

  Without even a thought in my mind, I sprint towards the door. The heels make me slow, but I don’t have time to take them off. I don’t even have time to think. This isn’t how I will spend my life. I’m not going to be raped or abused or treated like a slave by this monster that preys on children.

  I hear the heels of his shoes clack behind me, but I keep running. Once I reach the door, I swing it open as quick as I can, only for it to be slammed shut. My head is still in the doorway, and the heavy, wooden door slams against the side of my face. I collapse to the ground, stars flashing in front of my eyes as I stare up at his blurry form.

  “Mmm, maybe you will be a little more work than I thought.” His voice sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel. I try to fight it, but I can’t. The pain is too much, and my eyes close, passing out and once again wishing this was just a dream.

  * * *

  When I finally come to, I’m in my bed. I jackknife up as quickly as possible, ready to escape, but my ankles protest. Clank. I fall flat on my face, crying out as my nose smashes into the ground. I’m already in excruciating pain, and the extra hit makes me struggle against passing out again. I breathe through my mouth and look down, seeing shackles cuffed on my ankles. Following the chain, I see its hooked to a lock on the wall. I crawl over to it, whimpering with each movement. My body feels like it’s gone through military training. Every bone, muscle, and tendon hurts in my body.

  My fingers reach up and grab onto the lock, pulling and twisting and doing everything I can to break it. I feel around, looking for any kind of release hinge. Nothing. I search the room, my eyes flying to every surface. No key.

  I curl into a ball on the floor in front of the bed, sobbing at the reality of my situation. I’m not getting out of here. That was my only chance, and it was hopeless anyway. This place is so severely monitored by guards, a naked woman in heels running through the desert would have been spotted in a second.

  I cry for hours. Crying until a fall asleep and wake up again. I cry until my bones are weary and my mind is defeated. I cry until I have nothing left in me, only the skin on my back.

  The door creaks open, and I don’t even lift my head. I hope that whoever has come looks at my pitiful state and leaves. Figures I’m a lost cause. I would rather die here, right now, than have to go through whatever it was Santiago wanted from me. With this evil man and his evil minions.

  “Ivy.” Santiago barks at me.

  I should have known. Think of the devil and he will be summoned.

  I don’t respond, even though I know from earlier of the consequences if I don’t follow his rules.

  His footsteps are slow as he walks towards me. I nearly flinch when his fingers brush my chin, lifting my head out of the crook of my arm. I look up, choosing not to look at him. For my benefit and his, I suppose.

  “I will give you this tonight, but tomorrow I expect obedience out of you. I planned to make you a woman tonight, on your birthday, but I figure you have had enough action for the day.” He sighs like even he is displeased with his words. Shifting in place, he pulls an icepack out from his suitcoat pocket. “Rest tonight, tomorrow will be a big day.”

  He stands, leaving me in my despair and pity.

  As I hear the door close, I let out a sob and roll over so I’m lying on my stomach. My face p
resses against the cool ground and my tears create a pool beneath my face.

  I hate my life.

  I hate what it has become.

  That night, I don’t create another tally along the wall.

  Every night thereafter, I don’t make another tally.

  My life ended the last night of my being fifteen years old.

  In my mind, I died on my fifteenth birthday.

  Well, Ivy Davis died.

  Now I’ll ever only be his.

  3

  Aziel

  Smoke swirls between my fingers like a maze as it works its way off the cherry. I exhale, ruining its trail, only for it to start back up again once the air stills.

  The night is quiet. The air is dry and hot. Sweat makes my shirt stick to my back. My jeans feel rough and too thick against my overheated legs. But I have no energy to remedy my situation.

  Being VP is exhausting.

  I slip my lighter from my pocket and relight my cigarette when the cherry burns out. Taking a drag, I exhale heavily with all the fatigue festering in my body as I look into the distance. All I can see is mountains surrounding me, the peaks glowing bright as the sun has its last glance at the world before it departs.

  This has become a ritual of sorts.

  Sitting on the roof of the clubhouse as the sun sets. I need this peace and quiet, a time to do nothing besides smoke my cigarettes and stare at the endless landscape in front of me.

  My anger these last few years have been getting the best of me, which I suppose makes sense given the name they gave me once I became VP—Wrath. For years people thought I should've been named something else. I was too much of a playboy and not enough of a VP or dedicated enough to take over the reins of a motorcycle club.

  But these last few years have been like a knife digging into my spine. Every fucking puncture is turning me into someone else. Nothing can stop this change. It was inevitable. I was just blinded by the immature reality of being young with an overeager dick.

  You’d think my dad, President of the Seven Motorcycle Club, would've wanted to rub the grime of the world in my face since I was a toddler. He didn't. He let me learn the shit by myself.

  I sure did.

  I went from carting drugs and guns over the border and splitting bullets in old men's skulls since I was a kid. That shit hasn't changed. But the years have changed me. I think it changed all of us.

  My boy, Jackson, from Minnesota…he went through some shit that no one should ever have to go through. Boy got himself paralyzed, had a kid, and had his baby momma kidnapped. If you call someone strong, Jackson better be first in line. He persevered through that shit and came out a better guy. He got his legs back; he got his girl back. They're good.

  It was a private discussion between my pops and I that we would get Jackson and The Grove out of the shit they were dealing with the Mexicans. Considering it was our shit with them that started the whole feud in the first place. They wanted into our territory. We didn’t want them into our territory. The feud fueled between us, growing until the fire couldn’t be put out. Whatever thin business relationship has been between us and the Mexicans in the past, that shit is done and buried. Now I’m fueled by the need to take him down.

  I can handle going up against grown men. I can handle getting bloody. I can handle watching people I know, and trust take their last breath. That shit hurts, but it won’t knock me down.

  What kills me—what brings me to my knees, honestly, is the fact that this sick fuck, Santiago, Jefe of the Mexican cartel, traffics little girls. Not just women, that's terrible as it is. Girls. Of all fucking ages. I've seen them in their worst forms. I've seen remains of fucking children. Their skeletons are burnt into my fucking skull.

  Dealing with this type of shit for the last few years has changed me into someone else. It's literally changed me into the fucking Wrath that this club has always believed I was. I'm angry. I'm fuming. I promise myself every night the moment I finally catch Santiago, I'll put a bullet in every two hundred and six bones in his damn body.

  It's been a slow process, but we've been taking down one location at a time. Sometimes we are able to free some people. Sometimes we get to kill some people. Other times, we come to an empty building, and all we get to do is explode the motherfucker so they can't hold anyone there in the future.

  It might seem tedious, and my bones are screaming at me for some fucking mercy, but we can't stop.

  There're too many girls out there still. Too many victims with their souls lost in the dark world. I'll do it until it kills me. I made a promise to Jackson and his girl that I'd take them down, and I don't ever break a fucking promise.

  Yeah, I might be a little rough around the edges, but we all are. Living in a clubhouse about forty-five minutes away from San Diego, you think we'd be a bunch of hippies.

  We're not.

  We live far enough away from the coast where we can have a little bit of land and peace and quiet from the tourists that flock to the California beaches every year.

  We're savages here.

  A bunch of men that don't have nearly enough manners. The only women we have are a few Jessie’s that stay here and outright refuse to leave. So, we give them a job and tell them to keep their mouths and legs closed unless they’re told otherwise.

  Jessie’s are sluts, basically. They are called Jessie because the first girl that ever became a repeater, someone that kept coming back for seconds was named Jessie. The name stuck, I guess. Jessie’s are the girls that come back for more because they know they won’t find it better anywhere else. The Jessie’s love the Seven. And honestly, the Seven love the Jessie’s.

  Can't help our behaviors. We've got not one—seriously—not one old lady here at our club. Why? Because like I said, we're fucking savages.

  My pops wasn't even going to make an old lady out of my momma. She was some Jessie that kept coming around, ended up getting knocked up. Then she had some complications during childbirth and didn't even get to hold me. I was raised by a bunch of men. My dad, Lynx, being the gruffest of them all.

  “Z, you up there?” My old man rasps from below.

  I flick my cigarette, and snicker as he curses. “Yeah.”

  “Get your ass to church. We got shit to discuss.”

  Church.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I listen to his chain jingle as he walks away. Sighing, I make my way over the edge of the roof and jump down.

  Time to go to church.

  When someone calls church, we head to the back room around the biggest table I’ve ever seen. It’s filled with knife gouges and cigarette ash and more sweat and spit than I want to think about. It’s where we meet. It’s where the Seven discuss club business that doesn’t need get aired around anyone else at the club.

  We have a lot of people that hangout around the club, but they aren’t the Seven. The others are old fucks who have retired, or bikers that are good friends but live boring normie lives.

  Being a part of the Seven means you have to follow a strict guideline of rules. They’re easy, actually. You don’t follow the rules, your patch and tat come off, and you become part of the earth.

  Club rules are simple.

  Always be loyal.

  Don’t talk club business.

  If someone calls church, you better be there.

  Always wear your cut and patch.

  You betray the club, and you get the bullet.

  You feel like fuckin’ up? Better not. That shit’ll piss me off. And that’s not something you ever, ever want to do.

  It seems simple, but I’ve seen a few bullets go between the eyes because of someone fucking up one way or another.

  I adjust my cut and flip my hat backwards as I make my way inside.

  I walk around to the front of the building. This place has been in the family since my grandfather. He built the Seven. Bought this place and had it as his shop to work on bikes before starting up the club. Built an addition on the shop and made a h
ouse, a business, and a bar. This place has had its ups and downs. When my grandfather died and my pops took over, this place was in shambles. My grandfather worked his ass off and built the place, but when he got sick in the seventies, he could barely keep this place together. Pops was only fifteen years old when my granddad died, leaving the entire club in the hands of my father. It was hard, and there were a few years where people didn't know if it would ever survive another year. But it did.

  My pops worked his ass off young and turned this place around, flipping the outside and the inside and building something bigger than it’s ever been before. It was a small club before, but now it’s the biggest on the west coast. This place now sits inside a massive gate, which is patrolled by one of the prospects at all times.

  I walk in through the open garage door that houses the mechanic’s shop. One of our prospects, Charlie, is laying on a creeper underneath one of the vans. Trying to figure out what could be wrong with it. I don’t think anything is wrong with it, actually. Prospects just get hazed the shit out of before they become patched in as a member. Poor little shit will be working all night to try and figure out what’s going on.

  He wheels out from underneath the car and gives me a defeated nod. “Sup, Aziel?”

  I nod my head towards the door. “Headed to church. You find anything wrong with the van yet?”

  He shakes his head as he rolls back under the hood. “Not yet. Got a few ideas, but still haven’t found anything.”

  I grimace. I’ll share a joint with the guy in the morning when he finds out nothing’s wrong with it. “Have fun.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Charlie sighs from underneath the car, and I walk through the banged up wooden door. In front of me sits a hallway that leads right to the room where we hold church. The door is open as I walk up to it, and everyone is already inside, sitting in their prospective spots, waiting for me.

  “There he fucking is. Want us to wait so you can go squeeze one out or somethin’? For fuck sake.” Pascal shakes his head in irritation. I flick him off as I walk around the table and take a seat next to my pops, who sits at the head of the table.