Honor and Redemption

by A. C. Bextor

  They’re not punishing me because they’re angry, but rather, they’re terrified.

  “You gettin’ why we wanna strangle you but haven’t yet?” Leglas pries.

  I nod, my lips quivering.

  The guys exchange a few words as the girls stand stoically at their sides.

  Liam, kneeling in front of me, lifts my chin to right my head. He winks in reassurance, but I don’t respond. Then he grabs his equipment and pats my shoulder before standing.

  As he zips his bag, he tells Elevent, “Tomorrow morning, I’ll swing by before my shift to check on Nikolas and have another look at Cricket. She’ll be fine. Nikolas will need a few days before we can get him home.”

  I swallow hard, struggling against more tears that threaten to fall.

  I did this. Nikolas said himself he doesn’t like messes, and here we are. I caused him to create one that ultimately got him hurt.

  Even if he’s expected to be okay, Agatha must be planning the countless ways to kill me off for all the stress I’ve caused her happy life.

  What have I done?

  “Cricket,” Liam calls. I look up, hopeful he’ll shed some light on why I’m such an idiot. “What you did was incredibly brave. You had your reasons, I understand. However—”

  “I know,” I stress, saving him the trouble. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Sei una famiglia,” You are family, he tells me in Italian, nodding once and turning to Elevent.

  As I’m about to stand, the front door flies open. All heads turn and I gasp for breath.

  Gypsy tosses a dirty brown duffle bag to the floor. He says nothing, and doesn’t acknowledge anyone in the room as he flips off his boots one at a time. They land with a thud before he drops his cut on top of the bag.

  “Thinkin’, Blue Eyes, you haven’t seen the wrath of your people just yet,” Leglas remarks.

  Mia whimpers as she aims to walk from Elevent’s hold, but he stops her. Grabbing her wrist, he positions her back to his chest and rests his chin on her shoulder.

  Gypsy continues to ignore us as he walks the distance of the room toward the bar. There, he takes to the far end, avoiding the crowd of us gathered. Still, without words or acknowledging he’s not alone, he slams open the cooler beneath the register and roughly yanks out a beer. The other bottles clatter loudly, while the rest of us remain still.

  Liam utters a quick and quiet goodbye that not many of my friends return.

  Gypsy pops the lid and downs half the beer, stopping only to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He looks tired, exhausted from helping with those I got hurt in the mess I made.

  “Elevent,” Mia pleads, and I match my gaze to hers. She bites her bottom lip in worry.

  Elevent shakes his head, his lower eyelid twitching.

  Scowling down at me, he pledges, “You’ll take what he’s got for you, too, Cricket.”

  Oh, God.

  As I drop my feet to the floor and move to stand, Gypsy sends the beer bottle flying through the air. It crashes against the closest wall, shattering into tiny bits and pieces. Glass and foam mix, sliding down against the now darkened paint. I jump in place, sucking in my bottom lip to keep from screaming.

  “Fuck,” Sty sneers. “El, you sure about givin’ her to him? Maybe that can wait. Give the brother some more time to cool down.”

  I wince as Elevent’s gaze passes over mine, as if I’m invisible.

  Shit.

  “She gets this,” he tells the others. “All of it.”

  “Elevent,” Mia tries again.

  “No, Angel,” he denies, his tone lethal, even toward her. “This is on her. We had our say. Now it’s between them.”

  Silence reigns, taking with it my hope that Gypsy will have understood what I did and the reasons for it.

  “Get your ass to your room,” Gypsy levels out his words in a rush.

  I look to Elevent, then to Leglas, wordlessly pleading for either to interfere as they’ve always done before. When I determine Elevent meant what he said, and that I’m to accept punishment, I hold my gaze to Leglas. Behind his beard, his lips are twitching.

  What in the world is so goddamn funny?

  “Cricket!” Gypsy roars. “I said fuckin’ move!”

  Startled, I leap from the bar stool and skirt my way around my friends.

  Sunny grabs my wrist before I’m able to get away, and whispers, “He needs a few minutes to settle. He’ll be okay.”

  A minute. Two. An hour. A year. No amount of time will buy me away from what Elevent believes I have coming.

  Rather than argue, I nod, taking off out of the kitchen and making my way to my room.

  Ten minutes pass before the door bursts open. Gypsy stands outside of it, leaning his large arms against each side. His dirty, blood-soaked shirt rides up, revealing his tanned skin beneath.

  We stare in challenge before he finally enters, slamming the door behind him.

  “Gypsy,” I start, standing from the bed.

  I hear the lock click into place, and I lick my dry lips. I’m nervous, scared of what he’ll do or say. Never have I seen Gypsy so unhinged.

  “Not another fuckin’ word,” he hisses, walking to the center of my room and reaching over his shoulders to remove his shirt. Shadows of crimson mark his skin, stains of the blood he’d cleaned from others. Further evidence of my stupidity is the white bandage taped over the top of Gypsy’s shoulder. He was inches away from being hit with a bullet. Because of me.

  So, so stupid.

  Looking down, I fidget with my hands, wishing he’d just tell me it’s over between us and go.

  That he wants a life away from mine.

  That I’m too much trouble.

  The silence is unbearable. I wish he’d get out what he needs to so he can forgive me and we can move on.

  Stepping closer, Gypsy unbuckles his belt. My eyes widen, fearing he thinks for a second he’s going to punish me with the heavy leather.

  “You told me you loved me,” he says, his tone not angered, but still filled with disgust. He whips the leather strap from his waist, sending it flying through the air. The buckle hits the farthest wall, landing on the floor with a bone-jarring thud. “That shit you fed me, why’d you bother? You knew you were leavin’ me.”

  “Gypsy, I’m—”

  Reaching out, he grabs my wrist and pulls me into him. Our chests collide, and my hair sweeps from my face with the force of his exertion.

  “I gave up everything,” he continues, not letting me finish, “to come back here, and live in a place I don’t wanna be. With people I love, but people who also know I don’t wanna be here.”

  My head tilts, frozen in time, as I stare at a storm passing through his eyes. The thunder, all the passion he has for me. The lightning, the frustration. The rain, the regret.

  If he’s about to end this before we’ve really started, I can’t listen. I’ll know in the morning when I wake up and he’s gone. That’s always been enough. That’ll be enough again.

  Pleading, I shake my wrist in his grasp. “Let me go. You’re hurting me.”

  “What you did was irresponsible,” he accuses. “And stupid.”

  “Gypsy, I understand you—”

  Gypsy shoves me away. I scramble back to the bed, lifting my legs to cradle them in my arms, settling my chin to their tops. Not for protection, because he’d never physically hurt me, but to curl myself in shame.

  Running his hands through his hair, his posture remains unyielding, his moves irregular and unstable. He turns around, giving me his back.

  As if I could feel worse.

  He reaches over to my dresser, using one hand to grab my favorite glass vase. He rears back and I yelp as he sends it crashing to the wall, barely missing my window. Next, a basket of clothes flies through the room, bouncing off the floor before tumbling over. My tray of perfume is wiped from the dresser surface, the glass bottles crashing against each other. Finally, a baseball trophy of his that I’ve kept for years, slams
against the wooden door, marking it until it breaks.

  I finally exhale.

  Walking a small circle, the anger subsides and he stops the madness long enough to look at me.

  “Gypsy,” I call quietly. “I think maybe—”

  Reaching forward, he grabs my ankle and yanks, flattening my back to the bed. Hurriedly, I attempt to move back and out of reach.

  Gypsy pounces, spreading my thighs and running his hands up the inside. A blast of heat blankets my skin as he looks down to examine every inch of what he’s doing.

  My panties are ripped and tossed away, then my nightgown is lifted to below my chest, exposing my body to his towering frame. With his feet to the floor, he bends, watching his hands as they explore my stomach, chest, and coming to stop at my neck. He squeezes in warning, keeping his attention diverted to my naked skin.

  I swallow hard, accepting whatever he’s so intent to take.

  Please, look at me.

  Gypsy thrusts his hips, his arousal hard against my thigh. Through his jeans, his cock stirs. The muscles of his chest work in tandem with his arms as he unbuttons and unzips his pants. Looking down, he rubs himself against my bared and heated flesh.

  Understanding dawns.

  Even being so irate, Gypsy wants inside. He’s going to get his revenge for scaring him the way I did by fucking all his rage away.

  “Honey, I’m not sure—”

  Gypsy grabs my outer thighs aggressively, his strong jaw ticking wildly.

  Look at me, I mindfully plead.

  In one long, furious thrust, Gypsy’s eyes slam shut and he enters.

  “Oh, God,” I cry out, grabbing the sheet beneath me.

  My back moves up and down the bed as he pulls out and slams back inside. The taut muscles of his abs strain with each added jerk of his hips. His movements are quick, hurried, to the point of frenzied.

  With his eyes still shut, he hisses, “Fuck.”

  My thighs burn with the force of his thrusts, each more punishing than the last.

  One of his hands drops to my clit, his thumb nearly bruising the sensitive flesh with its heated torment. His other hand reaches up, pulling the neck of my gown down. His fingers twist my nipple, rolling it with agitation.

  Look at me.

  Gypsy growls as my back arches from the bed, the chaotic mix of stimulation overpowering.

  “I love you,” I tell him, fearing the distance between us, but on the precipice of release.

  His aggression goes further when his hands fall from my chest and center. Savage fingers grasp my hips, slamming them to his. Beautiful pain catches between us.

  With his eyes closed, Gypsy growls, grinding harder, faster, and with added concentration.

  He’s close.

  Open your eyes and look at what you’re doing.

  But he won’t. He’s angry beyond reach for what I did. Probably ashamed for how helpless I made him feel. The Gypsy I know is gone. In his place, a man on a mission for vengeance.

  “Finish this,” I tell him, all but begging for him to hear my voice.

  Maybe once he does, he’ll look me in the eye.

  “No more from you, Cricket,” he grounds out on a hiss, driving recklessly as he takes what he wants, offering nothing in return.

  Realizing this, my eyes begin to burn. I’m a body, a vacant vessel being used for unadorned torture.

  “Please, finish,” I tell him, my heart having lost its fight.

  A few seconds pass, and Gypsy drives in as far as the connection will take us. The flesh of my hips burn at the anguish of his push and pull. My inner thighs ache from the grinding frustration of his hips.

  Groaning loudly, wildly, and out of control, Gypsy’s body lurches for the last time, before emptying into me.

  I exhale a heavy breath and wait. With foolish hope, I watch as he withdraws and steps back. He firmly, coldly, taps one of my thighs toward the other to get them to close.

  I’m sick.

  Without a word, he tucks himself back into his jeans and looks down to search the floor.

  I’m empty.

  Finding his shirt, he slides the blood-stained material over his chest and makes his way to leave.

  I’ve been used.

  Shutting off the light, he opens the door, but stops when I call, “Where are you going?”

  Without a second thought, or a momentary glance back, he hisses, “To decide if dealin’ with your fuckin’ bullshit is worth more than a mediocre fuck at best.”

  I’m fucking ruined.

  “I understand Vante is a member of your club,” Abram starts, shaking his head. “But I wasn’t aware he’d been kept so…” He pauses, each of us observing Vante as he paces the manicured grounds of the Zalesky estate. “Sheltered.”

  Abram and I are standing in an empty room with large windows facing the front of the Zalesky property. It’s dark outside, close to nine p.m. The overhead security lights gleam down, illuminating Vante’s frustration as he paces in small circles, pulling at the ends of his short, cropped hair.

  “He’s a good kid,” I tell Abram, meaning every word.

  “This is no doubt,” the old Russian wholly agrees. “However, had I known he had such little experience, I could’ve warned him to the circumstances of what we may come across.”

  “Our club doesn’t run dirty,” I remind. “And before Saint’s took him on, Vante led a good, clean life. One brother, two sisters. Parents who think the world of him. Vante hasn’t tasted the true salt of the earth in its most bitter form.”

  “Ah, this makes sense,” Abram returns. “He’s young as well.”

  That, he is. He’s also unlike the others who lead the club. Sty, Advay, even Gypsy, the fucking shit, would do anything for anyone they felt deserving. But they’d do it expecting the worst. Vante, with as little drama as he’s been through with Saint’s, isn’t conditioned for the same.

  When I pulled up to the Zalesky estate, set to meet with Abram and Vante, the expression on their faces said all they hadn’t. Before I had my bike parked and shut down, Vante was at my side. I caught his glower of dissension, the rigidness of his stance. Down to his wholesome core, the guy was rattled.

  “Tell me, Abram, and be honest. Mob man to biker, how bad is this shit?”

  “The younger sister,” he digs in, referring to Letta. “With only Vante and I standing silently in the room, she trembled so badly, it was a wonder she could stand.”

  Vante and Abram made their approach after finding where Belle worked. She owns her own hair salon in a nice area not far from where she lives. Learning this, Abram made distant contact, explaining that stepping in to visit the girls in their territory would be easier than any place neutral. The risk in this for us was as we’d expected. If either of the women needed rescued, as Abram inferred, odds were they were being watched by whoever held their lives captive.

  “The damage to Letta’s face was severe,” Abram tells me. “She wore glasses to hide, but nothing can mask the mark of a man’s fist.”

  My gut stirs, imagining the Letta I used to know and how scared she must have been going against another person twice her size. Makes sense she trembled seeing Vante.

  “Seeing her so damaged, Vante became agitated.”

  “No,” I refuse. “Seeing that, Vante got pissed. And he hasn’t worked that off yet.”

  “He hasn’t,” Abram agrees.

  “And Belle? Was she hurt?”

  “I saw nothing physical on her,” he tells me. “And she wasn’t as jumpy. She kept aware of what surrounded her. She sensed no threat from Vante or myself.”

  “Belle was always a quick study on people, even as a young girl.”

  Abram nods. “She’s well versed in shielding her emotions. I’ve worked with many women who are the same.”

  “Those women in your stables,” I presume.

  “Before they come to us, they are not always whole. In ways, Letta reminds me of a few.”

  This isn’t good. When I kne
w her, Letta led a more sheltered life. Not only was she the youngest sibling, with good parents who loved her, she also had Belle watching her every move.

  “And the man?” I refer, readying myself for the answer.

  Abram hesitates briefly, but delivers, “Belle wears a ring.”

  My gut clenches. The man in those pictures is her husband. Although there is no proof, he could also be the man with a quick temper and generous fists.

  “Did you get anything on him?”

  “I did,” he states solemnly.

  “And?”

  “His name is Varo Babak,” Abram shares on a slight shrug. “All we know of him is that he deals not in flesh, but product. A lot of it.”

  “Babak,” I utter to myself before surmising, “That’s foreign. Iranian?”

  Abram smirks. “Seems you’re a quick study as well. Yes, the name is of Iranian descent.”

  “How the fuck does an Iranian drug pusher hook up with a Mexican woman?”

  “That’s where this gets complicated. Varo’s mother was the daughter of a cartel drug lord. She was also a whore,” Abram explains.

  “Was,” I catch and reiterate.

  “She’s been dead for some time. Her death certificate states she died of natural causes. Varo was raised by his father, who is now also deceased.”

  “Still doesn’t give the connection between the two.”

  Abram remains passive, quiet, saying only, “His mother’s blood runs through his. Perhaps he has a taste for her culture.”

  “I guess.”

  “And maybe you’ve missed this, but Belle is a beautiful woman, no matter her lineage.”

  This is not the first time, or the third, that Abram Wiles has commented on Belle and how beautiful she is.

  His admiration isn’t necessary. In fact, it’s getting old.

  “Careful, friend. I like you, but got no problem shaking the shit out of you.”

  He smiles, lifting his hands between us to placate. “I need to know. Do you believe Vante can be trusted should you decide to take this further?”

  “There’s no doubt.”

  “And he’ll keep a lid on this until whatever we’re doing is done?” Abram points to the yard where Vante looks up. Through the bullet and soundproof glass of the bay window, we can’t hear anything outside. Fair bet says Vante is howling at the moon in frustration. “There are risks with the men in your operation finding out what’s at play. And from what I still understand, you want no one else involved.”