by Skyla Madi
“You leave this room and you’ll have all of us to deal with. They won’t care if you hack your throat out.”
She sidestepped and slowly shuffled toward the exit. “They won’t, but you will, and I’m banking on your affection to get me out the door.”
I barked out a laugh. “My affection? You are crazy.”
Isabelle tilted her head, and I hated it was so damn endearing. “Or maybe that’s your tactic. You make women feel safe, then you turn on them.”
I squinted and straightened my spine. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw the photos,” she said, her voice cracking, as she reached the door. “I saw what you did to those girls.”
Photos? Girls? “I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
I stared at her as she reached behind her and turned the handle, opening the door. I followed Izzy down the hall to the main room where the men, who sat around our main table, were engaged in quiet conversation. They fell silent and stared when we entered the area. In the background, Rage Against the Machine played at a low volume.
“Christ, Blondie,” Modo called from his place halfway down the table. “You look like shit.”
I could kill him. It hit me then, as Ayr and Armi slipped from their seats and moved toward the exit behind Isabelle, blocking it. My stomach twisted. She was talking about the photos of the women—not girls—I’d sent to keep her father in check. A clammy sweat formed in my palms. Fuck. She was never supposed to see them.
“Women,” I told her, my voice quiet so only she could hear me. “They were women.”
“Regardless,” she snapped, turning the scissors on me once more. Modo whistled and laughed, enjoying the show instead of getting off his ass to help. “You disgust me, you…you…rapist.”
I absorbed my flinch as whistles and intakes of sharp air filled the room. Jonathan told her I raped those women? The sick bastard! Was that why she wanted to get away? Because she thought she was in danger? That I wanted to hurt her?
“Rapist?” Armi shouted, making Isabelle whirl on her heel. “What the fuck did you do to her, VP?”
I cut my eyes at him. “I didn’t do anything. She has her facts wrong.”
She glared at me. “I saw the—”
I snatched the scissors out of her hand and threw them behind me. She gulped then whipped around and sprinted toward the front of the club house, where the main room gave way to the bar area, the only place the public could hang on open nights. I stormed after her, and in the other room, Iris blocked the front door with a goddamn rifle and Kace stood between Blondie and the kitchen, blocking her exit.
“Put that thing back in the damn armory before Judge sees you,” I shouted at Iris.
She batted her eyelashes. “What? I was only cleaning it.”
Liar.
Kace’s stare met mine as I surged forward. “Want me to grab her, VP?”
“Touch her and I’ll kill you.”
Kace flashed his palms and stepped aside, giving Izzy access to the kitchen. I called after her, but she ignored me and kept running. In the kitchen, Pearl, Harlei’s mom, flicked her chin to the pantry then wrapped her bread and left. I turned toward the pantry and reached for the handles then stopped. The agitation in my veins demanded I rip the doors off the hinges and drag Isabelle out, kicking and screaming. I should’ve.
But I didn’t.
I Z Z Y
I hide next to a gigantic sack of potatoes, their earthy smell turning my empty stomach, and I stare at a small slice of Creed’s shadow as he stands right outside the large, dark pantry.
“I’m guilty of a lot of shit,” he snaps then blows an impatient air out of his nose. “But rape isn’t one of them.”
I turn my head and rest my cheek against my knee. There’s so much I want to say to him, so much I want to understand, but I don’t know where to start. There’s no excuse good enough to justify the images he sent to intimidate my father. Of course, Dad isn’t an innocent party in all this either, with his fear mongering and propaganda. He was a liar by trade, a hype man who knew how to mince words and cleverly manipulate the masses to further progress his agenda. Creed is a criminal who couldn’t care less what I thought of him. He has nothing to lose to rape allegations.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Isabelle.” Creed’s shadow disappears then reappears. “I did what I was told to do, and I did it without remorse because it was the closest I could get to having you. Maybe that makes me sick, but…fuck. I didn’t hurt anyone.”
My head swims, pounding like mad, and I close my eyes.
When I open them, the pantry doors are wide open and Armi is standing over me, his blond hair hanging in front of his face and over his shoulders. Rock music blasts, and squeals of delight and roars of laughter flood my ears. They’re throwing a party? Really? I sniff, lift my head, and squint up at Armi.
“Can’t sleep in here all night, Blondie,” he says, extending his large hand to me. “Pearl needs to make us food, and your ass is on the potatoes.”
I rub my eyes. “Can I go home?”
“Home? You don’t have a front door, babe. Wouldn’t be safe.”
I put my hand in his, and he eases me to my feet. “And I’m safe here? With the likes of you?”
“Stay in your lane and you won’t get any trouble from us.”
I keep my attention downcast to Armi’s boots as he escorts me out of the pantry and into the kitchen. Meat sizzles on a grill, and my stomach growls at the smell that filters into my nose. I look to the old woman, Pearl, who stands by the stovetop, turning fat steaks and eyeing me curiously. Her silver hair is piled on the top of her head, her weathered face kind but cautious.
“You eat steak?” she asks.
I glance at the chunks of meat, still red and bleeding in the center. “Is it Wagyu No Sumibiyaki?”
Armi scoffs, and Pearl thins her dark eyes as she slaps her spatula against a slab of steak, pressing it down until it sizzles and spits. “Angus.”
“Oh.”
“She’ll eat whatever you put on her plate, Pearly.” Armi releases my hand and grabs my wrist. He tugs on me, pulling me toward the door that leads to the bar and the open foyer. “What’s the matter with you? You wanna get stabbed? Because that’s how you get stabbed.”
“What’d I say?”
“If Pearl asks if you eat something, you say yes ma’am and you fucking lick the plate clean when you’re done.” He shakes his head. “Ain’t nobody got the patience for your pretentious sumibaki ass.”
“Sumibiyaki.”
Armi escorts me into the main foyer and past the bar. I drag my attention over the semi-crowded space that’s been transformed into a party zone once more, complete with stripper poles and leather couches. Everyone in the room wears their leather vest and denim jeans. My nose twitches at the scent of beer, cigarettes, and marijuana, and my head thumps worse. How can they be partying right now? Creed said the club is being framed for what happened at my house. If that’s true, why are they celebrating? Why doesn’t anyone look concerned?
Armi drums his fingers against my wrist to the erratic beat of the music. I glance up at him then follow his line of sight across the room. Perched on a seat with a topless woman in his lap sits Creed. My breath hitches at his intense glare from over the brunette’s slender, tattooed shoulder, and my stomach flips. The brunette faces him, her chest to his, her mouth on the skin under his ear. Heat spreads through my muscles and sears across my scalp, overwhelming me.
I turn my head to Armi, who scans the room, looking for someone.
“Why are we standing here?” I shout, and he hunches, lowering his ear to my mouth. “Why are we standing here?” I repeat.
Armi brushes hair away from my ear and lowers his mouth to speak. “Looking for Iris so she can take you to your room. I’ll be dead meat if I take you down the hall myself.”
My attention flicks to Creed of its own accord. Our eyes lock, and his glare is lethal an
d sharp, cutting through me like glass. I glare back. Who the hell does he think he is?
“Can I show you something?”
I nod, and Armi reaches into his back pocket, retrieving his phone. He enters his gallery and scrolls down a few swipes before pressing play on a video. I grimace and turn away. Pornography? I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime.
“Look.” Armi snags my shoulder and pulls me back. He points at the perfect, muscular ass as it clenches and releases with every thrust. “That’s me.”
“Stunning,” I deadpan.
“That’s Sarah Miller,” he says, pointing at the blonde he grips tight in his large hands. I think on the familiar name and hear my father’s voice in my head. It’s Sarah Miller, a twenty-one-year-old flight attendant from Las Vegas, and one of Creed’s rape victims. “Nice girl. Loves cocaine.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“I don’t know if it proves anything, but any woman who’s been through this place was here because she wanted to be. There are no rapists here, girl,” Armi says, speaking directly into my ear. “Creed likes you. Don’t know why, but he does, and I can tell he’s really fucking bothered by your accusations. If you believe him or forgive him, go over there and let him know. If not, leave him alone and let him have his fun.”
If what he’s saying is true, then I owe Creed an apology for my aggression and my accusations, that much I know, but I’m not going over there, not while he’s surrounded by women and Modo, of all people. Not in a million years. Shrugging out of Armi’s grip, I turn toward the hall.
“Where’s my room?”
SEVEN
I Z Z Y
I don’t leave my small cell-like room, not for dinner when they bang on my door, not for the soft-spoken girl they send on their behalf, not for anyone or anything. Instead, I shower in my tiny bathroom, put on the clean Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt left on my single bed, and climb under the hideous blue sheets. I don’t sleep. The thumping of the music, roars of laughter, and non-stop moaning keep me awake. Eventually, the sounds die off—well, mostly. The moaning has melted into a low hum, and the music has reduced to a quiet thumping, like a heartbeat. I could sleep to it…if not for the plaguing thoughts of Creed. What is he doing? Who is he doing? I huff and roll onto my side, facing the concrete wall. It’s none of my business. My house was shot up, my father too. I have more important things to focus on, like getting out of here and locating him.
Still…I can’t help but pine. I don’t want to be at odds with Creed, not like this.
Exhaling, I push back the thin covers and slip from the bed. The black, faded tee I’m wearing hangs loosely from my limbs, the hem brushing my thighs. In a couple steps, I’m at the door. I grab the handle and ease it down. It clicks, and the hinges squeal as I gently pull the door open. I startle, and my heart races when my gaze flicks to my apparent babysitters sitting against the black wall across from my room. I tip my head at Kace, the prospect, who sleeps soundly against a young woman, his head resting on her shoulder. They wear identical cuts of brown leather—which is peculiar. She doesn’t look like a biker. She’s tiny, smaller than me, and not a single tattoo inked into her softly tanned skin.
I hold my breath as I close my squealing door then quickly tip-toe toward Creed’s room—the one on the right, not the left. The muffled sounds of feminine moaning grow louder and louder the closer I draw to the end of the hall, to Creed’s room. My stomach ties itself in knots and jams at the base of my throat. It didn’t occur to me that the passionate moans could be coming from his room. I stop at the end of the hall, Judge’s room on my left, Creed’s on my right. Swallowing hard, I inch toward Creed’s black door and press my ear to the wood. The longer I linger, the more I realize the noises are coming from behind me, from Judge’s room. I close my eyes and let out a sigh of relief. I’ve come to terms with the fact Creed has been with other women, but I don’t know how I’d handle it happening under the same roof as me.
I push on the handle, and it moves smoothly and silently; the hinges on the door do, too. I step inside his dark, cold room and close the door behind me. My eyes quickly adjust to the dark with the help of the moonlight that pours in from the skylight above his gigantic bed. On top of the mattress, a large body lays to one side; the other side remains neat and untouched.
I head toward it, propelled only by my craving for comfort from him, and I slip under his crisp sheets that carry a gentle lavender smell, reminding me of that night in my room. He doesn’t move as I slide over, my body parallel to his, our face inches apart. Our gazes meet, and to my surprise, there’s no sign of sleep on his face. Even in the dim light, he looks as alert as he does in the middle of the day. I reach out and touch his hip, and he releases a gentle rush of air. I inhale his clean, soapy scent and shuffle closer, gliding my hand up the side of his body and onto his ribs. His body is firm, perfectly carved from stone, and his skin is warm and welcoming. He touches my outer thigh with his fingers first then his whole palm, gliding north. A flush of goosebumps flutter down my spine.
I should apologize to him, but I can’t. I don’t know how. Instead, I move my head forward, and he copies. Before I know it, our lips crash together in a heated kiss. I place my hand at the back of his neck and pull myself closer, desperate to squeeze us together, the way I’ve wanted us to be from the moment I saw him. Grunting, Creed grips my thigh, and I gasp as he yanks my pelvis forward, hooking my leg over his hip. I notice under my bare thigh that he is also bare. He sleeps naked. And there’s no ignoring the effect I have on him right now. His cock is hard between my legs, pressing eagerly against the flat of my belly. A burning, tingling sensation runs through my limbs. I reach down between us and grip him. In my hand, he’s hot and firm and much bigger than Pierce. I break the kiss, gliding my palm down his length to cup his balls. Everything about him is smooth, perfect, and tight. I didn’t peg him as a man who cares much about his pubic hair and whether there’s too much of it.
“Did you bring that woman to your bed?” I ask—no, demand—I demand to know.
“No.” He reaches over my arm and pushes his hands into my panties, gliding a single finger down my center, exploring like he already owns it. “I don’t bring whores to my bed. Not this bed.”
A sharp pang of jealousy zaps my stomach, and heat gathers at my collar. “So you took her to another bed?”
“No.” He bites my lower lip until I hiss then drags his rough finger up my slit to circle my sensitive bundle of nerves at the top. “Didn’t take her anywhere. Didn’t want to. I should’ve, after seeing you holding hands with Armi.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You fucking were.” Turning his head, he buries his face in the pillow by my ear, his lips touching my lobe. “You’re lucky he’s still alive, that I didn’t make you watch as I wiped his face with the floor. This pussy, Isabelle…” He pushes a thick finger inside me, burying it deep, setting me alight. “Is mine.”
I inhale, and the breath I store feels too big for my chest, making my brain spin in my skull. No one has ever said such inappropriate things to me before. No one has claimed me like this, with such ferocity, such violence, as if he’d murder anyone who contested his claim. With Pierce, we never spoke during foreplay or sex. It just happened, and that was it, never to be discussed. Talking about sex and my desires embarrassed him, made him flush like a young girl, but not Creed. He lifts his head and stares into my eyes, my soul.
“Did you hear me?” he asks, massaging me from the inside, pressing a spot that makes me feel like my body is levitating off the mattress.
I nod, my breath hitching, my eyelids fluttering. “Yes.”
“Not good enough.” Creed rolls toward me, moving his body on top of mine, and my hands slip from his balls to grip his shaft once more. “Do you want to be my bitch?”
I nod again, jerking my hand up and down his impressive and intimidating length. I swipe my thumb over his thick head, collecting slippery beads of his arousal. “Y-yes.”
He pulls his hand from my body, from my panties, and I descend from the euphoric madness his touch promised. He slips from my hand, and disappointment bubbles in my chest as he rears back, taking the sheets with him. Panting, I drag my stare up the sculpted length of his inked, muscular torso and rest on his face. The light from the moon is subtle, but it’s enough for me to make out the rises and depressions of his sculpted body. How’d he get so big? So beefy? James Creed is more beast than man, and I’m only a helpless kitten teasing a salivating wolf. I shouldn’t be here. I’m way out of my depth, but I insist on treading the water.
“Judge is gonna kill me…” he says, leaning forward to curl his thick fingers around the band of my white underwear. “He made you off limits because of our relationship with Jonathan.”
“And you care what Judge says?”
“I have to.” Creed tugs them down my legs and tosses them over his shoulder. “But you’re here, in my bed, because Kace didn’t do his damn job properly. How am I supposed to turn you away?”
I press my knees together, and Creed shoves them apart, baring me to him. I lift my back off the bed, resting on my elbows. “Do you want me to go?”
Placing his hand against my pubic bone, his fingers flat to my taut tummy, he presses his thumb to my clit and rubs it, making my abs clench. “Yes.”
I balk. “Yes?”
“Yes.” He leans over and kisses me, briefly flicking my tongue with his as he pushes me onto my back. “You’ll go back to your room, and we’ll never speak of your little visit, but first we’re going to make each other come. Think you can manage that?”
I lick my lower lip and open my legs wider, hating how easily his thumb makes me slick with arousal. I reach between us and grab him by his hard cock again. “I’m not a virgin.”
Does he see me as inexperienced? I suppose I am compared to him. Still, I know my way around the opposite sex. I’m ashamed to admit, even internally, that I imagined my ex-boyfriend, Pierce, as Creed in my head. Every time we were intimate, I became swept up in a fantasy, one where I took control of the man who consumed my every thought and I rocked his world.
