by Skyla Madi
Muffled shouting penetrates the wardrobe from out in the hall. I hold my breath and strain my ears. Outside, somewhere, an explosion booms, and the clubhouse trembles. I even hear Creed’s rattling windows through the thin fabric of his clean, hanging clothes. What the hell is going on out there? The distinct sound of an opening door freezes me on the spot, causing my heart to painfully stutter. Light pours into the wardrobe from the crack underneath the door, and after sitting in complete darkness, my eyes quickly adjust.
“She in there?” someone demands from the hall.
I clamp my hand over my mouth and pull my feet closer to my ass, trying to shrink in size. I say a silent prayer that whoever has entered the room is a friend and not an enemy because I can’t fight or run very fast, and I definitely don’t know how to use a gun.
“Dunno,” the intruder snaps, his British accent thick. “I just opened the door. Check the next room, will ya?”
My heart pounds in my ears, as loud as a bass drum, and the sounds of heavy boots on soft carpet send chills down my spine. Fine hair along arms stand on their ends as panic rises, and my fight or flight instincts kick in. I stand up and press my back against the cold wall. I think of every possible scenario and what I can do to get away. After an eternity, the light that seeps under the door is blocked by shadow, the shadow of a pair of boots. I drop my hand from my mouth and clench my clammy hands into fists at my sides. The wardrobe handle squeaks, the noise like nails on a chalkboard, and I launch forward, propelled by adrenaline. I slam into the door, and the man shouts as he stumbles back and falls on his ass. The door shoots all the way open, hits the wall, and comes flying back. I shove my palm into it, stopping it from shutting on me, and run toward the brightly lit hall, Creed’s long sweatpants getting caught under my feet with every step.
As I cross the threshold, I’m hit from behind by the intruder. I scream and squeeze my eyes shut as he bulldozes me with his weight, and we both go down. On impact, I bite my tongue and my hips hit the cold, tiled floor, sending pain radiating through me. The brute lands on the left side of my body, and I shout as every organ in that vicinity pops like a balloon. The pain lasts all of a second before another shot of adrenaline spikes my blood. The man grunts and groans, swearing and cursing under his breath about his shoulder, all while keeping a weak grip on my waist. I wiggle free, pulling myself on my arms, the points of my elbows banging into the tiles.
“Danny!” he shouts, his hold slipping from my waist to the hem of my sweatpants. “Fucking help.”
I don’t stop. I army crawl out of my pants and force myself to my feet.
“Danny!” he shouts again, and I run.
I don’t think about my destination, only that I need to get out, so I sprint out of the hall and into the main area. The sickening sound of flesh slamming into flesh, knives cutting into muscle and bone, and the smell of gunpowder is enough to slow me down. I’m in the middle of a battlefield.
Pools of blood.
Dead bodies.
“Unh!” I’m thrown forward, crashing to my hands and knees as someone shoves past me and dives into the fray. I barely lift my head when I’m grabbed underneath my bicep and pulled to my feet. I dig my heels in and thrash against the grip, but it’s no use. My feet glide over the floor, through blood and glass, until I’m pulled downward behind the bar. My palms hit the floor once more, glass cutting into me. Gasping, I whip my head up as the person who dragged me crouches and opens his gun—his shotgun. I lift my stare from the gun to the Devil’s Cartel patch on the breast of his leather vest then flick it up his long, copper beard to look into a pair of excited blue eyes. Modo. I rush out a relieved exhale. He’s a friendly—one with a gun. I’m going to be okay. I reach out and grab his vest, pulling him close where it’s safe, where I’m safe.
“How’re you doin’, Blondie?” He grins wide, exposing beautiful teeth—which is surprising—and pulls red tubes out of his vest pockets.
“F-fine,” I say, gripping him tight as he reloads his shotgun.
When he loads the last bullet, he snaps it shut. “Wanna shoot?”
I shake my head, squeezing him harder, unable to bring myself to let go. “No, thanks.”
I glance at my hands, hands that are white with the pressure of my grip. I think about letting go, but my limbs are locked to me. I want to let go—I try to—but it doesn’t compute.
“No?” Arching a thick eyebrow, Modo uses his free hand to pry my fingers off him. “Then cover your pretty little ears, baby.”
I do what he says. I cover my ears and draw my knees to my chest, but it does nothing to muffle the horrific bang. He lets off a few rounds, and I grit my teeth until my jaw aches. When he’s done, he crouches back down, placing the butt of his gun on the floor.
“You looking for Creed?”
I shake my head. I’d go to Creed, but something tells me he’s out in front somewhere, in the thick of it all. “I’m looking for a way out.”
He flicks his head. “You can get out through the kitchen. I’ll cover your ass so you don’t get a bullet in it.”
I leap to my feet and run toward the kitchen without thought, without a thank you to Modo. As I run, bullets tear up the wall, and I shriek, shielding my head with my arms.
“Unh!” I grunt as I’m grabbed from the left and tugged behind a wall and crushed against a hard body—Judge’s hard body.
I blink through hot tears and frown as he smiles down at me. “Having fun?”
Why’s everyone so happy? So calm? Is this a typical Sunday night in their world? I swallow hard and nod.
“Y-yes,” I say, breathless and terrified. “So much.”
Judge laughs, and the whiz of a bullet zips by my ear and embeds in the wall. Cursing, Judge turns my body and shoves me forward. I squeak and stumble into the kitchen, only to be caught by someone else, the ebony woman from open night. With a roll of her eyes, she turns me again and kicks me in the ass with the sole of her hard boot. Shouting, I fly further into the kitchen, nearly faceplanting on a black stone counter.
“Get behind the counter,” she demands, and I do as I’m told as Judge barrels into the kitchen, two large men hanging off him.
I went to an MMA fight at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas with my father once. This makes that look like child’s play. Judge thrashes, shoving the men off him. Growling, he kicks one in the stomach, sending him flying into the woman, who pulls him into a headlock and drags him to the ground.
“Blondie!” Judge booms, and I snap my attention to him. “A little help?”
Help? I gape as Judge and the man exchange blows, both drawing closer and closer to me. I try to grip the countertop as my heart lodges in my throat at the sight of such vicious brutality and violence, and the sound of flesh pounding flesh will be seared into my brain until the day I die.
“You’re by the drawer,” Judge snaps, ducking a fist. “Give me a knife—fucking anything.”
Oh. I yank open the top drawer and reach in. I shriek, barely getting my fingers out of the way, as it’s kicked shut by Judge’s opponent’s heavy boot. Judge swears, and I’m grabbed by my hair, a tight grip that sears over my scalp, and I’m yanked off my feet. I cry out then crash to the floor. I scramble quickly, moving far away from the row as Judge and my attacker grapple. I watch them from across the kitchen, my back pressed into the corner of two cupboard doors, and my world slows down. Skin ripples, air is forced from lungs, and in my ears, their violence roars, tainting me forever. Swallowing hard, I turn and open the closest cupboard. Inside, cast iron pots and pans are stacked neatly. I grab a frying pan by the handle and slide it across the floor to Judge, who frowns as he shoves the guy back a couple steps.
“Are you serious?”
I shrug. “It’s cast iron.”
He bends and picks it up. With a single swipe of his strong arm, Judge hits the guy over the head, a sickening crack filling the kitchen, and he goes down. I gasp as blood spills over the tiles, dark and red, and seeps into the grout, t
rickling in my direction.
“Mm. Not bad.” Judge spins the frying pan in his hand and smiles, wide and proud. “How’re you doing, Amani?”
The woman jumps to her feet with a heavy exhale, blood smeared over her forehead and staining her lower lip. “Fine. No thanks to you.”
Judge turns to face her and beams with pride at the sight of her. “You can handle your own. You don’t need my help. Never have.”
Amani saunters across the kitchen to stand beside Judge, both out of breath. “What now?”
“We need to get her out of here.” Judge turns his back to me and leans closer to talk in her ear.
His voice is low and quiet. The only thing I hear is Creed’s name, and it twists my gut. What if something’s happened to him? Amani peers at me from over Judge’s shoulder, and I shrink against the cupboard. At that exact moment, hollers fill the kitchen as more people enter. Judging by the look on Amani’s face, they’re foes, not friends. Judge drops his head back, groaning.
“If you’ve got a gun on you,” he says, “now’s the time to use it.”
She shakes her head. “Dropped it.”
“Fuck.” Judge extends his pan to her. “Do you mind?”
She scowls and snatches the pan from him. “Lazy bastard.”
Amani crosses the kitchen, and Judge gestures for me to stand up. I do as I’m told, holding on to the counter to prevent myself from collapsing. I watch, in shock, horror, and awe, as Amani rushes the two men. She fights one of them, both of them, ducking and dodging like she knows their next move before they do. They rush around the kitchen, fighting, wanting blood, and I shuffle closer to Judge where it’s safe. As I hide my body behind his, Amani loses her frying pan, so Judge reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a butcher knife. He whistles once, twice, and slides the knife across the counter. One of her brutish enemies dives for it, but she kicks his hand out of the way at the last second, taking the knife for herself. With a twist of her hips, she stabs the knife into his chest then spins and grabs the other, pressing his back to her torso, her knife to his throat. His coal eyes go wide, mine do too, and she rips the knife across his throat, opening it up. Blood sprays everywhere, and tiny droplets hit my arm. The blood feels heavy—acidic—and I swipe my palm down my forearm, wiping it away.
Turning, Judge snags my wrist and yanks me toward the back of the kitchen. I don’t register what’s happening until the cool night air blasts my face and the strong smell of burning fuel assaults my senses.
“Did you hear me?” Judge demands, grabbing me by my shoulders, lowering himself so we’re face to face. I shake my head. “I said Amani’s gonna take you somewhere safe—”
I nod. I don’t care where I go or who I go with; I just want to get out of here. Away from the violence, the smells, the blood.
“Jesus, Blondie.” He squeezes me in his giant hands, as if holding me together. “You’re shaking.”
Am I? Judge pulls away from me and reaches for a heavy, forest green sheet. Grunting, he yanks off the thick covering, exposing a handful of grubby dirt bikes. Amani is in quick, pulling a blue dirt bike away from the stack. She throws her leg over it, starts it up, then looks at me, waiting for…something.
“Get on,” she says, frowning.
I straighten my shoulders, worried what could happen on the back of that death trap. “I don’t know how—”
I make a weird noise as Judge grabs me and lifts me with ease, like I weigh nothing, and drops me on the bike, my knees either side of the cool plastic and metal, my thighs either side of Amani’s.
“Take her to the cabin.” He grabs my arms and wraps them around Amani’s slender waist.
“She’s not holding tight enough.”
“I am,” I argue. “I’m holding as tight as I can.”
“She’s gonna come flying off once I hit the dirt track.”
Cursing, Judge lifts his shirt and undoes his belt. I watch, confused, as he wraps his leather belt around my waist then loops it around Amani’s belt, tethering me to her. When he’s done, he taps her thigh, and she speeds off, the front wheel of the dirt bike lifting from the ground, leaving the clubhouse and the carnage behind us.
NINE
C R E E D
“I’m not telling you shit,” the Twisted Son asshole spluttered through broken teeth and busted lips.
With a shaky inhale, he spat at Judge’s feet, his blood and saliva leaving a dark, wet patch in the dirt. I lifted my foot and rested my boot on an old milk crate and stuffed my clenched fists into the pockets of my cut. Armi twisted the bloodied tip of his gold dagger into his finger and looked at me then Judge.
Judge shifted against the wall beside me, angling his head closer. “He’s not gonna talk.”
I glanced toward the front of the shed, at the morning light that spilled through the cracks in the heavy, twelve-foot doors. I was fucking tired—exhausted—and Blondie was gone. Judge sent her away with Amani and wouldn’t tell me where. I’d get it out of him, but first I had club stuff to take care of. I swung my stare back to Armi and flicked my chin. Armi dived on the bald biker we had chained to a steel chair, and I watched, unbothered, as Armi hacked his left ear off. The biker screamed until his voice box sounded like it bled. Flesh snapped apart, like elastic, and Armi threw his useless ear to the floor. Across the space, Stoic retched and turned his head, his long, brown hair falling into his face.
“Christ,” he whispered under his breath, and Judge snickered. Of all of us, Stoic had the weakest stomach. Funny, given the state he left his brother in all those years ago.
“String him up by the ankles,” Judge ordered, his deep voice echoing through the old shed. “Take his eyelids, nose, lips. Take him apart, one piece at a time, until he tells us what we want to know. If he still refuses, gut him like a pig. We’ll get our answers elsewhere.”
Judge pushed off the wall and headed toward the front doors. I followed, squinting as I stepped into the bright morning light, and let the metal door slam shut behind us.
“The answer’s no, Creed. I’m not telling you where she is.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“You know why.”
“Judge—”
He whirled on his heel, stopping me in my tracks, pinning me with a glare. “Until I get confirmation, our arrangement with Jonathan stands, and you will stay the hell away from Isabelle.”
I ran through all the places Judge could’ve sent her in my head. Some places were too far, others too close. Satisfied with my silence, Judge turned his back and marched toward the clubhouse, passing by a line of old dirt bikes, the tattered blue cover thrown to the side. I tilted my head and counted the bikes. Immediately, I realized Ayr’s blue bike was missing from the lot, and it all clicked.
“The cabin,” I stated and watched as Judge stopped and his posture shifted as he straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, giving me the answer. “That’s where you’ve sent her.”
He tilted his head, and his torso dipped with an impatient exhale before continuing his walk toward the clubhouse. I was surprised he sent her there, to the place he built for him and his daughter before she was murdered by her mother’s piece of shit boyfriend—dead boyfriend now. I knew how to get there. I could leave right now, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop me.
“Get the cunt in the shed to speak,” Judge called over his shoulder. “And I’ll give you two days with Blondie.”
I turned toward the shed, ready to take over the show. I rolled the sleeves of my hoodie to my elbows and adjusted my leather cut. I knew Judge was watching me. I could feel his gaze burning holes in my back. Hopefully, he saw I really wanted it, the two days alone with Izzy to figure out what I wanted from her. To get it, I’d make the fucker speak, even if it took all day.
◦ I Z Z Y ◦
I roll over on the large bed, blow out an exhale, and stare up at the high ceiling of the stuffy cabin. On the outside, the place doesn’t look like much—it’s old and weathered—
but on the inside, beautiful hand-carved pieces of furniture were preserved in mint condition underneath thick sheets of plastic. I know this place belongs to someone in the Devil’s Cartel, but Amani didn’t tell me who. She’s barely spoken to me since we arrived.
I kick off the heavy blankets that, surprisingly, have a pleasant jasmine scent to them, and I stretch my sore legs. Outside, a muffled rumble shatters the late afternoon silence, and I frown. Is Amani leaving? Panic stirs at the thought. I slip from the bed and cross the spacious room to the door. As I brush my fingers over the brass handle, I hear heavy footsteps, the kind that accompany a robust male. My heart stutters, and I step back, putting distance between me and the door. I glance around the room in search of a hiding place then pause. Maybe I’m being silly. No one who wants to hurt me knows I’m out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wilderness. I inch toward the door and take the handle in my hand. At the other end of the cabin, I hear the front door close, then a thump sounds and vibrates the varnished floorboards under my feet. More heavy steps cause excitement to sprout through the cracks of my trepidation as thoughts of Creed slip to the front of my mind.
I push on the handle and slowly open the door. The rumbling sounds of Amani’s motorbike grow louder the further down the hall I tiptoe, then they begin to fade the further they move away from the isolated cabin. I pause in my mission to get to the front door and listen as keys are fumbled and dropped onto the floor—or a counter—followed by the distinct sound of a man clearing his throat. Hair prickles over the back of my neck and down my spine. I glance at my bare legs, the tops of my thighs covered by an old, red shirt I found in the drawer of the master bedroom since the one Creed gave me has blood on it.
I flick my attention to the left partition of the hall as the shadow of a broad man stretches across it. I clench my fists and hold my breath, eagerly anticipating Creed’s appearance more than I’ve anticipated anything in my life. He steps into the hall and freezes, arching an eyebrow as he drops his stare to my bare legs. My lips part as a pang of surprise slams into my gut. The man standing before me isn’t Creed at all, and disappointment leaves me aching all over. I flick my gaze over his cropped, jet black hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, and the tattoos that start under his chin and cover every inch of his throat.
