Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff

by C. L. Riley

  My vision tunnels and he drones on, sounding far away and like he’s underwater. Another wave of dizziness crashes over me. I want to vomit but can’t manage that either.

  Fight! My inner voice orders, imploring me to act.

  But I can’t.

  He must have drugged me. And whatever he used is far too potent for me to fight.

  An unexpected slap across the face barely registers, but my head snaps back before lolling to the side, hanging limply.

  No-o-o-o! I scream in silence, one last time before the chemical claws sink deeper, dragging me into a spiralling whirlpool of depravity.

  “Oh my God! Call 911!” a woman shrieks. The sound is like fingernails on a chalkboard, magnified by a thousand.

  I feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder and something crawled into my mouth, died, and then decomposed.

  “Where am I?” I whisper; the words slur. My tongue doesn’t want to obey the mental command.

  “Don’t move, sweetie,” the woman instructs, her voice shaky but gentle now.

  Thank God. I can’t handle another screech.

  “Help is on the way,” a second feminine voice soothes.

  Fighting to stay calm, I perform a mental checklist of my condition.

  Fingers wiggle...check.

  Feet and toes move...check.

  Head and neck turn...check, but it feels like someone is mining for diamonds inside my skull.

  As I work my way through each body part, I can’t ignore the horrible, throbbing ache between my legs and the tenderness around my nipples.

  Swallowing my revulsion, I struggle without success to recall something about my evening.

  The last thing I remember is enjoying a home cooked meal with Dr. Martin. I was having such an amazing time.

  “Help me up,” I hiss, moving to sit.

  “You should wait for the paramedics,” one of my rescuers advises.

  “Please...just give me a hand.”

  When neither replies, I finally triumph over the blinding pain in my head and open my eyes.

  I’m propped behind an antique shop not far from my loft. The two women are dressed in jogging clothes and appear as shocked as I feel. One is clutching a phone to her chest. The other offers a hesitant smile filled with pity.

  Oh, hell no! Fuck your pity. Fuck this whole situation.

  The idea of enduring a rape kit, the police and their probing questions, plus all the attention my attack will generate, is not something I want to face—not now, not ever. I will deal with things on my own, the way I always have.

  Seeing the women aren’t going to help, I gather what little strength I can rally and scramble to my feet. I’m fully clothed, and my purse is a few feet away. Whoever attacked me wasn’t interested in money and took the time to redress me.

  How thoughtful...asshole.

  Snatching up my bag, I stumble away, ignoring their calls to stop.

  The sirens in the distance keep my feet moving. I break into a jog and am at my building before paramedics and police can find me. I’ve never been more grateful for their delayed response. I can’t talk to them about something I don’t remember.

  The only thing I know for certain is I was drugged and abused, the signs are obvious. Strangely though, I smell clean, like I recently bathed, which makes no sense. None of this does. Without memories, the whole thing feels more like a bad dream than my current reality.

  Once inside the safety of my fourth-floor loft, I glance at the clock.

  I’m supposed to be at work in less than ninety minutes. I have just enough time to take a shower and make it to the morning staff meeting, if I hurry. The big question is whether or not to tell Gregg about my ordeal. He is the last person I recall spending time with. The information he provides could be crucial to me piecing things together.

  Shedding my clothes on the way to the bathroom, I flinch at the agonizing aches and pains. Just the idea someone penetrated me without my permission or knowledge should be soul shattering. I’m not sure if it’s the drug’s lingering effects or the fact I don’t remember the actual violence, but I can’t seem to cry.

  What I am is pissed.

  Not only was I most likely violated in the worst possible way, but someone stole a night of my life. I was robbed of things far more precious than money.

  I suck in a much needed breath and stop in front of the bathroom’s full length mirror, soaking in the damage.

  Discoloured flesh, lining my inner thighs, and the light bruises scattered over my breasts and fanning down my ribs, create a crack in my emotional armor. There’s also an angry scratch that runs the length of my right cheek.

  Oh. My. God.

  Memories or not, I truly was violated. Any doubts I might have clung to have been shattered, and seeing the actual evidence sends me to my knees.

  Maybe I should have gone to the hospital. I would have advised any other woman in my position to endure the exam and speak to police; but quite frankly, I’ve learned from personal experience the men in blue aren’t always helpful. And I can’t face the expressions of pity my incident will surely elicit.

  I won’t do it.

  Being seen as weak brings back childhood memories I’ve fought long and hard to conquer. I refuse to let the past resurface, especially when the present is throwing more than enough crap in my path. Dwelling on what’s been dead and buried for so long is pointless and painful.

  “Focus on the facts, Templeton,” I say out loud. “Facts not feelings,” I repeat the mantra that allows me to shove pieces of a raw reality into the time-tested compartment in my mind.

  If I give in and let the truth overrun me, I’ll end up in a fetal position, on the floor.

  I should know. I’ve been there before...more than once.

  Thankfully, this time around, my survival pep talk strengthens my mental resolve, but it has no affect on my aching muscles. I half crawl into the shower and crank the temperature as hot as it will go without scalding me. Ignoring my body’s protests, I scrub myself mercilessly while the powerful jets cascade over me, washing tears and surely the top layer of my skin down the drain in swirl of soapy water.

  It doesn’t take long for a welcome state of numbness to replace my rage and heartache.

  Numb is good. I can function numb. I did it for years growing up. Still, it sucks that at twenty-five I’m forced to pick up the old survival toolkit all over again. At least I’ve learned through multiple trial and error experiences how to use those same tools to protect my heart, sealing it off from anything that might crush it completely.

  My phone chimes, reminding me life goes on no matter what tragedies I’ve suffered.

  Work! That particular ring signals the need for me to be out the door in fifteen minutes.

  How long have I been in here?

  Considering the water is bordering on icy, I’ve been patching up my emotional wounds for well over my allotted shower time. Unacceptable.

  Dr. Martin is a stickler for punctuality and is prone to shooting dirty looks at anyone who dares enter our conference room even a minute after the door closes.

  I’ve never been on the receiving end of his disapproval and don’t want today to be my first time. Not after everything else. The protective wall I just managed to erect can only withstand so much injury. Rejection from the man I revere would definitely be enough to rip me from my survival mode.

  With those thoughts serving as a springboard, I leap into action.

  I’ve never been more grateful for my self-diagnosed OCD. Because of it, everything is organized and easy to access. Twisting my still-wet hair into a ponytail, I toss on my most vibrant scrubs, hoping the bright printed top will camouflage the darkness lurking beneath the colorful fabric.

  “Facts not feelings,” I remind, grabbing my purse and makeup bag before plastering a ridiculously phony smile on my face.

  I plan to use every stoplight to cover the unsightly scratch and make myself look human, even though I feel like a hunted a
nimal.

  I’ll have to forgo my gourmet coffee and settle for the office’s muddy stuff-in-a-cup. As long as I get my daily dose of caffeine, I can at least make it through the meeting. Thinking about anything beyond that feels too overwhelming.

  I will have an hour to gauge Gregg’s mood and decide if I’m going to reveal an assault I can’t remember.

  Dr. Martin

  I glance at my watch for the third time before returning my attention to the notes for today’s meeting. I’m not sure why I bother. I already know exactly what I’m going to discuss, but pretending to rely on notes gives me a more approachable appearance, making me seem dependent on something other than myself.

  I go to great lengths to avoid showing off my superior intelligence. My employees and colleagues are awed enough, without any extra effort on my part.

  Smiling to myself, I can’t help but wonder how my latest plaything will respond to her unforeseen circumstances. There’s always the chance I chose incorrectly, though that’s only happened four times out of twenty-two. But even with the statistics in my favor, I’m humble enough to understand someone with my special skill set can make mistakes, as evidenced by those four nagging failures.

  Before I can berate myself further, two prior successes rush into the conference room, eager to claim the seats closest to me. Had they recalled our special playtime, I doubt they would be so hungry for my attention.

  Hungry or not, it wouldn’t matter, because the ones who do remember no longer sit at any table.

  In fact, they no longer exist.

  For them, playtime is over—permanently.

  But I’m happy to say, it has been well over a year since mistake-number-four somehow salvaged her memories. After which, she confronted me at my home, along with her useless boyfriend.

  Deciding to face me without law enforcement was her first mistake. Slapping me across the face was the next. When the boyfriend made his ‘I’m the hero’ move—a very stupid decision and their third blunder—I took him down with a few quick but very effective defensive moves that left him incapacitated in my front foyer.

  By the time the night was over, there were two less people to pollute the planet.

  During our lengthy playtime, or what some misinformed soul might label as torture-time, I extracted information that confirmed what I was already certain of. Neither of my visitors had bothered to tell anyone about their plan to confront me, making their final disposal a simple task.

  It always amazes me how people underestimate my commitment to complete what I start. Be it my professional or my personal endeavours, I put everything I possess into my success. Failure has unwanted consequences I try to avoid at all costs.

  My watch vibrates against my wrist—meeting time.

  There is one empty chair at the end of the table, but starting late isn’t acceptable. Delaying for any reason, even for her, would be an intolerable inconsistency.

  But I can’t deny my curiosity is aroused.

  Has she regained consciousness? Did she go to the hospital...the police? Does she remember anything, maybe a seemingly insignificant detail?

  Those questions will have to wait. I have a medical clinic to run. Patients are depending on me.

  I take my time moving to shut the door.

  A flash of dark hair and bright scrubs tell me what I need to know. My most recent plaything has arrived. She’s on time too, just barely.

  What a good girl.

  Perhaps I’ll play with her again. I’ve never done that before, but Trina Templeton isn’t like the others.

  She’s special.

  “Did I make it?” she asks, out of breath.

  “Indeed you did. Please, take your seat.” I give her a warm smile. When she returns the gesture, I realize I chose correctly.

  With little effort, I am able to overlook the glazed emptiness reflected in her eyes, an emptiness that wasn’t there yesterday.

  Tension I wasn’t aware of dissolves, and I allow my gaze to follow my newest nurse as she fills her coffee cup. I am still using her name rather than thinking of her as Plaything 23.

  How odd.

  Rowdy

  “Baby, I love your Bugs Bunny tie, but not nearly as much as I love you,” Olympia whispers, tugging on the same tie she just referenced.

  Rather than dragging her down, onto my lap, I allow her to pull me up. Kissing her hungrily, I savor her mouth’s sweetness—a combination of her unique flavor and the sugary syrup from the pancakes we just devoured.

  There is no question, Olympia Olsen is scrumptious, and I want to taste every inch of her. Dining on her delicious body has been my dream since the first time I spotted her at the Soul Scorchers’ fight club.

  Now, at last, she’s mine.

  No more Boone Richards.

  All mine...

  “Rowdy? Are you awake?” Olympia asks. Her voice trembles, hinting at her worry.

  Why is she asking something so strange in the middle of our kiss?

  Of course I’m awake. My cock is like reinforced concrete, a condition that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed with my substantial size.

  “I think we should leave and comeback later,” another, deeper voice suggests.

  Confusion wraps around me like a scratchy blanket, and it hits me then that I fucking itch, I mean really fucking itch. My legs and arms are the worst. And there is nothing hard about my dick.

  Desperate to see the source of my distress, I manage, with great effort, to unglue my eyelids. It takes several long seconds to focus and adjust to the brightness.

  Olympia fidgets in a chair next to the bed—a hospital bed I’m stuffed into.

  Boone Richards, my arch enemy and primary competition for Olympia’s affections, has taken up residence behind her chair. His hands massage her shoulders, leaving no doubt he believes she belongs to him.

  What the fuck is going on? Maybe I was asleep. I must have been dreaming.

  “Hey...” She reaches out a dainty hand and rests it on my arm; only I can’t feel her touch.

  Straining to see why, I’m shocked by the sight of white plaster—a whole lot of white plaster.

  My arms and both legs are in casts. I can’t be certain, but it appears my upper torso and head are bandaged as well. No wonder it feels like a spiders versus ants marathon is taking place along my limbs.

  A nurse bustles in, her gaze sweeping the room and landing on Boone and Olympia. “The last few times he was awake, he was confused. He needs to remain calm,” she advises. “Would you like some water, Mr. Richards?” This time she directs her attention my way.

  Richards? My last name isn’t Richards. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy—“

  “I’ll explain,” Boone interrupts, shooing the nurse away with a request for the offered water. “We’ll make sure he understands.”

  The nurse scurries from the room, leaving me alone with the woman I love and the man I hate and a list of questions that demand answers.

  We wait in uncomfortable silence until a pitcher of water and three plastic cups are brought in and placed on my bedside tray.

  “I don’t think I’ll be pouring,” I jest. My attempt at humor is laced with bitterness.

  As thirsty as I am, I’m surprised I can speak at all, with or without the deliberate cynicism. My voice is hoarse and my throat feels like I somehow managed to choke down a handful of gravel. It’s obvious I haven’t spoken in days.

  Olympia is the one who finally removes the glass’ plastic wrap, fills it, and brings it to my lips. I take a cautious sip, letting the cool liquid quell the desert that has moved into my mouth.

  “More,” I groan when she starts to pull away.

  I finish every drop with a sigh and close my eyes, waiting for the explanation that is no doubt coming next. The question is who will deliver the bad news. My guess is Boone. It seems appropriate my adversary explains my latest adversity.

  As expected, he takes the lead with Olympia filling in the gaps.

  I learn
they used Richards, Bones’ and Boone’s last name, for payment purposes and to help maintain my anonymity while I recuperate. Not that I need them to pay for my care, but Boone insists he is covering all the costs as a gesture of our alliance and because I’m family.

  I don’t argue. There’s no point. What name I use is irrelevant in light of everything else.

  They continue their updates and my memory seems fine, for the most part, until we get to the day outside of Rex’s. That’s when things get hazy for me. I swear I saw the Grim Reaper and heard his evil laughter.

  As much as I want to share my near-death experience that is one recollection I keep to myself. I’d hate to end up in a different type of hospital after leaving this one.

  Luckily, I do remember I am a member of the Hells Guardians, the US’s largest and most formidable MC. I also happen to be president of the Oregon chapter.

  Boone assures me everything back home, club-related, is being handled.

  In my absence, Demon, my Sergeant at Arms, is overseeing our affairs and has been temporarily voted in as acting president while I recuperate. No one but Demon is aware of my exact whereabouts, citing security concerns to my club brothers for all the secrecy.

  I’m grateful for thinking to put my wishes into a legal document that left clear instructions should something like this ever happen.

  Our VP is a great guy, and in normal circumstances he should have stepped into the president position, but everyone knows he doesn’t have the technical skills to fully grasp and oversee all our special projects and business ventures, skills required by the president of our chapter. As an old timer and the son of an original member, he’s respected and will back Demon, keeping morale up and providing insight and support.

  The club has been under a shitload of pressure and commotion with Ringo’s revolt, capture, and subsequent escape from our compound. Not everyone is onboard when it comes to our current partnership with the Soul Scorchers either.

  When they find out Bones is my father and Boone is my half-brother, there’s bound to be additional upheaval.