by Vixen, Jayna
Blood and Honor
Jayna Vixen
Published by Jayna Vixen
Copyright 2014 Jayna Vixen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Other Works by Jayna Vixen
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Michaela Blake huddled in the corner of a low-budget motel room. For the umpteenth time, she thought of Rhee. Her sister was probably still looking for her. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to confess her sins.
And the sins of my stepfather.
But what kind of life would she have, then? She’d go to jail. Probably forever.
She was so tired of running. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure what she was running from any longer. Mickey never thought she would live to see the day that she pined for the life she had back home. But, she couldn’t go back there. Not ever. Not after what she’d done. Mickey sighed, staring at the small pile of bills on the table. She couldn’t run forever, but she couldn’t stay here, either. Her sins were always one small step behind her. They’d find her, soon enough.
They always did.
Chapter One
Sure, everybody made mistakes. But this—this was no simple mistake that could be explained away. How could you rationalize murder?
Mickey’s hand trembled as she turned the squeaky knob in the shower, seeking to distract herself, before her mind took her down a path she wouldn’t be able to turn back from. Nearly four years of trying to escape and she was no further from her past than if she had been running in place the whole time. The dim light in the bathroom came from one broken fixture that swung back and forth with an audible creak. The yellow bulb cast an eerie, harsh glow that made her squint. She regarded herself in the cracked mirror, the chipped, peeling paint framing her gaunt features.
I look like a fucking crack head.
Large, purplish circles sat beneath her hazel eyes. Thanks to the hasty self-trim a week ago, her hair, which had once been her glory, stuck out at all angles. Mickey ran her hand through the sloppy dye job and the unwanted memory struck her like a two-by-four to the brain.
“You and Rhiannon should never cut your hair,” her mother crooned, almost reverently. The brush passed through Mickey’s hair, almost mesmerizing her with its long, methodical strokes. She stared at her mother’s reflection in the mirror through half-lidded eyes. “Such lovely hair you and your sister have, Mouse.”
Mickey pressed her fists against her temples as an onslaught of negative emotion sent waves of agony through her head. Her gut roiled, bringing the acrid sting of bile into her throat.
My fault. All my fault.
“I’m so sorry,” Mickey whispered to the haggard reflection in the mirror, the pounding in her head combining with the itch on her skin. Dirty. She was so dirty.
Tainted.
Nothing seemed to wash away the blood on her hands or the anguish that festered in her soul, but she had her rituals nonetheless. After what seemed like an eternity, the old shower pipes brewed up hot, piping steam. Mickey stepped into the scalding spray without hesitation, relishing the burn as it reddened her skin. Sometimes, she wondered if she would ever feel clean again.
Unlikely, Mickey decided.
The inside of me is black. Ugly. Why won’t anything make me feel clean?
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Mickey scrubbed herself down violently with the small pat of motel soap until it was just a sliver in her palm. She remained in the shower until the water began to cool. The small, scratchy towel did nothing more than move the water around on her body. She stood for a moment, her head bowed, letting the moisture drip onto the floor.
So tired.
She fought it, but she knew she wouldn’t win the battle this time. It had been almost two days with nothing more than a catnap on the bus. Mickey hated falling asleep—hated letting her guard down. But every few days, she crashed, whether she liked it or not. Compulsively, she checked the locks and secured the windows; she knew from experience—she could never be too careful.
Fear impelled her exhausted limbs to move. She stacked the small chair and table in front of the door, followed by the old television and even the ironing board. Her movements were practiced…automatic. Finally, Mickey wrapped herself in a ratty, oversized tee shirt—one of the few remnants of her former life.
Finally, she fell on the cheap mattress with an audible groan, her backpack under her head. It was uncomfortable, but she couldn’t rest at all without knowing that her bag and its meager contents were safe. Sometimes, Mickey thought it would be easier to just toss the damn thing off a pier, but she knew that she had to hold on to what was inside her bag.
Someday, she’d know who to trust with her shame.
Sleeping. Ugh. It was something a person had to do but she wished she didn’t have to dream. Her eyes closed even though she fought the loss of control and the unknown. Desperately, she summoned the strains of an old child’s prayer into her mind. Anything to avoid the fear.
And the nightmares.
Now I lay me down to sleep, pray the lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take….
Unfortunately, the mantra she relied on to keep her safe, to keep the bad men out of her head, wasn’t always effective.
***
“You got a boyfriend, Mouse?”
“Huh?”
Mickey wasn’t interested in boys, and she was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. Sure, some of the girls in her grade had boyfriends but all that meant was that they held hands at lunch.
Mickey and her sister looked nothing like those girls, with their ivory skin and blond hair. No, they shared the same heart-shaped faces, green eyes, and long, reddish-brown tresses.
Rhiannon—now, she was beautiful. Her older sister turned heads and she didn’t even know it. But, Rhee had been acting funny—distant—lately, and Mickey wasn’t sure what was going on with her. All she knew was that she was miserable and lonely, and she missed the ways things used to be. Before Paul came along.
Now, she had to sit here and listen to her stepfather, and he was starting to make her uncomfortable. Something about the way he looked at her just made her feel…dirty.
“How ‘bout your sister? She has a boyfriend, right?”
Mickey didn’t want to talk about Rhee. Or boyfriends. She wanted to listen to music and dream about when her daddy was alive. I hate cancer, she thought to herself, trying to ignore Paul. Ugh, why wouldn’t he leave? She shrugged, hoping that Paul would take the hint and just go away.
But this time…he didn’t.
“Your sister’s been running around town in those tight jeans, acting like a tramp, hasn’t she? Is she spreading her legs for some boy at school?”
Mickey glared at her stepfather. He was becoming totally gross. Even though Rhee wasn’t around much, Paul had no right to say such disgusting things about her.
‘That’s not true!” she retorted.
“Oh, yeah?”
He took a sinister step closer to Mickey as she reclined on her bed with her mp3 player clutched in her hand. Her senses went on high alert. Fear, cold and prickly, settled in the pit of her belly.
Even though things weren’t like they used to be—not by a long shot—the afternoon had started off so normal. School passed in a series of boring lectures followed by a few hours in her room, listening to music and daydreaming before she turned to her sketchbook and her camera. Her pictures—they were the one part of her life that was stable.
Why wasn’t Paul at work? She wasn’t even sure what the man did all day. Sometimes he came home with a lot of cash that he liked to wave around, but he usually spent it all on booze and who knew what. Today, he was home and she could tell that her stepfather wasn’t in a very good mood.
Mickey clutched the small, square keeper of her tunes as though it was a weapon, even though she wasn’t quite sure why she felt such a sudden and intrinsic fear of her stepfather. Mickey shuddered as he planted his dirty hand on her pink and white comforter, the stink of whiskey and cigarettes pervading her senses. His hand looked so out of place on her pretty bed.
“Who’s been sniffing around you, Mouse? I’m sure there’s some hopeful little prick, what with those tits popping out on you.”
She was shocked at the words that had come from his mouth. The prickle of apprehension turned into full-blown fear as Paul leered at her chest. Hot shame painted itself on her cheeks as Mickey crossed her arms over the small bumps that had recently started to bloom there. She hated it when Paul called her by the nickname her real dad had given her.
“Maybe you’ve been tramping it up, too, huh? Making me look bad? Like I’m not a good daddy?” he accused.
“No!” Mickey scrambled back, away from his hands. She glanced at the door, noting that he had closed it when he entered the room. The urge to flee was becoming overwhelming.
Now that he was close enough to smell, it was clear that Paul was drunk—and when he was drunk, he was dangerous. Mickey knew that much from the grunts and muffled screams she could hear from the bedroom the man shared with her mother—and from the shameful look on her mother’s face the next morning.
“Maybe I should check then? Make sure you’re telling me the truth?”
She felt her forehead wrinkle momentarily as she tried to process what her stepfather was saying.
Check? Check what?
He grabbed her, his rough hands pulling at her terry cloth shorts. Mute with horror and confusion, Mickey prayed for Rhee to burst in, or for her mother to come home early. Mickey kicked at him, but he grabbed her ankles.
“Don’t you touch me!” she shrieked.
“You’ll do what I say or I’ll take it out on your mom, you hear me, you little slut?”
No!
“You want me to break a few more of her ribs, then? Huh?” Spittle from his mouth flew out as he roared at her, and she flinched as the spray hit her face.
Mickey forced herself to go still, to stop kicking. Paul hurt her mom a lot lately. She would do anything to prevent her mom from being hurt. Her body remained rigid as he pushed her down. Mickey fought the bile that rose up in her throat as the stench rolling off of the man assaulted her senses. The feel of his fingers on her bare legs felt like a hundred spiders and she flinched.
He smacked her soundly on the thigh. “You gonna obey me, Mouse?” he whispered.
“Or are you gonna let your momma handle my bad mood?”
She wouldn’t subject her mother to more abuse—not willingly, anyhow. She knew that his intent was evil, but Mickey was still unsure exactly what he meant to do. And then…
With sheer horror, she realized what it was that he wanted to “check” for. Mickey squeaked with terror as her shorts were yanked to the side and her stepfather’s fingers jabbed at her in places that no one else had ever touched. Between her legs. Beneath her pink flowered panties. Down there, where a light smattering of hair had recently sprouted to signal her womanhood.
It was humiliating to feel her stepfather’s hands on her there, to hear his heavy breathing in her ear. Then, his finger parted her dry folds, stabbing deep within her resisting body. Mickey’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. He seemed satisfied after his finger hit a particularly sensitive spot deep inside of her.
“Yeah, you’ll work out just fine, Mouse. Just fine,” he muttered, as his other hand went into his pants.
At some point, her mind did this nifty thing where she just…went away.
It was a useful trick—one that Mickey thought she had perfected over the years.
***
Sometimes, when she slept, Mickey’s chest squeezed so tight that she couldn’t breathe. It was her survival instinct—the same force that had kept her alive and out of the asylum all of these years—that woke her up. Air surged into her constricted lungs. A trickle of sweat made its way into the valley between her breasts as she stared fearfully into the strange, dark surroundings.
It was a familiar space—the space between the nightmare and the reality. It was a place where she felt it all over again—the pain. The feel of his fingers still lingered, the humiliation still heated her cheeks and her neck...the sensations were enough to make her gag.
Every fucking time.
Mickey rolled to her side, the acrid sting of bile making its way up into her throat. She forced it back down, furious with herself for being so weak.
Get yourself together!
She dug her fingernails into her wrists, using another old trick to pull some of her attention from the black hole inside her mind. It worked this time. Sometimes it didn’t. But this time…Mickey wrenched herself out of the nightmare of her memories and back into the small, infested motel room. Even the roaches were welcome company compared to what danced in her mind once she closed her eyes.
Paul was gone—he was dead and buried. If there was any sort of justice in the world, his ass was most definitely burning in hell. In any case, he could never hurt her again.
There was a time when she was angry—so angry. At her mother. At her sister. At her sorry-ass circumstances. But after a while, she realized that the only person she should be angry at was her evil bastard of a stepfather. Unfortunately, his ghost continued to haunt her, wielding the guilt he spawned like a black hole inside of her heart.
Deep down—way deep down—Mickey knew that she shouldn’t have to feel guilty that she protected herself all those years ago.
But thanks to her, her mother was gone too.
Chapter Two
Dax knew wh
at was coming. And it scared the shit outta him. He almost chuckled at the strange irony of his thoughts, but what was about to happen was too frightening to allow him to smile. It was amusing how gun-running, beat downs, and flying down a highway doing ninety on a bike paled in comparison to the situation that was brewing ominously nearby.
Never show fear, he reminded himself. That was the most important thing.
The past few months were a total mind fuck. But when Dax took the time to reflect on what had happened, the series of events that led him to this current situation—it all seemed like it was meant to be. This thing with Rhiannon and Sirena threw him for a major fucking loop at first, but there was never a doubt in his mind about the right course of action to take.
He had been angry—so fucking angry with her when he learned that Rhee had given birth to his daughter after she had disappeared—and that she had failed to tell him. But, Dax wasn’t about to leave a baby without a daddy.
No fuckin’ way. It wasn’t right.
Things could happen. Bad things. Especially to a girl child. The hardcore emotions that burned in his heart for Sirena were like nothing he had ever experienced. And he would be damned if anything ever happened to her.
Or to her mother.
Dax didn’t know love—he didn’t recognize it for what it was when he first met Rhiannon. He had no clue how or why he had lost his shit to that girl, but what went down with Salazar and the cartel and then Vidal and his crew, he knew that everything came down to who his family was.
Family could be defined in a bunch of ways. His crew, his boys—they had always been there for him. But now, there was this other family—and they needed him to. In fact, they needed him more. Sirena—she was his blood. Dax couldn’t just sweep that little fact by the wayside and return to his life in Darling. They would never say shit to his face, but he knew that some of the boys would never understand why he had made the choices he had made.
Well, fuck them. He had been around long enough to know that he had a code and he needed to honor it.
After riding an intangible yet distinct line for so many years, Dax chose which side to stand on. He made the right choice. He knew he had chosen wisely by the simple way things unfolded to keep him connected to his new family. He had a brother—nah, a braddah—in Turtle. He had an extended family in the local crew. It was different and it was also the same.
