Sage's Surrender

by Joy Blood

  Thirty-Nine

  Sage

  Her smell lingers all around me. Stuck to my sheets, my pillow, my skin. Forcing myself from the bed, I try not to let it bother me that she’s gone—left my bed before I woke up. It’s what she was supposed to do, but I still find myself pissed at the fact that she actually listened for once. I stretch my arms up over my head, letting my back and shoulders crack, then move my head from side to side, the popping waking me further. I quickly pull on my clothes and my cut before leaving the room to search for her.

  The clubhouse is as it always is in the morning, chatter here and there about what everyone’s planning for the day. Something to entertain the kids who have to be cooped up in the clubhouse. Thinking about why they have to be here in the first place makes me pissed about the prick who died on me before I got a name all over again.

  I shake it off and step into the common room, instantly seeking out silver blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Only, I don’t find what I’m looking for. That’s when the commotion starts. Booted feet slamming down the hall. Someone calling out for Rock. Instantly, I’m on alert and out in the hall again looking for whoever’s shouting. It sounded like Patches, from the Rhino chapter, but I can’t say for sure. I get to Rock’s office to find a panting Patches, wearing a blood-soaked shirt.

  “I got out there and found him, had his throat slit ear to ear. Someone got the jump on him. Killed JimmyJon too. Same fucking way,” Patches explains, trying to take in deep breaths.

  “Anyone else?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. No more bodies. They’ve been there for maybe an hour, two tops.”

  “We need a head count. See if anyone is missing,” Rock commands, stepping past the brother and out the door, coming face to face with me.

  “Get everyone rounded up,” he tells me, then pulls up his phone, calling Buggs I’m sure. “Babe? You okay? Good. Keep everyone there. We need to get a head count.” He pauses for a moment, staring down at the floor before swinging his gaze up to meet me. “You sure? Don’t panic. She might be sleeping still or something. Okay.” He ends the call. “Buggs said they’re all in the common room. All…except one.” Before he even says it, I’m running down the hall through the bar and outside. As soon as I hit the dirt, I run toward the cabin and throw open the door.

  “Brook!” I call out, getting nothing but cold dead silence in return. Each room I go to is empty. My heart pounds even faster.

  “Sage,” someone call out from outside, pulling my attention from my useless search. “Brother, we found a smashed coffee cup on the front deck of the clubhouse,” Ringer says when he comes into view. The image of the time I found her on the deck of this cabin, coffee cup in hand, enjoying the early morning comes to mind, and my gut clenches.

  “Whoever the fuck is doing this shit has Brook,” I say, slamming my booted foot into a side table. The lamp flies across the room and shatters. “Fuck!”

  Forty

  Brook

  The first thing I feel is the rolling in my stomach, like I went on a three-day bender and need to hurl. Purge it from my system. The next is that I’m completely naked. And cold. Probably the only reason I haven’t thrown up yet. The cold is keeping the nausea at bay. I’m in a small room, maybe a walk-in closet? There is plush carpet on the floor and long shelves running along the tops of the walls, complete with rods for hanging clothes. Other than the sliver of light running along the bottom of the door, there’s no other source of light. My eyes dart around, hopeful to find a light socket, but my hopes are dashed when I find it and the socket doesn’t house a bulb I could use for defense.

  Pushing myself to a sitting position, I wince when the tenderness of my limbs protests the movement. Bringing my hands to my face, I see the reason for the tenderness. My wrists have been tied. Dark purple bruises run along my skin, and when I look down to my ankles, I find the same. I would have to have been tied for some time to have created this much coloring, wouldn’t I?

  Heavy footsteps thud outside the door, until they come into view, blocking off the natural light as they step in front of the closed door. Then the doorknob turns until more light floods inside, and I flinch at the sudden brightness. “I’ll be damned, wore off. Thought I may have killed you, princess,” a man carrying a brown paper bag says as he steps into the small room.

  “Who are you?” I ask, looking up at him while shielding my face with my hand to get a better view. When I do, I nearly choke on my gasp.

  “Does my face bother you, princess?” he hisses. “Got your daddy and his club to blame for this.” He gestures to the half of his face that’s covered in melted skin, like that guy from the Batman movie my brother made me watch. Two face. One side completely void of scars, the other burnt beyond recognition.

  “N-N-N-N—No. Sorry. It’s just…I wasn’t expecting it,” I stutter, unsure how he’ll react. Maybe he’ll present a coin and flip it to decide my fate.

  “Believe me, I wasn’t either,” he says, stepping closer. “Food.” He holds up the paper bag I forgot he had in his hand and tosses it down onto the floor. It lands with a thunk. My stomach takes that moment to roll, and my hand flies to my mouth, trying to keep myself from getting sick. “Christ’s sake. Get the fuck up,” he growls, reaching down to pull me up by the hair. “Don’t be puking on the floor. I don’t want to have to smell that shit.” His fingers dig into my scalp as he leads me to a bathroom and pushes me inside. I barely make it before I start turning into the toilet. Acid fills my throat as nothing more than dry heaves comes up. “That’s the side effects. Should pass in a couple hours. Take a shower, might help a little. I shall return,” he singsongs, and I glance back toward him as he walks away. I do my best to shake off the nausea and wipe at my mouth with a few squares of the small roll of toilet paper. The bathroom looks new, like it was possibly remodeled or just built. The thick smell lingering in the air I now realize is paint. New paint. There’s a vanity, no mirror, no shower curtain, one towel, and a small stack of clothes. A shiver rolls through me as I dive toward the clothes. A t-shirt and some shorts. Both mens. Probably his. At least he’s granting me something to hide under.

  Through the open door, I find a room. Also new. Complete with a bed and nothing else. The bed doesn’t even have any sheets or blankets. Just the mattress. No frame or baseboard. Something to sleep on. Will he make me go back in the closet? Deciding not to think much into it, I go back to the bathroom and shut the door, but when I go to lock it, I find no knob, only an empty hole where there should be a latch. “Whatever,” I grumble to myself and go for the shower, flicking it on, then waiting for moment for it to turn warm before getting in. The heat is welcome on my cool skin, but also causes me to itch with the sudden rush of blood to the surface. There isn’t any soap to wash with, so the shower is short. By the time I’m dried off and pulling on my borrowed clothes, I hear the door to the room open, then the bathroom door swings open. “Go get on the bed.”

  I let the shirt fall, the hem landing nearly at my knees. “W-W-W-What? No, please.” I shake my head and step back, not getting any farther from him because he comes at me, gripping my hair again and dragging me to the mattress where he tosses me down. Tears fill my eyes as I plead, begging him to stop, to not do wherever he’s about to do to me.

  “Shut it, girl. I have some unfinished business and you are going to help me aid in that task,” he snaps. “Now, we’ll start off slow, just a short video. That’s all. You just need to state your name for the camera. Easy as pie.” He grins. “I’ll even let you keep your clothes on for this one.” For this one. Does that mean he has plans for me that involve no clothes? I shudder at the thought.

  “Please. I have nothing to do with the club. I live in California. I only came back for Gin’s funeral. Please,” I try to explain, but he shakes his head.

  “Oh no, princess. You are lying. I know who you’re fucking. You should be ashamed of yourself. What would Daddy Gin think about you fucking the Sergeant at Arms?” He lets out
a sardonic laugh, and my insides clench in fear. “Now, state your name for the camera.”

  Forty-One

  Sage

  Nothing but a red mist covers my vision as I watch the video one more time, as if it will make what I’m watching feel like I’m just in a bad movie. But I’m not. Not even fucking close.

  “My name is Brook.”

  “Full name, princess.”

  “Brooklyn Izzy Mathers.”

  “Tell them who has you, Brooklyn Izzy Mathers.”

  She lets out a choked sob and says his fucking name—a name I didn’t think I’d ever hear again.

  “Peter Wells.” Every fucking time she says it, every time I watch the video, I clutch my phone just a little tighter.

  “Good, princess. Now, tell the Riders watching who you’ve been fucking. Which brother have you had these beautiful legs wrapped around since good old daddy bit the dust?”

  “Please. I don’t—” His hand comes out and grips her jaw, still not revealing himself to the camera, but I know it’s him. The tattooed arm gives him away. Scarred flesh over a fucked-up Hell’s Rider tat.

  “You will say it, princess, or I’ll start sending pieces back to them.”

  “Fine!” she calls out as his grip tightens. He pulls away, leaving behind a red handprint, making me grind my teeth together. “Sage. I’ve been fucking Sage.” The video cuts off as soon as my name leaves her mouth. I fight the urge to send the phone flying into the wall and stand from my bed. I dropped here as soon as her face filled the screen of my phone. Forcing my heavy legs from my room, I go straight for Rock and hand him the phone without a word.

  He watches it while I stand there and wait for it.

  “I’ve been fucking Sage.”

  It comes, but he doesn’t react. Instead, he calls out for Wiz. The computer room not being far from the office, he comes running when summoned.

  “Yeah, Pres?” the eager, freshly-patched-in kid comes bounding into the room.

  “Find out if who made this video really is who he claims to be and if you can pinpoint where it was sent from.” Wiz promptly takes off to the computer room. “You got anything to say?”

  “She’s mine and I love her.” I go for honesty that he takes with a slow one jerk nod of his head.

  “When we get her back, we’ll revisit this. In the meantime, get your head on right so we can find her before that maniac does something to her.”

  “Will do, Pres,” I say, walking out of the room and back to mine to ready my weapons.

  Forty-Two

  Brook

  “The effects of the drugs should have worn off by now. What is wrong with you?” the man growls above me as I heave into the toilet for the third time today. It’s been four days of this, and I’m starting to panic. I’m dehydrated and don’t think my body can take any more of this.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t feel good. Please. I think I need to go to the hospital,” I beg the man, making him balk.

  “No,” he snaps, leaving the room once again. He has been in and out, getting angrier each time he finds me expelling the food he gives me. Sighing after my stomach settles, I lay back down on the cool floor and take a piece of toilet paper into my hand to wipe my mouth. Tossing it to the floor, I press my cheek against the cool tile, the contact somewhat making me feel better.

  He hasn’t made me film any more videos, and I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the fact that I’ve been sick or he hasn’t gotten a response. I can only guess the video was for Sage and probably the rest of the Riders. He doesn’t talk much, but has introduced himself as Peter Wells—the man who took a shot at Gin and my brother and succeeded in killing one of them. Now, I’m his captive. What he plans on doing with me, I can only imagine.

  His heavy footfalls come back into the room before the bathroom door swings open. “Time for another video,” he instructs, rolling me over to my back. He turns on the water, then cups his palm to splash a handful over my face. “There. That, with the pale wash about you, should get their attention. Maybe act like you’re shivering. Give a little shake for me, princess,” he instructs with a sneering smile that makes me do just as he says, no acting needed. The man sends a chill through my bones. “This time, talk to him. Let him know how sick you are. How in need of his help you are.”

  “Please—”

  “Tell him I’m going to pick off each and every one of his brothers until it’s just him left. And with every passing day, he’s going to wish he were dead.”

  “Don’t—” His swift kick to my leg causes a cry to escape my lips.

  “Start talking, princess.”

  Forty-Three

  Sage

  Her voice haunts me as I watch the video again. Her trembling lips are thin and her face is so pale, it makes me want to punch a hole in the earth. “He says he’ll kill a brother every day until you are the only one left,” she squeaks out.

  “We are a mouse in his trap, and he’s just toying with us,” I growl.

  “You see this?” College asks, pointing to the screen the video is blown up on.

  “What?” I snap, looking at where his finger points. It’s the tiled floor she’s kneeling on. “It’s a floor. The fuck am I looking at the floor for?”

  “Look how clean it is. That shit is new. Why the fuck would a kidnapper be concerned about having a clean floor? That shit looks freshly grouted.” He pauses the video and runs his finger along the crystal clean white line of the grout. “He’s got her in something newly built.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, then shift back to the screen.

  “Bring up the last video,” I snap at Wiz, who quickly does as told. The first video is the same as I remember it, but I try to look past it, past her, as College did in the second video. The bed she is on is bare, but new. No stains or runs in the fabric. Behind her, Wells doesn’t give much but a small sliver of the wall. A white wall. A clean white wall.

  “It’s got to be in one of those new complexes. That’s the only place I can think of that would be freshly painted and spotless.”

  “Those aren’t even on the market yet. How the fuck would he get his hands on one?” Ringer chimes in, scratching at his thick beard.

  “They aren’t on the market ‘cause while they were setting the foundation for the third building, they broke ground of an old Indian burial site. Tribe shut the whole thing down. Now the place is caught up in the courts,” College states.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. USA Today,” Ringer quips, rolling his eyes.

  “Not my fault the only thing you look up online is porn. Would it kill you to read a news article instead of watching videos on chicks getting choked while having their asses rammed?”

  “The fuck?” Ringer snaps at Wiz.

  “Yeah. Clear your history before leaving the computer. Just a thought.”

  “Will you two quit,” I bark, thumping my knuckles to the table. “We need to get into those buildings. Find out which one he has her in.”

  “If she’s even there. It’s just a hunch. Not even sure how the hell he would have gotten in. That place is locked up tight.”

  “Well, how the fuck do we get her? You got an idea in that college educated brain of yours or are you just here to tell us it’s impossible?” I snap at the kid, my patience wearing thin.

  “Maybe we don’t have to get in. Maybe we can get him to come out,” Ringer suggests with a sly grin.

  “The hell are you talking about?” I ask, but he ignores my question.

  “Let’s take a ride.” He claps my shoulder once before walking away, knowing I’ll follow.

  I step outside to find him swinging his leg over his bike. “Let’s roll, a-hole,” he calls out before he brings his bike roaring to life. I quicken my pace and pull on my helmet before I’m revving the throttle after him. I try to push back my thoughts of Brook being kidnapped, push back the fact that it’s been days and we still haven't come up with a thing except she could be being kept some place clean. I shake
it away and follow Ringer into Cental.

  Before long, we find our way to the edge of town, the part only the wannabe gangs patrol, along with the druggies and prostitutes. Ringer pulls up along the street across from and abandoned office building and I do the same, cutting my engine as he does. I’m about to ask why the hell he brought us to this part of town when a woman comes walking our way. First, I take her for one of the girls who work the streets, but the closer she gets, the more I see that can’t be her profession. Her long black hair is clean, past her shoulders and blowing in the slight breeze, and her face is clear of any sores to indicate she’s a junkie. Plus, she isn’t skin and bone. No, this woman doesn’t belong in this part of town. She looks more like a runway model. “You got anything for me?” Ringer asks as she stops at his side.

  “He hasn’t come looking. I swear, he doesn’t—”

  “Better not be lying to me, Paris,” he growls, and that’s when I catch it: the bruises on her throat. Perfect handprints on her creamy skin. Ringer has spoken to her before, and by the slight tremble she can’t hide at the sight of him, I suspect the talk was a little more interrogation than casual conversation.

  “I’m not, Ringer. I swear. If I saw him, believe me, I would tell you. I want him gone as much as you do.” Tears well in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”