Mayhem (Deathstalkers MC Book 5)

by Alexis Noelle

  I spend the next hour sifting through the piles Jasmine created, marveling at how someone who claimed to have no office experience could have sorted through everything in just one afternoon. She’d even gone to the trouble to arrange the invoices to be paid in date order, adding Post-It notes where I needed to sign. I lean back in my chair, hands locked behind my head, questioning whether Jasmine Burke really was as clueless as she thought she was. Regardless, she’d done what I asked and proved to me she deserves the job.

  Maybe there’s more to the mouse than I originally thought.

  Chapter Five

  Jasmine

  The door slams and I jump, my hands immediately finding each other, squeezing together, my grip tightening with each passing second because I know a slammed door means a shitty mood. When Dylan appears in the doorway, the entire left side of his face is red, his body tight with what I assume is rage. I want to run. I want to get away from here as fast as I can, but I’m stuck. At his mercy.

  He walks over to the chair next to me and sits down without a word. Picking up his fork, set to the right of his plate, he stabs at the steak and places it in his mouth. I hold my breath. There is a moment of peace; a quiet that to some might seem like bliss.

  I know better.

  Dylan lets out a loud growl and then my face is burning, the hot food, only minutes off the stove, clinging to my skin, scorching it. I gasp taking a few steps back from my place. I clutch at my face, wincing as my fingers brush the scalded flesh. I want to scream, but I know that will only make him angrier. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. Whatever pissed him off, it’s huge.

  “Can you not do one fucking thing right?”

  He stares up at me from the chair, fists clenched on the table, teeth bared, spittle gathering in his mouth like a rabid dog. I don’t dare speak.

  “This is why I tell you no one could ever love you. You are fucking worthless. I don’t know why I stay with your sorry ass. Pity, that must be it. I can’t even come home and have dinner without you screwing it up!”

  He pushes his chair away from the table, the feet screeching against the linoleum floor. Before I can react, he yanks me forward so that I fall across his lap, one arm presses down between my shoulder blades, preventing me from moving. His other hand grabs the steak knife I laid out on the table. I close my eyes.

  This is it.

  He’s going to kill me.

  And it will all be my fault.

  The cool metal glides up my spine, then my dress falls away from my body. My skin flushes with goose bumps as the cool air from the ceiling fan beats against me. The knife falls to the floor and Dylan’s hand tangles in my hair, forcing me to look up at him. “You’re lucky I need someone around here to get shit done. I’m sick of you being such a fuck up.”

  He releases my hair and my head lolls forward, the muscles too sore to keep it steady, and his hand comes down hard on my ass, making me squeal.

  Dylan laughs. “A fitting noise, considering you choose to keep my house like a pig sty.” His hand comes down again and the crack reverberates all around me. He’s relentless, doling out strike after strike. My ears start to ring and my entire body feels as if it’s on fire.

  Dylan pushes me to the floor and I catch my head on the edge of the table as I fall. "You have five minutes to get your pathetic ass upstairs. I expect to enjoy myself. If I don't, I'll throw you out. No clothes, no food, nowhere to go. Nothing. You don't have anyone, Jasmine, because no one wants you."

  I breathe in through my nose, fighting back the tears. Crying is weak. Tears will only piss him off more and make him treat me worse. I wish I were better at being a wife—at being a woman.

  “You’re down to four minutes.” He hovers over me, not offering me a hand up. His face is tight, his smile menacing.

  I try to push myself up, but my arms are like jelly. My fingers grip the wood and I haul myself up, using a chair to steady myself when I wobble in the heels I’m wearing. With each step my lower body fights me. It’s been beaten down and protests even the smallest of movements. The skin on the back of my thighs pulls tight when I lift my foot to climb the stairs and I pray I make it up.

  “You better hurry up.” His voice follows me, twisting through the hallway and up the stairs like a snake. If I could move any faster I would, but between the heels and the pain I might as well be crawling.

  “Two minutes.”

  My heart begins to race. I need to get up there and I need to do it now. Gritting my teeth, I run the last few steps, whimpering when the skin burns, feeling like it’s going to tear right off my body. I drop to my knees. Maybe I’ll be able to move faster that way. As I crawl along the carpet, I feel something run down the backs of my thighs, drying as it comes to settle in the crevice behind my knees. When I catch sight of my bed, I breathe a sigh of relief. I made it.

  I use the bedpost as leverage and stand up, barely having time to straighten my posture before Dylan walks in, belt loose in the loops of his jeans, his top button undone. He heads straight to the bedroom closet.

  Please no.

  Please don’t let him get the box.

  Despite my inner pleas, Dylan returns with what I know to be the little box of horrors. It contains sex toys, toys that people would normally use for pleasure.

  Dylan uses them for punishment.

  He’s told me before that if I please him, he could make them feel good. That they are for my enjoyments as much as his if I can just do one simple thing right.

  I never please him, though.

  I can never get it right.

  “Now like I said, I plan to enjoy myself.” The smile on his face makes me want to collapse to the floor and as he pulls the long black leather strap out of the box, my eyes close.

  I hate my very existence.

  I want to die.

  Chapter Six

  Cutter

  It’s Thursday. Payroll day. One of the busiest days of the week in the office, and there’s still no sign of Jasmine. She called on Wednesday morning to say she’d come down with a stomach bug and from her pained voice on the phone, I didn’t even question if she was faking it or not. I’ve been in a shit mood all week.

  After the drama with Melanie, one of the staff fucked up an order and we’ve ended up with two hundred bottles of low-alcohol beer. And who the fuck wants low-alcohol in a place like this? To top it off, one of the girls tripped in her heels and sprained her ankle, so now I’m a dancer short for the next two to three weeks. I’ve managed to call in a few favors, but I’m still going to have to fit in interviews for some new dancers before Monday, meaning I’m stressed the fuck out.

  Having Jasmine here to take care of the paperwork would take a load off, but I can’t ask her to come in when she’s sick. As much as I need her, right now. I run my pen down the columns of payroll numbers, each assigned to a different member of staff, until I land on the latest addition: Jasmine Burke.

  Pure isn’t my usual type, but I can’t deny she’s caught my attention. With dark eyes that try to swallow you whole, and raven black hair that contrasts to her pale skin, she seems so pure in every way. As much as I realize that she would probably never go for someone who lives the life I do, I can’t help but want to try.

  It’s clear I need to get laid.

  Sitting out at the bar, I scan the area for signs of someone—anyone—to catch my eye, but all I see are the same people I see day in, day out. It’s not like usual where I would just meet up with a woman, fuck her and then walk away. As many times as I have had girls come up to me tonight, I am just not feeling it. They are all such an easy lay, it doesn’t interest me at all.

  Tracie slides a shot glass in front of me and tilts her head to the other end of the bar. “The blonde one,” she says. My eyes flick left. Three women perch on the bar, a row of empty shot glasses in front of them, and, sure enough, a blonde catches my eye, chewing on her bottom lip, looking up at me through long lashes. Ordinarily, that’s all it take
s. I would down the shot, take her by the hand, lead her to my bike and take her to my room at the club, where we’d spent the next few hours before I send her on her way and pass out.

  Ordinarily.

  But tonight I’m not feeling it. I throw back the shot, then fish a ten out of my wallet and slide it to Tracie. “For her trouble,” I add.

  Tracie pauses for a moment. She knows my routine almost as well as I do; after all, she witnesses it firsthand. Then her hand curls around the crisp note. “Well alrighty then.”

  I turn my back to the women at the end of the bar, not interested in seeing how my dismissal affects the blonde. There’ll be others, no doubt. There always are. Tonight, however, my thoughts are elsewhere—specifically with a shy mouse whose pull I just can’t seem to shake.

  Jasmine.

  Shit. Like that will happen.

  I look around to see the rest of the club’s officers with their old ladies. Twisted has Nikki by his side. Torch and Tracie are there, and Whip has Lucy pulled tight against him like he’s afraid sunlight will get between them. I’ve watched each and every one of them fall hard for those women and being a bystander, part of me has always felt a pang of jealousy. No one has ever caught my eye like that. No one has made me feel for them the way they talk about their girls. That instant connection, where you know that the person standing in front of you is about to change your life.

  Until her.

  I felt that the moment Jasmine looked up at me with those big eyes.

  That time in the office on Tuesday was hell. My hands had itched with the need to pull her close to me, just to see how she would feel when she was there. Something held me back, though. Those eyes are dark for a reason. I’ve seen shit over the years, and experience tells me that they’ve seen more than she’s letting on. There’s a fear there—one that is deep-seated. The way her back stiffened when she heard Tracie yelling, the way her eyes won't always meet mine but she listens to any direction I give her.

  There is something there and when I see her again, I swear I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

  “Can I take away the edge tonight?”

  I glance up at the soft sultry voice and find Venus staring down at me. Her fiery eyes shine in the dim lighting of the room and a wicked smile spreads across her face. Under normal circumstances, I would be all over that. Venus is the perfect club girl: does whatever you want, without complaint. We have history, but tonight, my thoughts are with Jasmine. “Nah. Not tonight.”

  She nods once, her brow furrowing. “Okay.” She runs her hand down my arm. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  I did, but I knew I wouldn’t be going to see her tonight.

  Or any night soon.

  ***

  Fucking morning traffic again. I race into the club, rounding the hallway corner I bump into something, then I hear a squeak. Grabbing her arm, I hold her up to keep her from falling over.

  “Jasmine?”

  She jumps out of my grasp and rubs her arms, looking everywhere but directly at me.

  I smile, my first genuine one in days. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

  When she finally looks up at me her stare is blank. "I'm fine. Thank you for asking." The robotic tone of her voice throws me. It's like she’s been trained; told exactly what to say and when to say it.

  “Come,” I finally say, taking her hand in mine. It’s a bold gesture but I hope that voicing it as a command will make it easier for her to comply.

  She flinches at the contact then slowly relaxes under my touch. My large hand envelops hers and I can’t help but think how good this feels. Her skin is smooth in comparison with my weathered hands, but I like the way her fingers look linked with mine. We walk into the office and she drops my hand and walks straight to the desk, rifling through the piles of new invoices that came in yesterday. She works silently, diligently.

  “How’s the home life?” I ask, finding myself needing to talk to her. It doesn’t matter what it’s about, I just want to hear her voice. She hasn’t spoken much, but what little I’ve heard, I’ve liked. I’m pretty sure she could read the damn phone book and I would be happy listening to the words leaving her full lips.

  “It’s fine.” Her response is brief but I notice a twinge of fear in her eyes. They dart around the room almost as if looking for someone else. She moves away from me, putting space between us.

  She’s shutting down.

  I just don’t know why.

  I decide to dive right in and ask what I really want to know. I’m not the kind of guy to beat around the bush. Whatever I’m feeling I want to know if it’s a waste of time. “Are you single?”

  “Why do you ask?” she asks, her voice small. Her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip as she stares at the carpet.

  With two long strides, I close the space between us and look down at her, my finger hooking under her chin and lifting her eyes to meet mine. I graze my thumb along her full bottom lip releasing it from her grasp. “Because I want to know what kind of competition I have.”

  Her eyes go wide. “I’m not single.”

  I search her face for a sign. Something that will give away that she is happy, that she’s in love with the person she’s with.

  I see…nothing.

  Her face is blank.

  Her gaze is hard and cold.

  What the hell has happened to her? She is young. Way too damn young to be so bitter. “How long have you been with him?”

  “A while,” she whispers and looks away from me.

  Nodding once, I drop my hand.

  She turns, giving me her back. Her way of telling me the conversation is over without confrontation. It pisses me off, but I have to respect that she’s in a relationship. I should back off. That would be the right thing to do.

  She gestures to the paperwork. “Where would you like me?”

  On my lap, straddling me.

  Your mouth on mine.

  My hands roaming all over your body.

  I clear my throat, pushing everything I’m thinking out of my mind, trying to remain professional. “On the couch is fine.”

  Why she even asks is starting to wear on me. Not because she asks for permission, but because it seems like something, or someone, has made her believe it’s the way she should live. I’ve seen the signs before. The nervous way her eyes scan the room, or how she jumps at every contact. How she avoids speaking about herself, as if she isn’t important.

  “I’ll be right back.” I head to the kitchen and make myself a coffee needing to be out of that room and away for a minute.

  Walking back in the room Jasmine’s head is bent over our inventory list, her mouth wrapped around the end of the pen she’s using to match items to the supplier invoice. There are tiny creases in between her brows and her knee bounces lightly. She’s fascinating to watch. I don’t think I’ve ever paid this much attention to how someone reconciles stock before. I leave the room, returning with a coffee in each hand. I nudge her foot with mine and she jumps.

  “Here.” I hand over the mug. “I don’t know how you take it so I just added a little cream.

  Her eyes go wide and she puts the papers down. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Her hands shake as she takes the mug and places it on the table in front of her.

  “Just a coffee, babe. Nothing to thank me for.” I stand, snatching up our stock list from my desk and moving over to sit next to her on the couch. “Shift over,” I say with a smile. “If we work together, we can get it done twice as fast.” She pauses for a moment, before shuffling to the far end of the couch. It’s only a two-seater, but the space she puts between us makes it feel much bigger. We work together in silence, quickly finding a rhythm. I match the invoice to the inventory list, and she checks that they match.

  I’m looking for the previous week’s listing, sifting through all the papers on my lap but coming up short. Then I feel it.

  Her hand on my elbow.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?�
�� she asks, holding out exactly what I’m looking for. I smile, taking it from her, making sure my fingers brush hers in the process. She flinches but doesn’t move back.

  “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  A flush races up her neck and into her cheeks as her eyes return to the file on her knees. “I’m sure you’d cope,” she replies.

  And in that moment, as crazy as it seems, I’m not sure I would. “So tell me about yourself.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. What would you like to know?” She picks up a pile of papers and flicks through, staring at them as if they hold this week’s lottery numbers.

  “Anything you want to tell me.”

  I watch her sort the papers into separate stacks on the coffee table. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail and it swings slowly as she moves, brushing over her shoulders.

  Despite my earlier thoughts of professionalism, my dick hardens. I cannot control myself when she is in the same room as me. Fuck me. It’s been too long since I felt any sort of release. Since I felt any sort of connection with another human being.

  I want the woman sitting next to me. But she isn’t single, and I have a feeling that the man she is with has a firm grip on her soul.

  “Tell me about your boyfriend . . . husband?”

  “Husband.” Her back stiffens, her jaw ticking. When most women talk about their significant other they smile, they might even laugh. They want to tell you about the person they love. Jasmine seems like she is in pain just talking about him.

  I know there’s something there. From her skittish actions, to the way she almost submits to me. I want to order her to tell me what is going on when a heavy knock sounds on the door. These people have perfect fucking timing.

  “Come in,” I bark.

  Melanie peeks her head around the corner. "That guy's back. And he's pissed."

  Fuck.