Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Celia Loren

Puzzled, I turn to Danny. You might say we are not frequent visitors to the less fashionable parts of town. His family and mine are based in the heart of the city, in our astronomically priced penthouses and weekend mansions.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  He smiles cryptically. “A private club of mine. I want you to see it, get to know me a bit better.”

  I’m annoyed. “Danny, we’ve dated for six months and worked together for a year. I think we know each other fairly well.”

  He shrugs and takes my hand. “There’s always more to share, Harper. I think this is an important moment for us, and seeing my club might help you make your decision. I want you to understand me better.”

  My uneasiness increases when the chauffeur pulls up to the entry of a dilapidated warehouse in what feels like the middle of nowhere. I can see some dusty mountains to the west and north, but beyond that I have no idea where we are. Low industrial buildings circle us, the streetlamps casting dingy yellow light over adobe and sheet metal. The place looks deserted, but as Danny helps me out of the car I can hear the low thrumming of a bass beat emanating from inside the building and see the glow of changing colored lights peeking through cracks in the sheet metal door. Two letters hang crooked over the doorway by means of a name sign, looking aged and cockeyed: D.C. I wonder idly what it stands for but don’t bother to ask.

  There are several large men in black suits poised around the door, bouncers probably, and a red carpet incongruously lines the pavement. As we approach, the largest of the men bows his head formally and moves to enter a code on the lock on the door.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Hollis,” says the man.

  “Thank you,” Danny nods. His hand is on the small of my back, pushing me through the door. We walk to another line of bouncers guarding a chain-link fence that runs the perimeter of the interior, and we wait while a chain and locks are removed from a sliding gate. It squeals open and we pass through, finding ourselves in front of another gate. Ahead I can see red and blue and green and yellow lights flashing, and a chaotic dance floor. When we enter the second gate, a tall pale man with long platinum hair greets us. He looks an awful lot like that alien butler character in Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  “Mr. Hollis,” he shouts over the music. “Your usual table and order?”

  We follow him around the dance floor, Danny’s hand never leaving my back. It’s just as well, because without him propelling me I’m not sure I’d make the walk. The people dancing are startling: a mix of well-dressed businessmen and scantily clad women. I can’t say their moves are at all tasteful. I feel like I’ve walked into a fraternity party or the Playboy mansion. The room smells strongly of alcohol and pot, and I am a little surprised to think of Danny coming here.

  Danny steers me up an iron flight of stairs toward a balcony that overlooks the dance floor, and we are ushered to sit at a small table. It’s then that I notice the glass cages, like oversized fish tanks suspended from the ceiling. They hang about at eye-level for the people seated in the VIP booths around the balcony, and when I glance up to see what’s inside the tanks my stomach sinks and embarrassed heat blooms over my cheeks.

  “Oh my god, Danny!” I hiss. “What the hell is this place? Why do you come here?”

  The clear glass tank hanging nearest to me, about the size of a Volkswagon beetle, contains two naked women dancing and making out. Before my stunned eyes, one lies down and spreads her legs while the other kneels over her and begins to eat her out. In a cage next to them are several women in chains, dancing. Across the way I see a cage filled with what look like cobras, writhing over each other and flicking their tongues across the glass.

  Danny arches an eyebrow but doesn’t answer my question, instead smiling as a waitress wearing nothing but a thong and handcuffs approaches carrying a tray. She sets the table for us with a bottle of champagne, glasses, caviar, and a small pewter box.

  “I want you to understand something about me,” Danny says. He is the essence of calm as he pours the champagne. “I always get what I want, no matter the obstacles or complications. I accept no defeat and brook no refusal.”

  A fight seems to have broken out on the dance floor, and my attention is snatched away from Danny. A woman, one of the scantily clad waitresses, seems to be resisting the advances of a patron, and it’s gotten physical. She’s screaming blisteringly and pushing him away. I lean forward to watch as a bouncer wades into the melee to separate them, but instead of pulling the man out, he instead grabs the woman by her hair. He lifts her several inches from the ground by her hair and punches her in the face. I gasp as she slumps, unconscious, and the bouncer holds her limp body up for the patron to touch.

  My hands fly to cover my mouth as I feel bile rising. I shoot to my feet, but realize that everyone else in the club has remained impassive, going about their dancing and eating and drinking and debauchery. Horrified, I turn back to Danny.

  “Jesus,” I gulp. “How can you just sit there? Did you see that? He knocked her out cold!”

  Danny takes a long sip of champagne. “Some obstacles are easier to remove than others. Laws, for example, those are trickier to get around—but it can be done. You and I make our bread from finding ways to help clients work the system to their advantage. If you can’t comply or find a loophole, there are other ways to bend the rules. Other obstacles are annoying but easier to overcome. Someone owning something I want to buy. Someone withholding something I need. Lack of consent. There are always ways around these obstacles, Harper, and I always find a way through. Persuasion usually works. But I am not above coercion. The end justifies the means, you might say. I am a patient man, willing to wait to get what I want. But my patience only goes so far.”

  Danny sets down his champagne flute and picks up the pewter box. He opens it, revealing a small cluster of blue pills, and one white one. He holds it out to me but I shake my head emphatically, unbelieving.

  “This isn’t you,” I say. “You aren’t talking to me right now, you’re not yourself. I think you’ve had too much to drink and you are making me very uncomfortable. Danny, let’s get out of here. Please. This place is wrong.”

  “Right now, it so happens that you are what I want, Harper.” Danny continues in the same even voice, almost as if I hadn’t spoken. He pops one of the blue pills onto his tongue and washes it down with a satisfied groan. Fingering the white pill, he raises it between his thumb and forefinger. “I brought you here to make you understand that nothing will stop me from having you. Our union will be perfect. You are perfect. Your family, connections, and performance are perfect for my plans. I need you, and can’t allow anything to get in my way. Not laws. Not conventions.” He grabs my wrist, his grip strong, and twists my arm backward, pinning it. He raises the pill toward my gasping mouth. “Not even you.”

  Chapter Three

  Harper

  “Danny! You’re hurting me, let go!”

  His fingers are digging into my flesh and I am scrambling to push him away. Danny has me pinned against the railing of the balcony and is pushing the pill against my desperately clamped-shut mouth. I’m so preoccupied defending myself that it takes me a few moments to process the change in the noise behind me.

  The first thing I notice is a shift in the air, then banging. It starts outside, a series of high raps and shouts that rises to a boom until even Danny is distracted, loosening his grip on me. I twist my neck around to take a look through the railings of the balcony. Below, music grinds to a halt and people are screaming and running. There’s a flash of white lights and an unintelligible raspy voice through a loudspeaker.

  “Oh thank god,” I gasp, thinking it must be the police. I wrench my arms loose from Danny’s hold and struggle to stand.

  But then there’s another series of bangs—gunshots. And a deafening roar as the side of the building rips open. Sparks are flying. Everyone screams and dives for cover as the first chain link fence around the perimeter of the dance floor crumples and sails inward, ramme
d by two huge black pickup trucks surrounded by motorcycles.

  About half a dozen motorcycles roar through the gaping hold in the warehouse wall and ream straight into the fence, folding it like paper on their mad drive into the center of the emptied dance floor.

  Shouting men in leather jackets swarm through the space in the wake of the motorcycles. The men appear to be large and in the flashing strobe lights of the club it’s hard to make out their features, but I can see that some are wielding guns and some have chainsaws to hack through the remaining chain link barriers.

  The men, women, and bouncers on the dance floor rally after their initial shock and break into chaos, fleeing and bumping into each other as bullets begin to fly. It’s like watching rats flee a sinking ship. The only people not running are some of the bouncers, who duck down under counters, whip out their own guns and return fire.

  I stare, mouth open, so horrified that I completely forget my fight with Danny. He’s gone completely still too, the color drained from his face.

  “Holy fuck,” Danny curses.

  One bouncer falls, shot, and then another. The biker invaders, all large and leather-clad, press through the crowd throwing punches and shots. Women scream and sob and throw themselves to the floor with their hands over their heads. Some of the customers fight back, some cower, and some make a run for the open gash in the side of the building.

  The bikers are fanning through the building now. They’ve left their motorcycle engines idling as the riders leap off and rush up the steps toward the balcony.

  Toward us.

  “Oh my god,” I wail.

  Over the screams and sporadic gunfire I hear snatches of the bikers’ orders and questions. “Where is Colt?” Someone bellows. “Come out you fucking cocksucker! We’ve got something for you! Give me Colt!”

  The men and their guns are just a few feet away from me now, each heavy step up the staircase making the balcony rattle a little. My body begins to tremble in shock as they approach, and I notice the oddest details: the thick hobnailed boots, the pocket protector chains, a man’s heavy tattooed fist with skull rings on every finger. The platinum-haired man who escorted us to our table runs at them waving his hands hysterically, and gets shot in the face.

  My stomach heaves at the carnage. Now they’re walking towards us. I scream and move to dive under the table but Danny grabs me by the shoulders and crouches behind me, holding my body over him like a human shield.

  “Let go!” I scream, thrashing.

  “Don’t hurt me!” Danny squeals.

  The enormous man with the skull rings is right in front of me now, and I gasp in fear. He stares at me with frozen black eyes. “Please,” I whimper.

  He kicks over our table, champagne bottle splintering over the floor, and laughs. He’s got a beard and a scar on his face, and a patch on his lapel reads ‘Road Captain.’ He shakes his head down at us, but his eyes soon pass over me and settle on Danny, who is trembling under me and swearing.

  “Cowardly asshole,” says a deep voice over us. “Using a woman like armor. You make me sick. I know who you are, what side you’re on. I know what you do here. And you’re gonna get what you deserve. Goodbye, Danny boy.”

  The tattooed fist closes around the front of my clothes and yanks me up, out of Danny’s grasp. The biker holds me suspended against his broad body, as effortlessly as if I were a small child. My face is pressed into his shoulder but I hear two shots and a horrible gargling noise behind me, then a thud. Danny has fallen to the ground and blood begins to pool around my kicking feet.

  I scream, my body quaking in fear and revulsion, but the biker doesn’t let go of me. Instead he wraps a free arm around my shoulders, hugging me close to his chest, and turns his back to the melee around us. It takes me a second to process that he’s shielding me from a volley of bullets, but then he whips around again and fires back. I spin my head to see what he’s shooting at just in time to see a bouncer fall against the ledge and then topple off the balcony with a groan.

  “Oh my god!” I scream.

  The biker sweeps me along with him as he pushes further in, scanning the booths and tables along the rim of the balcony systematically. He’s like Robocop, on a mission, searching. Numb, I turn to look over my shoulder and see Danny lying totally still on the ground exactly where he’d fallen. I know he’s dead, I just know.

  But there isn’t really time to think about it. The Road Captain guy is dragging me along the balcony, which wraps around the edge of the warehouse in an unbroken semi-circle. There are more gunshots and screams and I have to screw my eyes tight shut to keep from fainting or vomiting.

  By the time the Road Captain finishes inspecting the balcony he has shot five men and has another cluster of women trailing after him with me, lost and confused and terrified. Most of the women are naked, or close enough.

  “You,” rumbles the Road Captain, jerking his chin at one. She looks a little older, hardened, a little more controlled and less panicked than the others and me. “Where’re the controls for these cages? The fish-tanks? Do you know?”

  The woman blinks, then raises a surprisingly steady hand and points to a little alcove. The Road Captain grunts and marches over, wading over a few huddled crying girls. I follow him with the rest of the women. He locates what looks like a light board from a theater in a booth and stares at it blankly.

  “Here, I’ll do it.” The older woman scurries over and glances at the biker for permission before she starts pushing and twisting knobs with expert fingers.

  There’s a screeching, grating sound and the glass tanks suspended from the ceiling begin to move toward the balcony, screaming on rusty tracks. It takes them a few minutes to travel the distance, but then they click into docks and I see that there are smooth-seamed doors in the sides.

  The two women who had been having sex earlier burst out of their giant fish tank. Next to it, a group of dancers escape theirs. There are others docked, filled with women and animals. There’s one with a pair of growling, cowering dogs. The glass tank full of cobras remains closed, thank god. It’s like a bizarre, perverted menagerie. I just don’t understand how this place exists.

  “Good,” says the Road Captain. “Downstairs, everybody.”

  The Road Captain is on the move again, and those of us he hasn’t shot or chased away just follow him, confused and helpless. Most of the businessmen clientele have disappeared, except for the unlucky ones like Danny who won’t ever escape. By the time the Road Captain leads us back through the balcony and down the steps, I see that the ground floor area has gone through much the same process. Most of the men in suits are simply vanished, unaccounted for.

  There is a huddle of shaking, scared women in the center of the room. We join them, a cluster of terrified refugees. Scattered around the floor are the bodies of bouncers, some businessmen with their hands over their head like hostages, and one fallen biker. There must be at least thirty dead.

  The motorcycles themselves are parked where they landed, the crushed chain link fence bent under the tires of the pickup trucks. I notice one bike has a flat. I watch, feeling hollow, as the men in leather sweep the place one more time, kicking over bodies and cursing.

  “Find him?” one shouts across the room.

  “No,” another answers. “Dirtbeard, any luck?”

  “Nope,” rumbles the Road Captain. “Not a goddamn sign of the motherfucker.”

  There’s an explosion of cursing and I realize that the bikers are closing in around us, a dark rim around the circle of vulnerable women. The room is settling to a standstill. I shrink to the ground, wrapping my arms around my legs and burying my face in my knees. Some women around me are sobbing. Some are standing, shaking. Some are hugging each other. I simply hide and wish to be invisible.

  “Shit,” curses one of the bikers. “Looks like our intel was bad for tonight, boys. No sign of Colt anywhere. So much for one quick sting of retribution! Now it’s gonna be a fucking campaign.”

  Ther
e’s a long, long pause. Then, “Whatever it takes,” says another voice. “Whatever it takes to even the score for Heath. You know we’re in.”

  Another chimes in. “Yeah, at least we left one hell of a mess for Colt to clean up.”

  There’s a low chuckle and I hear Dirtbeard the Road Captain, who is standing next to me, clear his throat and shout: “What now, Prez?”

  From the open gash in the side of the building, a solitary figure shrugs. “Let ‘em go.”

  “You heard him, ladies,” rumbles Dirtbeard. “You are no longer obligated to work for Colt. Believe me, whatever force or blackmail he’s been using to trap you here, he won’t dare even try to raise his sissy hands to touch you now. Your days of human trafficking are over. You’re now under the protection of Sons of Lucifer Motorcycle Club. We will escort you to a safe house, and oversee your rehabilitation and return to society. In exchange for our protection, you will give us your silence. You didn’t see anything. You don’t know anything. Nothing happened here today. You’ll follow us to our shuttle outside and we’ll take you to safety. Let’s go.”

  “How do we know you’ll help us?” One of the women shouts. “How do we know you’re not just another pimp?”

  Dirtbeard laughs. “Let me put it this way, lady, what’s your alternative? You’re welcome to stay here, after the rest of us leave, and wait for some other scumbag to pick you up. You can go to the Clark County police, but they’ll probably can you for prostitution regardless of the fact that you were forced into it. But either way, do you really think the authorities can protect you against the Depraved Club?”

  My mind flashes back to the D.C. I had seen hanging over the door to this warehouse. D.C. must stand for the Depraved Club.

  “He’s right!” Another woman shouts. “I’m going with him!”

  “We’re saved,” another cries.

  “We’ll see,” mutters another.

  There are a few sobs of fear but a general chorus of agreement, and the group of women shifts to follow Dirtbeard as he walks toward the exit. Soon I am the only one left sitting. Lifting my head, I realize that I don’t want to be left alone in the eerily silent warehouse. I don’t want to be alone with Danny’s body and the echoes of violence. So I rise on shaky legs. But somehow, I can’t follow them.