by LS Silverii
Both wrists set to burning once she recalled what she’d done in the bathtub. Stained with pinkish blotches, thick gauze tightly wrapped each wrist. Her lips tasted putrid with the tang of bile left too long unattended. Rapid pulses spiked in her chest—threatened to split her stitches. The pink began to seep with red.
“Let me go,” she called loudly, without real force.
Her dyed black hair flopped against the pillow as clarity returned. There was no Jack this morning—only a failed suicide attempt.
“Help, somebody let me out of here.” She put whatever strength she had left into her pleas. Her body’s aches began to surface once full consciousness returned. Heavy footfalls approached, causing each step to creak under a solid weighted frame. Her mind raced. It could be almost any of the brothers. They were all genetically gifted with the sheer size and weight of professional football players.
“You finally awake?” Rage appeared in the door.
His large, flat forehead and deadpan features made him impossible to read. Unexpressive, Rage’s gaze looked hollow, almost haunted. He ran palms against shocks of long graying hair that fell over patches of baldness.
Abigail didn’t reply. Eyes closed, she’d hoped it would’ve been Justice, or better yet St. John. He’d been the only one to treat her with respect. She obsessed over why things happened the way they did. Jack’s name escaped her lips. Immediately, she tried to suck the word back in—she knew the consequences if revealed.
Rage moved further into the bedroom. “I asked you a question.” He sounded impatient.
“Please untie me. This is uncomfortable.”
“Can’t get up, can ya?” he taunted.
She began to kick with her legs, and rocked her upper body until pain shot through her again. Hopelessness washed over her. “Please, I’m begging you.”
Rage’s expression shifted to the opportunity she mistakenly presented. “Begging? Baby, you ain’t gotta beg old Rage.”
Looking away, she knew she’d fucked up. A single tear welled in the corner of her eye. It lingered there then moved on. One drop onto the mattress later, she felt his hands around her ankles.
“I didn’t get a taste of you last time, because Justice seemed to think your tattoo was more important than getting me off. We’ll fix that shit right now.” Dark eyes set deep, his attention always seemed to be focused somewhere else.
Her pussy tensed at his touch. She wasn’t wet, but moist enough that he inserted two thick digits without friction to slow him. His protruding brow that overhung his eyes slipped closer between her thighs. She dreaded the initial contact by his tongue.
“Oh, baby, your sweet pussy is going to make a great breakfast. Shall I invite the rest of the brothers?” He snickered at the threat, but soon his words ended as his full lips pressed against her.
Arched back caused her constricted shoulders to ache against the hyperextension. To her own surprise she gasped in pleasure once his tongue began to penetrate her delicate folds. She had always been responsive to a man’s touch—this older man knew how to touch. She eased her abdomen so that her back relaxed and lay against the bed. She’d been fucked so rough, so often over the last several days, she enjoyed the soft laps from a talented tongue.
“Rage, please press harder on my clit. Please make me cum—I need the release,” she shook her head at the words that escaped her mouth. Her pistoning hips lifted off the mattress of their own violation.
She wanted to orgasm. They’d trained her body to please them, but she also desired the way it made her feel physically. Mentally she was shot to shit, so she looked for the good where she could find it.
Abigail’s ass lurched further off the thin sheets as he did as she directed. Bent knees and toes curled slid back and forth over the cool mattress covers. Blood rushed toward her pussy to engorge the spongy walls—her body was about to erupt.
Swinging her head side-to-side to steer the slight moisture that formed over her face and chest, swollen lips parted to moan, “Rage, oh baby. I’m coming. Suck it, Rage. Suck my clit.”
Rage did as directed while curling his fingers in an upward motion inside of her.
Tingles turned to torment as pulses quickened and speech slurred. The hot blood pulsing through her veins caused the fresh stitches in each wrist to ignite severed nerve endings. For the first time, she noticed a stinging sensation on her abdomen, close to her C-section scar.
Rage’s tongue alternated between light flicks around the lips of her pussy to hard, deep thrusts inside of her with a wide, long tongue. She couldn’t tell whether he was enjoying himself—he’d always looked detached—like shit was continually scheming inside his head. His mouth and tongue action intensified.
Fuck, is everything on these blood brothers long and hard?
“Let my arms go, I need to touch you,” she begged.
“Oh no, baby. You’ve been bad. You have to pay.” His voice held no hint of sexual satisfaction.
His greed and lust for control seemed to drive his passions. She thrust her hips wildly to keep contact with his mouth. She flinched each time his hot breath exhaled against her. He ate her pussy like a man possessed. She no longer gave a damn about who she used to be—she loved it.
“Please, baby. Fuck me.” Hesitation flashed through her mind—what had she asked? She knew her pussy had been worn out—it’d take a month to heal, but it had been fed a diet of eager dick, and she had a devilish desire for more.
His ruddy complexion was glazed with her juices. His lips looked as if they had been coated with old-school lip-gloss, but he didn’t seem to care.
“I got shit to do, baby. No time to fuck you, but the brothers got all day, and an open invitation to come up. Besides, like I said, you were bad and are going to be punished.”
“Rage, please. Just free my hands. I’m going nuts.”
His four silver rings were cold to the touch as he ran his hand across her stomach, “I didn’t know you had a baby?”
“What?” her throat clamped closed. Was this why she’s being punished—they knew about Jack?
“Your C-section scar. You have a child.”
Fearful her wooden expression and saying nothing would expose her secret, she flattened her head against the bed. Tears filled both eyes. “Had…he’s gone.”
“Too bad. Shit happens, but I hope you don’t mind the coverage across the scar,” Rage pressed his fingers into her tummy. She winced at that nagging sting.
He slipped his hand behind her neck to help her curl forward.
“What the fuck did you do to me?” she screamed as she read the words of the expansive tattoo he’d carved into her from hip to hip across her pelvis and navel.
“You were told you were property of the Savage Souls Motorcycle Club. You are not to harm the merchandise.” He sneered; evil seethed.
Her eyes watered at the sight of the old English lettering that covered the entirety of her belly. Dark black ink, boldly inscribed the words. Royal blue and red flames highlighted each letter. It looked like the devil’s own signature, and it was permanent.
She whispered the tattooed words again, “Don’t Fuck With Savage Souls’ Property.”
Chapter 4
St. John and the other two bikers had spent the night beneath an interstate overpass several hours after getting separated back in Grand Junction. Neither Mercy nor Vengeance seemed to suspect St. John of anything subversive, so he didn’t worry about offering an alibi.
Justice had given orders to haul straight to Vegas—no fucking around. Vengeance had other plans. He looked to have a strong itch to scratch. His addiction had gotten the better of him, and there’d be no biking with him tripping on LSD.
The vibration beneath his ass had already worn on St. John. Even the morning after¸ he was still pissed about the confrontation with his group supervisor and the agency’s cocky psychologist. He tried to clear his mind and focus on the day’s mission but it sucked battling on both fronts. Over the last few years he�
��d come to see through the bureaucratic bullshit of the federal agency. They called themselves brothers, but when it came down to it, they’d shove a knife in your back before extending a helping hand.
St. John had come to experience true brotherhood within the Savage Souls. He understood the irony, but knew they’d kill or die for him. He’d begun to feel the same way for a few of them, too. These connections drew him in closer to the Nation. Busting them would be the hardest thing he’d have to do.
The Las Vegas chapter was one of the Savage Nation’s biggest, but it was wrought with dissention. Many of the chapter’s brothers had been close to the national leadership while it was housed in Chicago but they’d moved west, mostly because headquarters didn’t give a shit about anything west of the Mississippi River and the Vegas chapter did what the fuck it felt like.
The Vegas heat hadn’t yet spiked, so they cruised along the strip to announce their presence. A few weekend warriors nodded at traffic lights as they piloted pristine Harley Davidsons past the Savages in an early morning cruise. St. John offered the low-left hand salute common among motorcyclists, but he assumed the other two Savages resented the fuck out of the citizens. St. John had met seriously hardcore bikers who logged thousands of miles each year, but the code said if they didn’t belong to an OMC, they were just a citizen.
His mind drifted back to Abigail. He wondered if Justice had kept his promise to have the boys lay off. Seeing the worst of what people did to each other—and he’d gotten in touch with others’ hurt over the years—she radiated agony. He hoped she was okay. Dreading what the day ahead held for him, he paused for a moment to bask in the desert sun.
“Y’all ready to head over to the clubhouse?” Mercy asked.
“Fuck yeah. Ain’t none of them awake yet, so a good time to bust some skulls.”
“Vengeance, we’re not here to fight them. We need information. Don’t fuck this up or Justice will castrate you.” Mercy’s tone was terse and smacked of being fed up with his blood brother. Maybe it was exhaustion from the run.
“Why don’t we have Dragon Mike meet us away from the den so we can get a feel for who we might be dealing with? No need going into the shark’s mouth and not knowing which teeth will snap,” St. John suggested.
The light turned green while the brothers were talking but no one noticed. The driver behind laid into his horn. St. John’s gut knotted as he saw Vengeance drop his kickstand and bounce off his saddle. Secretly, he hoped the guy would slap his BMW into reverse and run like hell but the arrogant bastard stood his ground and argued back as the dirty, denim and leather clad beast stomped his boots back to the sedan.
Dumb ass rolled up his window. “Fuck off biker. Just get out of the road.” The man’s face flushed red and his eyes bulged.
St. John had seen it before—civilians not accustomed to confrontation. They went out of their mind with anger and mostly fear.
“Vengeance, we don’t need the attention,” Mercy warned.
The sun was making a grand appearance now and the bubbling black asphalt boiled beneath St. John’s weary feet. “Yeah, Justice is still pissed about you fucking up the Geneti deal. Lets go.”
Two blood red eyes slammed toward St. John. Vengeance’s face squeezed into a pinched contortion of wrath. “Fuck off, Opie.” He stormed toward St. John.
Both men glared at each other—only one debating the consequences of throwing blows.
The horn blasted again. “I said move!”
Vengeance shoved St. John in the chest and whirled on the preppy motorist. “Say you’re sorry, right now.”
St. John rubbed his hand over weary eyes. An apology wouldn’t stop the inevitable. He scanned the empty strip for a cop, but nothing. He did see Lawless and Voodoo though.
“I ain’t saying I’m sorry. Fuck you.” Vengeance raved. He punched through the glass.
His fist didn’t stop until it drove through the arrogant bastard’s jawline. St. John knew it was broken by the way his jaw waggled after impact. The BMW driver’s head slammed against the center console—unconscious. Mercy grabbed him before he could pull the driver from the luxury foreign car.
Vengeance laughed maniacally as he mounted his iron horse. “Drive American!”
* * *
The deep corner at the pancake house cleared out as soon as the four Savage Souls plopped into the vinyl-covered booth. An ancient looking waitress more leathered than the bikers’ colors carried over a tray with four coffees rattling atop it. No intimidation in her expression, the sunbaked woman had to be either a former club old lady or a biker’s mother. St. John smiled at the kind manner the other three addressed her.
“Mike, SFFS,” Mercy greeted him.
“SFFS, indeed.” Dragon Mike nodded in respect.
“Lets get down to business. What’s going on out here?” Mercy asked.
“Shit is tough and the chapter is starting to split. Hells Angels are making plays for the ones on the fence. No pledge time, straight patch over,” Dragon Mike said. His face reflected the strain of a young man in a difficult leadership position.
“Those Angels are like used car salesmen. Fuck them,” Vengeance said.
Mercy sipped his black coffee. “Rage tells us he intercepted comms between your chapter and someone called Gray Man. Talking about a hit on you—made too many waves for the old school set.”
Dragon Mike exhaled. His muscled body slumped in the semi-circle booth seat. St. John patted him on the arm, “It’s because you’re doing the right thing, my brother. Don’t worry—we’re here to take care of it. That’s what brothers do—blood or not.” St. John looked at Mercy and Vengeance for a reaction—nothing.
“Thanks bro. Gray Man is a ghost. Maybe a nomad or a hired gun for the Los Jinetes. They’re a small pack of badass Mexicans looking to make their mark along the fringes like we did when Justice took over.”
“The Horsemen? Never heard of them,” Vengeance said.
“You will. Giving the Angels headaches, and us. At first we swatted them away like gnats, but the fuckers are like wasps, they don’t give up,” Mike said as he waved his hands around like brushing away pests.
“I’d call contracting hits on club presidents a pretty tenacious move to gain creds.” Mercy always spoke in a level tone—words measured and thoughtful.
“Even heard a rumor Gray Man paid Ricky Geneti for those same weapons y’all bought. He double-crossed everyone. Not sure though, but if we don’t stamp out Los Jinetes, we’ll regret it,” Mike said, desperation showing in his green eyes.
“Which Savage is the bridge to Gray Man?” St. John’s body leaned into Mike. His passion for designing mission plans had drawn his interest. He’d also liked Dragon Mike immediately and admired the young man’s dedication to the brotherhood. He knew it was Mike’s Marine Corps code that connected to the Savage Souls.
“Panchito.”
“He at the den?” Vengeance asked. His eyes pulsed red and swollen from a speedball combination of heroin and meth, not from lack of sleep.
“No way dude. Whites only,” Mike cast his look down. His fingers fidgeted across the slick table surface.
“Mike, you know Justice said to end that color bullshit. The honor code is the only shade we see,” Mercy reminded.
St. John watched Vengeance’s eyes roll as Mercy counseled Dragon Mike. He flexed his biceps to release the tension being around Vengeance caused him, and watched the tattoo wave and ripple above the musculature in his forearm. It was his reward for earning full-patch status back in Florida’s Tallahassee chapter. The club’s cross was eternally etched into his skin. Worst case, he could always have it lasered off if the feds required it.
The Savage Souls emblem was the passion cross. A symbol of suffering, they associated with that ideal because of their history of military service. Each of the original members, as well as many current brothers had lost someone or something during their time in the military. It was ornate, yet simply rugged. The ribbon intertwined ar
ound it boasted the name, Savage Souls. The dark black, highlighted by royal blues was distinguishable by each other and rival clubs—that was the idea.
“I told the brothers, but the old-guard said fuck Justice. Anytime they would think about sticking around after church, or parties, them rednecks started fucking with the others. No wonder we losing brothers.”
St. John refocused on the conversation, “Mike, we’ll take care of Panchito. You take care of those fuckers disrespecting the Savage Nation.”
“SFFS,” Mike said.
“Savages Forever–Forever Savages,” the other three repeated.
Chapter 5
Early afternoon at the Las Vegas chapter of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club brought a frenzy of activity inside and out. There was a buzz about the joint since members of the national chapter were on site again so soon. For the loyal brothers it meant no interruption to their day. For those still clinging to the old leadership, it meant nothing but hassles.
“Jorge, what you doing here?” St. John asked.
He greeted the former Mystic chapter brother in a low ceiling, narrow hall. Pictures and banners lined the walls, along with an homage to the deceased past president, Red.
“Justice told me to head out here after that night of church when Tommy Cloud turned in his colors. Said I looked like a risk and needed to chill out.”
“Well, it’s good to see a friendly face. Ain’t too many around here.”
Jorge pretended to be choking himself. “Tell me about it.”
“I thought they didn’t let Mexicans stay at the den?”
He laughed. “They don’t.”
St. John looked confused and shrugged.
“I ain’t Mexican.”
St. John’s eyes shot open wide. “Really?”
“I’m Armenian.” He laughed. “These dumb fuckers don’t know what that is, so they leave me alone.”
