Bound by Ravage

by Ryan Michele

  One Year Later

  A scream escapes her mouth as I remove the blindfold I made her wear for the past hour.

  “You brought me to see Demon’s Wings?”

  “It’s the group you didn’t get to see because of those assholes.”

  She grips my leather and pulls me to her. “And because of that asshole, I got you.” She rises on her tiptoes and kisses me hard on the lips.

  Being together for a year hasn’t changed the passion or the love I have for this woman. Every time our lips touch, it’s that same spark as the first time in that dingy diner parking lot. Every moment with her is better than the next.

  I reach around her and yank open my saddlebag. She’s already wearing my leather on her back, but I’m a greedy son of a bitch, and I want it all, including my ring on her finger.

  I get down on one knee, and Bristyl’s hand goes to her mouth in shock.

  “Make me a happy man and be my wife.”

  “Yes!” she screams.

  Her hand shakes as I rise and put the solitaire round diamond ring on her finger. Then her arms fly around me and our lips connect.

  I had the damn ring for two months now, damn near burning a hole in my jeans. But I wanted to do this, have this memory with her. And I’m happy I did. Only thing I’m not happy about is I didn’t drive my truck, so I’ll have to fuck her in the bathroom later.

  “We’re getting married,” she says excitedly, staring at the ring. “This is so beautiful.”

  “You’re gonna be mine forever.”

  “Forever.”

  Bonus Deke

  I fucked up. Majorly. My dad is so damn disappointed in me. I never knew that could hurt so damn much. My mom, all she does is cry. And my sister can’t figure out what end is up or down. Me, I’m off the shit and not going back on.

  My dad said three months, but it ended up being a year because I relapsed. It won’t happen again. I’m staying clean and will fight like hell to stay that way. I’d rather die than let that shit control me and cost me or my family anything more.

  The door swings open.

  “Deke, what’s going on?” Princess asks in a rush, no doubt concerned I’m here. I’ve only been out for a little over a week, but I can’t stay cooped up at my parents’ house anymore. I’m over it. I’m over everything.

  “I need you to teach me how to fight.”

  “Why now?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Because now’s when I need it most.”

  Bound by Desire (Ravage MC Bound Series #2) Available Now continue reading!

  Bound by Desire

  1

  Deke

  Sweat.

  Heat.

  Adrenaline.

  The noise in the background comes through in a hushed rush as my mind zeroes in on the battle at hand.

  The fist swings toward me with a powerful momentum, only missing my face by an inch. With a reflexive uppercut and using his downward momentum, I hit, and the man falls hard onto the canvas, dazed for a moment. That’s his second mistake.

  The first: getting in the cage with me.

  Before he can get his equilibrium back, I’m on him, flipping him over and straddling his chest with enough weight to keep him down. I connect my fist repeatedly with his face, which he tries to shield with his arms. I just maneuver around him. Each move he has, I counter.

  Quick and precise.

  Adrenaline pumps through my veins as the roar of the crowd only gets louder.

  The man’s blood coats my tape-covered hands as I make contact with his eyes, his lip, and his nose. Over and over, I pound away.

  There are no rules.

  There are no time-outs like the big boys get. No, this is down and dirty, no holds barred fighting. Only way I’m stopping is if the fucker passes out, taps out, or is dead. I don’t give a shit which way it happens. All that matters is that it will happen with me taking the win.

  My chest is tight, my breathing steady, and my mind is clear. This is what I crave. What I need.

  He tries to maneuver his legs to wrap around my neck, but fails because he’s not fast enough. For that, I pound him several times in the temple.

  Once his head begins to bounce, the “ref,” as we call him, taps the asshole out now that he’s unconscious. Only then do I rise, but not before spitting on the man at my feet. Motherfucker had a hard-on to get in the cage with me for weeks. Now that he’s had his chance, his boys can pick up his sorry ass off the mat.

  “Winner is … Mastermind!” The ref calls out my fight name as the spectators go wild.

  I’m not into that hands in the air bullshit some of these fuckers do. No, I’m more of a give me my fucking money so I can get laid man.

  I walk to the entrance of the cage, and Ray opens the door for me.

  “Fuck yeah,” he says as I step out, handing me a bottle of water and a rag to wipe off the blood and sweat coating my face.

  “Blonde,” I order as if the world is my motherfucking McDonald’s and a woman is just a value meal number. They all are. Holes to sink into to find release. They want to be that, I’ll treat them like it.

  The massive crowd parts as I walk through, no doubt remembering the last time a fucker patted me on the back after a win. His hand ended up broken. He’s lucky I left it attached to his body.

  Ray falls in step behind me, no doubt grabbing a woman as we move. After a fight, my cock is rock-hard and in need of the release I just gave my mind to the battle. The women around here all want it. If I looked any one of them in the eye, they’d be putty in my hands. It’s the thrill of fucking someone who walked out of the cage. They’re adrenaline junkies, and their rush is putting out. There’s no time for games for them or myself. After a fight, I like to fuck and get out.

  I bang on the rickety old door and open it, not waiting. Ricko moves away from the window, where he watched me win the fight. He does this every single time I’m in the cage, his eagle eyes on me.

  “Deacon, nice.”

  I’m not here for chitchat. I’m here to get paid. “Money.”

  He pushes away from the window and moves around to the desk. “Always a man of few words.” He pulls out an envelope from the drawer, holding it out to me.

  I take it, open it, and count the bills quickly, then turn toward the door, needing nothing more from him.

  One thing I give the man credit for is that he pays me damn well to show up here and kick some ass. It’s a bonus because needing to pound something into the ground is what I crave and what keeps my demons at bay.

  “Deacon,” he calls out.

  I halt my steps, but that’s all he’s getting. Turning around isn’t happening. He’s had enough of my attention as it is. Never said I actually liked the guy.

  “This Saturday, I have a big one for you. We’ll have to travel, but it’ll be worth it.”

  “No.” I move out of the office, noting Ray standing there with a blonde. She’s pretty in that big hair, makeup, and skirt barely covering her ass way. She’ll do. “Come.”

  The clatter of heels on the tile floor are behind me. I’ve never understood why a woman would wear fucking high heels to an underground fight. The mass of people is so fucking thick she’s bound to fall on her ass. Not to mention half the fucking floor is dirt, but what-the-fuck-ever.

  I open the door to the bathroom. “Wait,” I tell Ray.

  “Fuck you,” he retorts, handing me a condom before I slam the door in his face.

  I’m not big into people watching me. Exhibitionism isn’t my thing.

  “Hi. You’re sexy,” the blonde says, trying to be sultry. I don’t need seduction. We’re here for one reason and one reason only. If she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t be here. I don’t need to woo her, and she damn sure doesn’t need to do anything for me but take my cock until I can shoot my load.

  “Turn around, hands to the wall, ass in the air.” I toss the envelope of money to the floor, pull out my cock, before opening the wrapper
and slipping the rubber on it.

  She watches me, and when I raise my brow, she gets with the program, turning. Then I lift her skirt above her hips.

  Fucking her is like fucking all the others after a fight—a release. No woman I fuck after a fight is anything but.

  She lets out breathy gasps like she’s really turned on, but I’ve been with enough women to know she’s faking. Her pussy isn’t even that wet as I stroke in and out of her.

  I spit down on my cock to get it lubed. Chick’s so fucking dry the condom’s lube isn’t cutting it. It’s her fucking loss. She doesn’t want to get off, that’s on her.

  As I find my release, she lets out another groan like she’s finding hers. All lies. I learned a long damn time ago about lies and the shit mess they can get you into. It’s why I’m in control. Always in fucking control.

  I pull my cock out and slap her on the ass. “Go.”

  She looks over her shoulder, pretending to be breathless, but her eyes don’t even show a hint of sexual pleasure. No doubt she’ll be out there, telling her bitch friends how amazing it was for her. More lies upon lies.

  “You sure? I could go another round.”

  “Out,” I order, pulling off the condom and tying the end of it. Even though my cock is still hard, it found its release and is done. Done with the fight, done with her, done being in this place.

  “You don’t have to be a dick,” she spouts, pulling down her skirt. The tap of her heels annoys the shit out of me.

  “Yeah, I do. Now get the fuck out.” I wouldn’t want anyone to have the misconception that I’m anything but an asshole.

  I move over to the toilet and drop the condom in it, then give it a flush, making sure the fucker goes down.

  She huffs, but opens the door and leaves. The entire thing is an act. One I’ve seen on replay every damn time I win a fight.

  I’m right behind her after picking up my cash, wanting to get home and in the fucking shower.

  “That was fast,” Ray jokes.

  I look at him like he has two heads. “One more word, and I’ll bust your fucking nose,” I warn, not feeling his humor one bit tonight.

  “What crawled up your ass?” he asks as he walks next to me through the narrow halls.

  It’s strange that I can’t wait to get in the cage, but once it’s over, I can’t wait to get the fuck out. It’s like I need to breathe again, and getting away is the only way to do that.

  Everything inside me is so heavy. The fight gets it all out. The weight lifts, and I need to be free, even if the moment I finish it all begins to build again.

  Over and over, it’s all the same. Regardless, it’s how I cope.

  We walk through the maze and up a flight of stairs into the dark night. When Ricko says underground fighting, he fucking means under the ground.

  As we walk, I strip the tape from my hands and toss it to the dirt. My knuckles are red, but they aren’t torn to hell and will be fine.

  Ray and I move to my black Ford F350 and get in. I stash the cash in the center console where my handgun lays. Never know who’s lurking.

  While I know how to deal with my hands, sometimes that just isn’t enough. And I’ve made enough people bleed over the past four years that someone is bound to be out for revenge at some point. I don’t take chances because it’s the pussies who try to jump you outside the cage, thinking they can get one up on you.

  No one will get one up on me. Life lessons learned the hard fucking way: keep yourself on top, in charge, and never be reckless, but rather ruthless.

  “You gettin’ tired of it?” Ray asks. I know he’s just trying to be a good guy, but I’m not a good man, so there’s no need for him to try.

  I grip the wheel and pull out into the dark night. “No.”

  At this point, the rush has become my drug of choice.

  At this point, the battle has become my drug of choice.

  At this point, the power play has become my drug of choice.

  Fuck the heroin I got hooked on as a kid. The high of knocking someone out is the best kind. The roar of the crowd and the money on top, it adds to the elation, the soar, the power. All of it is an addicting concoction. It only lasts a few minutes, but it’s just enough to sate me. It’s also enough to keep the demons at bay. That’s the only reason I need it.

  “Then, what is it?”

  “Shit on my mind.”

  “Care to tell me?” Ray asks, sounding a bit exasperated.

  “No.” It’s harsh, but my shit is my shit. I don’t go around spreading it to others. The more people who don’t know my business, the better.

  Even though I’ve known Ray since I came to Grayson, he knows nothing of my past, unless it’s hearsay from others. People talk. I’m far from a stupid man, and my last name connects all the dots. The mistakes in my life have taught me well, and there have been plenty of those. I don’t make the same mistakes twice.

  “Fuck, man, how am I supposed to help if you don’t tell me what’s goin’ on?” he asks as I drive through the dark night and stop at his place.

  “Out,” I order.

  He shakes his head. “You need me, I’m here.” With that, he opens the door and exits.

  I watch until he’s in the door before taking off. Ray is a little dude, and no doubt he hangs out with me for protection. It’s a mutual thing. He uses me for that, and I use him as my guy outside the cage. It works.

  He has my back as best he can, and I have his.

  My mind rolls as I make my way home. Pulling into my drive, I turn off the truck and get out. The shower is calling my name.

  My place isn’t the best, but it’s better than sleeping on the streets, which I did for six months before finding this place.

  Taking out my gun and slipping a duffle bag behind my seat, I make my way through the darkness.

  I walk up the stairs to the second level of an old garage my landlord keeps his classic car in. Opening the door, I let out a sigh and lock it. The place is one open room with a small bathroom off to the side. The small kitchenette is all I need, and my bed is my couch. It works, and it’s cheap. Not that I’m hurting for money. No, I just save that shit.

  When I first left, I would long for the ease of crawling into my childhood bed without a care in the fucking world. Street life is the school of hard knocks. I learned my lessons well. Stuff is just stuff, and it’s all just a shit reminder of what you lose when you bail. I know the loss deep in the pit of my stomach. I won’t be in that situation again, either.

  Control.

  My surroundings are my making—bare fucking minimum. Nothing to find comfort in, nothing to miss later.

  An uneasy feeling has come over me the last couple of days, and I can’t figure out what the fuck it is. My life is established. I have a damn good job, and fighting is my release. There should be nothing that would cause this unusual creep inside of me. I don’t fucking like it one bit.

  I head to the bathroom, strip, and wash the shit from the night off me. With my head under the spray, the water cascades down my face, pushing my hair into my eyes. The warmth doesn’t help much to clear my head.

  I don’t like feeling unsettled. Having worked damn hard to stay in control, this feeling is foreign to me. I need to figure out what this is and deal with it. And soon.

  “Deacon, my man,” Cory greets, holding out his fist.

  I bump it then move to set my cooler down on the workstation. I’ve worked at Jerry’s Garage for a couple of years now. One thing I enjoy is working on cars and bikes. Luckily, I’m damn good at it. So good I’ve moved up to master mechanic at the shop and have been one for a year now.

  It also means I’m in charge of the guys, which doesn’t bother me. One thing I got down pat is an intimidating presence. The guys listen for the most part, which makes my job damn easy. When they don’t, I deal.

  “What’s on the schedule this morning?” I ask Cory as a few more of the guys come in. I give them fist bumps as they walk past.

&
nbsp; “Harley. The dipshit who owns it decided to change the turn signals himself to some flame looking aftermarket shit. Only, he cut his brake lines when trying to sort the wiring. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he did it.”

  “Why would anyone customize a base model sportster? Most people consider this a chick bike or beginner’s ride,” I ask more to myself.

  He huffs, shrugging his shoulders. “Hell if I know, man, but it’s a day of rewiring for you.”

  He runs down the list of vehicles in line for the day, while my mind keeps going back to the Harley. My father taught me about bikes as soon as I could fucking walk. I’ve ridden for as long as I can remember. Mostly out back of the Ravage MC Clubhouse on a trail the guys made.

  My gut twists at the thought of home. Well, it’s not home anymore, and I’ve fucked up too badly to even go back. Not that I want to.

  “You’re just going to walk away?” my father growls menacingly enough that shivers go down my spine. At eighteen, he can still terrify me at times. “This is your family, and you’re just leaving?”

  He doesn’t understand. He can’t because he doesn’t have a clue, and I’m not going to explain it to him. There’s no point. The outcome will still be the same.

  “I have to, Dad. It’s the only way I’m gonna stay clean.” I keep my voice firm, steady. The drugs are a poison I can’t have in my veins again. I need to stay away from the toxic shit. That’s the truth, and really, this is all my father needs to know.

  I stay here, I stay on the dope. I stay on the dope, I’m going to die. There’s no coming back from death. Whether he can see it or hear it, I can’t get wrapped up in it. I know what the fuck I have to do.

  The door was open for him to listen. I opened myself and tried to tell him. All he could see were the bloodshot eyes and the shakes as my body detoxed once again. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say. There was no choice. There is no choice.

  “Why? Here, your family can support you.”

  I want to mock him. I want to tell him that’s not what he said before. I don’t.