With his final command, he shoves me and slams my head into the wall, catching the edge of the doorframe with the full blunt force of the impact. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel the room spinning. Nausea settles into my gut and the bile churns, threatening to work its way up my throat. The pain in my skull makes me whimper. His only reply is a disgusted huff.
“Now, rent the fucking moving truck, pack your shit, and let’s go to DC before I’m too old to ride my damn bike anymore.”
After I hear the door open, he hurls one last threat at me. “If you even think of trying to get out of this, I’ll kill every single person you love. All your fucking friends from the hospital. Your mom. Your sister. Try me, bitch. I dare you.”
He stomps out, the chains on his boots and belt clinking with every step, growing fainter until I hear the engine of his bike roar to life. Funny, or not funny, how it reminds me so much of his own terrible roar. After he rides away, I open my eyes and gingerly move off the wall where he left me.
The door to my apartment is standing wide open.
He knows my paralyzing fear of leaving the door unlocked. Irrational or not, it’s still there.
I want to rush to lock every bolt, but the first step in that direction reminds me of my head injury. The disorientation, nausea, and I are not new friends. With slow movements, I lift my hand to feel the goose egg forming behind my ear. I’m not even surprised to find blood on my fingers when I lower my arm again.
My walk to the door is slow as I calculate each step and how much farther I have to go. My chest is heaving from the building anxiety. When the door is finally locked—every bolt is secured and every chain is in place, my pounding heart slows enough so I can breathe normally again.
After I put a cold compress on the back of my head, I slide onto the couch and carefully lie back on the throw pillows. I waste a few minutes daydreaming about never leaving my apartment again, never unlocking the door again, while waiting for the throbbing in my head to subside. As often as I dream about this, I should’ve already found the master plan for leaving Butch in my dust.
Since nothing else I’ve tried so far has worked, I pick up my laptop and rent the moving van as the asshole commanded. A one-way trip to Washington, DC coming up, sans the excitement a cross-country trip should elicit. The only way I can describe how I feel about what I just did is I’m positive I’ve just signed my own death certificate.
In fact, the longer I’m around Butch, the more I realize that outcome is inevitable—it’s only a matter of time. The odds there will come a day when it’s him or me increase with our every encounter. I let my eyes drift up to the ceiling, staring at nothing in particular while thinking about my situation. My job as an emergency room nurse is stressful and adrenaline-filled, but it pales in comparison to a single interaction with Butch. In an ironic twist, I would be required by law to report potential domestic abuse if one of my patients presented with the same signs I bear.
He wasn’t always like this. When I first met him, the tall, muscular, brooding man was much sexier. His brown hair was longer than other men I’d dated before, but it gave him an edgier appearance. Eyes so brown they’re almost black sparkled with playfulness and teasing. But it was all a charade—he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t. And he was so good at it for so long—long enough to ensure I fell for him. Long enough to ensure I was caught in his trap. When I look at him now, all I see is the ugliness inside. Any desire that once burned for him has long been doused.
Thankfully, those nights with him have dwindled to an occasional visit—and only when he needs me to do something for him. He disappeared for a couple of weeks one time, and I thought he’d found someone else to prey upon. Selfishly, I hoped he had—but then I immediately felt bad for wishing him on anyone else. Unfortunately, one day, he simply walked back into my apartment as if he’d been here all along. No explanation. No questions.
His visits have been sporadic since that day. Usually when he’s drunk and looking for somewhere to crash after a night out with his friends. He passes out in my bed, and I sleep on the couch, unable to stand being in the same room with him any longer than absolutely necessary. His insane jealousy makes no sense to me whatsoever. We are not a couple and haven’t been for a very long time, yet he calls me every name in the book when he accuses me of seeing other men.
Not that I’m the least bit interested in even trying to date. I still can’t get rid of the last mistake I made.
Now he shows up and demands I move across the country with him. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this one. It’s not like either of us wants to be with the other. That much is clear. But I believe he’ll make good on his threat to kill everyone I love. In fact, I have no doubt he will.
One problem at a time, though. Before we even reach the East Coast, I have to survive the actual 3,000-mile trip with him and his buddies. That should be fun—waiting for them to pass out on the bed from the abundance of drugs and alcohol so I can grab the extra linens and sleep on the nasty floor. But I prefer the floor over touching any of them. Maybe I’ll sleep in the truck…with the doors locked…under the guise of protecting our belongings.
A few hours later when I walk into the hospital for the night shift, my heart is heavy, and all my feelings show on my face. My coworker takes one look at me, and her face falls.
“What has Butch done now?” Stella puts her hands on her hips and draws in a deep breath. She already knows she won’t like the answer.
After explaining the series of events and the commandment Butch issued, I watch her face for the disappointment I know will come. On one hand, I completely understand it, and I was even the same way…before I became the abused and battered victim. Life is now divided into two sections: BB and AB. Before Butch and After Butch.
Before Butch, I said no man would ever lay a hand on me and live to tell about it.
No man would ever abuse me in any way—physically, mentally, or verbally. I would leave him in a heartbeat.
No man would replace my job, my dreams, or my friends—the sacred relationships I’d always held so dear.
After Butch, I withdrew from my friends.
My dreams took a back seat.
Self-esteem was what others had, but not me.
I miss the Before Butch version of myself. But now I feel as if I’m in too deep and can’t claw my way out. One thing I’ve realized after looking back over the past eighteen months is none of this happened suddenly. He chipped away at the very core of me little by little, bit by bit, day by day. Until the very spark that made me me disappeared. And I allowed him to do it.
It’s my fault.
If I’d been stronger, smarter, faster…maybe I would’ve seen the warning signs for what they really were.
Huge signs that flashed “Bridge Out Ahead.”
But his apologies were so sincere at first. So heartfelt. He was remorseful and promised those bad things would never happen again.
He’d drunk too much. He always liked to fight when he drank. Such a man’s man.
He was under too much stress. Work was a constant sore spot. His coworkers or his boss never liked him. They always made up a reason to get rid of him.
Of course, that was before I found out the truth about him. Before I understood what being in a one-percenter motorcycle club really meant. When I made the mistake of calling his club a gang during a heated argument, I saw stars after he backhanded me for disrespecting his brothers.
That was the day the apologies stopped and the real threats began. Old ladies didn’t leave bona fide club members. Ever. It wasn’t the woman’s decision whether to stay or go. She just did what she was told and lived with what she got. He warned me to be glad I wasn’t a sheep—one of the women they pass around to each other indiscriminately, using at will for any hedonistic pleasure they wanted to indulge in at the moment.
Ignoring the pleas and concern in Stella’s eyes, I continue updating her on my plans. “I’m turning in my two-
week notice tonight. That date was the earliest I could get a moving truck big enough for my stuff plus theirs anyway. I’m so glad it has a towing hitch for my car too.”
I leave Stella, disappointed expression and all, to start my rounds and focus on the emergency cases. I wish I could stop time so my shift would never end. But working in busy emergency rooms always makes the time go by faster than the slower pace, comparatively, on the medical-surgical floors. Before I know it, the sun rises and a new day dawns, and I have to face the unpleasantness of packing all my belongings.
Two weeks will pass in the blink of an eye.
The Initiation
Nick
“You ready for tonight?” Jack’s serious expression gives away his thoughts. Unusual for him after the years of handling undercover officers.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” I slide my arm into my cut and complete the persona of Renegade.
Turns out, the idea to convince them I was part of a Tijuana-based club was a stroke of genius on Jack’s part. The Devils’ ties to the Mexican cartel are already in place, but with my joining them, the full backing of the cartel is implied, giving them more muscle than they already have. An ATF agent has been working a few members of that gang over the last several years, so interagency cooperation kicked in, and my alibi was instantly airtight. With my background in prison and ties to the Mexican cartel-sanctioned motorcycle club firmly in place, I approached the Devils with an offer they couldn’t refuse.
The Devils’ already long reach just increased with no effort on their part. At least as far as their reputation with rival clubs is concerned. Keeping those other clubs at arm’s length while the Devils conduct business is vital to maintaining their dominance in the territory. When the club president realized the possibilities I could bring, the dollar signs in his eyes were so bright, they rivaled the neon signs of the Vegas strip.
Headbanger, also known as Bobby Blalock, is the club president. He has a rap sheet longer than my leg, along with countless other crimes he’s never been charged with committing. Or ordering. His officers and many other members are all too eager to carry out plans on his behalf. They’re brothers in colors, but they’re also all vying for the attention of one man. The one who can make or break them in the club.
Tonight is initiation for a few new prospects who are on their way to becoming full patch members. The ceremony to patch in is a big deal to these guys—it seals their identity and their place in the family.
I’ve been riding with the Devils for the past two weeks. Hanging out with them in the clubhouse provides a completely unique perspective on the inner workings of a notorious outlaw gang. Some of the guys have done hard time, and it’s a miracle most aren’t still in prison. I’ve had to bite my tongue way too many times already—something my director knew about me before he approved the assignment.
My moral compass always points due north. Always.
Their skewed sense of right and wrong doesn’t mesh well with me. In fact, we’re like oil and water at the very core. The only peace I have is when we’re on the open road, the wind whipping around me, and the road rushing by under my wheels. The sense of freedom on a motorcycle is the sole only thing I have in common with these guys. It’s the only time we’re even remotely on the same page.
The long ride to the initiation grounds in the hot, arid desert of Southern California gives me time to get myself back into character. Jack stressed over and over how I have to be part of the group to avoid suspicion. Because of the high stakes, I’ve been given special clearance to break the laws I’ve sworn to uphold. But there are oaths I’ve taken, and I have no intention of reneging on them.
There are lines I refuse to cross.
There are rules I refuse to break—even for the greater good and the thrill of closing the case.
But I have to act like there are no lines I won’t cross. To be convincing, I have to put Nick Tucker away and be Renegade to the bone. In my mind, I have to think of Renegade as a completely different person. It’s the only way I can pull this off.
He’s an ex-con, fresh out of a maximum-security prison, and that has to be my persona. As a convicted felon on parole, I can’t legally cross the border to ride with my old club because the pigs will nab Renegade immediately. I can’t exactly drive my motorcycle through the underground tunnels to cross the border. Of course, as Renegade, I have the contacts, so I could find an illegal way, like a fake passport or hidden in a caravan. But I’d take that risk only for a golden opportunity, a sure thing.
Renegade has talked a good game in his two weeks with the Devils. Tonight, Prez will present me with the final piece of my colors—the top rocker panel for my cut—because I scored the largest shipment of meth and negotiated the best deal for the club he’s ever seen. Compliments of my DEA and ATF friends.
When I finally roll up to their private hideaway in the desert, my Renegade character is in full swing. After grabbing a couple of beers from the cooler, I stroll over to where the officers are hanging out with a few of the lifers—the men who have been part of the club for so long, they aren’t required to attend all church meetings and outings anymore, but they’re every bit a part of the club as any other member. They can come and go as they please, though most stay more than they leave. This is the only life they know.
“Good of you to bring me a beer, Renegade.” Axle reaches for one of the longneck bottles I’m carrying, so I hand it over without a fuss. He’s one of the most respected lifers in the group. His experience combined with his naturally level head makes for a powerful ally in a group of trigger-happy thugs. Despite Axle’s advanced age and lack of officer status, no man in this group wants to tangle with him.
“You know I always got your back, Ax.”
“Back atcha, kid.” He takes a long pull from the bottle but keeps his eyes locked on mine. “Heard about that big score you got for us. I’m impressed—and I don’t impress easily. Good job.”
“Appreciate it, man. Just glad I could help out.”
“Well, well, look who’s coming our way. The new prospects are here, and they brought their offerings to the Devils with them.” Nutcrusher, the club vice president, stands and rubs his hands together, eager to get down to business.
When I glance over my shoulder at the approaching prospects, my stomach drops to my knees and my empty hand curls into a tight fist.
Their “offerings” are new sheep, women being shoved into the midst of the already rowdy scene. The three prospects are each forcing a woman to walk in front of them. The women alternate from stumbling ahead a few steps to digging their heels in to try to stop, only to be shoved from behind and start the process all over again. Their eyes are wide and full of fear. Their faces are tear-stained and their hair is disheveled—and not from the ride here since they arrived in the club van.
I’m positive these three women have already been used as offerings before the new patches ever brought them to meet the brothers. Before I consciously realize I’m moving, my feet develop a mind of their own and take a step forward. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, holding me back.
“What you see tonight will test your mettle, boy. You’ve never been around anything like this, I can already tell. But I guarantee, if you blow your cover now, you’ll never see anything at all, ever again.”
Shocked by his words, I whip my head around and meet Axle’s knowing gaze.
“Use it, kid. Use everything you have to see and do as a member to take them down. As shitty as it sounds, you can’t save these women and do what you came here to do at the same time. Keep your eyes on the end goal, son, and make them pay for their crimes when it’s all said and done.”
“What are you talking about, Axle?” He knows. We both know he knows. But I’ll be damned if I’ll blow my own cover.
“I’m CIA, Nick Tucker from the DEA family. I’ve been on this case for a long time, waiting for my foreign target to make his move so I can take him down. I told you, I got your back.”
His grin resembles one connected to an inside joke. Everyone else is clueless, and one person holds all the aces in his hand. “Sure we don’t. I’m on loan to whichever agency wants to take the credit for the bust when it goes down. If you’re still here when it happens, maybe that’ll be the DEA.”
Before I can reply, the shrill shriek of a woman’s scream combined with ripping fabric fills the air, making my guts churn with disgust. Any man who would lay a hand on a woman in anger or abuse is no man at all. He’s a pussy who knows he couldn’t stand toe-to-toe with a real man.
The crowd that gathers around the three women—to watch, to encourage, or to participate—are the worst of the underworld. Preying on the defenseless and taking advantage of those who are hanging on by a thread as it is.
“Come with me, Renegade. This is as good as this scene gets. It’s all downhill from here, and I don’t think you can stop yourself from intervening yet.” Axle guides me away from the ruckus.
I can still hear their pleas to stop. Their screams that echo through the desert air. Their cries for someone to please help them…to make it stop.
But I do nothing.
What kind of man does that make me?
“When they finish with the girls, they’ll take them back to the clubhouse, and the club doctor will patch them up. They’ll use them as sheep, or they’ll cycle them into the prostitution ring and run them on the streets. They’re not easy on them, but they don’t permanently damage them either. Headbanger has a strict rule on that part since it affects his cash flow.”
“Axle, your explanation doesn’t help me one fucking bit. Do you even hear yourself? Of course they’re permanently damaged now. Maybe not in the way you meant, but they still are.” He nods in understanding, and he knows he can’t say much more to justify what we’ve witnessed. “Where did they get those girls? Did they kidnap them?”
Fine Line (Crossing Lines Book 1) Page 2
