Burn

by Jc Emery

  “Tell me the rules, Melinda,” Ian grinds out. Leo’s arms are raised in the air now. He’s shaking his head with his angry eyes on me.

  “The next person I try to score from dies,” I say flippantly.

  “Were you fucking confused?”

  “No. You said you always make good on your promises.” Ian pulls his face back from Leo just enough to turn his attention to me. He stares at me searchingly, like he’s struggling to find the logic behind my actions. The entire room is still save for the men rushing in from other rooms, obviously having been alerted to what’s happening at the bar. Even Ryan lowers his gun and waits for an answer.

  “I hate him,” I say with such fire that I surprise myself. I can’t punish the men who really hurt me, so I’m going to punish the one who could have. It doesn’t matter that the club made a truce with the guy. I didn’t choose to forgive him. I didn’t choose to let him walk away. I don’t get to choose anything except this. The only power I have is the power Ian’s given me, and I’m going to wield it as I like.

  “Somebody babysit the WOP,” Ian says and shoves Leo back down on his stool. He’s moving so quickly I don’t see him drop low and wrap his arms around my torso until I’m propped up on his shoulder with my butt in the air.

  Shit.

  This shouldn’t be hot, and I shouldn’t be okay with this kind of touching.

  But it is, and I am.

  It’s not the vodka giving me the courage—it’s Ian.

  The crowd parts around us as Ian hauls me off down a hallway lined with doors on both sides. We enter an unlocked room, and he slams the door behind us. His chest heaves beneath me, and I think I can even hear his nostrils flaring. Blood is rushing to my head, making my position on his shoulder uncomfortable. Wisely, I don’t voice my concern. He seems like he needs to calm down before talking to me. Or looking at me. Or putting me down apparently.

  The discomfort becomes too much. Gently, I place my hands on his cut, toward the bottom right, on top of the upward curving bottom patch that proudly says CALIFORNIA, and take a deep breath as I use my arms to help me lift my head for a better view of the room. Even beneath the patch and the leather and the shirt he’s wearing, I can feel the firm muscles of his lower back. Though he isn’t as bulky as some of his brothers, he’s certainly well-built in all the right places—from what I can tell at least. My face heats at thoughts of the right places I don’t yet know. His muscles tick beneath my touch, like he’s surprised by it. I guess he has a right to be. Considering he’s really the only person I welcome to touch me—and even that in itself is scary—he has a right to be surprised that I would initiate touch in this way. I don’t understand why he’s the exception, but he is, and I’m tired of trying to work it out in my head.

  While I wait for him to set me down, I survey my surroundings. The room is small—with a large bed that’s minimally dressed and a worn black trunk on the side that’s functioning as a nightstand. There’s a few empty beer bottles on top of the trunk and a pile of used matches scattered around the bottles. The wall opposite the door is exposed brick, but the other three walls are painted black. The depth of the darkness makes it feel like the room is smaller than I think it actually is. There’s nothing personal about the space at all, just a few strange items attached to the walls. One wall has what looks like leather handcuffs bolted into the black concrete wall. They hang at a curious height with a few feet between them. It isn’t until my eyes find the large menacing whip hanging next to the cuffs that I put two and two together and realize what the cuffs are for.

  Oh God.

  Is this a torture chamber? My eyes drift back to the bed. No, I guess it’s for a different kind of torture.

  Oh God.

  I want to look away, but I can’t. I’ve read books about this kind of stuff—books that I’d never admit to reading—and the participants always enjoy themselves. But I’ve read books about crazed heroes who do really screwed up stuff and somehow they always come out smelling like roses in the end. The real world doesn’t work that way. It just doesn’t.

  “Um, Ian.” I don’t really have anything to say, but I feel obligated to say something. I need to do something, anything. I just can’t hang here on his shoulder, staring at his . . . whatever they are . . . and not saying anything.

  “Silence.” He barks out the word with such ferocity that his torso vibrates, and his grip on my legs tightens. Something about the whip and handcuffs knocks me off my game, and I’m nervous. I shouldn’t have set Leo up like that. I still don’t like the guy. At the absolute least, he’s a douche bag. That doesn’t mean I should have tried to get him hurt.

  I’m jostled from my thoughts when Ian bends and drops me to my feet and takes a step away from me. His brown eyes are searching for an answer I don’t have. They’re narrowed and unkind. I definitely haven’t gotten this look from him before. I’ve gotten the grimace and even the displeased pout. But this is different. Instead of sorrow or disappointment in Ian’s eyes, I see anger. For the first time since I’ve met him, I see what he must look like when he’s taking care of club business. This isn’t my Ian. This is Ian, the treasurer of Forsaken. This is the guy who unsettles Sterling Grady. And I start to doubt how well I know him after all.

  “Five,” he says. His upper lip rises in a snarl, and the raised skin of his scar crinkles near his eye. Shit. He’s scary like this.

  My hands shake at my sides, so I shove them into my jean pockets as far as I can to hide my fear. For some reason I don’t think he’ll care much if he knows how badly he’s scaring me.

  “Four.”

  My eyes go wide and, like the crazy lady that I’m turning into, I raise my arms in the air and start waving them frantically.

  “Why are you counting down?”

  “Three.”

  Oh fuck.

  Oh fuck.

  Oh fuck.

  “No, really,” I say and then cover my mouth because, even though he’s looking at me, his eyes are unfocused and I’m not sure he’s really looking at me as much as through me.

  “Two.”

  Suddenly I remember the night at the park.

  I own you at one.

  Holy crap.

  I can’t really process what’s going on here. I’ve never been in a position like this before. Holly and I grew up with the club at arm’s length. They were always a distant enough nuisance. Even when we were in school, we didn’t really cross paths with the club kids. Ryan, Ian, and Duke were a year behind Holly and a few years ahead of me. Nic was a year behind me, and even though we all grew up in the same small town and an even smaller school, I didn’t know any of the club kids back then. I hung out with a very different group than they did. I think maybe if I had more experience with them and their world, I might know how to act here.

  “One.” Ian’s eyes shine and the word comes out so slowly. There’s a sense of pride in his voice, but it’s overshadowed by the predatory grin he’s sporting.

  “Who do you belong to, Melinda?”

  “You.”

  What the hell did I just say? Why did I say that? I don’t even know what belonging to someone means, much less if I’m even capable of belonging to Ian. Surely he has expectations—expectations I doubt I can fulfill.

  “I gave you a chance to be responsible for yourself, but twice now you’ve proven to me that you can’t handle it. From now on, I make your decisions for you.”

  What in the hell . . .

  Ian’s disturbing grin falls as he stares at me, expressionlessly. His brow is smooth and his eyes look bored as he stands there silently. Something has shifted in him, and I can’t figure out what it is or why. He’s not normally like this with me. He’s been so even-keeled and gentle with me, but this isn’t gentle. This is a darker side of him that I need to take note of. Holly and Nic tried to warn me for a reason, and even if I don’t really know what those reasons are, I can’t ignore that they exist.

  “Tell me you understand,” he says. De
spite the rapid-fire freak-out going on inside my head, I can’t stop the blossoming excitement that’s spreading through me. Ian won’t hurt me. He said I’m not safe with him, but being safe and getting hurt are totally different. Aren’t they?

  “Tell me.” His jaw is locked with his demand.

  Suddenly I want something from him so fiercely that it takes me by surprise.

  “You keep saying I’m not safe with you. Why not?”

  He pauses but eventually relents.

  “I want certain things. I like certain things. You’re never going to like what I want to give you.” His voice is strained as he speaks the words.

  “Tell me then,” I say on a plea.

  “When I think about you, I want to fuck you hard and raw, and it would hurt. You’re not ready for it. You won’t like it. I won’t make us both suffer by even trying it, so no, you’re not safe with me.”

  “You can’t be gentle?” I ask.

  “I’ve never tried. I don’t know if I’m capable of gentle. But I’d try—for you.”

  My breath catches, and my legs are wobbly. He’s trying to scare me—and it’s working—but even more than that, I’m intrigued.

  “Show me what it’s like,” I say. “I just . . . I need this . . . I need to see it.” If what he wants to do to me, to give to me, is so terrible, I have to see it for myself.

  Chapter 9

  I let my eyes fall closed as I wait in the dark and silent room for Mindy. It’s rare that the pleasure palace is this quiet, but I worked it out with Pop. He didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t give any explanations. I couldn’t do this with Mindy in my room. I just couldn’t think about hurting her in that space I’ll have to return to again and again. And this will hurt her. I know it will.

  I’m leaning back against a cold, dirty mirror that lines the entire wall. My head rests on the glass. Thirty seconds pass. A minute passes. Then two minutes, and Mindy is still not here with me.

  I gave her a choice. Kind of. She doesn’t have to come, but I want her to.

  Another minute passes, and I fight back the desire to slam my head into the surface behind me. It’s a mirror, not a plaster wall. The painful breaking of my flesh would bring a much-needed and welcome relief, but I’m not here to make myself feel better.

  I’m here for her.

  Slowly, the door squeaks open. Basked in the light from the hallway is Mindy. Her face is shrouded in the darkness of the room, but I’d recognize her reddish-blonde hair and the curves of her body anywhere.

  She reaches into the room and flips the switch on the wall. The light is so bright that it makes me blink. It bounces off the opposite wall that’s also lined with mirrors, perfectly showing my reflection. I hate that I can see myself standing here waiting for her.

  “You meant what you said?” she asks. I don’t ignore the twinge of hope I think I hear laced in her words. Not something I’d give to just anyone. But this is Mindy, and I’ll give her what she needs.

  “Of course,” I say. My own voice doesn’t sound like how I think it should. I should sound bored or confident, but I don’t. I’ve never been here before, never promised a woman what I’ve promised her. Safety. Love. Myself. Even if I didn’t say those words exactly, she should know they’re what I meant.

  “You can’t . . .” she says and sucks in a deep breath before she continues. “You can’t touch me, but I want you to. One day, I want to be touched. I want to be better.

  “I need to see it,” she says. Her high octave crawls almost impossibly higher as she takes a single step into the room. How the fuck am I going to show her if she won’t let me touch her? She takes another step in the room and steps aside, showing me a woman standing behind her in nothing but a pair of black panties. I recognize her as Kaz, a nurse who likes to party with us.

  “Please,” she says.

  I shake my head and toss my hands up in the air. “This is too fucked up, even for me.” I run my hands through my wavy hair. It feels slick to the touch from all the sweating I’ve apparently been doing while I waited for her in here. Fucking nerves, man.

  “Ian,” she says louder now. Her voice shakes as her brown eyes grow wild with fear. “I need this. You promised me you’d help me that you’d take care of me.”

  In an instant, I’ve pushed off the mirror and have closed the distance between us. I reach out and wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her close to me. Her body stiffens, tears now stream down her face, and she hiccups.

  “Let me have this,” she begs, careful not to touch me as much as possible. Mindy isn’t good with gentle or kind. I know this. But I can’t help the desire I have to give her something that’s not entirely fucked.

  Leaning in close to her ear, I whisper, “I can take care of you. I can be good to you. Let me show you that I can do more than I have been, just not this. Please not this. Let me show you that I can make love to you.”

  “I don’t want that,” she says, slowly stepping back and sliding out of my grasp. “I just want to see it.”

  “Yes you do,” I say. I stay where I am though everything in me begs to reach out for her, to hold her and keep her safe. I’ll protect her body and her heart. I’ll keep every part of her safe even if I have to kill again to do it. “You had good once—you know how it felt. I know you remember the good in life, baby. Just let me bring a little of that back to you.”

  “Show me, Ian,” she says. “Show me how you can make me feel.”

  “I will,” I say and reach out for her.

  But she pulls back and points to the woman still standing in the doorway. “On her. I can’t be touched yet. I want to. I really do, but I keep replaying that horrible night in my head and making sex into this huge scary thing.”

  But she pulls back and points to the woman still standing in the doorway. “On her.”

  My gut twists, rejecting the idea. It’s not like I’ve never done shit like this before. I’ve had complete strangers against walls, in bars, on pool tables. I’ve had them in public and in private, and I’ve had one at a time and more than I can count, usually with props. But I’ve never had this. If this wasn’t Mindy, I’d already be fucking hard at the idea of some crazy chick watching me fuck. I like an audience, and I like it rough. Not everybody is into that, and a lot of women thought they could handle it only to run away screaming. But not with Mindy.

  I don’t want that with Mindy.

  She’s had fucked-up. She’s had shit she didn’t want, couldn’t handle, and won’t ever fucking get over.

  I won’t be another thing she has to get over.

  I’m going to be the thing that pieces her back together.

  Across the room, the woman loses her panties. Her fake tits don’t move, and her too-perfect-to-be-natural tanned skin shows no awkward lines where she’s paler. She’s the perfect size in every respect, has the perfect face with perfect lips for sucking dick. The way she walks toward me is perfect, too. And I hate everything about her.

  I want Mindy’s natural breasts that I’ve never even touched. I want her tan lines and pale skin and her scars—everything that I see but can’t feel. Every single one of her scars belongs to me now. She won’t admit it, but I own them. All of her damage and her history are on my shoulders for me to take care of for her. To make sure they don’t hurt her any more than they already have.

  Kaz places her hands over my cut and drags them down to the buckle of my belt. She pulls at the aged leather and slowly pulls it out of my belt loops. I look up to Mindy to find her locking the door and taking a seat on the bar stool there by the light. She gives me a head nod that I guess is meant to reassure me. I don’t feel reassured or confident. I feel like a scared child who fears that anything they do is going to get them into trouble. There are no safe choices.

  “Show me how good you’ll be to me,” Mindy says. Her voice drags, making me wonder what she’s feeling right now, if anything, or if she’s totally numbed everything out.

  I allow the woman to slide m
y cut off my shoulders. She catches it before it hits the ground and tosses it to Mindy. I don’t let anybody handle my cut like that. I feel the frustration ease in my muscles when Mindy gives it a little sniff and then slides it on over her shirt. She should look ridiculous, sitting there with my cut draped over her shoulders—she swims in it. But she looks up at me in a sultry gaze that makes my jeans tight. She holds the worn leather between her hands, wrapping herself in it. She takes another sniff, and it’s like she’s bathing herself in me.

  The blonde woman yanks my white shirt out of my jeans and runs her hands across my lower abdomen. She pops the top button of my jeans open and drags down my zipper. Before she can move any further, I lift her chin so that she’s forced to look at me, and I say, “There is only one way this can work. You stay silent. I don’t care how you feel. You say nothing. There are only two people in this room—me and her. You are nothing to me. Don’t touch me, don’t try to kiss me, and don’t you dare fucking speak to me. Do you understand?”

  She nods her head and removes her hands from my jeans and stands compliantly. Beside us is a chaise lounge with an inclined head rest. I take a step back and keep my eyes focused on Mindy. Not so deep in my soul I fear that she’s not going to want me to do this and that she’s going to freak out once it starts. Or worse, she’ll feel nothing. But I know better than to try to push her and force her into something she’s not ready for.

  “Lie down, baby,” I say, staring into my girl’s brown eyes. She nods again as the woman complies. Stalling, I slowly take my white shirt off and toss it aside. Mindy’s eyes travel over my naked chest, slowly surveying the tattoos and scars she’s never seen before. “You like what you see?”

  “Yes,” Mindy says. She forces the word out on a ragged breath as she drags her index finger over the FORSAKEN patch of my cut. Directly beneath the patch is her pert breast and what I fucking hope is an erect nipple. I want to see them, taste them, feel them. But not yet. Maybe not ever.

  I keep eye contact with her the whole time. Mechanically, I roll the condom on and fuck the faceless woman slowly and patiently—two things I didn’t know I could be capable of. I try to make it good enough for her that she enjoys herself. I don’t want Mindy getting the wrong impression, but every time the woman beneath me responds to my touch, my stomach rolls.