Shooting Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  He climbed across the mattress on his knees and rolled onto his side, wincing.

  “Where’s your stuff?” she asked.

  “Top drawer.”

  She opened his dresser drawer. There was a disgusting collection of porn, various drug paraphernalia, a bag of top-quality weed and several pill bottles. One of the bottles had oxy capsules. The other was mixed, with a few round, white pills marked R-O-H.

  Rohypnol. The date rape drug.

  Pigpen was facing the other direction, his arms tightly bound behind his back. He would know the roofie wasn’t an oxy by the shape, so she crushed it up and put it in a glass of water. Then she found some basic painkiller capsules. Bringing him two, she put one in his mouth. He swallowed it with water.

  “You want two?”

  “I want four,” he growled.

  She gave him the second, and the rest of the water.

  “Now untie me.”

  “Not yet,” she said, putting a blanket on him. “When you get drowsy.”

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “Did you hurt Janelle?”

  His expression turned belligerent, but he was smart enough to hold his tongue. Tiffany patted him on the cheek and returned to his stash. She pocketed the rest of his roofies and sat down to roll a joint. She might as well stay busy while she waited for him to go bye-bye.

  It had been a long night.

  Tiffany replayed the events of the evening, shaking her head. She’d embarrassed herself by kissing Janelle. She didn’t know why she’d done that. It was clear that her friend had fallen hard for Ace. They might not be the perfect couple, destined for white picket fences and easy street, but they had passion. Tiffany had never experienced passion. She’d only been on the receiving end of obsession, and it had almost killed her.

  As she licked the rolling paper, she heard a motorcycle pull into the driveway.

  “Crap,” she said, tucking the joint into her bra. Pigpen started yelling, proving his lungs were working just fine. She had to punch his sore ribs to quiet him before she gagged him with a dirty sock. He bit down on the fabric but couldn’t dislodge it or make much noise.

  It was too late to do more. His roommate was already inside the house. Tiffany tossed another blanket over Pigpen’s head. She turned off the lights and left the room, locking the door behind her. There was no garage or any other exit, so she had nowhere to go. She walked down the hall, forced to brazen it out.

  Pigpen’s roommate was in the kitchen, frowning at the contents of the fridge. “Who the fuck ate my sandwich?” he called over his shoulder. He showed no sign that he’d heard the struggle in the bedroom. Tiffany considered making a beeline for the front door. Then he straightened and their eyes met.

  Her stomach dropped.

  It was the virgin.

  Janelle had given him a lap dance the other night. He’d been with those other White Lightning assholes. He was young, dark-haired, sort of punk-rock looking. Not as brawny as Ace, but big enough to intimidate. Ace had called him Rex, and said he wasn’t an easy mark.

  He shut the refrigerator, seeming surprised to see her. “Where’s Pigpen?”

  Tiffany feigned ignorance. “Pigpen?”

  “Pete,” he clarified.

  “Oh. He left a few minutes ago.”

  Rex gaped at her in disbelief. “You’re with him?”

  She nodded. “He said I could hang out until he got back. Is that okay?”

  They were MC members and at least one of them sold drugs, so it wasn’t cool to let a strange woman roam around the empty house. Even so, Rex didn’t ask her to leave. Guy code prevented him from interfering with his roommate’s sexual conquests.

  “I’m Tara,” she said, giving him her stripper name.

  He stuck out his hand. “Rex.”

  Her palm tingled with the telltale zing of compatible chemistry. She’d always been attracted to a wide range of people, men and women alike, so she dismissed the reaction as unimportant. He was super hot, but this was a tense situation. She needed to focus on the task at hand, not his sexy lip ring.

  Rex didn’t linger over the contact or leer at her suggestively. He seemed puzzled by her presence, and not interested in taking advantage of her. Maybe he avoided Pigpen’s leftovers. She couldn’t blame him.

  She also couldn’t really flirt with him. Using her sexuality to disarm men came naturally to her, so she racked her brain for other options. She had to do something to keep him away from the bedrooms.

  A muffled noise came from that direction. Tiffany panicked and knocked over an empty beer bottle, which rolled across the counter and fell off the end. Rex caught it neatly and tossed it into the recycling bin.

  “Do you mind if I make something to eat?” she asked, shuffling through the kitchen. Maybe she could bang some pots and pans around.

  “Good luck,” he muttered.

  He was hungry. Tiffany brightened at this realization. She knew how to cook, and most men his age would eat anything. “Let’s see what there is,” she said, opening the fridge. It was completely empty, except for beer. She removed two bottles and set them on the counter. “Will you open one for me?”

  “They’re twist-off.”

  “Oh. Never mind then.”

  Rex sat down at an empty barstool and opened it for her anyway. Hiding a smile, she searched the cabinets. There wasn’t much to work with: sourdough bread, a tin of Spam and a can of tomato sauce.

  “How about a meatball sub?”

  He looked skeptical. Shrugging, he opened the second beer and took a long drink. “Where did Pete go, again?”

  Tiffany made a noncommittal sound and heated a frying pan on the stove. She cut the Spam in thick slices, browning it on both sides. Then she added the tomato sauce. While that was bubbling, she toasted the bread. She couldn’t find any clean plates, so she washed two, making as much racket as possible.

  Then she dried the plates on her shirt and built the sandwiches. They were meaty, messy and hot, on crisp sourdough.

  Rex took a test bite. He chewed and swallowed, arching a brow. “This is fucking good.”

  She dug into her sandwich, pleased by the compliment. He wolfed down his and finished the second half of hers. Then he wiped his mouth with a napkin and drank the rest of his beer. He kept giving her funny looks, as if he couldn’t figure out why she’d go for Pigpen.

  “Pete told me you work nights,” she said.

  He nodded. “At the guitar factory.”

  She spotted a beat-up acoustic in the corner. “Did you make that one?”

  “Nah. I bought it at a pawn shop.”

  “You play?”

  “A little.”

  It was quiet now—too quiet. She took the plates to the sink, wondering if Pigpen had smothered in his own filth. “What kind of music?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Let me guess,” she said, perusing him slowly. “Johnny Cash.”

  Recognition flickered in his eyes.

  “Do you know any of his songs?”

  “I can play a few, but I can’t sing them.”

  “I can. Play one for me.”

  He walked over to the guitar and sat down on the couch, strumming a C chord. She took a seat across from him. Although the guitar sounded fine to her ear, he adjusted two of the keys. Then they decided on a song, one of Cash’s later hits.

  He was good. It was a cheap guitar, nothing special, but he hit the notes with confidence, nodding his head to the beat. He had a guitar player’s hands, strong and agile.

  Tiffany started off shaky and immediately regretted the song choice. She couldn’t pull off Cash’s gruff, tortured tone. Instead of faltering and going quiet, she got louder and sang the damned thing. By the end she wasn’t half-bad. Ten years
of choir before she left home had given her a decent vocal range.

  When it was over, something hung between them in the air. Rex was studying her again. “You have a nice voice,” he said huskily.

  “Thanks.”

  He kept staring.

  She flushed like she was still a choirgirl instead of a seasoned stripper. Then she became aware of a thumping noise in the bedroom.

  Shit.

  Rex heard it at the same time she did. “What’s that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He set the guitar aside and went to investigate. Tiffany jumped to her feet. Time to go. Although Rex hadn’t acted threatening in the least, he was a member of White Lightning. She couldn’t expect him to be sweet to her just because they’d played a song together. Pigpen had promised that Rex would “rape the shit out of her.”

  On her way to the front door, she heard more motorcycles pull into the driveway. She glanced through the curtains, hoping they were Dirty Eleven riders.

  Nope.

  Lightning bolts blazed on their black leather vests and her entire life flashed before her eyes.

  Now she was really screwed.

  She retreated a few steps, biting the edge of her fist. There was no safe direction to run. After a short hesitation, she followed Rex down the hall. Pigpen had managed to get the door open, but he’d stumbled and fallen on his face. He appeared semi-conscious. The remnants of the duct tape clung to his wrists.

  “You did this?” Rex asked.

  Tiffany gripped his arm, pleading. “Hide me.”

  He glanced over her shoulder, swearing under his breath. Then he shoved her into his room and locked the door. “Do they know you?” he asked, his eyes narrow.

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t hide you,” he said in a low voice. “Take off your clothes and get in the bed.”

  Rex’s room was neat as a pin. The space was spare and organized, with a single barred window. There was no closet, no large furniture to duck behind and no space under the bed. She tore her shirt over her head and shimmied out of her jeans, her heart racing.

  The men were pounding on the front door.

  “Hurry,” Rex said through clenched teeth. He removed his shirt and dove under the blankets. She joined him in her bra and panties. “Those too,” he urged, fumbling with his belt. She unfastened her bra and the joint fell out. There was no time to remove her panties. The men were inside the house, storming down the hall.

  Rex covered her mouth with his and got on top of her, thrusting his hips in a crude facsimile of sex. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, kissing him back. Fear made her mechanical, uncoordinated. Their mouths and bodies mashed together in clumsy desperation.

  The door burst open, splintering at the frame.

  Rex rolled off her with a frustrated growl. He held the blanket over their lower halves, leaving her breasts exposed. Tiffany didn’t cover them. “What the fuck?” he roared, feigning fury over the interruption.

  Jester, the president of White Lightning, was standing in the hallway. “Why didn’t you answer the door?”

  “Why the fuck do you think?”

  Tiffany made a sound of mortification and covered her face.

  “I was about to bust my fucking nut,” Rex said. “Is there a fire, or can I finish?”

  “Get dressed,” Jester said. “Now.”

  When the coast was clear, Tiffany dropped her hands. The door was broken, but it had been pulled closed. Rex was sitting next to her, shirtless. He had a beautiful chest, sculpted with hard muscle. Most of his tattoos were military style, rather than jailhouse. There was a swirling treble clef on his ribcage.

  He noticed her perusal and put his shirt back on. She couldn’t find her bra, so she emerged from the bed in her thong panties, bending over to pick up her jeans. He watched her breasts jiggle as she wrestled into the denim. Tearing his gaze away, he sifted through the blankets for her bra. He passed it to her, his neck flushed.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. He’d saved her ass, big-time.

  He put on his boots, saying nothing. Then he motioned for her to stay there and left the room. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. Pigpen seemed incoherent, but he might talk. Someone could recognize her from the club, despite her casual appearance. She sat at the edge of the bed, nibbling her thumbnail down to the quick as Jester interrogated Rex in the other room. Rex said he just got home and hadn’t even known Pigpen was here.

  Rex came back a moment later. “Let’s go.”

  She didn’t have to be asked twice. She followed him out the door, keeping her head down and her eyes averted. It sounded as if they were trying to rouse Pigpen. Dawn was beginning to break outside, bringing soft light to the edge of the horizon. Rex walked into the garage and selected a black motorcycle helmet. She accepted it awkwardly.

  “Where do you live?”

  “The El Dorado Apartments, in Coachella.”

  “By the polo club?”

  She nodded.

  He straddled his motorcycle, waiting for her. She struggled into the helmet, which felt like a ten-pound weight on her shoulders. Then she threw her leg over the seat and put her arms around his lean waist. He started the engine and cruised out of the driveway. Ace’s truck was still parked down the street. She’d forgotten all about it.

  Tiffany didn’t press her luck by asking Rex to stop. Ace’s truck was the least of her worries. She just wanted to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. She clung to Rex, shivering with fear, but glad to be alive.

  Coachella was less than ten miles from Indio, so it was a short trip. After a few minutes she started to breathe easier. She enjoyed the feel of his body against hers and the memory of his weight on top of her. His bare chest, touching her breasts. The vibration between her legs was difficult to ignore. He was hot. He had nice muscles. He’d treated her like a lady and protected her from his crew.

  If he wasn’t a member of White Lightning, she’d fuck him rotten.

  Unfortunately, he was. It said so right on the back of his leather vest. Tiffany wasn’t a diehard groupie of Dirty Eleven, but she still considered herself a Dirty Girl. She’d slept with the president’s nephew more than once. She was loyal to her friends and her coworkers. There was no way she could date someone from the rival club. She didn’t even know if Janelle was okay.

  Tiffany’s reservations about Rex didn’t stop her from becoming aroused, however. The taboo element might have added to her excitement. He was dangerous and off-limits. She was reckless and indiscriminate.

  She wondered if he liked threesomes.

  When they arrived at the El Dorado, the sun was rising over the verdant lawns of the polo club. She’d always resented the opulent sight, so incongruent with the cracked desert earth and burnt-orange rocks in the distance. Today the rhythmic click of the irrigation system seemed comforting and the calm green soothed her eyes.

  Rex pulled over at the curb. Tiffany climbed off his bike and removed the helmet.

  “Do you really live here?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, although she did.

  He studied her for a moment, seeming as disconcerted by the previous hour as she was. They’d had a strange night.

  She moistened her lips. “I owe you.”

  His gaze darkened as if he wanted to call in that favor, right here and now. But he didn’t ask to come up, much to her disappointment. “Forget about it,” he said, putting on the helmet. Then he drove away.

  She watched him ride past the rainbow arch of sprinkler mist, her hands curled into fists. She didn’t think she would forget about it. Not for a long time.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Janelle spent the next hour scouring the dark confines of the tank.

 
She found two intact beer bottles, which she filled with dirt and debris to give them more striking power. There was a lot of broken glass in the rubble. She tucked a few pieces into her pockets to use for self-defense purposes. Then she got down on her hands and knees to peer through the drainage hole.

  Her guard was sitting in a camp chair about twenty feet away. She straightened, pacing back and forth in the gloom. Jester would probably show up with the rest of his gang-rape goons. Well, they’d get a little more than they bargained for. She wasn’t coming out of this holding tank without a fight.

  She heard an approaching vehicle and lowered herself to the floor to look through the drainage hole again. It was the same red truck she’d been brought here in. The driver parked closer than before and hopped out. Her stomach dropped when she saw his skeleton mask. He walked toward his partner, moving in purposeful strides. There was something strange about him, and it wasn’t the mask. His body radiated power and tension.

  While Janelle watched, her heart in her throat, he raised a gun and pointed it as his partner.

  The man in the chair startled, lifting his palms. They exchanged a few words, but she couldn’t hear their quiet voices at this distance. Then the man in the chair stood abruptly, reaching for his own gun.

  Bad move.

  His partner blew him away, firing twice in rapid succession. Both bullets appeared to hit the man in the chest. He fell down and didn’t get up.

  Janelle clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a cry of distress. Maybe she was next. She scrambled away from the drainage hole and collected her bottles, moving to the darkest corner of the tank. She crouched there, quivering like a wild animal. Her vision went fuzzy and her mind started to fade.

  No.

  She shook off the urge to drift by biting down on her lower lip, hard. She couldn’t fight back if she didn’t stay alert. She wasn’t thirteen anymore, staring at the doorknob in her bedroom and praying it wouldn’t turn. She was still small, but she wasn’t weak or defenseless. She was a mother with a son. A strong survivor.

  Jamie needed her. She’d live through this.

  She could hear him climbing the ladder on the side of the tank. Then he was at the opening, looking in. She waited for him, gripping the bottle necks.