by Marata Eros
“Hope that puke festers by her front door.” Storm laughs then grimaces, gently adjusting his junk.
“Nice DNA calling card, dumbass,” Wring comments.
Storm’s expression sours, his top lip pulling taut. “You ever get your balls tapped like that?”
Wring's silence is so long that we've pulled up in front of the tiny cabin and turned off the SUV before his soft answer is uttered. “Yeah.”
His eyes have that faraway look they get when he's thinking about something in the past. Something bad.
“All right, so did ya puke?” Storm asks with the logic of the young and the lack of discernment to not ask that comes with age.
“Eventually.”
Wring gets out of the car without another word, and Storm gives me a look, brows high.
“What's with that shit?” He hikes a thumb in Wring's direction.
I know it was the war.
Storm can't figure it out, but with one glance at the slightly lost look in Wring's eyes, I know there's been a time when he was helpless and vulnerable.
We all were.
Like Candice Arlington is now.
Popping out the driver's side, I catch Wring as his hand is on the handle.
“I'll take her.”
Wring backs away, holding his arms up, palm out. “Whatever you say, Prez.”
We stare at each other. “I can do it.” I sound more like I'm trying to convince myself.
His eyes sharpen on my partially illuminated face, but he replies, “I know.”
Storm limps around to our side of the rig. “God, I wish I felt better. I'd hammer that bitch.”
I say nothing, but my guts tie into a nice tight knot at his words.
As I open the door, the interior car light flicks on, and I'm met with catlike golden eyes. Just a hint of green flecks.
There's no freaking out from Arlington.
She just surveys the three of us upside down. Her gaze rests on Wring the longest before returning to mine.
“Where's the boy?” she asks.
I laugh. There's no question of who we are, where she is, or if we're going to kill her.
All she gives a shit about is the merchandise.
Wow. And to think that I was feeling bad.
I'm a fucking fool.
Grabbing her by the armpits, I drag her out. The back of one of her trussed heels smacks hard on the car well, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out.
Have a feeling that when Storm is feeling up to things, he's going to make sure she makes noise.
I let her fall on the ground, and she sort of spins midair, landing on her back instead of her face. Groaning, she rolls off a sharp rock bigger than the others on my driveway and inchworms off it with a barely contained sigh of relief.
“Boy's fine. No thanks to you,” I say in a voice like brittle glass.
Storm limps over to her and puts his boot on her chest.
Her eyes widen with an expression I can't read. Their gazes lock.
“Wait!” I say loudly, moving forward and grabbing his massive shoulder.
I'm too late to save the thing that happens next, though my last minute interference lessens it.
Storm steps down and gives a vicious twist, applying his considerable weight, and she cries out.
We all hear it.
The rib breaking.
I spin him before he can bear down more, shoving him away. “Fucker. Unnecessary.”
Looking back at Arlington, I see hot tears roll down her face as she writhes inside the bindings.
Fuck.
“What?” he says, cringing as his nutsack gives a twinge. “Owed her that.”
Wring says nothing.
Short breaths fly out and get sucked in as she struggles to breathe and control the pain while bound.
“Hyperventilating.” Wring sinks beside her.
Arlington flinches away from him then gasps at the pain. “Calem,” she whispers.
Beat up, with a broken rib and she's still worried about the money end. All business, I'll give her that.
“Please,” she says, licking parched lips. “Don't—” She gasps. “Don’t hurt him.”
Hurt him? This crazy bitch. “We're not going to hurt him.” I seethe at her.
“We're going to hurt you, bitch,” Storm says, moving toward her again.
Arlington glares at him, almost as if she’s sending him a silent message. Fucking hard as nails.
He hesitates.
“Hey,” Rider says.
We pivot, looking at a brother who's one badass dude. He's got the kid by the scruff of the collar. “He's freaking out.”
The boy's eyes are big and brown. Scared. “What are you doing to Miss Candi?”
“Shh, honey,” Arlington says from the ground. “It's going to be all right.”
Haven't heard a lie that big all month.
“Miss Candi?” Storm's hands turn to fists.
“Don't,” Wring says automatically, never taking his eyes off the boy. Instead, he walks over to him and crouches low.
The boy's eyes move from Rider to Wring, and I can see his wheels turning. He's got no one to trust. And his gaze moves to Storm last. Probably reading the barely contained rage.
Looks like he might have some experience in that department.
“Hey, pal, this here is Viper.” Wring says, pointing to me, and the boy—Calem—follows his finger, giving me a wary and distrustful gaze. Can't blame him there.
“Okay.” He looks up at Rider. “Please let go of me.”
Rider smirks. “You gonna wig out again?”
The kid blinks, seeming to translate the expression. “No.” He looks at Arlington again. “I wanna be with Miss Candi.”
Unbelievable. Miss Candi.
“You guys go. I'll get the kid and her in the house.”
Rider just turns, taking me at my word, and Storm huffs, limping after him.
“I'll be back as soon as my dick is okay,” Storm says over his shoulder, heaving a significant glance toward Arlington.
“You got this?” Wring's eyes ask if I really have it.
I nod.
He nods back then follows the other two men.
Arlington stares at me without expression, until the kid runs to her, flinging his tiny arms around her neck. “I thought they were the bad men, Miss Candi.”
She cries out when part of the weight of his arm lays on her chest, and Calem stands, backing up a couple of steps.
I move then. Leaning down, I slide my arms under her body and lift her as the boy retreats, looking at me holding her. She groans at the movement and what it cost her rib.
Arlington's so light, it's like lifting a child. Like the ones she's giving to the fuckers.
I harden my heart at her fragile female face as it falls into my chest. Her breathing is labored.
“Don't hurt me in front of him.” Her breath is hot against my chest, with a slight odor of mint to it, as if we caught her right after she brushed her teeth. She licks her lips again, then says in a soft voice, “Please.”
I can't say I won't hurt her. It'd be a lie. I can't say everything will be all right. Another lie.
So I admit what I can. “Okay.”
I walk to the house, and the boy follows. He follows me all the way into the newly refurbished basement.
Where Candice Arlington will be tortured.
Chapter 8
Puck
I'm in civvie clothes, driving a vintage 1968 Camaro. I don't look remotely like the biker I've been pretending to be for more than three years.
My sister's townhome is exactly as she described it—circa-1990s uninspired architectural styling. Triangle windows line the extreme slant of the peak of the roof. The windows appear like all-seeing hostile eyes, and a sense of foreboding washes me in a pour of sick adrenaline, drenching my body in a flush of alternating heat and cold.
I shouldn't be this reckless, but I can't stop myself. I roll up the driveway, slam m
y car into first, and leap out the door, not even taking the time to close it before I race up the walkway at full throttle.
I hit the front door on a sprint about the same time as eau de vomit smell strikes me like a whip. Leaning forward, I see spewed half-digested chunks of food decorate the bushes lining the border of landscaping that runs along the foundation.
Turning to the door, I punch in the numbers for Candi's house. “You never know when we might need each other,” she said when she made me memorize the code.
I clench my eyes shut, wanting to know but not wanting to.
I knew this day would happen—when my sister would need me and I couldn't protect her. I couldn't protect her from our own father. How can I protect her now?
Lifting my chin, I square my shoulders. Got to try.
The keyed entry sings its acceptance of my correct sequence, and I open the door. Immediately, I smell Candi, and childhood memories fill my mind.
Scent is the most powerful memory trigger—and my sister doesn't change anything. She has the same taste in furniture, which she calls “funky chic,” and the same taste in moisturizer and body spray. It smells like her. Like home.
Ignoring my emotions, I tear through the house, taking in everything.
A TV blares. I walk over and hit the switch on the remote to mute it, instantly cloaking the house in silence. A Bugs Bunny rerun keeps its frenetic pace across the screen, tossing chunks of disembodied light against the walls.
My body stills, and I listen.
The clock hanging on the wall ticks loudly, reminding me of the seconds I don't have my sister here and of the second part of the handoff just twenty-four hours away.
The buyer will have plenty of questions when the handoff doesn't happen as planned. The first will no doubt be: Where the fuck is the boy?
A Twinkie wrapper sits crumpled and forgotten on the coffee table. Tiny fingerprints are smeared across the glass squares of its top. Crouching, I give them a quick eye-measure.
Sure look to be the right size. I stand, mind whirring. Why in the fuck would Candi ever bring a kid here? Now I'm really freaking out.
Someone barfed in the bushes.
The kid was in her house.
My hands fist. Where's my sister?
Turning, I move slowly to a long, narrow hallway and flick the light switch on. Bright ceiling can fixtures explode with illumination, swallowing every shadow. My eyes leap around the long space.
This. This is where it happened.
Blood is spattered all over the ʼ90s-era beige carpeting.
My heart starts banging inside my ribcage. Not thrown blood. Blood that just hung and dripped.
Two body-sized depressions mar the walls opposite each other.
I walk to the first and place my fingertips where a head struck, dipping into the deepest divot. I know it's Candi's.
Don't even have to measure, but my palm unerringly covers the indentation of a small skull.
With a sick feeling, I walk to the second depression. This one is more violent, the head impression isn’t as deep, but the outline of the body is clear.
My sister's small body, heaved against the wall.
Sharp pride choruses through my system. She fought them. A small satisfied smile lifts the edges of my lips. There must have been a lot of men to bring her down.
Candi is the fiercest human being I've ever known. And whoever took her is going to die.
Slowly.
Don't you give up on me, sister. Stay alive, I say to myself.
To her.
*
Candice
He carries me gently, considering his plans.
Because make no mistake, I'm under no delusions as to where this is going.
The “Prez” of the Road Kill MC is going to make me talk. Somehow, it's hard to envision him working me over. More likely, it'll be the red-headed male whose crotch I sank my fist into.
I try to work through the pain of my rib to think coherently. I must be moving in and out of consciousness because I lose seconds as we travel through a cabin.
I've been hurt worse in my life. But that was a long time ago, and I'd forgotten how it felt to be in this much pain.
To feel this much fear.
A horrible calm descends, and right then, I decide I'll die. They're not getting anything from me.
I'll save Calem if I can.
My one regret is Puck. He'll never know what happened to me. I can't even say goodbye, and being robbed of that option is a raw wound to my soul.
A tear rolls down my face as my mind already resolves my fate.
“Tears aren't going to do diddly squat for you,” the biker remarks.
I hurt, but I manage to roll my eyes up to look at him. The Road Kill president would be so handsome if it weren't for the fact he threw me against a wall, dumped me on the ground while I was bound, and kidnapped me, not in that order.
Yeah, that.
“I'm not crying,” I gasp, “for coercion's sake or using feminine wiles.”
“Smart girl,” he says as we descend steep steps. The space smells of wood, paint, and unidentifiable construction smells.
New.
Funny what a person will notice under stress. Like how a thing of beauty can mask the evil therein.
With a casual flick of a wrist, he turns on a light, and warm illumination spreads across the low ceiling, chasing shadows out of the corners with beautifully warm and vibrant light. The space where I'll be held is surprisingly large.
Tongue-and-groove pine, stained natural, lines the entire ceiling. Wide windows intersect the top of the stone foundation, standing out in stark bones of wood and glass.
Moving to another door, he opens it with one hand then hits another switch, which makes a loud click.
Dim light filters into every corner of the area. It's a large bedroom with an old-fashioned metal bed. Squinting through my still-fuzzy vision as my head thumps with a fine headache, I just make out the headboard.
My grandmother used to call that style of bed a matrimonial. Ornate curves form in a gentle high arch, and the intricate metal “knots” spaced about a foot apart were designed to mimic flowers. A patchwork quilt, obviously done by hand, is thrown on top.
The Prez clears his throat. “Gonna put you down now. You try monkeying around, and I'll hurt you worse.”
“Is that an actual word? ‘Monkeying’?”
He shrugs and carefully lowers me onto the bed.
I seize his throat, digging my fingers around his esophagus like I'm mining for his spine. The pain the move costs me is instant, taking away my vision, breath—everything, leaving nothing but the agony.
Still, I hang on, though pain rakes claws through my chest.
The slap rocks my face back, and my head slams into a pillow instead of a wall. Stars burst in my field of vision, and I'm helpless to stop him as he yanks both my wrists. I scream while the sound of metal against metal clanks against the headboard.
Handcuffs.
My eyelids pop open, and my vision swims as I fight losing consciousness. Then I see a knife and tense, ready for the end—as though I've always been waiting for my death.
“Protect Calem,” I command in an urgent whisper.
He slices through the zip ties instead of my body, but the metal handcuffs hold me to the headboard.
My breath slides out in relief to be free of the tight plastic bindings.
“What?” He rubs his throat, where I can make out the outline of my fingers running the border at the column of his thick neck. Without waiting for my answer, he points the tip of the blade at me. “Told you not to try anything.”
I gasp and groan as breathing becomes a gift, and the pain is bright and white-hot.
His eyes are a gorgeous blue. Like a pristine body of water. They look at me like two blocks of ice.
“Had to try,” I hiss through the pain.
“And look where trying got ya.”
Yes. Look at that.
Another wave of pain lances me like a sword. Black wings of nausea and dizziness sweep through me. Shit, not now.
Yes. Now.
I turn my head, leaning as far over the side of the bed as the handcuffs will allow, and vomit onto the lovely new floor.
“Fuck!” he hisses.
I probably have a concussion after all the manhandling. Not the first time, though. I blow a strand of hair away from my face before it lands in my mouth, now fouled by throwing up.
My eyelids sink, and I hang off the edge of the bed by my wrists. Closing my eyes, I curl my legs against myself, trying to relieve the strain of my body against my injured rib.
The man is busy moving around. I can hear him mopping up my meal of sandwich and chocolate milk from earlier.
“Where's Calem?” I manage to gasp out, and a string of drool joins the mess at the floor.
“Safe,” he says abruptly.
He's not safe until he's in protective custody. “Yeah, and this is safe?”
He’s bent over as he finishes cleaning, but he turns his neck to meet my eyes.
“Safer than in your hands.”
Not true. Of course he believes I work for whoever is trying to peddle children. I must maintain that guise no matter what. This man must never know my true identity.
Despair runs through me, scalding me as I realize the hopelessness of all of it. I can't incriminate Puck. Though he would see Calem safe.
I have nothing to use. No arsenal of weapons.
Nothing.
With a grunt of disgust, he slices the binding on my legs.
The cold flat tip of the knife comes to rest underneath my chin, gently tilting it up. “You try any of your martial art skills on me, little lady, and I will really hurt you.”
The slap had been like a punch. And I think the only reason he didn't punch me is because I’m a woman.
I don't know why I feel this way, but I think, even though this man believes I'm a child pedophile liaison, he can't bring himself to truly hurt me.
If I were him, I would be dead already.
*
Viper
I didn't hit her that hard.
And that fact makes me feel like shit. Injured and bound, she still tried to take me.
The woman is brave. Corrupt as fuck, but brave.
“I won't try anything.” Her skin has paled. Lips blue.
