The gun tilted. He moved close, took the money, and pressed the gun to my temple.
“You’re gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart.” His eyes drifted over my dress. “Much better.”
My stomach roiled with sickness. “No thanks.”
The gun butted against my head. “You’re gonna learn real quick that Ex doesn’t believe in the word no. Better start practicing nodding with a mouth full of cock now.”
My chest tightened. I screamed and cracked the guitar case up, aiming for the cloudy, sickly scar slicing his face and eye. I wasn’t strong enough to pummel the man, but the blow staggered him. I ran for the door. He caught me after only a few steps. His gnarled fingers bruised my arm, and he tossed me into the wall.
My head cracked against the drywall.
I thought he killed me.
The crash rattled everything inside my head. My brain. My thoughts. My teeth. Worse of all, he shook loose every forgotten memory, every lost fear, every suppressed bit of knowledge that hid within the darkness of my mind.
I knew too much about Anathema. Whatever biker club or motorcycle hobbyists or road enthusiasts they pretended to be during charity runs or while raising money for the children’s hospital existed only in the shadow of the true demon. Drugs. Theft. Murder. I remembered the stories I heard from Dad, and I imagined the truth in the rumors whispered when the crimes were too horrible to repeat.
Keep, Brew, Thorne...they were nothing compared to the monsters that lurking within the ranks. They lived life outside society with little regard for rules and laws and standards, but they never targeted innocent people. Their battles never impacted those outside the club.
But Exorcist’s men were not Anathema. Not anymore. They had no rules. No regard. No conscience. They thought nothing of threatening the family members of their enemies. Of slamming already bleeding heads into walls. Of backhanding my cheek and laughing as I crumbled to the ground at their feet.
The first kick to my stomach taught me to behave. The second offered him a bit of fun. I coughed, but he didn’t let me catch my breath. He hauled me up by my hair and tossed me over his bony shoulder, slapping my behind with utter cruelty.
I hadn’t the strength, awareness, or breath to fight, but I knew to cry. Thick tears caught in my eyelashes, and I stuttered over a hiccupping sob as he kicked open the club’s door and pitched me into a windowless van.
My weak shout squeaked as a pained gasp. Not that screaming would have helped. My captor slammed the doors. His scar glowed in the dim light, shining like the threat of a rabid animal lurking beyond the darkness. Even when he thrust the bag over my head and tightened it with rope coiled around my throat, I felt his clouded leer peering over my broken form.
“Sit down and keep quiet.” He shoved me against the cold metal. They stripped the van of the seats, leaving only bare floors and enough room for Scarred to twist my legs where he wanted them. My dress kicked up in my fight. He slapped my exposed thigh. “I said shut your whore mouth!”
Absolutely not. I kicked again, missing where I hoped to hit but knocking the air from his gut. Scarred coughed, and I braced for the return strike. The van squealed to a stop instead.
“Enough.” The hardened voice bore an authority that constricted my last bit of air and stopped the creeping fingers of Scarred from edging closer to the elastic of my panties. “Back the fuck off her. She’s already fucking bleeding everywhere.”
“You saw her. She fought me.”
“Pull her damn dress down before I cut off your balls.”
“Drive the fucking van.”
“Let her go.”
Scarred shoved me away. A sharp edge of metal tore across my shoulder, but I didn’t care. I scrambled toward the commanding voice and braced myself against the driver’s seat. My fingers curled over something heavy. A weapon I couldn’t reach or wield. The wrench might have been perfect to bash against the head of the pervert who wanted to touch me, but I doubted I’d have the opportunity to crack the vulgar intentions from his head.
“Not gonna hurt her, Luke. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“Or hers.”
My captor chuckled. The sound rasped sharp and ugly over the Journey song whining from the radio. “We’ll see what Ex says.”
“He’s not here.”
“Getting a little carried away with that VP patch, aren’t you?”
Luke gunned the accelerator, and the van roared against the road. He didn’t answer Scarred. I didn’t expect him to. The authority in his voice. The raw confidence.
He sounded familiar. Like my brothers.
Like Thorne.
I huddled in the corner with a swirling head, curdling stomach, and aching ribs, but the sincerity and sanity in Luke’s words soothed me more than any ice pack or safe haven he might have offered. It wasn’t often anything made sense within the MC world of sin and depravity and savagery, but even the worst of the animals operated under a code of rules, regulations, and rankings. Luke wove power. Not as much as Thorne, but the club respected him like Keep and Brew.
That I understood.
But I didn’t like it. The nausea pitting my stomach churned against the betrayal. Maybe the other members of Anathema, the ones with motor oil in their veins and leather patched into their skin, could love my brothers, but not me. I’d never trust them again. Not after they forced me into the club, traded me to their president, and then let their enemy steal me from my gig.
Not just my gig. My life. Brew and Keep corrupted everything they touched. My work, my apartment, and now my first shot at escaping the world where I needed a pocket full of drugs to tolerate society and an illegal handgun to protect me from humanity. Keep and Brew did nothing but complicate my life and endanger the family.
Hell, Keep didn’t even make it to the gig. I didn’t know where Keep was or why it was Thorne of all people who burst from his seat to shut down the man mocking my music. After tonight, I couldn’t imagine either of my brothers doing anything good for me.
They didn’t protect me now.
And they hadn’t protected me then.
They didn’t even know. Didn’t even bother to look and see and wonder and ask about what was happening to me.
They didn’t stop him, but, even if they knew, would they have saved me?
The van rumbled against the highway. I welcomed the hard grind of the old suspension against the rough patches of the road. My arms wrenched behind me, and the bag covered my face. At least my scarred captor and my savior, Luke, didn’t see me cry.
Not for being kidnapped. Not for what horrible, depraved terrors awaited me.
I lived my teenage life in fear—dreading what Dad would do when the alcohol confused him, angered him, encouraged him. And I lived my life in unrepentant hope. Maybe one day he wouldn’t wake up when he blacked out. Maybe the district attorney would press for a life sentence. Maybe I could escape the world and finally take that one shower that would make me feel clean and pink and rejuvenated for my admission back into a realm of law, love, and security.
The only hope I carried now was the desperation for the one thing I hated. The roar of motorcycles. The sharp popping of silenced guns. The wild, leather, and wilderness scent of Thorne as he grabbed me from the van and returned me to the only place in the world I feared I’d ever feel safe again. The heart of Pixie. Where no one—not the law, not Exorcist—ever dared to invade.
The van doubled back twice. My stomach lurched with every U-turn, hard left, and rapid acceleration as we ducked streets and dodged highway exits. After nearly half an hour, Luke parked us in a rowdy neighborhood, snapping with music, backfiring trucks, and the humming of busted streetlights. I tensed as Scarred encroached. The scrape of a hunting knife rattled from its sheath just under my chin.
“Scream, and I’ll cut out your tongue.” Scarred leaned in too close and inhaled too deeply. “Then you won’t be singing so pretty.”
I nodded, but he didn’t care. Scarred gripped the rope a
round my neck and jerked me forward. I choked over the tightness and groaned as my foot slammed a rusted bit of metal poking out in the van. My captor didn’t like that. He tossed me onto the damp cement with a profanity. Luke’s shout prevented Scarred’s kick from crushing the ribs that weren’t already bruised. I heaved but kept the sickness down.
“Jesus Christ, you’re going to kill her.” Luke picked me up from the sidewalk. I kicked, but he hauled me into his arms.
I tensed as he shouldered through a door. His steps echoed against a cement floor. Overhead, rows of florescent lights hummed an ominous welcome. He set me down on a bundle of scratchy blankets. The rope. The blankets. The storage van. It was like the supplies for a moving company.
I didn’t know if that thought made me feel any better. Having a sense of the psychos who captured me was one thing. But the possibilities. The trucks and vans, bindings and wrappings, access to the town and empty buildings. Exorcist could chop me into little bitty pieces and Thorne, Brew, and Keep would find parts of me for years.
I didn’t mean to tremble, but I shook so hard my teeth chattered. Kinder fingers wove under the rope. The rancid bag over my head, the isolation and confusion, and the pain everywhere overwhelmed me. I fought with and against Luke, and he eased me down as he untangled the bag.
Luke tucked his blonde hair behind his ears. His cut fit over broad shoulders, displaying the same design, shape, and symbols as my brothers’. The Vice-President patch didn’t feel right. Neither did his handle. Knight. Though he unraveled the rope from my neck only to bind my wrists, Luke was more Lancelot than Mordred. His expression hardened, but I didn’t flinch when he raised a hand. He pointed at me.
“Don’t do anything stupid, and I might keep you alive through the night.”
His warnings practically shadowed Thorne’s voice. I nodded. The scuffling of leather and metal clink of boots forged a horrific symphony in my ears. I twisted from the unstable beat of their pounded steps and chanced a glance at the men who not only destroyed my family’s club but worked to kill those who remained after their uprising.
Many bikers desired a shroud of evil for their own reputations and acknowledgement of their lawless bravery. Exorcist pummeled those demons from lesser men, freed them from their mortal prison, and welcomed every rampaging monster of hatred, anguish, and torment to blacken his own soul.
I only met him once, and even my father warned me to stay away.
Dad wasn’t here now. It might have been the only time I missed him.
“Rose.” Ex sang my name, a minor key that corroded my bones in shivers. “You’re bleeding.”
The hulking man didn’t care. After so many baptisms in blood, he was probably immune to the pain of others. I tilted my head to meet his gaze, though only an uncompromising rage stared back. Black. Dark. Calculating. Age hadn’t slowed his ambition or his hate. Graying hair only meant he had survived. He still stood tall and broad, but he didn’t need to raise his own fists. Enough leering minions lingered in the halls of the empty shop and within the greasy, exhaust-pooling garage. Ex relied on his command to do his bidding.
Except he spoke to me himself.
Had his men kidnap me and knock me to my knees before him.
He knew my name. He knew my family. He knew everything.
And I knew absolutely nothing about him.
“I want to go home,” I said.
He smiled, surprisingly compassionate and warm, in the way only a true sociopath grinned.
“You aren’t living at home anymore. You’re staying at Pixie now.”
“Then I want to go there. I don’t know what you think, but I have nothing to do with Anathema.”
“And that’s why I wanted you.”
I didn’t dare look away. “Wanted me for what?”
“A favor.”
“No.”
Ex tilted his head. “You aren’t in a position to compromise.”
“I saw the type of favor your club wants.” I scowled as I stared at my scarred kidnapper. “I refused him. I’ll refuse you.”
Scarred didn’t like that. He swore, but Ex shook his head. I stilled my breath as he crossed before me. He knelt down and reached under his vest. I braced myself for a gun.
Instead, he handed me a picture.
An old photo. Something yellowing and folded, covered in grease and handled too many times. He pressed it into my hand.
“Go ahead.” His voice gentled. “Take it. It’s yours.”
My fingers trembled against the once glossy paper. I didn’t trust tearing my eyes from Ex, but I fought to drop my gaze to the photo. The folded parts stuck together, and I had to force the halves apart. I frowned.
Someone had just glued the edges together.
My stomach heaved.
It wasn’t glue.
And it wasn’t a picture anyone, ever, should have seen.
I dropped the twisted memory to the ground, but the flash of my dark hair, baby-smooth skin, and my uncertain smile faced upwards. I stomped on the picture and flipped it over before anyone saw the disgusting image or the vile message dripping from the photo.
My voice wavered, just as scared as the five year old in the picture. “How do you have that?”
“My secret.”
Exorcist picked up the photo and held it next to my face. I flushed. The men snickered. Luke set his jaw. Looked away.
“You’ve grown up, Rose,” Ex said. “Just as beautiful. Not as delicate, and far more....mature.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Would you like to take a picture to match? Before and after?”
I shook my head if only to clear away my mercifully fading vision.
“Should I just order the hit on your brothers then?”
A sob escaped my throat. “No.”
He slapped my cheek, hard, stealing my breath and knocking me to the ground. “You’re going to do me a favor. In return...” He folded the picture into his pocket. “No one has to know what Daddy did.”
I didn’t rub where he struck me. My lip immediately puffed, but I worried more for the searing pain in my cheek. I’d bruise, and I’d be lucky if that was my only injury.
“Blade was important to Anathema. He fostered some very influential relationships that were useful to the club and our businesses. Do you know what those relationships were?”
I swallowed, but I tasted blood. A cut on the inside of my mouth.
“Drugs. Dad handled the drug trade.”
“Right. You’re not as far removed from Anathema as you pretend.”
“I want nothing to do with the club.”
“That’s too bad, shortcake. You’re mine.”
I shook my head. “Then kill me now, because I will never help you.”
Exorcist reached for his gun. He flipped the safety and aimed. Luke leapt forward.
“For Christ’s sake!” Luke knocked Ex’s hand away. “Tell her what she needs to do. She’s just a kid. She doesn’t understand.”
“She understands,” Ex said. The gun clenched in his hand. “I don’t think she’ll do it.”
“She will.”
Ex eyed me. “There’s a lot of money riding on this favor. You get me?”
“And it’ll work.” Luke nodded. “Better than any other idea.”
“Better than Sorceress, you mean.” The gun shifted, waved at Luke. He watched the barrel, but he didn’t flinch. “You’re getting my money from that whore. You hear me?”
Luke’s jaw tightened. The regal blue of his eyes hardened into a righteous stare.
“Lyn isn’t a whore.”
“She isn’t paying me either,” Exorcist said. “You get money from Lyn, and little Rose does her part, and we’ll all be one happy club.”
Luke held Ex’s glare. I flinched as the cell in Luke’s pocket buzzed. He studied the number and nodded to Ex.
“It’s a pre-pay,” he said. “Bet it’s Thorne.”
“Excellent.” Ex grabbed the phone f
rom Luke, answered the call, and tossed it on the floor beside me. He aimed the gun. “Give him a hello, Rose.”
The gun cocked, and I screamed as two shots blistered through the cell no more than a foot from my legs. I sprawled backwards only to collide with the leather pants of my scarred captor. He sneered and kicked me toward Ex.
“Guessing we only have a little time now.” He handed the broken bits to Luke. “Sorry about the phone, but that message was easier than a text. Thumbs don’t work like they used to.”
I trembled as Ex circled my blanket. The gun holstered, but it didn’t relieve me. Whatever he expected was worse than a quick shot through my head and my body tossed at the doorstep of Pixie.
“Rose, your father worked with a fellow club called Temple. Their president, Toviel, refuses to do business with anyone from any charter of Anathema…except for Blade. We hope to change their mind. As your father’s daughter, the mantle falls to you.”
“I am not my father,” I said.
“But you two were close,” Ex sneered. “So very, very close, isn’t that right?”
“You disgust me.”
“What a man does in the comfort of his own home or the darkness of his little girl’s room…” Ex held his arms up. “Doesn’t matter. If I could deliver Temple a pint of your blood as a show of good faith, I’d do it. But they want the blood inside your body, and they want the blessing of Daddy to do it.”
“I haven’t talked to my father since he was arrested.”
“You don’t need to talk to him. All we need is for Temple to assume Daddy offered his support.” Ex leaned down, his black eyes as empty and threatening as Hell. “You are going to take some money to Temple. Then you are going to pick up the merchandise and deliver it to us.” Ex lowered his voice. “No police. No Anathema. No brothers, no Thorne, no talking. You do as we say, and we’ll be forever in your debt.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me?”
Ex smirked. “Those are the types of questions that get big brothers in trouble. You don’t guess. You don’t think. You don’t ask. You just do. That way no one gets hurt. You got it?”
I nodded. Ex snapped his fingers, and Scarred ran to fetch him a chair.
Warlord (Anathema Book 1) Page 10
