The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (The Wicked Horse Series)

by Sawyer Bennett

  I’m pretty sure she’s sleeping so hard, not because of the shot Jared gave her, because that would have worn off a while ago, but because she was utterly exhausted both in body and in mind. I would like to think that she accepted my assurances of safety and was able to let her body fall into a restful sleep that would help to heal her.

  But now it’s time for her to get up, and the two pieces of toast popping up brings me back to task. I pull them out, relieved they are lightly browned, and spread some butter, followed by some raspberry jam, on them. No clue if the woman will like it but if she doesn’t, she doesn’t have to eat it.

  I take the plate along with cutlery and a glass of orange juice back to my bedroom. I put her in there because I wanted her to have the bathroom close by if she needed it, and also because I felt she deserved a nice bed after all she’d been through. Why that matters to me, I can’t figure out, but when I saw her injuries, something within me committed to helping this woman.

  Just like I’m almost powerless not to equate pain and pleasure together, as well as harboring an extreme desensitization to sex because of my upbringing, I’m also equally as powerless to turn my back on someone who’s been abused.

  The moment I turn from the hall into the master bedroom, I’m immediately relieved to see she’s awake and sitting up in the bed. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, which swallows her up, and the blankets are pulled up around her lap.

  “Brought you some breakfast,” I say as I walk in toward her, and I note with a measure of satisfaction that there’s less wariness in her eyes than I’ve seen before.

  “I heard you banging around out there,” she says softly, but there’s no humor in her voice. In fact, it’s quite flat.

  “You must be starved,” I tell her as I sit the plate down on her lap and place the juice on the bedside table, along with the medicine. “And there’s some more pain medicine as well as antibiotics to take after you finish.”

  Her eyes slide to the pills, and then back to the plate before she gingerly picks up the fork I placed on top of the food with the handle hanging off the side. “Thank you.”

  “How do you feel?” I ask as I take the chair beside her bed. While I want her to eat, I also want more answers.

  She gives a shrug and scoops up a forkful of eggs. Before she puts them in her mouth, she says, “Maggie.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, confused by her answer.

  “My name’s Maggie. Thought you’d want to know.” She places the eggs in her mouth and chews as she stares at me.

  “Maggie what?” And I feel a little shitty for not having asked that first.

  She swallows and murmurs, “Waylon. Magdalene Waylon, but my friends call me Maggie.”

  Interesting she lumps me into the friend category, but I know deep down she doesn’t mean it. She may not have that wariness in her eyes and she may be accepting my food, but I can tell she’s still holding herself out as an island amidst a sea of sharks just waiting for one to take a bite out of her.

  And because I know a little something about abuse and how to deal with it, I start off with more reassurances. “Just want to remind you about our short talk last night. You’re safe here. No one knows you’re here outside of my friend Logan and the doctor who treated you last night, but they won’t tell a soul.”

  “And Kyle,” she says, fear edging through her quiet tone.

  “He helped you,” I remind her.

  She doesn’t argue, just picks at the bacon, removing a tiny portion and putting it in her mouth. It’s a sweet mouth, actually… now that my focus is drawn there. She has full lips, and I got a peek of straight, white teeth when they parted. Yeah… I know most guys look at lips and think of blow jobs, but I look at them and think of biting. So lips are interesting because they hide the teeth that can cause sweet pain, and I love a soft, generous pair that peel back just before the teeth behind sink into skin.

  My cock twitches at the thought, but I banish it. This woman is off limits, and besides, she’s not all that attractive.

  Well, that’s not exactly true. I can’t really tell as she’s still covered in a lot of dirt and some blood Logan didn’t get off, not to mention black and blue all over. But her hair is long and wavy, a pretty shade of brown that has hints of caramel and rust within. And her eyes… very nice… a soft, summer green. Body is definitely to my liking, and by that, I mean she’s soft and curved with a figure I think most women think makes them “fat,” but I find the soft swell of a woman’s belly and an ass I can sink my fingers into hot as fuck. I suspect this has to do with the fact I was abused by a stepmom who was nothing but a skinny sack of bones, and so my attraction is for the exact opposite of that.

  But whatever.

  I shake my head and tell her, “I need you to tell me what’s going on so I can figure out the best way to keep you safe. Kyle didn’t say much other than you were being tortured by Kayla and that he had to get you out of there.”

  “You trust he’s with law enforcement?” she counters, not answering my questions.

  I’m honest with her. “I’m not sure. I don’t know him all that well.”

  “You know Kayla though,” she guesses. “I could hear the familiarity in your tone.”

  Christ, did I know Kayla. I’d whipped and caned her before. Did lots of kinky shit while her husband watched. Still, I’m careful when I answer. “I know both Kayla and Zeke, but I am not friends with them. I don’t owe them any loyalties.”

  Except I kind of do. Zeke turned over one of his men who’d attacked my friend Cat to the police, and in return, I’d promised to put on some “shows” for his club with the bevy of free and loose pussy there. Not sure when I’d have to fulfill that obligation. If I’m lucky, Zeke won’t call to collect before Kyle can bring the club down.

  Assuming Kyle is telling the truth.

  “Can I finish eating, and then perhaps get a shower first?” Maggie suggests tentatively. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”

  I have no clue if she’s playing me. She could crawl out my bathroom window for all I know, but I really can’t keep her prisoner here.

  So I place my hands on my thighs and push up from the chair as I say, “Sure. You can rummage through my drawers. I have some sweatpants and stuff in there. Take whatever clean stuff you want, and we’ll get your clothes washed after. I’ll be waiting in the kitchen.”

  I don’t wait for her to answer, and I figure she’ll either come in there after she gets cleaned up or she’ll sneak out and run. I find I’m probably okay with either choice she makes.

  Chapter 4

  Maggie

  The eggs, bacon, and toast fortified me. The shower made me feel nearly human again. There was a brief moment where I considered declining Bridger’s hospitality and just leaving, but I really had no clue where to go. I had no money, which meant no food, transportation, or shelter. I had no friends. I had no family I could call upon, save for one, and no way was I dragging her into this.

  So I decided my best course was to stay here and recuperate. Hopefully, along with regaining my strength, I’ll come up with some idea on how to save myself first, and then Belle after.

  I was sore as hell when I got out of bed, the effects of whatever shot I was given having faded long away. But I popped the pills Bridger left by the bed without even once considering they could be dangerous, because that’s what happens when you run out of options and you’re too tired to think about self-preservation. I figured if the worst that happened was I overdosed on some bad drug, at least Belle would be safe and well cared for.

  As it turned out, the pills dulled the pain again even though they made me a little foggy. The shower also helped loosen my sore and abused muscles, as well as cleaned the dirt and blood from my body. I carefully washed my hair three times with some manly smelling shampoo Bridger had, not feeling guilty at all to be wasteful, and being overly watchful of the scabbed-over cut on the top. It had been days since I’d been clean. I felt I could have scrubbed my
self ten times over and still wouldn’t be able to get rid of the complete stench of the Mayhem’s Mission compound.

  The shower took a long time, but it took even longer for me to comb the snarls out of my long hair. Not only were there knots galore because it had been so filthy and neglected, but Bridger also didn’t have any conditioner—must be a man thing—and I ended up yanking a good amount out of my head by the time it was all said and done. The good news was the cut appeared to be knitted together enough it didn’t bleed again.

  Almost an hour after my breakfast and cleansing, I pull on a pair of workout shorts I found in Bridger’s drawer. They’re huge, and I have to roll the waistband several times so they’ll stay up. I then pull out a black t-shirt with a logo on the back that says “The Wicked Horse.” The words are in neon blue. I pull the cotton tee over my head without putting my filthy, sweat-stained bra back on. This bothers me a bit because I’m quite large chested, but the t-shirt is massive and swallows me up, so I don’t think Bridger will notice my puppies swinging free. Besides, I’m assuming he’s seen them already since I was already wearing one of his shirts.

  He’s an interesting man—this Bridger Payne—and I’ve figured out a few things. The furniture in his bedroom is heavy and masculine. The comforter is navy blue with taupe sheets. The drawers of his dresser are filled with only men’s clothing without a scrap of girlie stuff in the bathroom. This tells me he’s single and does not have a woman stay over at his house.

  His bedroom and bathroom are immaculate. Everything is picked up and orderly. Even his clothes are folded with almost military precision. This tells me he’s disciplined.

  Finally, the night I was brought to his house, I’m pretty sure I heard him having sex with another man. While my mind was cloudy from the medicine, I have what I believe is a solid memory of a male—maybe the doctor, or maybe the man he called his friend Logan—crying out, “Fuck my ass harder, Bridger.” This was accompanied by moans and squeals that, while they sounded girlish, were clearly from a man. Definitely not Bridger because his voice is much deeper, and you can tell by looking at him that he’d never squeal or moan. No, he’d be the type who would curse and grunt if something felt good to him. But I know I heard those words.

  Fuck my ass harder, Bridger.

  So yes… pretty sure Bridger had sex that night, so that tells me he’s gay, which also explains the lack of anything female in his house. This makes him interesting because he most certainly doesn’t look and act gay, but it really means nothing to me. I don’t care what he is as long as he helps me out like he promised, and I’ve decided to accept his help. While I don’t necessarily trust his words, his actions are speaking to me. He’s gotten me medical attention and fed me. He’s clearly protecting me as Kayla, Kyle, or any other club member hasn’t shown up to drag me back to hell. So I’ve decided that my best course of action is to grudgingly accept his help and hope to God he follows through with his promises to keep me safe.

  It’s the best course of action.

  It’s my only one at this point.

  Gathering my empty plate and glass, I head out of his bedroom and down the hall, which leads me into a living room with an open kitchen just beyond. Bridger sits at a square table set in a nook off to the side, his eyes pinned on me as I walk toward him.

  With a nod of his head toward the sink, he says, “Just lay those in there. I’ll get them later.”

  I round the large kitchen island done in distressed gray wood with black granite tops and place the items in the sink. The kitchen is gorgeous, also immaculately kept except for my now-dirty dish and glass, and reeks of money. My eyes glance back to the large living room I’d walked through. It’s filled with high-end leather furniture, an expensive-looking entertainment unit, and a TV more massive than any I’d ever seen before. While his house isn’t overly large, the appointments are luxurious.

  “Let’s talk.” That gravelly voice floats across the kitchen to me, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck. It’s so deep and masculine. I’m having a hard time reconciling that I suspect he’s gay.

  Turning back toward him, I keep my eyes lowered as I walk across the tile flooring to the table, taking a chair opposite of where he sits.

  “Feel better after that shower?” he asks gruffly.

  I slowly raise my head to look at him. “Yeah,” I murmur, my throat not feeling nearly as shredded. I think it might have to do with the fact I haven’t used my voice much the past two days. “Thanks.”

  He nods and cuts to the chase. “So what’s the deal? Why was Kayla torturing you?”

  “Because Zeke wants me.” I tell him the simple truth. I’ve decided to give it to him because seriously… what do I have to lose at this point?

  A flash of irritation crosses his face. “Try again. Zeke wants and fucks other women in the club, but Kayla’s not the jealous type. She’s his old lady and at the top of the food chain.”

  “Not true,” I mutter, and he blinks at me in surprise. “I’m at the top of the food chain, and Kayla’s one rung below me.”

  “Explain,” he says calmly. “Because what I know about Zeke, pussy is pussy to him.”

  I wince, because that’s so crude even if it’s utterly accurate. But I’ve been listening to crass men for a very long time, and I’m not easily offended. But the truth is, while I was in the shower, I did a lot of hard thinking about what I should disclose to Bridger. My initial fears of this man and my current situation have been somewhat alleviated. While my base instinct is not to trust him, especially since Kyle is the one who brought me here, I finally decided I had to give a little. I deduced this by reasoning it would have made no sense for Kyle to bring me to a man who would just turn me back over to Zeke. It served no purpose. In fact, it would have angered Zeke if Kyle or anyone had dared remove me from the compound, regardless of what Kayla was doing to me.

  So I decided I had absolutely nothing to lose at this point by disclosing the truth as to what had happened to me. The worst-case scenario is I’d end up right back where I was if Bridger didn’t want me here. The best-case scenario is I could stay safe until I had a good game plan.

  “That’s true,” I tell Bridger simply. “Zeke doesn’t care what he fucks, but the difference between Kayla and me is that her ovaries are dead and shriveled, and she can’t give him what he really wants.”

  “What’s that?” he asks cautiously, but he knows what I’m saying.

  “A child,” I provide with a direct stare.

  “And you can?” he asks dubiously.

  “I already have,” I murmur, my eyes misting up as I think of Belle’s sweet face and her baby fine hair that’s blonde but will turn my color, I’m sure of it. She looks exactly like me when I was a baby and has nothing of Zeke inside of her.

  I am also sure of that.

  Bridger jolts from my proclamation. “You had his baby?”

  “I did, and I have her hidden away from him,” I say with my chin raised high. “And he’s never finding her.”

  I also decided to be truthful about this, because again, nothing to lose and Belle is not a secret. If Bridger is really friends with Zeke and intends to give me back to him, he’d already know about Belle.

  I can see as comprehension dawns fully within his eyes, which are actually a shade darker right now… almost the color of a copper penny. They are really quite beautiful. He stands from the table and walks over to the refrigerator. Opening it, he pulls out a bottle of water and holds it up to me. I nod and he reaches back in, pulls another bottle out, and comes back to the table. Setting one of the bottles before me, he opens the other and takes a long pull from it. Rather than sit back down at the table, he walks back to the island and takes one of the stools done in dark gray wood and wrought iron.

  “Start from the beginning and tell me everything,” he commands. It’s not said in a superior, domineering way, but rather with frank curiosity tinged with worry over my circumstances.

  I open the bottle of
water he brought me and take a few sips, loving the soothing coolness against my raw throat. After setting it back down, I take a deep breath and tell him my story.

  “I left home about ten years ago.” I start from the beginning as he instructed me. “Nice family, upper middle class. But I was a rebellious kid and thought I knew more than my parents did. Set off at eighteen to see the world and never looked back.”

  “Where did you go?” he asks.

  “Everywhere and nowhere,” I reply. “My parents are from Cheyenne, and I’d lived in Wyoming my entire life. Headed west but never made it past Idaho. My grand adventures got sidetracked because I fell in with the wrong crowd. Worked odd jobs, partied, did drugs. Became a complete failure in life… at least that’s how my parents saw it.”

  “How did you meet Zeke?” he prods. Apparently, he doesn’t need the details of my vagabond years.

  “I drifted back this way, hoping to find some steady work in the area. Met Zeke in a biker bar. He got me drunk and fucked me. The rest is history.”

  “How long ago was that?” he asks.

  I shrug. “About three years ago. He moved me out to the Mission compound, which was great by me. I didn’t have a job, hardly any money, and was one step away from living on the streets.”

  “You became a club whore?” Bridger asks, his voice tight with tension.

  “No,” I tell him with brutal honesty. “I became Zeke’s whore. No one was allowed to touch me.”

  “And how did Kayla respond to that?”

  Another shrug. “Like you said, she’s not a jealous woman. She knows and accepts Zeke fucks around. We avoided each other and just sort of existed in that same space together. Of course, she lived with Zeke out of the compound, so I didn’t really see her unless there was a party she came to. Zeke visited me at the compound when he wanted.”

  Bridger’s lips flatten out in a look of distaste, and it makes me feel dirty. I mean… I am dirty. I let myself become a kept whore, but for some odd reason, I don’t want Bridger to view me that way. He’s the first man to show me a measure of kindness in well over a decade, and that alone makes me respect him somewhat.