by Jc Emery
“You must have had a reason,” he says in a pained voice. Tears pool in my eyes, and I slap away his hand on my chest. He pushes on my sternum in protest, keeping me against the wall. “Just tell me you had a reason.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I bite out in anger. Unable to look him in the eyes while we’re talking about this, I focus on the patches on his vest. Nic said the patch owns them, and I guess it does. Like the oath Tony took to my father’s family owns him, the patches Ryan wears on his vest own him even after he takes it off for the night.
“Try me,” he says, shaking his head. I scrunch my eyes shut and let the tears fall down my cheeks. Not here. I can’t do this here. But he isn’t giving me much of a choice, so with trembling hands and lips, I try to explain. Beyond any sense of humility and reason, I want Ryan to want me. Not just to fuck me, but to want me. And I don’t know if he ever will.
“I was property, not a person,” I whisper. The truth of the why burns at my heart. Sniffling and calming myself down, I force myself to meet his eyes. Gaining my emotional strength back, I let the tears staining my cheeks dry where they are, and I bring my hands up to his wrist. With one swift motion, I yank his hand away from my chest. He’s done protesting. Now he’s just some fucked up mix of sad and angry, but the fight has gone out of him. For now. I don’t know what to do with sad and defeated. It’s not something I’ve seen often.
“No reason to be a rat,” he spits, some of the fire returning. I like his fire, as much as it hurts. It’s familiar, and even when it’s painful, I appreciate a little familiarity. But that word… rat. It hurts in a way I don’t want to admit. In both my father’s and Ryan’s worlds, the worst thing you can be is a rat. There are a few offenses that will automatically get you a bullet to your throat. Killing a Made Man, raping a kid, and being a rat. I can’t be a rat.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it? You’ve got a big fucking mouth, don’t you?”
“No,” I say more forcefully now. “I thought I was helping my brother. I just trusted the wrong person.”
“Don’t you see now? That’s why this can’t happen,” he says. His shoulders vibrate with irritation as he seethes the words. And there it is—it doesn’t matter if he wants me or not. The patch owns him. “I don’t like being told what to do, baby. So here’s what’s going to happen—I’m going to fuck you out of my system.”
He moves in, his lips back on mine, and every sense of reason flies out the window once again. He’s a bastard, but maybe if I let this happen, he’ll be out of my system, too. We can’t keep going on like this.
Pulling at clothes, discarding shoes, and yanking off socks, we’re a hurried mess of limbs as we strip one another down to our underwear. His hands wander over every inch of my skin he can touch. Pulling me away from the wall, he walks me backward to his bed. His left side is free of tattoos, but his right shoulder and chest, down nearly to his elbow on both his chest and his back, is a large piece of artwork. It looks like a mass of chains and painted steel—some sort of armor. Beneath the beautifully intricate piece is a falcon with its wings spread along his right side, spanning from beneath his pec down to his hip bone.
The back of my legs hit on the sharp edge of the frame, propelling me onto the mattress. He crawls on top of me, covering my body with his own. This could be good—us, together, despite it all. I bring his face down to mine, kissing him gently. But he won’t have any of that, turning the kiss rough and forceful despite my silent pleas.
We’re still in our underwear, but I’m so ready for him to take his off. Reaching down, I feel that they’re boxers. I didn’t catch sight of them in the hurried undressing. I slide my thumb in between the waistband and his skin and draw them downward, but a strong, masculine hand reaches up, stopping me.
Pulling his torso up, creating a gulf between us, he says, “Turn over, baby.” So caught up in the moment, I don’t ask any questions. I turn over and push my torso off the mattress and pull my hair over the front of my shoulder to give him access to my bra. Instead of unclasping my brand new black bra—that I bought especially for an occasion such as this—he places his hand on my back and pushes me down onto all fours. The linen sheets are rough on my skin and thinned out from age and abuse. They smell of cigarettes, weed, and body odor—none of which are especially pleasant—but it’s the lingering smell of a fruity perfume that makes my stomach roll. From behind me, I can hear something rip and then a quiet rustling. Two calloused knuckles graze along the side of my butt cheek, bringing the fabric of my matching black boy shorts away from my body. They pull the fabric to the side.
Realization dawns on me what he’s about to do, and I squeeze my eyes shut in anticipation. I’ve never had sex like this before. Not that I’ve had much sex, but it’s never been like this. The nerves return, and my muscles tense. He places his knees between my legs, slowly spreading me farther apart. His left hand sneaks between my legs, dipping inside of my boy shorts and along my slit. I bite my lip, barely controlling the moan. His touches are so soft, and so few, that every little contact is like a compact little fire spreading across my skin. A strong hand comes down on my back, pushing my face sideways into the mattress—forcing me to breathe in the stale perfume from the last slut he’s taken in here—as he guides himself to my entrance.
There’s no gentle stroking, no loving preparation. Once he finds my center, he pushes himself inside, unbothered by how very unprepared I am for him. A loud groan escapes from his lips as his nails dig into the skin of my back. He brings himself back out and then slams inside. My muscles tense, my eyes fill with tears, and a tightening sensation claws at my chest. I feel raw and battered by the time he slows his pace. His fingers never find their way to my core again, instead, he holds onto my hip with one hand and my back with the other. He wasn’t being coy when he said he wanted to fuck me hard. In and out, one razor sharp pounding after another, and I’m so tense, so frustrated, so not enjoying this, I’m close to crying again. If I didn’t feel like a whore in that field with Duke, I certainly feel like one now.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks through a grunt. He slows down just a little, and I open my eyes, relieved for a break from the battering he’s doling out.
“No,” I lie. Because I want to give him this, and I need to give myself this. He’s treating me with, maybe, an ounce of kindness, and not much else. My eyes catch sight of the varied mess of open condom wrappers. I’m nothing more than another cum dumpster right now. This is what it means to be a Lost Girl—at the club’s disposal, fucking without emotion, fucking because Forsaken wants to fuck. Not because I want to make love.
These men are off-limits to you, Ruby had said that day at the rest stop. She said it before I even really understood why. Now I do, only it’s too late to avoid getting hurt.
He picks up speed again, and it isn’t long before he’s grunting and jerking behind me, still providing no relief for me. When he stills, I hear him sniffle and mutter, “Fuck.”
Once he pulls out and backs up, I quickly turn over and fold into myself, looking up at him. Blood is streaming from both of his nostrils. He tries, and fails, to wipe it away. Once he gets it under control, he grabs my arms and pulls me out of bed. I don’t fight him. His jaw ticks; his gray eyes stare me down intently. I could convince myself he’s hurting in some way, from the sad look in his eyes, but I’m done trying to convince myself he gives a shit about me. Bringing me to stand before him at arm’s length, he says, “It’s you or my patch. Your pussy’s good, but it ain’t that good.”
He pulls the condom off, tosses it in a nearby overflowing wastebasket, and adjusts his boxers. His eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but directly at me. Before I can stop myself, insults come flying out of my mouth in Italian at rapid speed. Still, he doesn’t meet my eyes. He just ignores me and, after a beat, walks to the door, unlocks it, and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. The last thing I see as he goes is a large
tattoo of a Nordic warrior that spans his back from shoulder to shoulder and down to the line of his boxers.
I rush to get dressed, trying to ignore the uncomfortable burn between my legs. Pulling on my pants and then my shirt and jacket, I can’t help but wonder what’s become of me. I’ve lost all control, all sense of morals—everything. Once I have everything as it was when I entered this room, I wait until I have the courage to walk out. I have no idea what’s going to await me. Eventually though, I tell myself that whatever it is can’t be as bad as being stuck in here waiting for Ryan to come back. He doesn’t want me here. He’s made that abundantly clear. I can’t bring myself to cry anymore. I just want to scream and let out some of my anguish and humiliation. I’ve been trying so hard to fit in here, but everything I do just makes me feel even more used and dirty. I hate it. I hate this.
Gathering my courage, I pull on the knob and walk into the hall. Directly to my right is a full living room. Ryan sits—still in just his boxers, in a Lay-Z Boy. Duke is across the room, sitting in a kitchen chair. His emotionless face turns murderous as he looks between me and Ryan. The attention makes me cringe, and want to retreat back the bedroom. But there’s no way out through there. So I soldier on and walk the rest of the way into the room. Forsaken, at least seven in number, sit on couches, and the floor. A few stand. The one on the floor is rolling a joint and lighting it. Ryan leans over, snagging the first hit, completely ignoring my presence. If he’s trying to make me hate him, he’s fucking succeeding.
“Duke’s going to take you home,” he says, not even turning to face me. Duke’s attention snaps to Ryan, his eyes narrowed with anger. Ryan pulls in on the joint, holds it, and then releases the content of his lungs. “Just fucking do it, or she’s going to have to take a cab.”
Duke shoots up from his seat, points a finger at Ryan and says, “We’re going to fucking deal with this later.” Walking over to me, Duke places a hand on my back and leads me out of the house. “Come on, Princess.”
Chapter 19
The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for.
- Bob Marley
EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS moment makes me feel weak and exposed. The men in the living room watch as we leave. From the corner of my eye, I see Diesel lean in toward Ryan, who’s bent forward, his full back tattoo proudly on display. Diesel takes a moment just staring at Ryan before shaking his head and saying, “No good, brother. This is no fucking good.”
Diesel shoots up and darts past us and out the front door. I pause, but find myself pushed forward by Duke’s hand on my lower back. The reminder that he’s touching me makes my skin crawl. I can practically feel the layer of humiliation on my flesh. The last thing I need right now is to be reminded of sins not so long forgotten.
“Fucking idiot,” Duke mutters, his eyes on Ryan’s back, as we walk out into the cool night air. Walking down the driveway and onto the street, I see the bikes parked along the sidewalk in front of the house. How did I not hear so many bikes approaching? They definitely weren’t here before.
He swings onto a basic black Harley and grabs the helmet from the handlebars, passing it off to me. I strap it on my head and move to climb onto the back of the bike, but he stops me. With his hand on my wrist, he looks me in the eyes, and just stares. His expression is cold, merciless.
“This isn’t you, Princess. Letting him fuck you and toss you out like that? It ain’t right.”
His words sting me. The hypocrisy alone makes me want to call Ruby and beg for a ride back to the house.
“And what about what you did?” I ask in a snapping tone, unwilling to let him get away with that comment.
“I’m an asshole.”
“Don’t do it again,” I warn, narrowing my eyes at him. A warm smile spreads across his face.
“You’re so much like her, and you don’t even know it yet.”
“Who?” I ask, still throwing sass.
“Your moth—” he says, cutting himself off, and then finishing with, “Ruby.” He turns away, looking at the road ahead, and mumbling to himself. My heart stops with what I think he’s said, but then I think better of it. For a brief, pathetic moment I allow myself to think that just maybe he knew my mother. I open my mouth to ask, but think better of it. I’m really not up for anymore surprises tonight. Though I file this away for later. I’ve avoided mentioning my family in Brooklyn since I’ve been out here. It hurts too bad to think of them, let alone to ask any questions. So I just pretend like they’re all gone, figments of my imagination. And as much as I love my brother, and my aunt, and even in my own twisted way my father—it’s just easier to pretend they don’t exist. At least, not unless I have to. The one person I’ve wanted to talk about is the one who’s more of a mystery now than ever—my mother. It’s time I asked Ruby about her.
I climb into the back of the bike and hold onto his waist, careful to keep as much distance from us as I safely can. Even though he’s just giving me a ride home, it makes me feel even filthier having another man between my legs less than an hour after Ryan was there.
He starts the bike and we pull away, darting down the street faster than I’m used to. The wind whips around, chilling me to the bone. It’s an exhilarating feeling—being this exposed and unarmed from the elements. The slicing wind gives me something to focus on that’s not Ryan or Duke, or any of the other bullshit. We breeze through town, making it to the house quickly.
The second Duke brings the bike to a stop in front of the house, I go to climb off. He turns the bike off and climbs off after me. I remove the helmet from my head and hand it over, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he reaches out, grabs my upper arm, and pulls me toward him. Instinctively, I drop the helmet and push on his chest.
“Don’t touch me!” I scream. He flinches slightly, but doesn’t loosen his grip.
“Shut up, Princess.” Duke’s deep voice resonates in the stark silence of our surroundings. “You need to listen to me. Trigger’s fucking up. He’s always been wild, but lately, he’s fucking losing it.” He lets that settle before continuing. “He hasn’t taken orders like this from Jim in years, and he’s not handling it well. Just leave him alone.”
“Fine,” I snap. A knot twists in my stomach. “After what he did, you have nothing to worry about.” Duke sticks his chin out, releases my arm, and steps away. Picking up the helmet, he gives it a good look, then shakes his head.
“This thing is done for,” he mutters and gives me a flat look. Inwardly, I cringe. I know better than to drop a helmet. The moment you drop them, they’re useless.
“Then buy a new one,” I say, and stalk off to the house.
“You’re welcome for the ride,” he yells.
“Bite me!” His laugh only irks me further, and I respond in a rare fashion by flipping him the bird. Reaching out, I go for the door knob. Before I can reach it, the door opens and before me stands Ruby. Her face is turned down, and her brows are drawn together. Whatever it is, I don’t have the energy for it tonight.
“Didn’t you leave the house with Nicole?” she asks. I squeeze in past her and turn around, crossing my arms over my chest. She closes the door as Duke starts up his bike and flies down the drive. She turns and leans against the door, her face still contemplative.
“Yeah, I did. She got wasted and couldn’t drive.” I blow out a frustrated breath. I really just want to get in the shower, but Ruby’s obviously got something to say; so I wait.
“Alex, um, some things are happening. We’re going to tighten security up a bit.” Fidgeting, she pushes off the door and strides to the kitchen table, where she picks up a beer and takes a long pull before looking me in the eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask, following her into the kitchen.
“Nothing,” she says way too quickly, her voice lifting at the end.
Ian strides into the room behind me and plops into a chair. He keeps his eyes on Ruby as he says, “The truth, Ma.”
He
r face scrunches up and she takes another drink of her beer. Setting it down on the table, she fixes me with a look of sorrow. “Gloria called. Your cousin Tony’s figured it out. Gloria’s said nothing, but Tony had her visit your father and uncle, who are being temporarily held at Rikers. Tony wanted her to talk to Carlo and Emilio about what he knows. She hasn’t, but she’s running out of time.”
My gut twists in knots and my mouth goes dry. I knew the calm had to end sometime and that the storm would roll in. I’m just not ready for it yet. I might never be ready for it. “Is she okay?”
“Yes, baby. She’s okay. We’re just going to up security because we don’t know when and how they’re going to get here.”
“They’re coming here?” I shriek. Loud footfalls sound behind me and a heavy hand rests on my shoulder. I look over to find Jim’s gray eyes, wrinkling at the corners, staring back at me.
“Don’t worry,” he says.
“Don’t worry?” I ask, raising at eyebrow at him. “How in the hell am I supposed to not worry?”
“We’ll talk over the details in the morning. Just get some sleep for now,” Jim says, walking to the fridge across the room and pulling out a cold beer. Using the bottle opener on his keychain, he pops the top and sucks in a long pull.
“You people expect me to sleep after this?” I let my jaw go slack as my gaze travels from Jim, whose amusement shows on his face. The corners of his mouth are turned up, showing a rare smile. I haven’t forgotten that underneath the jovial fatherly mask is a cold-blooded Charter President. I look to Ruby, who is far less amused. She wears a sad smile. Next to Ruby, Ian smirks, his cheek pulling up, showcasing his facial scar in the process.
“You think I’m going to let some fucking guinea take you after all the trouble we went through to get you?” Ian says. I flinch at the word guinea. I hate that word.
“Hey, you do know I’m Italian-American, right?” I say, pointing at my chest. Ian just laughs, making my temper flare. I may not have much of a temper compared to everyone around me, but it’s not entirely non-existent. You just have to push the right buttons. “Non insultare gli italiani se non vuoi che insulti il tuo club,” I say, telling him not to insult Italians if he doesn’t want me insulting his club.
