Vicious: Steel Jockeys MC

by Claire St. Rose

  He saved me, too. Ruby thought. Twice. But still. "Regan..."

  "Wait, don't say anything. I know you didn't come here to see Joe. I know you probably don't want anything to do with him again, ever. That's your choice. I just...I just thought you should know. You and him together, Jesus, Ruby, it seemed so right. The way he looked at you, when I saw you together...now that Kyle's gone, nobody's ever going to look at me that way ever again; I know it. But you can still have that."

  "I can't. Regan, and it’s not because of him. I don’t believe for a second that he lied. Fox was the liar, and he always was. But don’t you see? It’s because of me. He doesn't want to see me again. Why would he? The things I said when I was in that motel room with Fox, I can never unsay. I can never take them back. I don't deserve to be with him."

  Regan wasn’t buying it. "Go talk to him. For me. For Kyle. For KJ." She put her face down on by KJ's ear and spoke in a high, squeaky baby voice. "Go talk to him, Auntie Ruby!” She sat up innocently, smoothing her skirt. “See, I told you he can say all kinds of things.”

  Ruby's heart was thumping in her chest; the ambient noise of the bar had become a low drone. She could so easily say goodbye to Regan, walk out that door, get on her motorcycle and ride the hour back to Walnut Creek, curl up in front of the TV, and enter back into the life she begun to build. It would be a good life. But it would not be what she wanted. It would not be happy. She got up slowly, deliberately. “Is he...”

  "He's outside. He said he didn't want to be here when you came. He didn't want to upset you. He won’t come in until you leave. Unless..."

  "Unless.”

  ***

  A white corona of moonlight shone over the cheap patio chair in which he sat, a couple of empty beer bottles in the grass beneath. He leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, staring out into the dark, as if asking it for an answer.

  Of course she was done with him; what use could she have for him now? She had all the money she ever dreamed of; she deserved to live in happiness and comfort, never having to scramble against the wolf. She could meet successful men, men worthy of her, like George McCombs, whom Lydia, before she'd left for Mexico, smartly informed him Ruby was now dating. The power couple of Northern California.

  And he would still be an outlaw. It was tattooed on him; he'd made that choice, like writing his own tombstone in advance. He was lucky enough to have escaped it in that motel room, his shoulder grazed by a bullet. He’d been riding again in a week, because he kept on. His brothers, his Jockeys, needed him. Regan and KJ needed him, even if it was only to make them laugh at his half-assed father-figure act, stumbling over the nonsense syllables of Dr. Seuss and handing KJ old spark plugs to play with in the garage. The Jockeys, of course, had learned the whole story of what he and Kyle had been up to with Fox, and the money Kyle had been squirrelling away. He was convinced he was about to be excommunicated.

  "You tried to save him," A.J. said. "That's what matters." In fact A.J. been treating Joe with more respect ever since, although he tended to forget he that when he was drunk. Luckily, Joe could give back as could he got.

  It was that money that had saved him, really, even though neither he nor the Jockeys had seen a dime of it. Of course Ruby thought he'd lied to her about the necklace. He'd brought that on himself. He'd never been any better than he had to be, and that was why he’d lost her. He could save her life a hundred times, and he'd still never deserve her.

  It didn't mean he didn't lie awake at night, hiding his face from the cruel moonlight, shining on the empty space next to him where her exquisite form should be, a white swan in his arms, stripping out of the devil's lingerie to bloom like an angel in the space next to him, coming hard and fast and perfectly.

  And he couldn’t make that happen. All he could do was be a better version of what he was, and always would be. He went after new contacts and allies, but not through intimidation. People hesitated when they saw his youth and his colors, but opened up when they saw his ambition and sincerity. It was enough. Maybe, after all, as Regan had suggested, he was doing it for Ruby. But he was doing it.

  ***

  “Looks just like his dad, doesn’t he?” he said when he heard the door open and the indoor light flood over him.

  “He’s beautiful.”

  Joe turned around. Though his expression was half hidden, she saw the little start his body made when he saw who was standing there. He dropped the bottle he was holding and got to his feet, as if she were a queen who deserved reverence.

  She started talking; knowing if she didn’t get it out now, she never would. “Joe, I didn’t mean what I said when I--”

  “Shh,” he said. “I know. Come here.” She stepped a little closer, gingerly, and so did he. He didn’t try to touch her. He just wanted to look.

  “You know, after Kyle died, I thought I was cursed.” she said quickly.

  “I don’t believe in curses,” he said. “But if there ever was one...you were braver than Kyle could have ever dreamed of. I know he would be proud of you, Ruby. If there ever was a curse, you broke it. Smashed it.”

  “No,” she said. “You did. Joe,”

  “But--”

  “Hold on. When I was driving over here, I was thinking about you. No, I was praying about you. That you’d be here, so I could see your face. Just once. And telling God, or whoever was listening, that that would be enough. That if he let me see you, I would stop asking then. That I would live my life.”

  “Well?” he asked, stepping into the light completely, flipping a lock of hair out of his eyes, and her breath hitched to see him again, as breathtakingly gorgeous as she’d ever seen him, or ever hoped to. To think that this man was more than just an angel out of the darkness, that he had once, in another lifetime, laid, warm flesh and blood and bone in her arms. Even if he never would again. That was the miracle. “Is it enough now?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not.”

  “Well,” he remarked thoughtfully. “What if I kissed you?”

  She looked up. His face was all seriousness. “Now?”

  “Yeah,” he said, hands still jammed in his pockets. She thought she saw a smirk on his face, a trace of the cocky guy who’d put a hand over her mouth in her apartment, who’d teased her about cuddling with him on the bike. “Would that be enough?”

  She only nodded. Then a rush of movement, and as he came to her, it was as if she’d never left. He was kissing her fiercely, almost violently, his lips all over her face, her lips, and neck, as if to savor her, to taste her, as if he was terrified she might not be real, or that she might dissipate into the dark, a specter, an illusion. But she wouldn’t, she knew. Not anymore. Not ever.

  “Ruby.” He breathed her name in her ear, so soft she wasn’t sure if she’d really heard it. He wasn’t talking to her, she realized. He was talking to himself. To him, her name had become a whispered prayer, like something he’d been saying to himself for the past three months. And now that prayer, that incantation, had finally breathed her to life.

  “This has to be enough, now,” he said, pulling back, strong shoulders shaking, breathless as she was.

  But she shook her head. “It’ll never be enough,” she sobbed into his neck, and she felt that familiar hand with its roughened palm reach out and stroke her curly hair as if he were touching gold. And as he pulled back, she realized he was actually smiling now, his face aglow, childlike, as if just to be able to look into her eyes at this moment was enough to give him happiness. As if despite all the horror he’d seen and lived through, all the times he’d grieved, lonely and abandoned, had been defeated. As if nothing could ever be wrong ever again, he held Ruby in his arms. She knew this because she felt the same way. “It’ll never be enough.”

  “Well,” he whispered, “Then we’d better keep trying.”

  THE END

  Read on for your BONUS Book – Going Once, Taken Twice

  GOING ONCE, TAKEN TWICE

  Chapter One />
  Claudia beamed a sugary smile at her captor, blinking demurely as the bloated man reached for his gin and tonic.

  “Are you feeling well?” She stroked his arm lazily, glancing down at her cleavage, repeating the mantra in her head that would get her out of here alive: Keep him fat and happy and you’ll survive.

  He grunted, standard protocol for the hostage-taker she’d found in the three days they’d been together. Strange how being stolen from a completely enjoyable trip backpacking through Croatia could prove to be such an intimate getting-to-know-you process with this total stranger.

  I hate you. She dragged her nails over the top of his hand. Once Cresimir the Captor—that was her private nickname for him—had tossed her into the backseat of his sedan and then tied her up in a dingy warehouse, she realized that escaping was impossible. The only option was to play coy—and cunning—so that she might be able to mitigate whatever he had planned for her. The first stop on their frightening itinerary had been this cruise ship.

  An enormous, brand-new beast, five levels of rooms, multiple dining rooms, saunas, pools, and more. Surrounded by well-dressed, perfectly coiffed men from all the upper ranks, from every part of the world. Glittering, millionaire smiles. The sleek look of money, fetish, and dysfunction.

  And she, the American girl who also happened to be the Princess of Slavonia for god’s sake, was here at the auction block.

  They floated just off the coast of Croatia, where she was sure her friends in Dubrovnik were still searching high and low for her. Surely they would have called the cops by now. Maybe the rescue boat was just setting off from the coastline. Maybe help was moments away.

  The term sex slave seemed too vulgar to even think, but more than that, it brought about a certain sort of despair that she just didn’t have time for. She needed to think, and she needed to act. As in play the role of the demure and subservient acquisition. The woman who wanted to be here, for whatever unknown reason. At least until help arrived. Until her father sent secret agents to come bursting through the two-story window in the dining hall, sending a spray of ammunition through the air.

  A waiter came up behind them as they lounged on the upper deck, refilling their waters. He disappeared without a word and she watched him go, anxiety prickling across her shoulders.

  “We should get ready,” Cresimir said, and then cleared his throat. He was grossly overweight, and ate each night like cows were going extinct. Luckily, he hadn’t made a move on her. The thought of what lay under that straining button-up was enough to make her jump overboard.

  She adjusted her sunglasses, tilting her head up toward the sun. “Is this my debut?”

  Cresimir nodded, a seedy smile overtaking his face. “You betcha. And I’ve got plans for you, missy.”

  Fear knotted in her belly. He’d hinted at these plans enough to know that they weren’t going to be entirely great. Every single woman on board here was coerced or bought, so the future didn’t look so bright for females on the cruise ship. It was like the opposite of the cruise packages she’d seen advertised at Christmas each year. The horrible, bleak, illegal opposite.

  “Well I bet tonight will be fun,” she said, popping to her feet. Cresimir insisted she wear scanty things, an entire wardrobe of delicate items and cleavage-enhancing pieces that she didn’t even own back home in D.C. It was for the clients, he insisted. Salacious hints of what they were buying.

  “You’ll be attending to some very important men tonight,” Cresimir said. He groaned, pushing himself up off the lounge chair, wobbling slightly before he wiped a hand across his forehead. “And we’ll get them to pay out the asshole for you, my sweet Cait.”

  She forced a smile a mile wide as she took his arm, her heels clicking softly as they wandered off the deck. When her kidnappers had asked her name in the car on the way to the warehouse, she’d freaked and lied. Cait was the first thing to pop into her brain. But now, three days in, nobody seemed to realize it wasn’t her real name.

  Seems nobody knows I’m the daughter of Stjepan Zvonimir. Nobody knows I’m an actual, real-life Princess. She couldn’t figure out if that was a good or bad thing.

  On the one hand, keeping her identity protected might save her father from scandal. Any one of these men could be connected to just the right people who might want to hurt her father, or her, in some way. Who knew what they might do in the name of good old fashioned exploitation? A sex tape didn’t seem too far-fetched. Her gut tightened. What do these men have planned for me?

  She needed to stay cool and collected, no matter what was going to happen. There had to be a way out of any situation she found herself in—even the most unsavory. That’s what she kept telling herself, at least. It was the echo of her father’s diplomatic influence in her life. Even in the face of tragedy—like when her mother died at age ten—he was calm and rational. Urging them to a balanced conclusion, even amid the sadness and tears.

  “Any preferences for my dress?”

  Cresimir shrugged, huffing as he hobbled down the stairs. “Probably that long silver one. The glittery thing. You know.”

  Yeah, she knew all right. It had a plunging neckline that went practically down to her belly button. She didn’t know how she’d get her boobs to stay in it, but maybe that was the point. She grimaced. “Sounds like a plan.”

  They descended two flights of stairs laboriously, and then pushed through the heavy door leading to their hallway. The whole ship was full of these important men, eager to purchase their important vice. Claudia hadn’t thought stuff like this existed outside of creepy pornos and bad spy films. But here she was. Living proof in the Adriatic Sea, miles from the western Croatian coastline.

  “Go get ready,” Cresimir said, drawing deep breaths. “We’ll leave in a half hour. You better look your best, sweet thing.”

  She batted her eyelashes as she pushed her way into the room they’d put her up in, the smile falling off her face as soon as the door shut behind her. For a hostage, she was treated well enough—a private room with adjoining bathroom, a big window overlooking the sea churning beyond the ship, regular vegetarian meals at her request.

  The only issue is what lies at the other end of the rainbow. She stood at the window, looking out over the sea, desperate to see any sign of a rescue attempt. Like a helicopter approaching, or a tiny dinghy filled with burly men and rifles. Hell, James Bond had to be out there somewhere, attuned to the quiet cries of women in distress.

  But no. She swallowed hard, turning toward the wardrobe, pulling it open with leaden arms. There would be no rescue. Nobody even knew she was here. And the worst was yet to come.

  She covered her face with her hands, letting a sigh that turned into a sob. Just a few moments, and then she lifted her head, pulling herself together. No unnecessary tears. No pity. No sadness. Just forward motion.

  Tugging the glittery, silver dress from the hanger, she laid it on the bed, undressing with a morose air. She tossed her bathing suit into the corner and rinsed off in the white-tiled shower stall, not wetting her hair so she could add a few curls to it. Once she’d patted herself dry, she pulled the dress over her head, spritzed some perfume, and got to work on her makeup.

  Cresimir and his cronies traveled with a full arsenal of human trafficking supplies. They had tons of suitcases of dresses and lingerie and bodices, in all sizes; and then other suitcases of makeup, curling irons, feminine products and more. Just from the clues of what she’d seen and overheard, they were professionals in the kidnapping business.

  They probably lived solely off capturing women and selling them aboard disgusting auctions like this one. And what happened to the girls they kidnapped once they were sold off? She was on a fast track to finding out. When I get out of here, I’m gonna bring these assholes down. They had no idea who they were messing with—and what sort of connection she had access to back in D.C.

  Provided she could make it out of here alive.

  Once her makeup was set, she tousled her hair and a
dded a few curls, then pulled it back into a loose, sexy ponytail. She added tight curls to the hair framing her face and then sighed. She was ready.

  Cresimir knocked on her door just as she was blotting her lipstick. She glided to the door and opened it, his unnerving gaze prickling over her body, settling on the V of her breasts.

  “Lovely.” He held out his hand, which she took tentatively. “You are a doll.”

  She eased out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. “I feel like one in this dress.”

  Cresimir grunted. He’d changed into a different button-up, tucked into black slacks. They headed down the hallway, and hung a right toward one of the larger dining rooms. As they approached, the undertones of music wafted out. The crash of cymbals, a tooting trumpet.