by Harper Riley
My jaw clenches so hard, I feel like my teeth might crack. I can feel the curl of my upper lip, the flare of my nostrils. My hands can’t do a goddamn thing other than ball into fists—fists I’ll probably smash into Spree’s jaw as soon as I find that fucker.
In the meantime, there’s this fucking girl.
She might be past twenty, but not by much. She’s got long-ass legs in tiny jean shorts, and her off-the shoulder shirt is ripped, exposing her white lace bra and flat stomach. Her bare feet and ankles are torn up and bloody. She definitely tried to run and definitely got pulled down, maybe dragged. Whatever happened has left her skittering like a wild animal.
She scurries back on the bed as I approach, probably thinking I’ll rape her, but that’s not my bag. ’Course, she doesn’t know that.
I pull a knife from my boot and her eyes go wide and wet. She shakes her head furiously, big brown eyes like saucers in her grimy face. I stalk toward her, and her noises become desperate, pleading. When I slash the rope at her wrists and feet, she stops breathing for a second. Torture isn’t my gig either, but in that moment, I feel the animal inside of me stretch a little. There is something satisfying about having that kind of control over someone else.
Her fear only lasts a second, though. It turns into desperation or anger or something of both as she lashes at me, making a noise like a predatory cat, clawing at my face and knocking me backward. I’m too big to be toppled by a tiny little waif like this, though, so while she uses all of her energy to cling and scratch and kick, it just takes me a few moves to gather her skinny wrists above her head and push her back down on the bed with the weight of my body.
Hmmm, I do like this position, my knee between her legs, my chest against hers. I’m right in her face and she turns her head, closing her eyes. She’s still struggling and I feel her pert little breasts rub against me through my shirt. Her wriggling and snarling is actually kind of cute. It’s futile and annoying, but still cute. It’s funny she thinks she’s any kind of match for me.
“Calm the fuck down, princess,” I say in her ear, my breath hot on her skin. She smells of sweat and something fruity. Strange combo.
She spits in my face.
I dig my knee into her groin and shove her hands further back into the bed. “I said. Calm. The fuck. Down. I’m not gonna hurt you unless you hurt me. Deal?”
She snarls at me through bared teeth. Feisty little kitty cat, she is. High color dots her cheeks and a patch of red blooms on the pale skin of her neck. She snarls and wriggles for a moment longer before calming somewhat, breathing heavily through her nose before she finally nods. It’s a quick, reluctant thing, but I’ll take the affirmation.
“Good,” I say, not giving her an inch. “Now, who the fuck are you, and how did you get here?”
Chapter 2 - Tanzie
“Fuck you,” I spit.
“Maybe later,” he says. “Who are you?”
So this is the infamous Grisham. His first name’s David, but nobody calls him that. He’s the leader of the Barking Angels, and he’s a big guy, I’ll give him that. He looks like an MMA fighter with his broad shoulders, impressive height, and defined muscles. I squirm against him but he’s too strong, too big. He’s got my arms up over my head, pinned against the bed.
“I’m the girl that blond hillbilly kidnapped on your orders,” I answer. “Claim Drew’s daughter to get more territory, is it? Well, go ahead. Fucking claim me, then.”
His blue eyes go dark and stormy. “Fuck,” he snaps. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck you,” I say again, giving a fake smile.
“That’s not a very nice name for a nice girl like you,” he shoots back. He twists at my wrists and I yelp. “No wonder you have daddy issues.”
Boy, he has no idea. Still, I’m not so easy to intimidate. I clamp my mouth shut and glare at him.
“Why do I have to ask everything twice?” He digs his knee into my leg. “What’s your name?”
“Tanzie,” I say, breathing angrily through my nose, teeth clenched. “Tanzie Williams.”
His eyebrows dip into a V shape. If I had to guess, he’s trying to piece out why my name sounds familiar to him.
I let out an exasperated breath. “I’m the daughter of Drew Williams? You know, the President of Blazing Pistons Motorcycle Club. Seriously, you don’t know this?”
“Why the fuck would I know who Drew Williams’ daughter is?” he asks, still applying strategic pressure. I’d hate to be on the wrong end of a torture session with this guy, if this is him not hurting someone, His fingers dig into my wrists, hitting just the right pressure spot. I whimper, despite my best efforts not to.
“Because your lackey chased me down, roughed me up, tossed me on his bike, and threw me on your bed with a promise you’d come to claim me like the whore I am?”
I realize I’m baring my teeth at him again, like a rabid animal. Good, let him see how pissed I am. Let him see that I’ll still fight back, no matter how bad he hurts me. Men like this need to see that there are some people who won’t bow down to them, that there are people who won’t break under pressure.
“Huh,” he grunts, letting go of my hands and rolling off, his feet hitting the ground without a sound. He’s quick and agile for such a big guy. Noted.
“That’s it?” I ask. After all that, he just sets me loose?
He stands with his arms crossed over his broad chest, the dark blue tribal tattoo that snakes up his arm stretching out along his muscular arms. He wears jeans and boots with a form-fitting white T-shirt. Not sure where his colors are. Not that I wouldn’t know who he is, now that I’ve seen him. I’d heard that Grisham was good-looking, formidable, and huge. He’s got a close-cropped, thick beard, a chiseled face, and gorgeous blue eyes.
Women talk about him all the time, especially club girls who’ve made the rounds. They talk about wanting to hold onto his thick, dark hair, or lick on his extensive tattoos. More wishful thinking than anything, though, I’d guess. Interestingly, I’ve never heard of anyone who’s actually slept with him. So if he’s got club girls or an old lady, they certainly don’t talk as much as other girls do. I can tell he’s no saint, though. Probably eats pussy for breakfast.
I shake my head, trying to get back in the game. My core is a little achy thinking about it, which pisses me off royally. Who cares if he’s hot? He’s a thug who needs to let me go. He’s the enemy right now.
“Take me home,” I say, jutting out my chin.
“I don’t take orders from you, pipsqueak,” he says. “You’re here now. Might as well be useful.”
“I said take me home, you overgrown ape!” I yell.
He moves so fast, I don’t have time to process. One minute he’s a couple of feet away, and the next he’s pulling me by the ankles until he stands between my spread legs. I try to twist away but he grabs my arms and splays them to the side, his face inches from mine as he holds me down.
Our lips nearly touch. I lick mine, feeling my heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings inside my chest.
“Show some respect,” he says, low and menacing. “This is my house. My bed. My club. You don’t get to call me names.”
I thrash against him, biting his arm. He growls and flips me over, face down, his whole body aligned at my back. He smacks my ass hard.
“What are you, three years old?” he asks. “No biting. Stop acting like a child or I’ll spank you like one. What did I just say about respect?”
“Fuck you and your respect,” I say, somewhat breathless.
“Last warning, kid,” he says in my ear.
His breath is hot against my face and as much as I hate this guy, this place, this situation, I’m hyper-aware of this man’s body against mine. I wish he’d stop calling me kid and pipsqueak. I’m a grown-ass woman and it’s time someone treated me like one.
He backs off, just slightly, not quite ceding control but giving an illusion of space. “I’m going to let you loose again,” he says. “You hit me, b
ite me, claw me ... I’ll tie you back up, and it won’t be for fun.”
Well, if it wasn’t weird already, this strange chemistry of want and hate and fear and attraction just got weirder. Part of me wants to run for the hills. The other? Bring on the chains.
Chapter 3 - Grisham
She tells me her story. It has a lot of expletives in it, things like, “That blond fuckweasel stuck his gun in my back like a common fucking thug,” and other such creative name calling.
In spite of the imaginative storytelling, I manage to piece together that Spree stuck a gun in her back as she left her mom’s this afternoon. This girl, Tanzie, kicked him in the shin and ran for the woods nearby. He chased her and she fell down a hill because, in her words, she was “wearing fucking flip flops and that shitgibbon owes me a new pair of Havaianas.”
Shoes gone, he caught up to her, slapping her once and tearing at her shirt, threatening to “stick his cock so far up her ass she’d feel it in her spine” and binding her with rope. She tried to fight against him and he laughed, telling her he was going to leave her as a gift for his boss, that she’d be Barking Angels’ property now.
As she finishes, I’m feeling like doing some creative cussing of my own. I swear to God, I will rip that motherfucker’s head off. I half expect Drew Williams to come here and shoot this place up right now. I would, if someone made off with my daughter like that. What in seven hells was Spree thinking, taking her like that? Oh, that he’d start some shit with a bordering club just to get some action? Probably, because that asshole seems to thrive on stirring the proverbial pot.
Drew’s club, the Blazing Pistons, is older and bigger than mine. Their territory is larger and their business operation more immense. Drew is known to be fair and even handed, but he’s not to be crossed. When I was younger, I thought about joining up with him. He’s got operatives and alliances and deals all the way to the tip of South America. Blazing Pistons is an impressive operation, but they’ve been encroaching on my territory lately, trying to undercut my deals, riding in my neighborhoods, and even luring our club girls away.
I don’t care so much about the last one, other than the fact that the girls talk. And the guys talk when they’re getting their cocks sucked, so those girls leave with lots of information that they could easily share when trying to get in good with the other clubs.
“Does Spree know you’re Drew’s kid?” I ask. I twirl a knife through my fingers, a habit I picked up when I was younger. I thought it made me look menacing or something back then. Now, it just helps me calm down.
“I think so,” she says, eyeing the knife. “He seemed to have scoped me out. I was in our territory. My mom’s place is just inside the border. She hates my dad but she also knows if she moved out, she’d be a target.”
It surprises me how much information this girl is sharing. As Drew’s daughter, I’d expect her to be less forthcoming. Simply telling me that her mom lives on the border of GR’s territory is information I could use. Divorced or not, Drew would still provide for his ex. He’d still want her to be safe. Anyone raised in the club would know better than to be so trusting, to share so much information and so willingly.
It confuses me, because this girl just spit in my face and swore at me before telling me who she was. I assess her for a moment. I can tell my staring makes her uncomfortable, because she stares at the knife in my hands before her gaze timidly moves to my face. When she makes eye contact, she looks away quickly, picking at some imaginary something on the comforter.
I take several deep breaths, trying to calm myself. First of all, I make it my business not to involve the children of club members—mine or anyone else’s. I want my daughter out of club business and assume others do, as well. So, while I might have known peripherally that Drew had a family or a kid, I would never have made it my business to know their names or ages or locations. It pisses me off to know that Spree not only made it his business to know, but also to seek out this girl and take her right out in the open, without provocation, and without permission from me.
Spree has pulled quite a bit of bullshit these past weeks. At first, I wanted to let it slide. He’s got a different style than I do, but every leader needs a second in command that won’t fuck around. He’s been with me since the beginning, and though he’s a wild card, the other guys respect him. Lately, though, he’s erratic and drug-fueled. He’s not thinking clearly or making good decisions. Abducting Drew Williams’ daughter is just one more nail in Spree’s casket.
My temper is raging now, deep into the pit of my stomach. Spree orchestrated this. He planned it. He willingly went into another club’s territory to take this girl. And he pretended it was under my orders. This is different than nabbing some club girl and letting the guys claim her for themselves. This is an act of war. What’s worse? It’s an act of war without my consent.
“I won’t say it again,” the girl says, pulling me out of my internal conversation. Her eyes are huge in her pretty face. “You need to take me home. My father will rip your balls off if you touch me.”
I grab something out of my closet without looking and turn sharply, heading back to her in just a few steps. She skitters back against the headboard like she’s expecting me to hit her. Instead, I throw one of my jackets at her.
“Cover yourself up,” I order. “Your tits are hanging out. And for the record, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think your father will do to me. I’ve got a business to run. Try to run and I’ll personally make your stay here a living hell. Stay and be good, and you’ll be treated like a guest.”
“Do all your guests get bound and gagged before they visit? Not very hospitable,” she sneers.
“Don’t push me,” I say, opening the door and slamming it behind me.
I call one of my guys and order him to have one person assigned outside the window and one outside the bedroom door. I didn’t want this little brat, but I’ve got her now, and I’ll be damned if I let her run out the door and back to a rival club.
No, I’d best do what I can to use this new development to my own advantage.
Chapter 4 - Tanzie
The door slams and I flinch. Grisham’ temper is palpable and he’s taken it right out the door with him, leaving the room about twenty degrees cooler.
I stare at the jacket he’s thrown at me. It’s a dinner jacket, like a businessman would wear. It seems so contrasting to the tattooed, knife-wielding MC president who was just in front of me, yet I can envision him in it, dressed up, hair freshly washed, beard freshly groomed. I can see him in the candlelight of a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant. The image does weird things to me, makes my stomach flutter. I jump around a little, trying to rid myself of the image. This man is not my friend. He’s not for me. I need to think my way out of this situation, not think of what it would be like to go on a date with him.
But still ... he didn’t claim me. He didn’t force me into sex. He didn’t beat me. There was something ... decent about him. Something that makes me want to trust him. That’s probably dangerous. I hear my father’s voice in my head, telling me not to trust him. But Drew, by nature, is actually a pretty trusting guy. I think I must have gotten those genes.
My father never really let me get involved in club business. He’s old school and in his world, women don’t lead. They don’t do business with the boys. I’m around it, sure, but only when he is and never in any official or useful capacity, because he doesn’t want his members to mistake me for some club girl. He’d rather pawn me off in some arranged marriage to “keep me safe.” Whatever.
Oh, I’ve snuck out a few times and had a grope session or two, but my dad is an eagle-eyed, iron-fisted fascist when it comes to his only child, so any attempts to rid myself of my V-card have gone unfinished. And any dude who even gets close enough to try ends up with a new scar or two.
No fun.
But my V-card is not the issue right now, especially since I now know there was never a plan for Grisham to claim me, as his vice
president threatened. That means I need to figure out a plan to get past the huge-ass dudes stationed at my window and at the door. If that big animal thinks he can keep me locked up in his bedroom like some simpering little whatever, he can forget about it.
The thing I don’t get is, if Grisham didn’t order my kidnapping, then why the hell is he keeping me here?
Look, people talk in motorcycle clubs, and no one has ever said that David Grisham is impulsive. They say he’s intense and intelligent and that if he loses his cool, there’s a damn good reason for it. I know this guy’s story. He built the Barking Angels from the ground up. He’s one of the youngest motorcycle club presidents in the area. He’s got a little empire built here, and everyone says he’s a success because he doesn’t sample the product; he doesn’t compromise his values for a buck; and he doesn’t make stupid mistakes.
Stupid mistakes like kidnapping a neighbor club leader’s daughter.
He sort of reminds me of my dad, I suppose. They’d probably be friends if they weren’t about to blow each other off the map.
I pace back and forth for a while, but then I have to pee. There’s a huge bathroom attached to Grisham’ room, so I pad my way in, finding the giant, two-person soaker tub very inviting.
Then it hits me. How I’ll get out of here.
Chapter 5 - Grisham
Spree is taking a shot on the eight ball as I storm into the game room. He looks up and opens his mouth as I approach, but I don’t even give him time to speak. I just slam my fist right into his mouth. I hit him so hard that I feel his teeth loosen inside his mouth.
He stumbles back, his leather-clad ass hitting the floor as he laughs, hyena-like, teeth stained red with blood.
“Fuck, yeah!” he hoots, scrambling to his feet. “That’s what we need to see more of around here!”
