No such luck.
Figures, though. I’ve never been lucky.
I wasn’t lucky before this nightmare began and I wasn’t lucky now. I’d given up on luck years ago. What I was counting on now was much more thought out, meticulously planned, and dangerous.
My plan required one thing, above all: that I not underestimate the ruthlessness of my husband.
Husband. God, how I hated that word! I hated that I was Mrs. Royce Randolph the Third. That fact alone disgusted me and I did my best to say it out loud as little as possible. If Royce ever noticed, he never mentioned it.
Not like he cared what I thought, or felt, for that matter. In fact, the only thing in the entire world that Royce cared about was himself. His money came a close second. After that, everything and everyone else was disposable. If he was displeased, he’d get rid of whatever the source was and replace it with something new and improved.
That was his attitude with everything in life. Companies, houses, yachts, friends, employees, servants, women - all just tools to make Royce’s life worthwhile, but certainly nothing was irreplaceable.
If only he thought that way about me, I thought, sighing out loud before catching myself. I’d been wishing for years that he would suddenly tire of me being around, that he would get bored with my obvious disdain for him, but no. I was some sick pet possession of his. ‘Sick’ being the most important word there.
Without a doubt, Royce was the sickest person I’d ever known. Not that I’d really known a lot, since he’d been keeping me under his thumb since I was seventeen, but I knew sick when I saw it.
Sure, Royce was selfish, ruthless, and shallow. But his real personality was a lot darker than that. I knew right away that he was a horrible person, but as the years unfolded, I slowly discovered that I wasn’t just dealing with an ordinary bad man.
I was tied to a monster.
A monster of the worst kind - a predatory, evil, satanic beast.
It was far from easy. I went through every emotion at first, fighting him tooth and nail every step of the way, but slowly, I learned my most important lesson the hard way. Not only did I need to make sure I didn’t underestimate his power, his reach, his complete lack of humanity - but to defeat him, I had to become a monster myself.
So, here we were.
Two monsters, sharing a cold, yet civil dinner, languishing in a silent, simmering hate for one another.
The ruler and the prisoner, circling around each other in a fucked-up dance filled with secret messages and subtle nuances that formed our marital union of hate and possession.
My body was sitting here, but my mind was where it often was - imagining the demise of Royce the Ruler. Be it at my hand or not, I didn’t care - I just wanted him dead.
At this point, I didn’t believe in wishes or luck. I’d come to understand that the only thing that could change my situation was action. And I knew there was nobody else out there that was looking for me, so that action was up to me.
I may not have had a say in how I got here, but I was determined I wasn’t going to let it continue.
I only have one life and nobody else is going to save it for me.
I have to save myself. Somehow, someway, I have to get out of this man’s clutches.
I knew leaving was going to be putting myself in grave danger. I knew I might not make it out alive.
But I have to try. This nightmare I’m swimming in is no life at all. Being dead would be better than staying here. The risk to leave is worth my life.
But if I lived and Royce died instead?
Well, then maybe I’d start to believe in luck after all.
Royce loved his own voice almost as much as he loved his face, and as he kept rattling on, I couldn’t help but remember how it all started, the first time I met this hideous human. I’ve had so many horrible moments since then, but somehow this one seems to slice through me the deepest.
The tiniest flicker of light danced in my vision like a pinhole to another universe. I willed myself towards it, swimming through the heavy darkness, resisting the pull to sink back into it. My eyes fluttered, a soft moan drifting in my ears. Was that me?
My eyes opened, the light flooding my brain painfully and I slammed them shut again, the moan vibrating on my lips. That must be me. Where am I?
A low, throaty laugh sounded in my ears and I reached a hand out towards it.
“Dad?” I murmured, my hand left empty. The laugh sounded again, right next to my ear this time, but it wasn’t my father’s carefree laugh. It was something else. Something sinister, something that chilled me, something that cut right through the darkness and sliced into me like a knife.
“Dad?” I asked again, attempting to open my eyes once more, determined to push through the blinding pain. I blinked, and blinked again and again, pushing away the blurriness until my surroundings came into focus.
A hotel room. A bed. A window, the white drapes drawn closed.
A man.
Fear. What was a smooth sinking knife of fear in my gut before became a parade of thundering fists pummeling my heart into a bloody pulp.
Panic. Sheer, terror-inducing panic.
“Where’s my father?” I asked, my voice quivering.
“Dead,” the man answered - one simple, life-changing word.
“No!” I cried, attempting to sit up as my entire body was hit with the pain of a thousand semis running me over. I screamed, my hands flying to my head.
That’s when I felt the bandages. My head was covered in them, completely wrapped up like a mummy.
“No!” I screamed, denial rushing through my veins. “No, no, no!” I yelled, ignoring the physical pain as the mental anguish of my reality hit me.
“I’m guessing Daddy didn’t clue you in on your new face?” the man answered, shaking his head, clicking his teeth with his tongue. “Damn, that’s harsh.”
I slumped back in the bed, my head racing. I’d begged Daddy not to do it. Not to take my face. It was the only thing I had left of my mother. There was no pictures. No clothes. No keepsakes at all. Nothing was left after our house exploded.
The only things I had left of her were my father and my face - the one that resembled hers so greatly.
And now they were both gone.
I had nothing.
I was nothing.
“Amazing that he didn’t tell you,” the man muttered, leaning over me, his face so close I could feel the heat of his breath. “Maybe he meant to surprise you? Oh, well, too late for that now. But don’t worry, darling. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not a soul will touch that pretty little face, or harm a hair on your head - well, when it grows back, of course - except me.” He reached down, trailing a long finger up my arm, and I recoiled in horror.
“Who are you?” I whispered, swallowing hard, trying to push away the fear.
“I’m one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, darling. And thanks to your talented father, I’m even more beautiful than I was before. Surely, you’ve heard of me? Royce Randolph the Third, darling. Don’t worry, beauty. I’ll take care of you. You’re mine now.”
“Please just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone anything, if you just let me go,” I pleaded, tears forming in the corners of my eyes and stinging the raw flesh around them.
“Let you go?” he asked. “Darling, don’t be ridiculous. I love the idea of nobody ever touching your face before. It’s like it was created just for me. And, of course, it’s hard to see right now with all those bandages, but I bet your insanely talented father did an extra special, spectacular job on his precious daughter, don’t you think? I mean, look how beautiful he made me!” He stood up, running a finger over the bandages on my cheek. “Oh, yes, I can’t wait to unwrap this pretty little package. You’re a little too old for my tastes, but I guess I could use a wife, just for show. And what better choice than an untouched beauty like yourself?” Gleefully, he clapped his hands together, the evil glistening in his eyes.
&n
bsp; “You can’t just keep me!” I demanded.
“Can’t I?” he asked, reaching inside his silk suit and pulling something out of his pocket. He held it up to my face and I cringed when I saw the photo of Jesse. “You see, darling, I did a little digging and it appears this person here is the only person, besides your precious dead father, that means anything to you. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for another death, would you?”
I whimpered in defeat, my heart sinking deep into my chest, the fear wrapping around me like a suffocating, debilitating haze.
He was right. He’d managed to find the one thing that he could use against me, the one thing that would render me helpless, and cause me to submit to his will.
I’d never in a million years take that risk.
And I didn’t. Ten years had passed at the hands of this Monster and I’d not made one misstep, not taken one tiny little risk. Instead, I’d bade my time, sat back, collected information, and meticulously planned every tiny detail of my plan.
If all went well, Royce Randolph the Third would never know what hit him.
CHAPTER TWO
Wreck
The first hit always hurt the most. After that, it was gravy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I rarely won, especially when I was fighting against Slade, but he was bigger and faster than me, and, as indicated by the few teeth he was missing - he was used to getting hit.
But I tended to get some good punches in every now and then. I’ve got a mean left hook, if I do say so myself. But fucking Slade rarely flinches. So, I do my best to follow his lead, try to sneak in a few surprises along the way, keep my feet moving and my hands up, and I try not to forget to duck.
But lately when his fist has made contact with my face, I was starting to like it, you know? It reminds me that I’m still alive.
Most of the time, that’s debatable. I’ve felt barely ‘here’, wherever here is, for so long, I’ve convinced myself I’m only half a person. It’s like I left the other half somewhere in a past life and I forgot to pick it up. Like I’d left it at the cleaners and forgotten about it.
Truth was, I’d left it behind in little pieces - scattered along the curves of Highway 26 just outside of Seaside amidst the ruins of my first Harley, smeared over the Terwilliger Curves in Portland just as the sun came up after a night of partying at a strip club, and a minor incident caused by an unexpected pocket of misty fog on the winding Columbia River Gorge Scenic Highway one cold January morning. I’d had chunks of my flesh carved out of me with each crash, acquired deep scars that I wore like armor now.
But I’d left the biggest piece of me amongst the rubble of a smoldering house under a beautiful, star-filled sky ten long years ago.
It’s a miracle there was anything left of me after all that, to be honest.
But I was still here. Hanging on, getting punched square in the face by the toughest member of the Gods of Chaos Motorcycle Club and loving every fucking minute of it.
Well, as much as I could love anything. My heart was just as dead as the rest of me.
It was probably for the best anyway. I’d been down so many dark roads, it would have been downright fucking torturous to pull anyone down with me.
Besides, the only person I wanted to open my heart to was long gone now. So, my heart was on lock down.
Closed.
Out of business.
Locked away behind iron gates and wrapped in barbed-wire.
Hell, I couldn’t access it now, even if I wanted to.
Which I didn’t. I was perfectly happy with the way things are. It was a lot easier not to feel anything than be open to feeling the good stuff and having it ripped away. So, I stayed half-dead. Or, half-alive. Depending on how you saw the whiskey glass, I guess.
As long as it was filled with booze and there was a party surrounding it, it was all the same to me.
My head snapped back as Slade’s fist kissed my nose, the taste of blood dancing on my tongue like a spicy pepper. A slow grin spread across my face as my eyes slowly refocused on his weaving face in front of me. Or, maybe that was me weaving. I was never quite sure.
“Had enough, kid?” he snarled, his fists still at attention.
My eyes darted around to see who was watching. The clubhouse was in full party mode tonight, music and mayhem spilling out of the small rundown cabin that I now called home. Slade and I were squared off in the gravel parking lot, surrounded by a small circle of Gods and I took them in with a sweep of my pulsing head.
Doc was leaning against the porch railing, holding a beer in his hand and watching us with a disapproving glare. His wiry gray hair stood out in a chaotic unruly mess that surrounded his leathery, weathered face like an angel’s halo. He was a retired Army medic and he did his best to patch us up when we needed it. He’d saved more than one God in his time and I was pretty sure he’d save a few more before his time was up.
Riot stood nearby, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and his girl Lacey in the other. Riot was solid. A big, burly, bearded ex-boxer and tattooed menace that could scare the pants off most anybody with a glance. In reality, he was a gentle giant and he was madly in love with Lacey. He towered over her and she rarely left his side. As Slade yelled at me again, I saw her cringe.
“Answer me, boy, before I hurt you!” Slade demanded.
I turned back to him, shaking my head slowly and smiling at him again. Hoping to catch him off guard, I popped my fist out, hitting him square in the nose with a left hook. His head spun around in a flash, and in the next second, he was tackling me to the ground, his arms wrapped around my neck in a head lock.
“Oh! Look at you,” he taunted, tightening his grip on me, “someone’s growing some hair on his balls!”
“Alright, alright,” a muffled voice from above warned. “Let him go, now.”
Reluctantly, Slade released my head and I bounded to my feet.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, looking into my Uncle Ryder’s eyes. “I had him,” I insisted.
“Yeah, kid, you had me,” Slade replied, his low baritone dripping with sarcasm.
“Fuck off,” I said, shrugging as I walked away.
“Hey, maybe you could use some manners every now and then,” Uncle Ryder called to my back as I climbed the stairs to the porch. I turned around, catching Slade’s eye before raising my fist and flipping him the bird.
“Please fuck off, Sir!” I said, bending at the waist with a pretend bow.
Doc roared in laughter from his perch and Ryder shook his head in mock disappointment.
“Kids these days,” Slade said.
“Don’t worry,” I quipped. “I know how to respect my elders.”
“Elders!” Riot roared, walking over and slapping Slade on the back.
“Shut the fuck up, little dude,” Slade yelled to me. “I’m hardly fucking old. And you’re still a prospect, so you better watch yourself!”
“Yeah, yeah, that doesn’t mean you aren’t old,” I replied.
“You fucking kids don’t know the meaning of old,” Doc said. “Look at this fucking hair!” He pointed the tip of his beer bottle up at his head. “That’s old, you bastards!”
I laughed, shaking my head and walking into the club to get a beer, which is where I went every time after I fought Slade. I groaned when I saw Cherry in the kitchen. She was constantly flirting with me, then following it up with saying she was just kidding, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t. She was at least twice my age, probably more, and I had no idea how to handle her advances without coming off like a dick.
So far, ignoring her was keeping her off of me. Most of the time. Once she had a few beers in her, she tended to get a little grabby. My ass had never been pinched so much as it had in the last two months, to tell you the truth.
I’d arrived at the clubhouse pissed off, drunk, and plenty bruised up. After my third crash and second arrest, my Mom finally took notice that maybe I was spinning out of control. Sure, I was almost thirty fucking years old but I still
didn’t have my shit together. Not that I hadn’t tried, but the thrill of hurtling myself down the freeway without the protection of a steel cage and getting drunk every night was a hell of a lot more exhilarating than leading a more traditional, straight-edge life. Mom had been trying to get me to contact my Uncle Ryder for years, but I’d blown her off every time.
Sure, I loved bikes, but the idea of joining up with a club was not my style. I was a loner. I didn’t need anyone but myself. I tried the ‘needing’ someone game before and it hadn’t turned out well at all.
I was best when I was alone.
When I didn’t have to talk to people or have any expectations placed upon me.
Doing my own thing had become a way of life. It was easier this way.
With every one else out of the picture, there was no room for disappointment.
So, I tended to get a little drunk during my alone time. And I loved to ride.
Those two things don’t mix well at all, which I guess, judging by the scars under my clothes and the huge angry gash that slashed through my right cheek, I had to learn the hard way.
So, two months ago, while I was in the hospital healing up, Ma took the opportunity to hold me hostage and plead with me to spend some time with my Uncle Ryder and his crew. I barely knew Ryder, and the few times I had seen him, he was quiet and withdrawn. Nice enough guy, but hardly someone I wanted to hang out with.
When he visited me in the hospital this time, he was much different. He’d shown up with Grace, who he was obviously madly in love with. They sat at my bedside, cracking jokes and telling me all about how they met, which was an amazing story in itself. But then when they started telling me about their organization, Solid Ground, I couldn’t help but be intrigued.
I’d grown up hearing about the Gods of Chaos MC, thinking it was just your typical criminal group of bikers. Knowing that they were doing such intense and meaningful work made me proud. It made me want to be a part of it. To be a part of something that actually counted. Something real. Something right.
WRECKED: GODS OF CHAOS MC, BOOK FOUR Page 2
