Devil's Property: The Faithless MC

by Claire St. Rose

  I knocked open the exit door with enough force that it came flying back at the person following me. The sound of it coming back and slamming against their outstretched hands made me snicker.

  “That’s what’s you get for following me like you thought you were James fucking Bond,” I said, turning on my heel.

  Two angry looking men stood in front of me. I had missed the second set of footsteps. Well, people make mistakes. I had seen them around before, but they weren’t from the Iron Reapers. I tried to remember their faces without having to look on the crests on the back of their leather vests.

  The first one was tall, with a round, chubby face and long, stringy black hair. He had what looked like the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip, but I suspected it had been that way for months, if not years. His eyes squinted at me with anger. The other man was older, probably in his early forties. His hair was graying on the sides, though the top was still a light, sandy brown. His eyes were wide set on his face, giving him the appearance of a deranged sloth. I lifted my gaze from his thin, snarling lips to his piercing blue eyes.

  Both of them were wearing leather vests and jeans, with checkered shirts on underneath that I was sure they hadn’t noticed were matching. The first guy’s was grubby, oil stains spattered on the fabric. The second guy’s wasn’t much better.

  “You guys from Gray’s Devils?” I asked.

  Gray ran a shop just outside the French Quarter. Most of his guys were mechanics by trade or specialized in something of that realm.

  “All you need to know is that we’re the guys who are going to ruin your fucking life if you don’t listen very carefully to what we have to say.”

  I thrust my hands in my pockets, a clear signal that I didn’t perceive them as a threat, and leaned against the brick wall behind me. Even in the alley, the sunshine still wormed its way in atop the walls, lighting up their faces like they were on a film set. I hung back in the shadows, cool and unaffected. I’d played this game before. I was good at it.

  “You’re lucky I don’t feel like bruising my knuckles before my next game,” I said. “Really makes gripping the cue a pain in the ass. Well, more just uncomfortable than anything else.” I winked. “But you get my point.”

  Grease-stache and Pierce Bros-no scowled at me. I doubted their intimidation strategies often backfired so spectacularly. But they’d never met me before. I sized them up. Yeah, I could take both of them. Probably. I’d come out a little worse for wear than I normally preferred, especially when I had something like a tournament to kick the shit out of after. It would be easier for me to talk this out, but I couldn’t resist poking fun at the two idiots. They must not have known much about me to think they would be able to make this interaction work in their favor.

  “You are such a cocky prick,” Grease-stache spat, screwing up his nose. Apparently, nobody had ever taught him to keep a cool head. I was often surprised by how little thugs these days seemed to get taught about not completely blowing it with their egos.

  “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” I crossed my arms, now starting to get agitated. Not by them, but by the fact that Sasha was probably heading back to the table now. I didn’t want her to come out looking for me and see what was about to happen. “Are you guys going to stand there all day, or do you plan on telling me what this is all about?”

  Pierce Bros-no stepped forward. “There are a couple of big bets on you losing tonight, shithead. So you’ve got to lose.”

  I snorted. “Like hell I will. Nice try though. Points for effort. Minus points for style.”

  I decided the conversation was over. They were clearly just trying to intimidate me, which might have worked on someone like Chris—but not me. Not the president of the Iron Reapers. Not Zane Pendleton.

  “You’ve got the wrong guy, gentlemen,” I said courteously. “So fuck off before I decide to fuck you up.”

  I moved to push through them, but they stopped me. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Some guys just had to do things the hard way.

  “What?” I asked, annoyed. I took a step back.

  “We’ve got your girl.” Pierce Bros-no’s snarl hit me like a ton of bricks.

  My heart froze in my chest. “You couldn’t…”

  “We do. And if you don’t throw the tournament, you’ll never see her again.” Grease-stache looked thoroughly pleased with himself. I wondered if they’d been stalling this whole time to make sure they had her before I busted in there and took her back. Had they already shoved her into an unmarked van somewhere? Had they hurt her? I would kill them. I would fucking kill them!

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” I snarled. “Be very sure you want to go ahead with whatever it is you’re planning. I’m only going to give you this one chance to back out.”

  Grease-stache seemed in his element now. His face was as bright as a hundred-watt bulb. “Oh, we’re very sure.” He patted me on the back, and I jerked. He scuttled back. Pretending I hadn’t just scared him, Grease-stache said, “Remember that you can’t make it look too obvious. Lose, but lose by a hair.”

  I did not appreciate being told what to do, and certainly not by some overgrown child in a biker jacket. But what could I do? If they had Sasha, and it would be easy to find out if they did, I was at their mercy. I would do anything to save her. Even if it meant losing her.

  Which I would, I realized. Because Sasha would sacrifice herself for her mother. She’d want me to go ahead and win the tournament and save her mom. I wanted to save her mom too, but when it really came down to it, I would sacrifice everything to make sure Sasha was safe.

  “Fine.” I gave Pierce Bros-no a rough shove back. He joined Grease-stache by the wall. “If you touch a hair on her head I will kill you. Do you hear me? And it will not be quick.”

  Both men turned white in the face. It was good to see that my ability to threaten hadn’t been dampened by my recent adoption of civility.

  “Good luck,” said Grease-stache before turning and ducking back into the building.

  Even through my rage, I managed a slight chuckle. I wouldn’t be the one needing luck—they would

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Sasha

  It was nearly impossible to make it through the throng of people to get to the bar. I felt like I was in a sweaty huddle of cattle, marching forward slowly toward a tray of feed. I wouldn’t have bothered with the crowd or the drink if I wasn’t feeling just a little bit nervous. And, to be honest, a little bored.

  It was great watching Zane, don’t get me wrong. I loved the lines on his face when he concentrated, and the little half grin he made when he made a good shot. I loved the way he bent over the table, probably most of all. But something about the crowd and the atmosphere had me on edge.

  I’d never been much of a partier in high school or in college. All through high school the popular girls had wanted to give me makeovers and have a Clueless moment with me because, presumably, they saw the hot girl underneath the baggy jeans and flannel. In university, I just hadn’t found many people that I connected with who also got invited to cool parties. Long story short, crowds weren’t my thing—which was especially hilarious when you factored in that I studied the remains of large groups of people.

  It would have been better if Zane’s guys had been there, or at least the ones I knew, but they hadn’t shown up yet. And there wasn’t really anyone else for me to talk to. I supposed I could try making friends with some of the other less scary looking onlookers, but that seemed like an exercise in futility. All that mattered to me here was Zane, so why not just keep my eyes on him?

  But that didn’t mean a drink wasn’t just what the doctor ordered. I staggered forward to the bar top after about five minutes of awkward pushing around, only to have my phone begin to ring just at the bartender’s eyes landed on mine. Shit. I pulled it out from my pocket, to see the caller ID. It was the hospital.

  Double shit.

  With a hefty sigh, I began to back out of the ba
r mob. It was easier than trying to get in; the crowd was only too eager to eject me. I finally shoved free and took a spot next to the wall, but it was still so loud in the room that I wasn’t sure anyone would even be able to hear me. Or I them. So I scanned the room and noted that about twenty feet down from me there was a door. I didn’t know where it led, but hell it was good enough for me.

  Conscious that I only had a few rings left, I booked it toward the door and shoved my way to the other side. The door led to a dark hallway, one that I was sure I wasn’t meant to be down. A couple of other doors led off it, and at the end, there was a set of emergency exit double doors. The air was musty and stale, with a bite of cold that was actually quite pleasant, considering I’d been overheating in the packed hall.

  My phone, thankfully, was still vibrating. Bracing myself with a deep breath for whatever news might be on the other line, I bought the device up to my ear.

  Only to have my arm roughly pulled behind my back before I could hit talk.

  “Hey!” I called, struggling against the firm grip of whoever was behind me. I didn’t know how I hadn’t heard them coming through. Or had he been waiting here?

  Craning my neck, I took in my assailant. He was huge, nearly as big as Zane. His bulky figure was completely covered in tattoos, at least from what I could see. He wore a black leather vest over top of a grubby white T-shirt, which I was roughly jostled against. I wrinkled my nose at the smell—beer, stale cigarettes, and something metallic and sharp. I didn’t like it.

  As soon as I realized that it wasn’t a prank from Zane or one of his friends, I came to my senses enough to realize I needed to scream. Loud. But my attacker was already ahead of me, jamming a sweaty hand over my mouth after he’d secured my arms. I writhed, trying to shake him off, but it was no use. He was bigger than me, stronger than me, and apparently quite determined.

  “Quiet!” he hissed. He began to urge me forward, but I fought too hard for him to make any process. His next tactic, however, I liked a lot less—he turned around and began to drag me, sending my flailing heels skidding across the floor. I tried to dig them in, but he would just lift me so that I couldn’t get enough force. I tried to bite his hand, disgusting as that was, but he apparently knew how to wrap a hand around someone’s face without putting it in danger of being bitten. He’d done this before. It disgusted me.

  My thoughts raced a million miles a minute. What was likely only a couple minutes felt like hours, each inch we moved taking me further and further away from safety. What was he going to do with me? Was he a rival of Zane’s? Was he going to kill me? Was he going to hurt me? Was he going to…? I couldn’t even think about it. My head was weak, my stomach churning under my skin. I wanted to vomit and briefly considered how my attacker might respond to it. Maybe he’d let me go. Or maybe he’d hold my sick in my mouth.

  I didn’t want to take the chance. He didn’t seem the type to be put off by bodily fluids.

  My muffled screams for help echoed down the corridor until we reached the last door on the left, just before the emergency exit. He slammed me into the door and held my arms locked with his body as he produced a key and unlocked it. The wood panels bit into my jaw and cheek. I was unable to even so much as open my mouth to let out a squeak. I was trapped.

  I fought to the bitter end, though. Like hell I was going to let this guy shove me into a room alone with him! I angled my head back sharply, colliding it with his skull. He let out a yelp of pain and stepped back in alarm. It was my opportunity.

  I sank to the ground, twisting my arms as I did. My body weight pulled me free of his hold, and I used the momentum from my fall to roll into a crouch. I assessed the situation briefly. He had recovered in the time it had taken me to roll. I had gone the wrong way! If I’d rolled in the other direction, I could have made a beeline for the emergency exit and been out of here already! But I had rolled back toward the main doors. Now I just had to decide whether I wanted to try dodging around the muscular, mustachioed biker who was glowering at me, his blood turning his white mustache into a violent red, or if I wanted to try to outrun him back to the main doors. Either way, I had less than a second to decide before he’d be on me again. He was ready to spring.

  Not wanting to get too close to those hands again, I turned and pushed off from the ground with all my might, darting toward the door back into the billiards hall. I was no Olympian sprinter, but I was willing to bet I was at least faster than the golem behind me.

  I was wrong.

  I nearly reached the doors, but his hand closed on my shoulder and yanked me back before I could even reach out to touch them. I realized, quite suddenly, that I should have used the air in my lungs for screaming, not for sprinting. It was too late now. His hand covered my mouth again, and he turned and knocked my head hard against the wall. Dizzy, I allowed him to drag me back to the room by the emergency exit.

  No! This wasn’t right! Where was Zane? This man clearly meant to do me harm and nobody would ever know what happened to me. Or, worse, Zane would find my bruised and bloody body in the dumpster out back. What would happen to my mom? I couldn’t die like this!

  Stars danced in my vision, too close to avoid but too far to touch. I blinked to try to clear them, but it did no good. So concerned was I with these stars that I almost forgot where I was in the first place—what was happening to me.

  I groaned behind the man’s hand and tried to pull away again as he reached the door, but he rammed me against it hard enough to send my teeth clacking together. It was useless.

  Once he’d finally twisted the doorknob and shoved it open, the man hefted me inside and deposited me on the ground in the middle of the room like a sack of potatoes.

  “Fucking bitch,” he spat, wiping blood from his nose. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

  Like hell he would. I would make him pay for this! Zane would make him pay! I readied myself for an attack, seeking the most balanced position on my knees that would allow me to spring up when the time called for it. I even raised my fists to my face. I would have stood, probably, if my legs didn’t feel like gelatin.

  But he retreated to the door and yanked it back open, slipping out with a grace that I wouldn’t have attributed to him if I’d just seen him on sight. Must’ve been how he caught me. Must’ve been how he snuck up on me. I watched the door for a few more seconds in case he was just trying to catch me off guard, but the solid wood didn’t so much as creak.

  Wait! He was going to leave me here? In this...this...supply closet? I took a look around, my eyes landing on a box of paper towels, a broom, and a stack of old newspapers. Why the hell had they put me in here?

  Didn’t matter—I wasn’t staying.

  My legs were shaky beneath me, but I managed to make my way into a standing position. I staggered toward the door and grabbed the handle, jostling it violently back and forth. No dice. The guy with the bloody mustache had locked me in here. Time for plan B.

  I had just raised my fist to bang against the door and start screaming when the handle turned. Shit. I backed up to the other side of the room, grabbing the closest object to me—a wooden broom handle—and holding it outstretched in front of me.

  I expected Bloody Mustache to enter the room, but instead it was a younger man with a shaved head. He was wearing the same leather vest, but with a hoodie on underneath. I judged him to be about in his mid-thirties, though his menacing eyes gave him an ancient look. Despite his round, otherwise baby-faced features, those eyes told me this guy was not somebody I wanted to mess with.

  Though if I hadn’t been able to tell from his eyes, the handgun he pointed in my direction probably would have tipped me off.

  “Scream and you’re dead,” he said, leveling the gun at my forehead as he closed the door behind him. I heard a metallic snick as it was locked from the other side.

  “Who are you?” My voice sounded a lot shakier than I would have liked. I would have to practice a confident kidnapee tone in the mirror the next time I h
ad some spare time. If I lived.

  “I’m the guy who’s going to blow your brains all over the fucking supply closet if you don’t keep your trap shut.”

  His words were crude but poignant, although it was the expression on his face that ultimately led to me shutting my “trap.” This guy was one hundred percent serious. He had killed before and had probably found that he liked it. That’s why he was here with me, and not Bloody Mustache.

  I wanted to ask him how long I would be there, why I was there, and what was going to happen to me? But I didn’t want to die, and the look on this guy’s face told me he meant serious business. In the most serious of serious business ways.

  Where was Zane? Did he even notice I was missing?

  What could these people possibly want from me? It had to be something to do with the tournament, right? Or with Asa? Did Asa have friends outside of the Iron Reapers? But why would they toss me in a room like this? Clearly, they were trying to get something from Zane, but he wasn’t the kind of person to be blackmailed or coaxed into anything. It was just plain stupid of them to think otherwise.