Stolen: Hell's Overlords MC

by Zoey Parker

  The desert wind is dry on my face and hands. I near the end of the road. Beyond this is a few dozen miles of pure nothingness right before the border itself. Every parking lot I pass is devoid of movement and sound. The screaming has stopped.

  One more establishment lies between me and no man’s land. I drive past, seeing nothing at first. But just as I start to cut a wide circle and head back in the other direction, something catches my eye.

  Two blocky men are struggling with a third person sprawled on the concrete of the parking lot. They’re dressed in all black. The person on the ground looks female. She’s shrieking, flailing, throwing feet and fists around her in a fury. The men dance in and out, trying fruitlessly to grab hold of her wrists without being struck. I see a flash of silver in her hand nick out and land in one man’s open palm. He howls, squeezing one hand in the other as blood begins to pour down his forearm.

  “Puta!” I hear him curse. The girl scampers to her feet and totters backwards until her back bumps against the lone car still parked in the lot. Even from fifty yards away, I can see the angry scowl on her face. I can see something else, too: her eyes. The eyes.

  They’re blue, bright, celestial, glowing. They light up the night, even as she squints against the glare of the street lamp overhead.

  It’s the girl. The one from my dream.

  My whole body succumbs to a shiver. I feel every hair rocket up to needle stiffness. The black lump in my chest sags heavily, like it’s acquiring new gravity, as I look her up and down and realize beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s her.

  My next moves are automatic, scripted. I rip the throttle back and shoot across the distance separating me from the girl and the two assailants cornering her against the vehicle. I slam on the brakes and fishtail my rear tire hard into the back of the legs of the shorter one. He careens into the car, smashing his head on the hood and falling to the ground. Leaping off the bike, I take two quick steps towards the other man. I duck his punch, coil all my weight, and unleash an uppercut straight into the bottom of his jaw. His feet rise off the ground as I unload my full force on him. Bones give way to my knuckles. The lights in his eyes dim and flicker. An unholy groan sputters from his mouth.

  While the men are struggling to stand back up, I turn to the girl. It takes all my willpower to focus on the situation and not get lost in the weirdness of what’s happening. The girl from my nightmare, live and in the flesh. In this shithole town of all places in the world. What are the odds?

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  She gives me a short nod, still catching her breath. I see her hand tightening around the small knife in her grasp. She doesn’t trust me any more than she trusted these two men. Hell, I can’t blame her. This whole situation is too fucked up to process rationally.

  Christ, she’s some kind of beautiful though. I can’t help but sneak a glance at her curvaceous little body. The rise and fall of her breath pushes her breasts up to the brink of falling from her tank top. I want a taste.

  The sound of scraping to my left jolts me back to real life. The two men help each other up. I see blood dripping on the ground from the wound in the hand of the one the girl stabbed. Both are cringing in pain. I square up and face them, inserting my bulk between them and the girl.

  “Get the fuck away from here,” I order. “Before I kill you both.”

  The bleeding one spits on the ground at my feet, narrowly missing my boot. I growl and squeeze my fists. My eyes smolder. “La resurreccion esta llegando, motherfucker,” he hisses. Growing up in Texas has taught me enough Spanish to understand what he’s saying.

  The resurrection is coming. The words are like cold fingers on the inside of my skin.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl.

  They don’t answer. Instead, the tall one spits again and they turn, limping off down the sidewalk. I don’t move until they disappear.

  But even when they’re gone and I turn to face the girl, I can’t relax. Seeing those men was like seeing the boogeyman come to life. I remember the few stories Mortar has told me over the years about men like these, dressed in all black with an appetite for inflicting pain.

  The Diablos. From what I can tell, they’re real.

  And they’re back.

  Chapter 4

  Rose

  It feels like my heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest. The men who attacked me have disappeared into the town, but there’s no calming down, not after what just happened to me.

  They’d dragged me out of the car, with God only knows what intent in mind. I might’ve been raped, or killed, or any number of horrible outcomes. I brush off a dusty memory about girls who’d seen something they shouldn’t have and ended up dead in a ditch or in cuffs at a sex slave auction. Crazier things have happened. Eduardo warned me about these men, after all. There’s no telling what they’re capable of.

  I think of Lucila, abused and crying in the backroom of the club. She’s probably still there. Sure, she’d walked into the situation willingly, or at least as willing as anyone in desperate need of cash could be. But no one deserved to suffer what I saw them doing to her. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that image of Lucila on her hands and knees, moaning miserably as the men treated her like a dirty tissue.

  I could’ve ended up like that. That might’ve been me if this man hadn’t shown up at the crucial moment.

  I look him up and down. My first thought is a surprising one. Oh my God, he’s gorgeous. It’s true. He’s six and a half feet of pure chiseled muscle. The low slope of his shoulders gives way to biceps thicker than my waist. His chest is testing the limits of the thin white shirt he’s wearing. Staring out from below a tousled mop of dark hair is a pair of the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. And they’re fixed on me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks. His voice is a low, sexy rumble.

  I nod again. I feel the tension tightening throughout my body ease a notch. Something about his presence makes me feel safer. The fact that he just beat the hell out of the men trying to take me certainly doesn’t hurt.

  “Nice pig sticker you’ve got there.”

  I blink. What the hell is he talking about? He must see my confusion, because he points to my clenched fist. I look down and realize he meant the knife. “Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “Thanks.”

  “You cut the one bastard pretty badly.”

  I don’t know what to say. His scent fills my nostrils. It’s raw, masculine, heady. I feel a little dizzy just being near him.

  “What’s your name?” he asks me.

  I start to open my mouth before I come to my senses. What the hell am I doing? This is a town of murderers, rapists, drug traffickers, bad people with every vice under the sun. Cozying up to strangers in El Cruce is tantamount to a one-way ticket to a whole lot of trouble. People disappear from here, and when they do, they don’t ever come back.

  “I need to go,” I say. I turn to my car and start to open the door before he can say anything. But I feel his grip on my upper arm and I freeze.

  His hands are strong, but there’s a curious softness to them, too. More than anything, his touch is like electricity, drawing out the currents of attraction I can feel sparking to life beneath my skin. “Wait,” he says. I don’t move.

  He reaches a fingertip to my chin and gently swings my face towards his. He extends a thumb, touches it to my bottom lip. I see him frowning as he does. Those green eyes are swimming with a mixture of intense focus and profound confusion. I don’t know what is so puzzling. I’m just a girl in a parking lot. He did me a favor. So why the mystery?

  The pad of his thumb brushes against my bottom lip. I feel a throb of pain. He draws it away and examines it under the light. I see a smear of crimson on his skin. “You’re bleeding,” he says. He’s quiet. Hushed. “You’re shaking, too.”

  I hadn’t noticed until now that I’m trembling like a leaf under his hand. My whole body is convulsing. Try as I might, I can’t make it s
top. It’s not cold out, but the hairs on my arms are standing on end. My teeth chatter.

  “Who are you?” he asks. His eyes are searching mine. I want to dive into them, do backstrokes in them, immerse myself in those green oceans and never leave. The concerned slant of his eyebrows frames them with the dark tan of his face, making the colors pop all the more vividly.

  I can’t find my voice. It’s not just that he’s physically beautiful, although there’s no denying that. It’s something more, something deeper and less substantial. Power rolls off of him in carefree waves. He exudes strength. Sex. It’s a cousin to the laconic, shadowy energy that the men in black gave off when I confronted them in the club earlier. But this man has more of it, and it’s a clearer, broader variety. I feel consumed by him already.

  The magnetism of it draws me closer. I don’t know what’s happening, but I shift my weight a tiny degree towards him. He responds instantly, pulling me into his embrace. His lips press down against mine, one hand resting against the back of my head while the other encircles my waist. I rest a palm on his chest and feel his pulse thud while I kiss him back. I open my mouth to slip my tongue past his parted lips. It finds his own, teases it, then retreats before flickering back out again, hungry for more. Our mouths mesh flawlessly. A tingle rushes down my spine. The rusty metal of my car door against my back is forgotten as I rise onto my toes to kiss him deeper. My mouth opens, urging him inward to explore more. The fire between my legs is heating up at an astonishing rate.

  But then I remember. I’m a lone female, standing in a deserted parking lot with a man about whom I know nothing. I don’t know his name or where he’s from, what he wants or what he’s doing here. I have not a clue why he rescued me, although I owe him my life for it. Most of all, I don’t know why he’s staring at me like I’m a ghost and asking me questions that I don’t have good answers to. As scarily good as the kiss was, I can’t be here. I need to run away.

  I drop to my heels, put two hands to his chest and shove him away as hard as I can. He barely budges. His eyes flash.

  “I can’t be doing this,” I tell him. “I need to go right now.”

  He catches me again by the crook of my elbow. “Stop,” he says. His voice drips with easy authority. “Just tell me who you are.”

  “I’m nobody,” I say. Then I wriggle free of his grasp and slam the door shut before he can snag me a third time. The car sputters to life, miraculously. I try not to look at him as I peel out of the parking lot as fast as the piece of shit vehicle will let me, but I can’t avoid stealing one last glance in the rearview mirror. He hasn’t moved his feet. Only his head pivots to follow me as I race down the road and away from him.

  I can still taste him on my lips. He doesn’t look away.

  Then I round the corner, and he disappears from sight.

  Chapter 5

  Vince

  What the fuck was that?

  So much just happened at once. She’s real; the girl from the dream is real. She’s here. I found her before I ever even began to look. In a strip club parking lot of all places, on the verge of becoming a plaything to people she likely did not want to meet.

  But just like that, she’s gone again, literally slipping away between my fingers. It’s almost funny, in a dark kind of way. No girl ever runs away from me. The running only ever takes place in the opposite direction.

  Something about this one, though, tells me she is different. For starters, El Cruce is light years away from Galveston. Young women here are targets for the cartels, the drug traffickers, and anyone else with a gun and an inflated sense of self-worth. It makes sense that she’s not particularly eager to be making out with strangers in the parking lot.

  But she knew what I knew; she felt it, too. She knew there was something different here. Something special. Rare. I saw it in her eyes.

  I don’t know how to explain it or what words to put to it but I’m determined not to let this be the last time I see this girl. No one runs away from me. I’m Vince Foster. When I want something, I take it, and “no” is not an option.

  I’m going to find out who she is, and I’m going to make her mine.

  The heat of the sun begins to bake the back of my neck. I can hear the sounds of the town stirring awake. Cars begin rumbling by. Storefronts are thrown open. The seedy drunks slink their way to the bars to resume murdering themselves one beer at a time. In short, life in El Cruce is proceeding as usual.

  I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and check the time. “Shit,” I curse under my breath. I’m going to be late to meet Cesar. If that asshole no-shows me again, I’m going to burn the whole fucking town down until I find him. But for now, I need to haul ass to the diner and hope that he comes. He knows things that could be vital, not just for me, but for every Angel in Texas.

  I turn and head back towards my bike, still standing where I leaped off it when I tore into the parking lot. I start to mount it, but something shiny on the ground catches my attention. I reach down and pick it up.

  It’s a small, metal rectangle with a needle and eye on the back of it, the kind used to fasten the thing to clothing. I flip it over. The word “Rose” is etched into the steel. It’s a nametag. Her nametag.

  “Rose,” I say to myself. I like the way her name sounds in my mouth. “Her name is Rose.”

  Chapter 6

  Rose

  I whip down the road to my apartment. The ancient car is squealing around me, threatening to break down or fall apart at any moment, but I’m too desperate to get home to care. All I can think about is getting inside and shutting the door.

  I veer into the space in front of the apartment complex, snatch my purse from the passenger’s seat, and race inside. I sprint up the stairs. Keys in the lock, open it up, burst inside. The sound of the door slamming shut behind me is heavenly. The sound of the deadbolt driving home is even sweeter.

  I slide to a seat on the floor with my back against the door. I feel a wrench in my chest. It builds up to what feels like an expanding bubble, then a wave, and before I can tell myself to stop being so silly, tears start pouring down my face. It’s a full-body cry, a pathetic one. I’m a blubbering mess. My tears soak the front of my shirt as I press my face into my crossed arms and let them flow.

  Lucila, the men in black, the biker…it is too much for one person to process. That much should not be allowed to come all at once. I know life isn’t fair. I’ve known that for a long time. You can’t grow up in this town without facing the harsh truth like that.

  But still, how much is enough? Where is my breaking point? I can’t imagine it’s far off. For all I know, the men are still after me. Maybe they were waiting around the corner for the biker to leave before they followed me home to finish what they started. If they come here, I’m worried that I’ll just give up on it all. Might as well just say, “Fuck it,” and let the world have its way with me.

  For now, I’m safe. I’m alive, if rattled. The door is locked, and all the evil of the world is stuck on the other side, where it belongs. I can only hope it stays there.

  Eventually, the tears slow down to a trickle, then stop altogether. My breath swoops smoothly in through my nostrils, filling up my chest with sweet air. The sound of it whooshing back out into the too-warm room is the only thing I can hear. Blessed, blessed silence.

  Until the knock at the door.

  I hurl myself away at the fist pounding on the other side of the rickety wood. The voice coming through is too muffled to identify. My skin is crawling with anxiety. There’s nothing as horrifying as being unpleasantly surprised right when you thought you were beginning to calm down.

  “Who is it?” I yelp through a throat choked and dry. “Leave me alone!” I can feel my hands trembling.

  More indistinct mumbling.

  “Go away!” I repeat. “I don’t want to talk to anyone!”

  My heart is pummeling my sternum. Boom, boom, pumping fight or flight chemicals through my bloodstream like flocks of frightened birds.
Every muscle in me wants to spring away, to jump through the window or bust clean through the far wall and run until I can’t run anymore. But my brain knows full well that I’m trapped in here. Whoever it is, they aren’t leaving.

  I force myself to take a deep inhale and let the oxygen rush through my body. The tremors ease slightly. I steel myself, stand up, and walk over to the door. Pressing my eye against the peephole, I look out into the distorted world beyond. When I see who it is, the tension seeps out of my body. I quickly wipe the stained tears from my face and try to rub the red out of my eyes.

  I slide the deadbolt free, unhook the chain, and open the door. A hunched, frail old man is standing on the doorstep with a friendly smile beaming from his face. “Come in, Señor Ramon,” I say. My voice is crackling with exhaustion. He shuffles in. When he’s all the way inside, I shut the door and lock it again.