Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends

by MariaLisa deMora

  My team’s going to kill me.

  That was not entirely hyperbole, either.

  She’d have a lot to answer for when she returned home, back to work, back to reality. She’d argue the intel gained during her foray into the underbelly was worth every moment spent in filth, every bruise on her body. Every painful moment had garnered a wealth of information the team would have gotten no other way. It had to be. In order for us to move on them legally, we had to have proof. Justine glanced around at the women clustered at her back, youngest in the group held close to family or strangers; it didn’t matter. After something like this, none of us are strangers anymore. She’d never truly understood the comrades at arms mentality before, but it certainly felt as if they’d all been to war together.

  Movement outside the trailer presaged the arrival of a trio of vans. White, nondescript, no logos to mark them as anything other than personal vehicles. The side doors opened to show empty cargo floors. They didn’t take the time to put the seats back inside. That either meant they weren’t going far or didn’t have any fear of the police catching sight of passengers in vehicles not correctly equipped. Or, like Mason would do, they’ve explained things to the cops and have nothing to fear there. Justine shook her head. She needed to not romanticize this group of club members into the kind of riding-the-legal-line mission her brother frequently followed. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew the Rebels weren’t lily-white by any means, but by and large, the laws they broke were victimless.

  Wildman looked up at her, and their gazes locked for the briefest of moments. Then his eyes moved, trailing a look down her body, pausing at every visible bruise, lingering longest at the ones she’d felt on her throat, tiny pinpoints of pain marking each fingertip the bastard who’d choked her had dug into her flesh. Justine watched as Wildman’s hand twitched, fingers stretching and contracting, and the heat in his gaze was unmistakable.

  No fucking way.

  Chapter Seven

  Wildman

  “What the fuck do you think we’re supposed to do with eleven abducted women?” Po’Boy’s clearly apparent anger was aimed directly at Wildman, as if by being the one discovering the trailer filled with captives, he was most culpable. “Huh? What do you think we’re gonna do with that much bullshit? Neither IMC nor CoBos got time for that shit. We can’t keep ’em, man. That’s…there’s no reason not to just take them to some fuckin’ mall somewhere and dump their asses out. The less they know about us, the better, but here you are sayin’ we need to take them back to the IMC house? Y’all’s clubhouse? Fuck, brother, did you hit your head? Momma drop you when you were a baby? Not the favorite child, huh?”

  “You see how many men there were when we got here?” Wildman jumped into the opening as Po’Boy took a breath. Once the man was on a roll, he was hard to redirect, and a body had to take opportunities where they were given. Po’Boy stiffened and glared at him. Wildman sighed and turned to Twisted, hoping for a more level-headed approach. “Did you? I did. Nearly two dozen.” Sweeping an arm behind him, he indicated the bodies stacked to one side like cordwood. “We’re missing six or so, which means we’ve got some cleanup yet to do. It’s bad enough we didn’t fully contain the shit, but if we compound it by turning the women loose, we’ll be fighting against LEO to find those runners, and we all know what kind of fuckery would be involved if local lawmen get in the way.”

  “Why do you say that?” Twisted’s voice was deceptively calm, but a single glance at him and Wildman could see the anger raging right underneath the lie. “What’s LEO got to do with shit we’re handlin’?”

  “We take the women to the mall like Po’Boy wants, and what are they gonna do then? First thing, what are they gonna do? Call home, that’s what. They call home, you think their loved ones aren’t gonna wanna know where they been? Between us and the CoBos, we got a decent amount of control on everything right now, but if we turn the women loose, we will have a media shitstorm on our hands.” He put his thumbs together, making an overlapping frame with his fingers. Using a falsetto, he imitated the talking heads on TV when he said dramatically, “This just in, nearly a dozen women appeared out of thin air at the local shopping mall, each with a terrible story of abduction and abuse. Video at eleven.” He dropped his hands, and Po’Boy snorted. “Go ahead, laugh. But you take a hot minute to think about it, and you’ll see I’m right. We need to take ’em to the clubhouse and tell them we’re helping them out. Get them some clean clothes, offer up showers and baths, get some food into ’em. They’ll cop a good, peaceful night of sleep while we finish dealin’ with the trash that shouldn’t have gotten away. And then we cut ‘em loose like you want.” He shrugged. “Put your mind to it, and you’ll see I’m right.”

  Twisted turned away, fists propped on his hips as he glared at the trailer. Wildman had kept the ragtag prisoners inside the container, singing pretty lies about making sure everything was safe for them. The brunette’s accusing frown had been the last thing he’d allowed himself to see, and her disappointed expression had torn at him. He’d still made it clear what was expected, though, keeping her and the other women in their secluded cell.

  “Fuck.” The shout echoed off the trees encircling the parking lot, and Wildman bared his teeth because the anger warring with resignation in the word meant Twisted agreed with him.

  Four hours later, the third vanload of women had been unloaded at the clubhouse in Hammond. Last out of the vehicle was the brunette, and she’d given him a lowered-brow scowl as she walked past, headed inside. Still in her role of protector, even now.

  “Why can’t I call my husband?” That was one of the other women, and the brunette shushed her absently, gaze still pinned to Wildman. Something about that woman. Confident in situations where that soul strength should be in short supply, she drew him to her, a pull he was determined to resist. She’s just an impediment to everything we need to be doing right now. Maybe, if he could keep reminding himself her very presence was a threat, he’d find it a little easier. He snorted at his own flawed logic.

  The delivery of the “we’re rescuing you, but on our terms” speech had been left to Wildman, and he thought he’d done a decent job, explaining to the women it should only be a matter of hours before they’d be allowed to contact their loved ones. He’d cited the storm and lateness of the hour as the main reasons, making it difficult to transport them to the local authorities. Not one of the women had called him out on the lie or had pointed out they were, in essence, being abducted again, and he had the brunette to thank for that. Her willingness to go along with the plan had smoothed the way for the other former captives, since she held a position of trust among them. She’d helped, filling in the holes in his story with tiny supporting statements, but Wildman knew the brunette hadn’t been fooled. Not one iota. He’d read the knowledge plain on her face, so her active cooperation had been a surprise. A welcome one, but just another layer of questions on top of his other ones where she was concerned.

  “Our pros—man by the bar has room assignments for everyone. We don’t have enough rooms for separate quarters, but there are three full private bathrooms with tubs and a communal shower room we’ve set aside for you ladies. Give you a chance to put yourselves back together while we get things rolling to take you back to your families.” He followed them inside, nodding his thanks to the member who stepped in front of the door at his back, blocking the way out. The standing orders were to not hurt the women but still detain them at all costs.

  His part of the transfer complete, Wildman turned to walk to the office where Twisted, Po’Boy, and other men were waiting for him, hopefully while they simultaneously worked contacts and information to find whatever hidey-hole the escape-artist assholes had taken cover in. A rough touch on his arm sent a lightning bolt through him and caused him to wheel around in an adrenaline-fueled instinctive response. When he stopped moving, the woman’s wrist was in his grasp, and his other hand was at her throat. For a split second, his brain delightedly note
d how neatly his thumb and fingers fit over the bruises, covering each with the tip of a digit as if the marks had been made as targets for his grip. Heart pounding, he dropped his hold and took a step back, getting out of reach so neither of them could touch the other.

  It took a moment, but he got his breathing back under control, eyes on the brunette all the time. Voice steady and low, he growled, “The fuck you want?”

  Tone matching his, she leaned in and said, “What you’re doing is dangerous. For you, and everyone around you.” She made a show of looking at his vest, then brought her eyes up to meet his. “Wildman.” The rolling sound of his name in her mouth had him half hard in an instant, and in his mind, she was on her knees again, chin lifted and willing mouth open while she waited for him to feed his thick cock between her lips. Goddammit. She continued, her voice pitched low, sultry, and full of bad ideas. “It’s a game you didn’t intend to play.”

  A game. That word stripped the vision from him, leaving him wondering what had gotten into him in the first place. She wasn’t a toy to scene with, surely wasn’t a club whore, and wouldn’t ever be in the position he’d found her again if he could help it. If I can help it? I’m not in her life.

  She interrupted his thoughts with a solid tap against his breastbone with one stiffened finger. “You and your club are out of its depth.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” The question burst from him before he could think, and he shook his head, negating the need for her to answer. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m not the one you need to speak to. He’s over at the end of the bar and can help you find where you go next. He can help you. Not me.”

  Smiling with a fake shyness, she tipped her chin to her throat, gaze flicking up at his lips once before settling somewhere on his middle. “I’m no one.”

  The false answer to his blurted question was so disingenuous it pulled a chuckle from him. “You’re far from no one, darlin’, but what you aren’t is foolin’ me.” He pointed at the prospect holding up a piece of paper. “He’s got you, and we’ll have you home soon. Just follow the path we’ve laid out for alla y’all, and it’ll be over before you know it.” With a stiffened thumb shoved over his shoulder towards the office, he finished with “I got things to do, and ain’t one of ’em you.”

  Giving him a final long glance filled with a heat he didn’t expect, she turned and walked away. Her firm, round ass sashayed in a slow shimmy he knew without a doubt was deliberate. Wildman didn’t know what she thought she understood, but she didn’t know him or any of the things he was capable of. Woman’s got no idea what kind of trouble she’s tempting her way. Not that he’d bring it, but a woman coming into a place like this with that kind of attitude would normally be looking for just one thing, and ordinarily, he’d be the first in line to take her up on the offer. Controlled passion—even with pain, if it earned pleasure—got him off, as long as everyone was consenting.

  Focus, asshole. There’s still a lot of work to do.

  Work wasn’t something he was a stranger to. Wildman’s previous clubs had been waist-deep in a lot of shitty things, making risky plays in deep waters that had gotten a lot of good men hurt. He liked to think he’d learned along the way, though, and being part of an organization now that didn’t just feel solid but was the definition of solid had become his reward. The trust he had in his brothers in IMC had been hard-won, through blood, steel, and iron, proving themselves again and again able to hold their own against all comers. His job, regardless of official station, was to make sure they always had the right tools at the right time to ensure complete success.

  He took a deep breath, blew it back out slow and steady, eyes pinned to the brunette as she accepted her room assignment. She tossed him a long sideways glance on her way up the stairs, feet traveling each step surely, even as her gaze mapped every inch of Wildman’s body. My job hasn’t a thing to do with her. With that internal reminder, he made his way to the office, where hopefully good news waited.

  ***

  Justine

  “Stop it.” Her hissed warning to herself was drowned out by the steaming water cascading over her naked body. “Jesus Christ, Justine, get a fucking grip.” Her ribs complained with a hard push of pain as she lifted her arms, hands filled with shampoo to work through her saturated hair. She methodically cleaned herself, paying close attention to each sore spot, separating matted locks of hair to better clean any underlying wounds, counting the bruises mottling her body.

  When she’d offered herself up in an effort to protect the other women from the guards, Justine had known what she was inviting and had thought she’d been ready for it all.

  She hadn’t been.

  Offering to fight the bored men might not have been the smartest thing she could have done, but it was the only way she’d seen in the moment to accomplish both of her goals. Keep them from hurting and raping the other women, and protect herself from rape as well. They’d known she’d stop fighting the moment either of those happened, and a woman who could hold her own against a man had been enough of a novelty she’d kept their attention.

  Just long enough for Wildman to ride to the rescue.

  Snorting, she lifted her face into the spray of water, letting the heat seep into her, driving back the terrified cold that had encompassed her for too long.

  This side trip will be interesting to be debriefed about.

  It was hard enough for the men in the department to understand the limited background she’d provided them. Her association with the Outriders and Rebels was held under need-to-know status, but how could she explain her relief and ease with being rescued by one of the clubs the government considered deadly criminals without exposing the belief she had that they held family sacrosanct?

  The existence of Wildman would need to be completely stripped from the equation. His name wouldn’t be passing her lips in mixed company—“mixed” meaning her and anyone in law enforcement.

  Gonna carry this one to my grave.

  The attraction was undeniable. And it clearly went both ways. The man hadn’t even tried to hide the lust he’d felt. And, even as he’d held himself in strict control, the way he’d stared at her throat meant only one thing.

  Dom.

  She knew it in her bones. Just as being submissive in the bedroom was baked into her psyche, being dominant held a primary place in his life. She’d bet his face was known at all reputable clubs within a hundred-mile radius of this house. If she inquired through her developed network of people in the lifestyle, she’d place an even more certain bet she’d have his name within an hour, adding the title of Master to the one he wore on his vest—Enforcer.

  “Stop it.” Stretching out a hand to turn off the water, she was shocked to find she no longer trembled. Justine let her shoulders sag against the tile wall as she forced her lungs to suck in one deep breath, then another, surprised again when there was little tension to release. Something about him makes me feel secure. Not safe, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, not through any fault of his or the other men downstairs. They’d been only solicitous and kind, firm in their resolution no one was to leave or contact family, but each denial had been made in a gentle way, taking into account the shredded emotions of the women doing the asking. In her gut, she knew how she felt wasn’t about the clubhouse and wasn’t tied to the men wearing a variety of club vests.

  It’s got to be him.

  Roughly toweling off her limbs and torso, she ignored the pangs from each bruise and cut, uncaring of her own comfort. Urgency filled her, and Justine was driven to find him. Had to see him again. He’ll make things okay. It didn’t matter he’d turned down her fumbling sexual advances in the trailer or that he’d stepped away from her touch downstairs. The shock of electricity that had flashed between them at every touch, the way his hand around her throat had been steadying, not frightening, those were all things she couldn’t ignore.

  If I only have this one chance with him, am I brave enough to take it?

&nbs
p; She stared into the eyes of her reflection, seeing a dark shadow of fear embedded there. No matter she felt protected, the repeated beatings had taken their toll. The captors had knocked her down again and again, until rising to her feet had been an act of sheer willpower. Each breath had fueled her determination to not see the youngest of the women raped or beaten. Every victory, no matter how minor, had reminded her the blows were a price she’d taken on and willingly paid. Now, with that behind her, looking at the bruised and battered woman in the mirror, she didn’t think anyone would begrudge her the chance at pushing back the vicious memories, even if for only a few minutes.

  Lifting her hand to push the fall of hair away from her face, Justine noted with rising anger how her fingers trembled again.

  If she found the right way to ask, she knew Wildman could help her push past the pain and into the steady space she needed so badly. Validation was what she sought, nothing more. Surely he wouldn’t turn her down a third time.

  If not now, then when?

  Chapter Eight

  Wildman

  “Go get some rest, brother.” Po’Boy gripped Wildman’s shoulder, giving him a rough shake back and forth. “You’re dead on your feet, and ain’t gonna be no good to us if your reflexes are slow tomorrow. Don’t be slow, man, be fast.”

  “Truth,” he responded, yawning wide, jaw cracking with the strain. “I’m gonna hit the hay here if my bed wasn’t given away in the mix of things. You headed home?”