Breaker
Author: Cox, Paula
Date: 2017-05-16T07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: ident; done11; JeanneP
Description: I wasn’t a hero and she didn’t ask to be saved. She's fought tooth and nail to survive. I take what I want. She didn't ask for a savior. And she doesn’t know that I saved her for myself. I f*ck and leave, simple and sweet. But when I saw her surrounded by those animals, something in me snapped. Watching over some chick ain’t the kind of thing I do. But Aimee was something else. A spitfire with a body begging to be tamed, and a smart mouth I wouldn’t mind wrapped around me. She knows I’m a monster. But this monster’s her only chance of survival out here. And I won’t stop until I make her MINE.

Table of Contents

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-three
- Epilogue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Breaker copyright @ 2017 by Paula Cox. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Get an exclusive FREE download when you subscribe to my newsletter!

http://dl.bookfunnel.com/96l98crlif

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BREAKER

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-three

Epilogue

DIRTY WHISPERS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

More Books by Paula Cox

BREAKER

Chapter One

Aimee

Run Aimee! Get the heck out of here! Move faster! Come on, girl, faster! They’re on your tail!

My black Chuck Taylor sneakers pound the cement floor of the run-down office building, chasing away the insistent but silent sound of my own thoughts and pushing me forward almost faster than I can manage.

My arms scramble through the rusted remains of metal desks and broken-in upholstered office chairs, and I eventually smack into something with a nasty thud. The noise of it ricochets off the walls and echoes out into the greater building, as the two men come up fast behind me.

In the pitch-blackness, it’s hard to see anything. All I can do is put my hands out in front and pray that I don’t hit something that will knock me out or break a bone.

This is the key to running away—protect my physical self first and worry about the logical and emotional self later.

Behind me, I hear the deep, baritone shouts of one of the men, “Hey! Stop running, you hear me? Stop, or we’re gonna shoot you in the head!”

That kind of threat ought to scare me trashless, and it would if I hadn’t heard it plenty of times before. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself speeding away from someone in almost total darkness; a leather backpack full of someone else’s stuff strapped behind me.

Tonight, my mark is Biggs Stellar. Intel from a friend of mine explained how his boys had pulled off this massive heist—jewels, guns, ammo, the works—on a pawnshop at the north end of the Colorado/Wyoming border. According to what I gathered from the police scanner reports I tapped into, Biggs’ guys had managed to pick off some high-quality stuff. But I didn’t give a rat’s rear about the guns, the ammo, or even most of the jewelry; all I cared about was the two-carat diamond necklace with a jade stone in the center. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but they are also a girl’s best way to buy a car and get out of this Podunk Colorado town before getting found out by the other marks she’s managed to rob blind.

Naturally, I did my homework before going all in. I figured out Biggs’ security, staked out the old office building in advance, and drew an escape map last night.

But none of that will matter much if I get caught.

My fatal flaw, I have to admit, was underestimating the cameras. Motorcycle clubs were sticklers for security, but really, they were more about bodies in the doorway than eyes in the sky. Biggs’ club seemed to have solved that little loophole by reactivating the building’s lenses when they came back loaded from their shop job.

I find my way to a doorway—at least, I think it’s a doorway. If memory serves, I should be on the receptionist side of the second floor. Obviously, Biggs wasn’t using it as such. He and the Grave Diggers, this idiotic motorcycle club of his, had taken over the building a few months ago without being caught or by padding the pockets of security and beat cops in the neighborhood.

The first floor and parking garage are where they handle the majority of their drug ops. Getting to that level was easy—all I had to do was pose as a druggie looking for a job moving goods around Denver. It wasn’t too hard to figure out their type—big boobs, short skirt, smeared makeup. Heck, I wouldn’t blame them; I looked totally innocent, plus stoned off my gourd.

No one had seemed to notice as I slipped off towards the second floor where I had learned there was a massive safe from when the office building was in use twenty years ago. If Biggs was going to hide the goods anywhere, it was there.

And I had been right.

Just as I’d walked into a corridor, in a patch of flickering industrial fluorescent light, I’d seen the men unloading. The guns went upstairs to the arsenal, petty cash to their accountants, and the rest went into the safe.

For a girl like me with two years of experience in pickpocketing, it had been nothing to follow the guards, empty the black bag where I thought they’d most likely keep the necklace, and slip back out unnoticed.

Everything had been going smoothly until I’d heard the first man call out to me. A second voice followed, calling on his walkie. I couldn’t really tell one voice from the other, but I can clearly hear both men screaming to Biggs, “We got ourselves a thief, Biggs!”

Static, then another voice, “Some chick! She’s making off with some jewels from the sting!”

They’d updated their leader with my position, which meant it wouldn’t be too long before they bounded in through this door and surrounded me from both sides.

Now, I need an escape that they won’t expect, and so the stairs are an obvious choice. No robber takes an elevator, right?

So, I blow by the stairwell and instead press the white button frantically, my hands beginning to shake. The goons chasing me are probably only ten seconds behind me as I hear them crash through the office space the same way I had less than a minute ago.

The doors open without a ding and a rumble, and I slip inside the elevator.

I select the top floor knowing that’s the den. The guys on break always sleep on the highest floor. With my back pressed against the mirrored wall, I close my eyes and dream of somewhere far from here. I dream of the island where I was born, and for a moment, despite my terror, I can feel the warm, golden sand squish between my toes and the humid air lap against my face.

And then the doors reopen.

Suddenly, I am staring at a row of rooms–old office meeting spaces, with bunks and makeshift beds. Dirty mattresses are piled up next to one another while a few men sit, dangling their legs over the side. The smell of smoke and liquor is overwhelming, and the air seems to be in this permanent haze of chemicals. I want to kick myself for thinking that this was the best option out of here.

I haven’t just found the Gravedigger’s den; I’ve found their lair.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming, Biggs. What does the girl look like? What floor was she last on?”

I spin out of the way, bounding into one of the empty rooms as a man dressed in black passes by me. He clutches a walkie as he massages his forehead and eyes. Despite the urgency, he’s not moving fast enough to notice my shadow sticking out of the door.

He’s followed by a few more men. They talk about the “girl intruder” who managed to outrun someone named Spot or Spud.

I carve a wicked grin as someone mutters, “Incredible, that girl has some balls to break in and steal our trash right from under us…”

But my self-satisfaction doesn’t last long enough. Something inside of me—that gut feeling that I can never ignore—yells to get down and hide.

Danger was coming, and I could feel it with every ripple of my skin.

I survey the room quickly, noticing the metal bed frame and the hanging burgundy sheet. It is just high enough for a skinny thing like me to fit under like a kid on the run from their parents.

Without thinking, I drop to my knees and slither under it. I pull the rest of the sheet down around the bottom, just enough so that it covers me from the side of the open door.

My instinct doesn’t fail me at all. It’s just after I am done and settled in that I hear the husky voice of a man command a set of bare, high-heeled legs, “Lay down, girl. I don’t have much time tonight.”

A black t-shirt falls to the floor followed by the heavy, metal belt buckle and a pair of beat-up jeans.

“Oh come on, Breaker. You don’t even have time for me to play…” The faceless woman drops to her knees before him, resting on his pile of clothes. Her long hands with black painted nails caress his tattooed calves before heading straight up.

I hear him spurt and sputter like a car not wanting to start before she falls back and away from him, just barely catching herself with her hands.

“Did I stutter, Monica?” the man growls. “I don’t have time for anything but a quick, hard idiot. The club pays you to do exactly what I want, and nothing more, so get up onto that bed and spread those long legs of yours.”

Goodness.

I clutch the strings of my tank top to my chest before biting into the fabric. This guy is downright barbaric.

Still, the girl stands up carefully on those red stiletto heels, and a black, strapless dress cascades down her splotchy legs followed by a thin lace thong and a bralette. She walks backward towards the bed until her legs are so close to my face that I can make out the small tattoo on her ankle—a blue skull against two black shovels.

Just as the man said, she’s part of the club, a branded employee.

Her legs lift up and are soon replaced by the man’s. His tattoos are of fire, gears, and road marks.

I stick my head out, just enough to get a peek at his back. Long black lines trace up his impressive body. A wave of black hair falls in front of his shadowed face before he plows into the girl with a cock that should be a weapon in itself.

I scurry back quickly to the protection of the rocking bed. While I’m no prude, the last thing I want to see are two strangers going at it like drugged up little rabbits. The horrible squeaking of the platform bed mashing up against the walls is a distraction, but I need to focus now. I can’t spend these precious moments thinking about the strangers above me screaming out like mad.

I have to find a way out of this mess.

I put my hands into the pockets of my jean skirt. The necklace is still there. All hasn’t been lost yet. I remind myself of the price I could fetch for it—10k, at least— and I am centered again. There’s nothing that motivates me more than the smell, taste, and feel of money. I live for it. And it was the one thing that might get me out of here.

I look to the side, away from the still-open door. There’s a comforter lying on the floor that I could crawl to without being spotted. The man above me isn’t entirely on the bed and shouldn’t be able to peer over that side. If I could crawl under it, as flat as a pancake, I could make it to the far end of the bed and then dash out as fast as I came in. Besides, it’s not like he’d chase me naked through the hallways. And if I had any chance of making it out of here, it is when this guy is distracted by a pair of fake belly and an orange spray tan.

My dad always said that hesitating only brings danger. That’s been engraved in my mind since I was a little girl back in Hawaii. So I bite my bottom lip and go for it without another thought.

I slither under the musky smelling blanket, covering my entire body in the thin cotton material until I’m completely left in the dark. I use my hands to move forward, or at least I think it’s forward until I feel the wall to the side of me. I inch again and again until I know I am at my finish line.

It’s now or never…

Suddenly something firm puts pressure on my ankle. It wraps itself around my skin and bone and then yanks hard.

I am swiftly aware that I can’t hear the man grunting or the girl crying out the word “Breaker” anymore. The lights are on as well, and as I’m pulled out from under the blanket, I look up and not only see the naked man with the still erect big cock with his hands across his chest, but also a room full of men staring me down like wild wolves.

Garbage.

“Well, well, well… I think we found our girl.”

A boot crushes into my back so that I fall chest first to the ground. The man holding my foot kneels beside me. He brushes away a tuft of my brown hair as he whispers into my ear, “Did you really think you could steal from me, girly?”

A long hand runs its length down my body until it finds the front pocket of my skirt. He pulls the necklace free and holds it up to his men.

“What a dumb jerk,” someone mutters while the rest of the men nod their heads and laugh in agreement.

I can’t say that I blame them. I’ve never been caught before, at least, not like this—not in a situation that would probably end up with my head separated from my body.

“Do you know what we do with girls like you who steal from us?” the man taunts as he presses his bearded face into my cheek. I can taste the chewed tobacco on his lips and see the puckered scars dotting his cheeks. “We string them up so we can do whatever the heck we want with them!”

The guys all shout again in celebration. It’s as if I was the prized trophy of some huge football match. He lets go of me momentarily so that another, larger man can take me away through the mob of men sneering at me and clicking their tongues.

I don’t bother struggling. I just keep my head down and my mouth shut. I have a tendency of talking trash and digging holes with my words, but I couldn’t risk that tonight. Instead, I try to observe everything around me.

I count the rooms we pass, the paces we take, the turns from the elevator. I have to memorize these things if I have any hope of making it out.

Biggs, or at least the guy who seems to be in charge, calls out to the naked man, “Get yourself dressed. Ain’t no time for pussy tonight, Breaker.”

I faintly hear the girl protest, but she probably knows how this goes. Duty calls, even mid-orgasm. There’s the scrape of the belt buckle on the floor as he follows a few feet behind me.

Together, the four of us march towards the largest room on the floor. It’s an odd conference room where they’ve left the original plywood table and some leather rolling desk chairs in its place. The center of the u-shaped table is empty except for a metal folding chair that looks as if it’s been through some war or a bombing.

The man places me in the seat, the metal lurching under my weight. He disappears and reappears just as fast, a rope in his hand. The two others take a seat as they watch him bind my arms behind me, just tight enough that my shoulders feel as if they are about to be yanked out of the sockets. He moves to my ankles, kneeling before me. He doesn’t even hide getting a peak of the space between my thighs as he attaches me to the chair.

My blood boils as he takes his time, stroking my calf as he does his work. I don’t even think. It just falls out of me, “Pervert!” I shout and spit on him

He wipes away the clear pool of saliva from his spiky brown hair and smiles up at me as if nothing has happened. My stomach crashes in waves as he pulls away and I am staring straight at Biggs and the man I heard him call Breaker.

“Who the heck are you?” Biggs asks, not even bothering with the small talk I would expect.

“I’m nobody,” I reply. “I’m just a girl who needed some money. I heard you robbed the Everly Pawn Shop, so I took what I needed.” I motion my head towards the sparkling necklace laid out in front of Biggs’ spot at the conference table.

The man from the bedroom looks me over. He leans back in his chair as he rubs the tip of his stubbly chin with his two forefingers. After a few seconds, he exclaims, “I know who she is, boss. She’s that girl we were talking about the other day. Annie or Angie…”

“Aimee,” I correct them, “Aimee Palakiko.”

Biggs practically ignores me as he turns to Breaker. “This is the girl that robbed Pensky’s men the other day? No way. She doesn’t look like she knows how to change a tire let alone rob a guy.”

“She robbed you,” Breaker points out, with a smile.

I snort in laughter. The two have a point. I certainly don’t look like I could possibly steal anything from criminal masterminds with my nearly five foot one frame and my schoolgirl denim skirt. Heck, even my long, pin-straight brown hair look more like it should be in pigtails than tucked behind a ski mask. But this is the best part of lifting from pigs like Biggs and the rest of them.

They never expect little ol’ helpless me.

I force myself to smother the rest of my laughter. Messing with a guy’s ego is always dangerous, but never as much as when it’s a man like Biggs whose life revolves around being top dog.

Instead, I add, “Yeah, I robbed Pensky, Vice, and a few shops in town. It’s what I do when I’m on the run.”

“You don’t look like a runaway,” Breaker says, his dark eyebrow hitched skyward.

“I didn’t look like a robber to you either, but here I am… exceeding expectations.”

Biggs pounds his fist on the table and stands. His voice raises as he shouts, “I don’t have time for this! Whoever the heck you are, you’re going to pay for messing with me.”

He charges around the side of the desk, coming up from behind me. I feel something cold up against my neck as he pulls my hair back. I stare up at him as he pulls back the blade so that I can see it. “You’ll know not to mess with me from now on, girl,” he whispers.

I close my eyes and think about all the running I’ve been doing for the last few years. Now, it seems like death has finally caught up with me.

Chapter Two

Breaker

“Aimee Palakiko…” I whisper to myself as I watch Biggs hover over the girl with the knife in his hands. I’ve watched him do this a thousand times before. I wasn’t about to see anything different now. Still, her name was stuck to my lips. “Aimee Palakiko?”

“What the heck are you muttering over there, Breaker?” Biggs looks at me as if I’ve lost my dang mind. Maybe I have. My business isn’t about saving anyone’s life here. But that girl in her innocent little jean skirt and her perky little belly looks more significant than the usual character sitting in that metal folding chair.

And then, like lightning, it dawns on me.

I stand up and charge over towards them, both staring at me with piercing eyes. I kneel before the girl, gazing directly into her eyes. “You said you robbed Vice. How the heck did you pull that off, lady?”

Biggs’ squinty eyes peer down at me before releasing the blade against her throat.

She coughs, a strange impulse you get when you think you’re about to be slit from ear to ear, and sits up a little straighter. She purses her ruby red lips together before smirking. “I don’t give away my secrets.” She pauses, her arms struggling to shrug while being bound. “I know how to get what I want. I am very good at what I do.”

Thinking back to the first time I heard her name, it was when Crazy Ezra was talking about this lady who was daring to approach men at the hotels outside Cheyenne and Fort Collins.

“Word is that you seduce rich men at bars. You play the whore and take their money before they even get their pants down. You’re out of there so fast that no one can catch you.”

“Then you have heard of me,” Aimee replies. “It’s good to know that word gets around. Though I guess I’d rather be anonymous with my line of work.”

“Who the heck cares?” Biggs cuts in. He was always a lug of a guy who couldn’t see past the words on the page. He leans back on the table, the knife still wrapped in his fingers. In addition to being nutty, he’s not known for his patience.

“I think we should care, boss.” I stand up and join Biggs at his place. It’s a maneuver I’ve used with him ever since I joined the Gravediggers. It’s a sign of respect to join a man at his place. So I stand beside him as I offer up a solution that could benefit the club. “We both know that this chick is hot. She’d score a good price if we pimped her. Tan, good rack, lean legs—she’d be our top moneymaker. We talked about getting more into the business if we stayed in town or moved closer to Denver.”

“You don’t think that would actually work, do you? You boys can’t be that stupid.” Aimee leans her head over to look at us. Her long, brown hair floats down the back of the metal chair where dried blood has stained the rust.

“Shut the heck up, girl.” Biggs reaches over and smacks the back of the chair with the boot, so she flies forward. The chair falls to the ground with a loud metallic crash.

She rolls her face to the side in defiance, staring us down with those steely green orbs of hers.

“She wouldn’t be good for trash in bed. It’ll take the whole club to break her in.”

“We could do that,” I say as I try to hide my annoyance. “But then again, she might be of better use to us. At the last meeting, we were talking about the NARCO division being on our back and our police contacts falling through. If that’s true, the Feds will be on us any day now, and we’ll be on the move. We’re going to need money for that—more than just the pawnshop deal netted us in petty cash.”

“So, what are you suggesting, Breaker? How the heck is this jerk supposed to help us?”

“We let her do her thing. We put her to work doing jobs with the other clubs in town. We know that the Firestorm Riders and the Eastside Boys are doing hits on businesses this week, and we’ve got Intel on a few others—when and where they do their deposit drops. We send her out and make her earn her keep.”

Aimee suddenly laughs as she shifts around on the floor, clearly uncomfortable. “You think I’m going to go to work for you? You gotta be kidding me! I’m an independent contractor here. You can’t buy me.”

I squat down beside her, my face only inches from hers. “You’ll work for us because it’s the only thing keeping you from being put out on the streets with our brand on your backside or that knife dug straight through that skinny little neck of yours. Do I make myself clear?”

While she digs daggers into my chest with her eyes, I spin the chair back upright so that she faces Biggs and myself.

“And what if she messes up? She’ll get us in trouble with another club, and we’re not ready to deal with an ambush. There’s a reason why we’re not settled in. And how do we know she isn’t already working for Vice or Diego or any of those other suckers looking to move in on us? This could all be part of the plan—send a leggy chick with a death wish to get caught so she can bring back info on us.”

Biggs’ has a point. While he may not be great at the big picture stuff, he knows his risk management. He always seemed to be one step ahead of the impending doom, always alert for signs of someone watching or following us, and always ready to make a move when we needed to get on the road. It wasn’t the best way to run a solid, established club. But for nomads like the Gravediggers, it kept us alive against all the odds.

“If she messes up,” I say, my back turned to the girl, “then she dies. We don’t go in and save her. She’s just a casualty, and we go about our plans like usual. If anyone asks, we can be honest and say she tried to pull the same trash with us and she managed to escape. Done.”

“Fine. But if she’s a spy, you’re going to be dang well responsible for it, Breaker.”

“What does that mean? I wasn’t the one that let her stiff me out of a diamond necklace. She’s not my responsibility. I don’t babysit.”

“Good!” Aimee chimes in with that smug little voice of hers. “We’re in agreement. I don’t need one either because I’m not working for you.”

I turn back towards her and roar with frustration, “You will do what we tell you to do! Do you understand me?”

Biggs is back on his feet as well, the knife out and ready. She slithers back into her chair, her head bowed again.

Biggs spins, holding that knife up to me now. “This is your idea, Breaker, and you’re going to be the one that watches her and makes sure she doesn’t pull any stupid trash.” I don’t have time to protest before he adds, “You’re off enforcer duty. Henry can pick that up for you. Starting tomorrow, you and this chick are making some money for the club.”

I don’t even bother to argue again. Biggs’ words are the law around here, and I’m not in a good enough standing as it is to play the fool. The only reason why I’ve got the enforcer title is because the man I was an apprentice to ended up in the hospital with a broken neck after a skid on a patch of black ice. I wouldn’t have gotten promoted with my loose lips and tendency to not always follow the rules.

And for his part, Biggs doesn’t repeat it either. He snaps his fingers and his guy, Louie, who has been a ghost up against the back wall until this point, opens the door for him as he strides out.

Just like that, and I’m left with my ward in an icy silence that’s almost as horrible as her dead stare.

“Can you at least untie me?” Aimee moves her leg slightly so that it kicks up against the tied rope.

I groan before slinking down in front of her. Neither fast nor slow, I untie the binds while willing myself not to say anything about the old, pink scars around her knees and thighs or the green bruises dotting her arms. They disappear out of my sight as she shakes her muscles out.

“If I’m supposed to stay here,” she says, “can you at least get me a blanket and some supplies?”

“I’m not your slave,” I bark. “You can live without a blanket and a toothbrush for the night.”

“So I’m supposed to just sit in here until tomorrow when you force me out on the streets to rob one of your rivals? How is that meant to work?”

“It’s going to work because if it doesn’t, you’re going to kill us both. So I suggest you turn off the lights and go to bed.”

“On the floor? Here? I don’t even get a real room?”

She continues to protest as I walk off, turning off the light switch for her. The door shuts behind me, and I use the long chain I’ve used in the past to keep men in and out to lock her in. As I walk away, I hear her fists banging up against the glass windows as she screams.

“Hey! Breaker! You can’t leave me here! BREAKER!”

***

Aimee’s in the same spot when I go to get her the next morning. Her face is plastered up against the windows, looking out at anyone that walks on by. When she spots me, she completely transforms. It’s almost sinister how her face twists from hopeless to determined.

Right then and there, I somehow know that this isn’t going to be the easy workday I have in mind.

I give her a few minutes to freshen up with the borrowed outfit and supplies kit I made Monica put together last night after we finished our meeting. She and the rest of the girls we claim weren’t exactly thrilled to be playing mother hen for some unknown chick, but they managed to come up with what she should need to get her through a day or two with us. I figure it’s enough before Briggs either cuts her loose, or I get instructions to drop her.

“Who is the mark?” Aimee asks as she chomps down on the browning banana and lukewarm oatmeal.

Biggs and I had spent a good portion of last night discussing this. I had wanted her to go after someone easy. There were a few new clubs trying to get in the Denver scene that would have been easy pickings for her, but Biggs wanted to test her skills out for good.

“What’s there to lose?” he’d said as he chugged down another beer. “The jerk gets caught, and she learns her lesson for good.”

Aimee’s about as thrilled as I am with his final decision on who she’ll target when I break the news to her.

“Vice? The Devil’s Fighters?” she cries out loud. “I’ve done him already, and each time was planned out meticulously. I can’t just go in and hit the club blind. It’s suicide. I won’t do it.”

“You have to do it. I’ll have to kill you if you don’t.” I place a notebook before her, opening a page of handwritten notes some of my boys have made over the last few months we’ve been in town.

“Look. This is everything we’ve got on the Devil’s Fighters,” I say, pointing to the underlined print. “Right now, we know they do a pass off every four days, by the William Tell Bank and Loan, to a man named Jacob Anderson. He’s a patsy—takes a chunk of whatever he deposits for them. Most days, they don’t even monitor Anderson. They just leave him with the cash. He shouldn’t be that hard to get to.”

Aimee puts down her spoon and leans back in the leather office chair, rocking herself back and forth. A line above her eyes furrows as she uses a pen to trace over the notes she’s reading.

After a minute, she gives in. “Fine. Let’s go. This says they do the drop at 10:30, and it’s already 10:15.”

She grabs the thin leather jacket the girls have loaned to her and stands by the door, waiting for me to follow. For someone so reluctant moments ago, her calm demeanor is almost unnerving. I try not to let it rattle me as I escort her down to the basement parking garage, past the rows of bikes, and to one of our unmarked vans.

We drive in silence. There isn’t much to say other than the basics. I tell her the spot I’ll be parking—close enough to track her, but far enough to not be noticeable, and I hand her the burner phone with only my number programmed in just in case she needs to get a hold of me. She stuffs the phone inside the pocket of the oversized jacket and stares ahead.

We spot Jacob Anderson almost instantly. The description the boys gave was spot on—white male, dark glasses, dressed in a blue or black suit with a gray tie. He looks like the type that would always be at the bank.

Aimee has me pull over in the ATM lane of the bank’s drive-thru so she can sneak out without being suspicious. I pretend to fumble with my credit cards before driving off with fake frustration.

I nab a spot behind the bushes, out of line from the bank’s cameras. From here, I watch as she sits down on a bus bench and opens up the discards of a newspaper someone had left behind. She lifts up her skirt a little and adjusts her top. She even tousles her hair with the palm of her hand, giving her that island princess look that must win her over with jerk guys who can’t see past belly and rear.

On the dot, a pair of motorcyclists wearing Devil’s patches drive up towards the bank’s parking lot. The men circle a few times before pulling into an empty spot next to Anderson.

Aimee doesn’t bother looking behind her at the action. She is calm as can be as she carries on reading. The motorcyclists’ drive off minutes later having been so quick at the pass-off that I barely register it’s been done.

When I turn back to Aimee, she’s gone, completely disappeared. I panic as I turn the van back on and dial up the burner number. But then she reappears, right around the corner of the bank. Almost naturally, she slams her body into his so that she falls backward, stumbling onto the ground. I watch as he moves the small package of money to his back pocket as he offers her his other hand. She rises to her feet only to fall on him again, and she laughs with a full, open mouth and her head back.

Aimee’s hand rests on his arm, reassuring him that she’s all right. The gentle massage works like a charm. While she’s soothing him, stroking his ego, he doesn’t even notice her hand wrapped around the backside of him, grabbing the yellow package of money. She makes an excuse, pointing towards the incoming bus before darting away with the club’s cash in hand.

I dial her phone as she hops on the bus and it speeds off in the other direction, but there’s no reply. I try again as I start the van up, hoping to catch her at the next bus stop. Still, no answer. She doesn’t get off at the next stop or the one after that. I pull in front of the bus with enough time to board. As the driver screams at me to pay, I run through the length of the bus, calling her name. But every seat is empty.

My pulse quickens as I realize what’s happened. Aimee hasn’t just conned the Devil’s club worker—she’s managed to pull one over on me as well.

Chapter Three

Aimee

I really, really despise running. Back in high school, my parents forced me to be in track, and I spent most of the time plotting ways to get out of it. I mean, no one looks good when they’re running—not even those tiny-waisted, WASP-y girls in short-shorts passing batons to the next girl with the high ponytail and uber-tight sports bra. But even beyond the aesthetics of it, running just hurts.

Today is no exception. The outfit those motorcycle chicks lent me isn’t that conducive to running. The shirt, if that’s what you can even call a thin little thing like this, has beading threaded along the neckline that’s chafing my sweating skin, and the fake leather pants aren’t exactly up to the challenge of running at faster than a fifteen minute per mile pace. Thank goodness I still have my sneakers on from last night.

My feet can’t move fast enough away from the park bench, past the cars in the bank’s parking lot, and towards the neighborhood streets. I figure I have about five to ten minutes until that guy Breaker catches on that I didn’t actually get on the bus. He’ll follow me to one, maybe two, bus stops, with each being about five blocks a piece. That’s a good head start for most, but there’s a factor I can’t forget—Breaker’s a hunter.

All these motorcycle guys are—whether they are by the real sense of the word or they have been trained up to be an urban version, with their bikes, guns, and street smarts. Breaker looks like he could be both. There’s something in the richness of his skin and the hawk-like features that make it seem to me that he walks on the earth as if he owns it. It’s the same thing that runs through Polynesian girls like me, and I’m a blasted good hunter.

So I count the minutes when I don’t hear the roar of a motorcycle to be absolutely sacred. I can’t take them for granted. I sprint through the blocks, searching for somewhere to hide. I could break into a house, but this bank job has me in an area that appears as if every home would have some fancy, high-tech alarm system with a direct line to the cops. Frankly, I’m surprised neighborhood watch hasn’t been trailing my rear with these manicured bushes and open bay windows.

Eventually, I find the worst home on the block. It has some overgrown weeds and a wrought iron fence instead one of those white picket versions. It’s the perfect height for me to jump over, but I make a crucial error—dogs. As soon as I make it over, I am swarmed by three large, barking mutts chained to a tree with only thin cables. They are just out of arms throw of me, but that doesn’t make the situation any less frightening.

Over the sound of their barking, I hear what sounds like thunder, but I know better.

He’s here.

At least, he’s near my block. With the dogs practically breathing down my neck, I have no other option but to try to bail. As I take off on the run again, my jacket, the leather rhinestone monstrosity those chicks lent to me, gets stuck in one of the holes in the fence. I’m basically strapped to the bars with nowhere to go.

I yank desperately at the piece of cloth, praying that it will come free. I even use my mouth to try to get the stuck part to budge, but there’s nothing. I have to leave it behind. I take the money out of the pocket and pull my arms out of the coat. I leave the skeleton behind, hoping it won’t lead back to me. Now plastered against the wall of the brick home, I shimmy my way around the dog’s perimeter and through to the other side of the home.

I hop the fence again, this time making around the back of another house, but as I turn the corner, a floodlight flashes on. My mind goes haywire as I look for some way out of this. In this area, I am completely exposed, and the sound of the roaming motorcycle is only getting closer.

Luckily, I spy the house’s storm doors. There’s a metal padlock attached, but I’ve been busting those open since I was old enough to steal a bike.

Every lock has a weak point, just like humans. It takes time and experience to know how to find it, but once you get the hang of it, you can just about bust any lock wide open. This one doesn’t lock in properly. It doesn’t snap like others its size usually do. I only need the little hairpin stuck in my hair to break it free within minutes.

After I drop myself into the storm cellar, I close the door behind me. The cool, damp ground is actually a relief after all that running. I slump down against a storage container, pulling my knees to my chest. I try to make myself alert, listening to the sound of the leaves, the road nearby, the wind blowing the boarded door against the hinges, but there’s nothing. FinalIy, my eyes close and my mind wanders as I countdown the minutes that pass….

Idiot!

Two hands haul me up onto my feet. My body swings wildly up against the wall of the cellar, but it’s too dark to make out anything but outlines. A head towers over me, nearly a full foot above, and an arm comes crashing down to my chest.

“Give me the money, Aimee!”

Breaker doesn’t even bother waiting for me to respond. He dives his filthy hands into my back pocket, pulling out the wad of cash.

“You think this is some joke? You want to get us killed?”

He makes it clear that he doesn’t want me to answer. His knee pushes into my hips and up against my pubic bone. His warm, strong body presses against mine so that I’m not shivering anymore. I try to push him away, to get him out of my space, but he grabs my wrists and pounds them again into the wall just above my head. He breaths in against my neck, sending goosebumps down my spine.

“I should kill you right now. Any other guy would kill you.”

“Then do it,” I spit back; too angry at being bound again to care. “You think I don’t know that that is what your boss has in mind for me when he finds out I busted out of there? How about when the Devil’s discover the money is gone and they go looking at tapes or for evidence? I’m a walking death wish. Just get it over with.”

I’m not suicidal. If anything, I’m a survivor. I make a living on living through the unthinkable. Part of it is gut instinct, and something tells me, by the way that Breaker holds me to this wall like I’m about to take off again, that he doesn’t exactly want to make a bloody mess. I soften my body, letting him know that I’m not the one fighting here.

I’m all his.

He grits his teeth, grinding them so loud that I can hear it. The arm in my chest pushes down even harder before finally he pulls away with a yell of frustration.

“What the heck were you thinking, Aimee?”

I rub my hands against the imprint he’s made in my skin, trying to soothe the soreness away. For some reason, his touch is like fire, sending ripples of both chills and heat through my veins.

“I thought it was pretty obvious,” I answer once I’ve recovered somewhat. “I was running away from you. You really think I want to work for Biggs and your sorry rear, two-bit motorcycle club?”

He runs at me again, pushing me even harder into the dust and grimy wall. The shelf next to us wavers back and forth with the vibrations. I bite my lip; knowing that this is the time I should shut up and just let it go. Sometimes you have to let a man think he has control over you, no matter the cost.

“Don’t you ever say another word against the Gravediggers, Aimee. We’re the ones protecting you now—keeping that pretty face alive. Don’t forget that you robbed big Vice and the Devil’s and they’re not as… lenient as we are. The cops wouldn’t be either if they got word you robbed a decent customer outside that bank.”

He pulls away, running his hands through his thick wave of hair. He zips his jacket up to the collar, concealing the lower half of his face. But still, those eyebrows arch slightly as he says muffled through the fabric, “You ready to go back or do I need to carry you out of here?”

I don’t bother answering. With a huff, I sweep past him and up the ladder. I try not to notice how bad my hands shake at each rung or how he follows me so closely I almost sit on his shoulders. I just try to keep my eyes straight, looking for any other opportunity to take off or call for help. Though Breaker was right—even if I managed to find some good Samaritan to call in a suspicious guy trailing an innocent girl like me, I doubt it would matter when the cops called in my info and found a line of warrants about a mile long.

Breaker takes my arm, pulling me close to him as he leads me back up the block. We retrieve that jacket still stuck to the fence.

“It was your giveaway,” Breaker notes with a slick smile that I really want to slap off his face. His bike is parked just by the fence where the dogs still bark and howl at anyone even remotely in the vicinity of the house.

He hands me his helmet as he ties a bandana around his head and puts on a dark, oversized pair of aviator shades. Keeping a low profile seems to be a huge priority for a man like Breaker. For a moment, I’m tempted to ask why all the precautions, but I could guess. A guy like him working for Biggs as an enforcer has a past as dark as mine. Why bother getting the details?

He doesn’t even give me time to wrap my arms around his thick waist before we take off with a long lurch forward and back. Riding motorcycles was never my thing. I once had a boyfriend who owned one, but how he drove made me sick to my stomach. At least Breaker is much smoother with his turns. Even though he is relentless on his speed and constantly running signs and lights as we head back towards the old office building,

I half expect him to dart off the bike and find Biggs to rat me out. But he takes the helmet off my head, picking at the hairs stuck in the vinyl straps before walking side-by-side with me through the office. As we pass a load of men standing around counting packages, I can’t help but ask, “Why all of these boxes? Where are they headed?”

Breaker shrugs his shoulders. “With us. We don’t stick around places very long. I supposed Biggs got the Intel that it was time to head out. He’s been talking about that for a while now.”

“Goodness. All these guys go? That seems like a pain in the rear. How many states have you guys ridden through?”

Curiosity got the cat, Aimee…

“Seven. Mostly in the plains. They picked me up in South Dakota in Sturgis a few years ago. I was looking to join up with a club, but I didn’t like the local scene. Not much was going on. I hitched a ride with Biggs and my friend Henry, and the rest was history. We hit Montana, Nebraska, Idaho, Wyoming, Utah, and North Dakota before making it down to Colorado. Biggs wanted a more urban experience and Denver’s really as urban as you can get in these parts.”

He’s listed off states even I haven’t seen yet, and my count is at twenty-nine. Then again, I don’t make it a business to stake out a territory or lay down a real business. I also don’t pick up strays like Breaker either. I just stay long enough to see the sites, make some trouble, have a good meal or two, and then get the heck out of there. Though it’s looking like Colorado was going to be the last place I could really be an independent nomad.

We head back to that conference room where I was previously held. Biggs is inside, ruffling through my clothes when we walk in. He doesn’t even bother to stop when he sees us. He just mutters as he passes over my skirt.

“Did you get the cash, Aimee? I heard the Devils were riding that square block for hours afterward.”

I look up towards Breaker who has transformed into a stone-faced statue. Every part of his body is tense—from his feet plastered together to his raised chin jutting out over his chest. I stand a foot ahead of him.

“Yes. Breaker has the cash,” I reply.

Biggs sits down as he lets out a long howl of laughter. “Goodness. You say it like it was a walk in the park.” He smiles up at Breaker. “How much did this dame take those jerks for?”

Breaker drops the wad of cash onto the table. “It looks like a couple thousand, Biggs.”

“And were they one the wiser or did she catch them totally off guard?”

“Off guard.” He side eyes me as he adds, “Aimee was pretty professional about it. I didn’t even see her put the drop on him.”

“Really?” Biggs strokes his graying, dirty beard with his fingers. “Then I guess this makes my decision easier. Breaker will take you wherever you call home tonight. Pack up a backpack. We leave tomorrow morning.”

“What?” I leave my guard, approaching Biggs. “What do you mean ‘we leave tomorrow?’ I’m not going anywhere with you all. I held up my end of the bargain. I worked for you, and now you have to let me go.”

He sits down in one of the rolling chairs, pulling himself into the center of the u-shaped table. “I never said how long you’d be under my employment, girl. You do what I say, and you come when I say come. And I’m telling you that you’re on the road with us.”

“But… but… where?” I look back towards Breaker. He had mentioned they were nomads, roaming the state looking for territory, odd jobs, and a place to call home for months at a time, but he never cleared up just how far they went when they did hit the road.

“Texas.” He looks straight at Breaker when he adds, “It’s gonna be a long run. Breaker will be your companion; making sure you stay put and get your work done. When we get to Dallas, we can talk about next steps.”

“This isn’t fair!” I shout, yet know it won’t do me any good. “I am not one of your guys. You can’t command me to follow you!”

Biggs suddenly gets to his feet, his hands firm on the top of the table. He leans over me, totally engulfing my body. “You dare to steal from me and think there won’t be no consequences for that? You were the one that got yourself in this mess. You’re the one who will have to pay the price. And yes, when I command you, you listen, or I’ll have Breaker shoot your head off!”

I don’t register anything else that happens in that room. Breaker and Biggs talk to one another for a while, each going back and forth on logistics. But it’s all white noise to me over the rumbling of my worries. I had tried to escape twice and failed both times, and now I was being forced into a cross-country road trip on the back of a motorcycle with Breaker. Along the way, I would be working jobs for a man who is so deranged he goes from laughing to threatening me in minutes.

I’m still in that fog as we approach the door of my hotel room. My hands shake so much that Breaker has to insert the key card for me.

“Be quick,” he says with a dispassionate look. “We don’t have much time before we need to get back and help with the load out.”

I take the old backpack from his hands and take it into the bedroom area. As I unzip it, the smell of cigarette smoke and pot fills the room. My stomach hurls.

“Is there any other backpack I can use? This one…” I cut myself off as I notice Breaker handling a few of my pictures I have taped to the hotel wall. He eyes the one with fifteen-year-old me leaning up against my older sister, Eva. She holds me tight as we balance on the deck of our parent’s boat. She’s in her wedding dress. It was the last time I saw her.

“Your twin?” Breaker breaks the silence.

“No. My older sister.” I grab the picture out of his hand and stuff it into the front pocket of the bag. “That one is my mom and dad.” He hands me the other picture of my parents and me at my middle school graduation. They beam with pride as they smile into the camera. I look away towards something else, completely ignoring them at that moment.

“I wouldn’t figure you’re the type of girl to have a family. It doesn’t seem like it would be your thing.”

“It isn’t my thing,” I snap back. “There’s a reason why I’m not in Hawaii right now. I’m an orphan. I’ve been kicked out of every house I’ve ever been in.”

I have no idea why I decide to lie to Breaker. It’s not like he matters to me. Still, I swallow the mass growing in my throat, praying it doesn’t jump up any higher.

As if he can read my mind, Breaker eases off. “Don’t worry, kid. Families are overrated. Where you’re going, families like that don’t exist.”

I place the remaining picture back with the others and zip the rest of the pack up tight. There wasn’t much left of this hotel room to care about besides a few pieces of clothing and shoes. After taking one last look at all that I am about to leave behind again, I shut the door behind us.

Breaker was right about that last part. Wherever the Gravediggers were going to take me was certainly no place my parents and sister would want to be.

Chapter Four

Breaker

Goodness, Aimee sucks at riding. I’ve taken plenty of chicks out on their first rides, but none of them was ever as terrible as she is. And I mean, it’s not like they have to do much work. Driving takes so much more out of a man than sitting in the jerk seat trying to hold on. Yet when she gets off the bike at one of the many pit stops I have to make, she looks as if she’s about to fall to pieces.

I wait outside the bathroom. We’re only about seven hours in. We should be nine, but she’s slowing us down with demanding bathroom breaks and extra drinks of water. To my surprise, Biggs is just going along with it while the rest of the men wait outside rolling their eyes and blowing their smoke directly at me.

“Real piece of work,” Henry says as he leans up against the metal pole next to me. “What the heck was Biggs thinking taking on a princess like her? And why won’t he let her ride next to the other jerks in the ammo van?”

I shrug and smirk at him. Biggs had squashed the rumors around camp about her being an expert thief.

“Precious cargo, apparently,” I tell him, nodding. “You know I love being assigned babysitting duty.”

“Yeah, that’s tough. You keep an eye out for that one. She’s going to cause trouble when you least expect it.” He points towards a group of our youngest, non-patch riders. They’re the rookies that haven’t yet proven themselves worthy of full Gravedigger status. Like me, they are mostly strays from the road—guys who could give everything up to join some wandering motorcycle club.

“What do you mean? What are you hearing?”

Henry was always one step ahead of the rest. He actually enjoys the rumors and intrigue—the side of the club I couldn’t give a hoot about it. Though I will admit, it comes in handy when you’ve got a friend like him on the inside that could clue you in.

“You see that guy, the one with the blonde hair and blue eyes. He looks like he’s out of some fairy boy band. Word has it that before we left last night, he found your chick in her room and propositioned her. She didn’t seem uninterested either.”

“Aimee? The girl that’s been riding my jerk seat all day? No way.” I couldn’t see it. First and foremost, that pretty boy couldn’t possibly be her type. She’d steamroll him in seconds. Secondly, I highly doubt that Aimee, with all her complaints and demands, would be down to screw with any of us, even the pussier men.

“That’s what’s being talked about. I heard it from one of the boys I’m training. She apparently sat on his lap while the boys were drinking and were giving them all quite the show when she was lubed up.” He winks at me as he adds, “Pretty little thing like that, I’d love to see that in person.”

“What’s the idiot’s name?” I ask, spitting on the ground. I can’t take my eyes off of the kid as he talks loudly to the riders in the circle around him. They laugh with him, howling at his jokes and gesturing him to go on. This wasn’t uncommon with rookies with inflated egos. It wouldn’t be long before someone like me knocked him down a peg or two.

“Wesley. We got him back in Salt Lake. He’s the brother of an old patch member. But I wouldn’t worry about him too much. I mean, what harm could he do playing around with the cat toy?” Henry pauses, eyeing me carefully before walking away towards his bike.

Aimee isn’t far behind him. She pulls her ponytail up tighter as she passes me, her white tank top wet from the sink, and her skirt hiked up mid-thigh. The whole time she sashays toward my bike like a tramp on a runway. It’s clear to me that she’s putting on a show for those nobodies, making them want what they can’t have.

I’ve had it. I just can’t take any more of her. Before she can reach the concrete, I grab her by the arm, leading her back to the restrooms. She cries out.

“What the heck are you doing, Breaker? Let me go!”

I press her up against the brick wall, just as I had yesterday. I lean into her, silencing her with the weight of my body, so much so that she’s engulfed by it and concealed from the rest of the group.

“Don’t wrestle. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“Then what are you doing? I just went to the bathroom!”

I have zero clue what I’m doing, but all I know is that something in me is screaming out to reclaim my dominance. I lean down, placing my face close to hers. I can smell a trace of strawberries and lilac; the same scent I detected when I staked out her hotel room. It’s a momentary lapse before I finally find the words I want.

“Do you know what you’re doing out there? You know those boys are starting trash—saying you’re acting like one of those little whores in the van. Is that what you are? Is that what you’re trying to do here?”

Her green eyes dart back and forth wildly. “No, What? Why would you say that? You know I want nothing from those jerks. I wouldn’t touch one of you boys if you were the last men on Earth.”

“Fine,” I shoot back, “then I’m going to set some ground rules. You break them, and I send you to Biggs to beg for your life after that stunt you pulled yesterday. Rule number one: You stay with me at all times. Unless I release you, I want you in my sight no matter what. Rule number two: You’re my territory and mine only. You don’t ride anyone’s bike, you don’t sit on anyone’s lap—”

“Whoa. Is that what this is about? I wasn’t doing anything with Wesley—”

I cut her off, a long finger pressed to her freshly painted lips. “Rule number three: You listen to everything I tell you. You follow all of my orders. Jump when I say jump. If you stick to the rules, you might get yourself out of here alive. You understand me, Aimee?”

She bites her lip; the annoying habit I’ve caught her doing several times now when she’s angry.

“Yes. I get you, boss,” she then quips, and crosses her arms over her chest before forcing them into me, “Now, can you let me the heck out of here? I’d like to get on the road again.”

Truer words couldn’t have been spoken.

The rest of the day’s ride is one of complete silence. She doesn’t even look at another rider when they pass or complain when we pass a pit stop without a break. It’s a one-eighty from the spoiled little dame who nearly fell off the seat several times during the first half of the trip.

Still, when we hitch for the day at a local motel, she looks just as beat and worn as I feel. I hand her the key to her room, sandwiched between Henry’s and mine, but as she slips inside the door, she turns and asks with a defeated tone, “I could really use a drink. Is that allowed?”

I can’t argue with that. The girl had nothing to repent for. I nod my head, pointing towards the bar where the rest of the club is heading for a nightcap. “I’ll join you in a bit. Going to wash the road off of me first.”

She gives a slight smile before throwing her backpack into the motel room and then turning back towards the small courtyard. I watch her through the windows as she walks like a zombie towards the back gate and through the small field to the bar packed with motorcycles.

I take an hour in the shower. I’m not one of those guys to get all frou-froued up with good smelling soaps and trash, but if there’s one thing I love after a long ride, it’s a long, cold shower. My skin craves it, and the water drowns out the sound of the highway replaying over in my mind like the ocean in a shell.

When I finally force myself to step out, I hear the faint sounds of music. I brush it off as someone’s TV blasting too loud, but then there’s screaming and hollering. Men shout at something or someone over the beats that rattle the old school TV perched on the wooden dresser.

Peeking out the window, I see Gravediggers congregating in the courtyard. They’ve taken over the lawn chairs and benches, with a fire blasting in the pit, as men lift their glasses towards something standing high above them.

Not bothering to find my shirt, I grab a pair of clean jeans and my boots and head out towards the crowd.

“What the heck is going on out here?” I scream over the music to Henry who is sipping back what is probably his fifth or sixth beer.

“Your girl,” he says as he points to the figure standing on one of the benches. “I told you to keep an eye out for her. They’re like wolves.” He pats my chest before walking back towards the motel room.

I gawk at Aimee with her feet pounding on the bench. She’s straddling a guy as she sways her hips back and forth in his face. The boy gazes up at her, his hands on her bare thighs and traveling up.

One of the men near me howls towards her, “Take it off, girly!”

She turns around and winks, not even bothering to scan for me. Her hands float up towards the fabric of her top, but something stops her as she gets to her bra. Instead, she squats down wide legged towards the man, pushing him close to her. She whispers into his ear as he nods.

“The tequila!” he calls out with his arm raised towards the rest of the crowd. As someone passes the clear bottle, I finally get a good glance at him. It’s Wesley. I should have known.

Aimee giggles, her cheeks red and shiny as she lies down before him on the open bench and unbuttons the top zipper of her black skirt. The fabric slides down her hips so that I can see the bone pop up at her waist. He places a lime on the lowest part of her skirt and then pours the tequila all over her tiny stomach. She laughs again, the liquid already rolling off of her.

Someone screams, “Go!” and he’s off, leaning down on top of her, lapping off the liquid like a dog. Aimee rests her hands behind her head, her eyes closed as the boys around her cheer Wesley on. He goes for the lime, and her hips rise in excitement, leading his mouth to her skin again. Dang if I don’t hate how turned on I am by her and the way she sways for him as the boys pour more and more alcohol on her smooth, tanned skin.

This is a do-or-die moment for me. She’s out of line. She’s broken my rules. I got to shut this down before it goes any further.

I race towards them, my fists already in the air. One smacks into Wesley’s face, knocking him to the ground. Aimee shouts something at me as she pulls her shirt back down around her hips. But I keep wailing on him, landing hit after hit.

No one bothers to stop us. The music keeps playing, but there’s not a soul talking. They know not to mess with me. They have all heard what I am capable of—what I am best at doing—and Wesley’s getting the full show. He places his hands in front of his face, protecting his body from the rest of my blows.

Someone shouts, “That’s enough, man.” But I’m not done.

I stand and kick him as I move off of him. He rolls away like a wounded animal.

Aimee follows me as I storm off to the side while Wesley’s boys come to his aid. Her hands are cool on my skin, breaking the blood boiling in my veins.

“What was that?” she asks, her voice earnest. “I know I broke your rules, but I was just blowing off steam. I’m sorry!”

“You make a fool out of me, and all you’ve got to say is you’re sorry? What kind of trash is that, Aimee? I give you rules, and I expect you to obey me. You know what trash I have on you. I could get you killed in a matter of seconds.”

Aimee doesn’t bother answering; she keeps her head bowed as she takes my verbal tirade. It’s only when I feel someone looming behind me that she bothers to look up—this time with wide, terrified eyes.

“What the heck was that!” Biggs’ voice booms like a giant over the noise of the music and the men trying to get their trash back together. “Did you just beat the garbage out of some rookie, Breaker?”

“I was keeping him in line. He was messing with Aimee,” I mutter through gritted teeth. I spin around to glare at him. He’s holding the same tequila bottle in his hand, but he’s sloshing it around. Even Biggs seems to be burning off some road steam from the long ride.

“You send him to the hospital and what are we supposed to do?” We don’t have a doctor in this podunk town and no friendly cops either. You’re putting us all at risk.”

“So what. We leave him. He’s nothing but baggage. Acts like he owns the place. Someone had to put him in his place, boss.”

He points a finger at me, waving it in my face as if I’m some puppy he’s training up. “I make that call, Breaker! Not you. Whatever trash is between the two of you, leave it behind. We need all the men we can get where we’re going.”

Biggs stares down Aimee one last time, clearly admiring her. He hands her the bottle before he heads back to the boys. Someone tosses him a beer, and he takes a seat near his room on the other side of the courtyard, just out of site of the rest of the group.

“Why didn’t you turn me in?” Aimee asks. She brushes away a long strand of golden brown hair that was stuck to her face.

“I have no clue. I don’t even know what the heck I’m doing here anymore.” I throw my arms up in frustration before turning to head back towards my room, but she reaches out and grabs me by the ends of her fingertips.

“Don’t go.” She cracks a wide smile. “Just dance.”

I move closer to her, unable to fight against her magnetic pull. She passes me the bottle, and I take a long swig of the burning liquid. It trails down my throat and into my stomach like warm honey sticking to my insides. It’s the relief I’ve been waiting for since I stepped out of that shower. We alternate drinking straight from the bottle.

A few more drinks and my body is up against hers, swaying to the music under one of the courtyard trees. She places her back against my chest and legs, grinding her body up and down to the rhythm of the music. An arm floats up around my neck, hooking herself to me. I lean down again, resting my chin upon the soft, fleshy part of her shoulder while my hands travel the lean lines of her body from the front of her hips to the round mounds of her breasts.

Lilac, again, fills my nostrils as she leans her head back. I hear the smacking of her lips against my ear. We float together, turning towards the noise that only grows louder the more drinks we have. It all blends together, rushing in a wave towards me. I press my fingers against the long V-neck of her blouse, going in for a feel of those perfectly round…

Aimee screams out, pulling me down onto my knees. I open my eyes with just enough time to see him barreling at us, bat in hand.

“Wesley! Back off!” some brothers scream, but it’s too late.

His bat lands hard, making a sickening, cracking thud against my back. Then, nothing but darkness.

Chapter Five

Aimee

Very briefly, just out of the corner of my eye, I see it coming—the swift motion of a bat gearing up for a big hit. I know the motion well. My dad was a baseball fanatic. He kept a wooden bat signed by Johnny Bench, his all-time favorite player, on the mantle in our living room. As a kid, he tried his hardest to impart his love of the game on me, enrolling me in league games and batting clinics, even though I showed zero aptitude for it. Point is, I knew what it looked like to take a big swing.

And in the brief moment, I know what’s on its way with the force of several tons of pressure.

I close my eyes, holding tight onto Breaker’s arm as I pull him down towards the ground. He was in that blind spot, unable to see the man coming straight towards us from the patio area of the hotel. Breaker doesn’t go down easily, and it’s too late to get the message. Still, I scream, hoping he’ll understand.

My mind shuts down for a moment. Everything goes blank. There’s no noise, just a desperate ringing in my ears, a sound that has followed me around my entire life—even off the island.

When I open my eyes, I am surprised that I am not bleeding or looking for a pretty white light to follow. What I do feel is the cold ground under me, the brush of the fresh cut grass on my arms, and the sounds of men shouting at one another.

“Get him off Breaker! Pull him down! The kid’s insane!”

Two men hover over me, with one pointing at the chaotic mass of two men fighting one another. Breaker obviously has an advantage. He towers over Wesley by at least half a foot, and their sheer masses cannot be compared. It’s like David and Goliath, only without the slingshot.

The fire from the small pit glows against Breaker’s back as he leans down to strike Wesley on the face again. He opens the still fresh wounds from earlier. Blood and plasma fly through the air with the motion of his arms. The kid underneath him has barely enough time to breathe through the visibly broken nose and the jaw that seems to hang awkwardly around his mouth now, but he stays on his feet, clawing at Breaker with everything that he’s got.

I’m screaming again. I don’t even recognize that I’m doing it at first until one of the men near me turns around and stares me down until I’m quiet again. I don’t know who I am shouting for or why. Neither guy really deserves to win here. Wesley should know better than to take on a beast like Breaker, but I could tell earlier, when I first met him, that he had that spark about him that wouldn’t take no for an answer. And, on the other hand, Breaker should knock this trash off. The kid is harmless, and who is he to take ownership over me outside what Biggs has forced him to do?

Still, when I scream, Breaker turns. It’s only for a moment. It’s a look that clearly tells me that this is my fault and my doing. I’m going to hear and pay for it later. That thought—of Breaker having any control over me—sends shivers down my legs until I start to run. In a full sprint, I head back towards my motel room, passing Biggs on the way.

“What the heck are you doing, little girl?” he shouts at me. “Where is your keeper?”

I don’t answer him, but it ultimately doesn’t matter. A moment later, his attention diverts to the melee, and by the time I come up with a witty retort, he’s already too far gone for me to even bother trying to say anything.

I slide the key into the motel room door, watching impatiently as the red button stays on. Concentrate, Aimee, I tell myself. I tense and relax my hands before trying the key again. This time, it opens, and I fly into the room with only my hands on the queen size bed to stop me from falling to the ground.

In the dark of the room, I feel around for the phone I spotted earlier. Unlike last time, the Gravediggers hadn’t had time to disconnect my only way of communicating with anyone outside the burner phone (which was programmed to only call Breaker, Biggs, and a few other guys I have not met yet). I find the phone sitting on the bedside table. A red button flashes, but I’m just too desperate to call out to care what the light means.

I stand over the keypad, slowly putting in the number I have memorized off by heart. It’s been three years since I’ve called Eva. I hold my breath as the phone rings on the other line. I count each turn.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5…

Her overly bright and cheerful voice soon picks up. “Hey there! You’ve reached Eva Palakikio Ionesco. I can’t come to the phone right now. I’m probably out surfing or swimming, but feel free to leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you when I’m on dry land. Aloha!”

I pause as I listen to the beep urging me to talk. I wonder if she will know it is me from the way I am breathing or how my lips sort of buzz as I fight to push myself to say something, anything.

What can I say right now? How can I tell the truth when the truth is as terrible as the lie? I’m not sure how I would even begin to explain that I’ve been kidnapped by a motorcycle club for stealing their trash. And there isn’t any way I can tell her that I’ve been lost and running from our family for years. I don’t even know how to start making amends or if I even want to. All I want is to sit and talk.

All this flashes through my mind as I consider all my options. Finally, after a few seconds of awkward silence, I say the only thing I can think to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I hang up, hands shaking, face stained with tears I forgot I could create. I brush them away as I look over my shoulder towards the door still thrown open from when I barged in here without a plan. I can still hear the guys screaming at one another, but by the shadows of the few overhead lights, it’s clear that most of them are heading back to their rooms to sleep it off.

There’s no sign of Breaker, though. Next door, I hear Biggs’ door slam shut. He turns on his television; blasting some movie channel. The TV and his drunken murmurs fill the silence of my room and the passageway outside.

I walk towards the door, looking out at the courtyard again. From here, I can see Breaker bent over low on the bench with a few guys handing him what looks like paper towels.

I approach him nice and slow, unsure of what to say. That look from earlier—the look that promised to take punishment into his own hands—still lingers in my mind as I tap him on the shoulder.

The man that turns around is a beaten and battered version of the person I’ve been riding with. The crook of his nose is pushed out slightly, and his cheek has a long cut from a ring or zipper. It oozes out onto the paper towel he holds to the skin. His lip is busted open as well, and fresh scratch marks from Wesley climb up his bare back, popping up like ivy on an old home.

I can’t help blurting out, “What the heck? What—”

“Don’t you look at me like that, Aimee,” Breaker seethes as he spits a bloody mixture onto the ground. “It’s not that bad. I’ve certainly had to deal with worse.” He points to a long scar under his arm, along the side of his torso. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before. The jagged lines, the marks of a stitch, make it clear that he was stabbed and that the knife was dragged along his side for him to bleed out.

He’s right; he’s had it worse.

I turn my head, unable to take it. I was never one for blood. My sister was the healer of the family. She was good with cuts from surfing or bruises from when I would ride my scooter around our neighborhood. Me, on the other hand, I’d faint if someone pricked a finger in front of me.

Breaker was a manifestation of my worst nightmare.

He senses my hesitation, which makes him laugh a little. “Oh good,” he says, with a cruel smile. “You’re going to be fun tonight if you can’t even look at me.”

I turn just quick enough to see him eyeing his friend Henry. He smiles again before shaking his head. “I guess I should make it official. I already told Biggs and some of the boys the news.”

“What?” I ask, confused at his sudden change. “What are you talking about? Make what official?”

But Breaker doesn’t care to answer me. He stands up slowly, using one of his guys to support him, and then heads off towards another group of younger riders fussing over someone in the center. The men part as he approaches, bowing their heads in reverence. They back off enough so that I get a good glimpse of Wesley—or what’s left of him.

He, like Breaker, sits with his hands in hands in his lap; crimson stained sheets of paper towel stuck on his face and arms. But there is a clear difference in the carnage. Wesley looks like he has been put in the dryer, spun on high, and taken out before the cycle finishes. His entire white t-shirt has been turned rust red with rings around the places where Breaker must have really taken out the most damage. There are even boot marks from where Breaker stomped on his chest and kicked at his side. Wesley cradles those spots with his arms wrapped in a bear hug around himself.

He barely registers a look when Breaker approaches. He turns his head slightly looking off towards the fire still burning in the pit. Breaker clears his throat first in an attempt to get some recognition, but there’s nothing.

In a booming voice, he has no choice but to go on, “Whatever is going on between us, it ends now. We’re brothers and brothers don’t kill each other over some pussy. I’m calling a truce, Wesley.”

Wesley doesn’t answer. He glances up towards one of the other men near him and nods, urging him to step in as a second.

“Breaker, man, Wesley does…”

Breaker cuts the strawman off, placing a hand up to his face as he takes another step closer to Wesley. He leans down and taunts, “I didn’t know Wesley was too chicken trash to answer for himself. A real man wouldn’t be a little complain about this and just shake the other’s hand.” He stretches out a hand full of bloody, cut knuckles, but Wesley doesn’t take it.

This time, Breaker kneels slightly as he whispers in towards Wesley, in a voice so stern and forceful you could feel it rolling out of his mouth like thunder in the night, “You will take my hand, and you will call a truce. I rank over you by so many positions. I could get your patch tonight if I wanted to. So if you want to stay a Gravedigger and keep this brotherhood, you’ll stop messing with me and agree to some peace. Do you hear me?”

Slowly, Wesley unwraps the arm around his side, wipes it on the black slacks, and then gives it to Breaker. They don’t bob their hands or pull each other in like I’ve seen them do in other situations requiring handshakes. Neither moves, but it’s done for now. The tension between the two groups of men seems to dissipate with their words.

Breaker goes to turn back towards the motel rooms when Henry catches him by his shoulder. He whispers something into his ear and gestures towards the group. Breaker takes a glimpse at me with those brown eyes firing in the glow of the night. Henry pats him on the shoulder and pulls away. Breaker seems impossibly taller; his chest is wider, and his jaw higher. Whatever he said, Henry just unleashed some new version of him, and his stare is directed straight at me.

“There’s something else I need to say here and now while I’ve got a group present.”

Breaker leans over and pulls me in by my hips. I fall into him, landing with my arms outstretched around his chest and hips. But he doesn’t push me away; instead, he holds me tighter as he announces, “I’m making it official. This girl, Aimee, she’s my woman.”

My mind goes blank. Did he just… claim me?

I stand away from him, but my feet are fixed in my place. He clears his throat as he continues on, completely ignoring my shocked glare. “For those of you that don’t know, that means you are not allowed to mess with her, touch her, or proposition her without my permission. And I give none of you permission. I expect you all to stick to the brotherhood, or you know what comes to you.”

“What about Biggs?” someone in the crowd speaks up. I too have the same question. “What does he say about you making that girl your old lady when rumor is she’s a whore and a thief?”

Well, the guy got the first part wrong. I have yet to spread my legs for any of these backwater men, and I have zero plans to do so, despite all my tequila-induced flirting.

“Biggs has given his blessing. And he and Henry will be the ones making sure that the deed is done.”

My stomach drops. The deed? From what little I know about motorcycle clubs, I do know a few things about old ladies. For one, they are usually treated like cattle. A guy claims one, brings her into the club, and then pimps her out when he’s tired of her. She stays in the circle long enough to be used and abused. Sometimes, when they’re older, they get cut loose, but for the most part, they spend their lives as slaves to whatever the new club leadership wants from them.

In other cases, these women live somewhat healthy lives. They get married, they have kids, and they defend their men. I’ve met some of these girls out on the road. They’re usually at the bar cleaning up after some fight or hosting some charity event for clean groups. They’re the lucky ones, even if they’re being held hostage.

But when Breaker says the word, “deed,” it reminds me of what a woman, clearly a club girl, once told me while sharing shots at a dive bar in California. Club men claim their women by dominating them. They go by the rule that whoever idiots them first, keeps them first.

While the Gravediggers may be unique in some ways, I can’t imagine they are in this way.

I swallow hard as I look up towards Breaker. He avoids my eyes, but he walks straight towards my motel room. He pauses in the doorway before gesturing towards me and Henry, who stands behind me with a smug smile.

My bare feet tread softly on the ground, dragging along the way. I’ve never felt so much doom and uncertainty in my life. The contents of my stomach, mostly booze, do somersaults and wild backflips as I think about what is going to happen in that bedroom. I’m about to be claimed by the one man who I would rather run from and the one motorcycle club who wants to hold me hostage.

Chapter Six

Breaker

“Okay, so, you all know the drill, right?” I ask, a bit cautious. I’ve never put a claim on a woman before. I’ve always been on the other side of the door—vouching for the brother inside the room who is otherwise getting the deed done.

“Yeah. I’ve done it before. I’ll sit outside. You tell me when you’re done. I trust that you know how to do the, uh, rest.” Henry smacks me in the shoulder, forgetting that I was just in a massive fistfight with some young punk. I wince in pain but say nothing of it. I gotta focus on what’s about to happen here.

“This shouldn’t take long,” I find myself saying. “I just want to get it over with.”

“Sounds like a guy eager to harass a chick like that,” he says as he rolls his eyes and looks into the motel room.

Aimee is sitting on the edge of the bed; her back slumped over her knees, and her hands resting in front. She’s biting that top lip to pieces.

“Just do what you’re supposed to do,” I snap. “Biggs said he’ll listen in as my second. But with that TV blasting, she’s going to have to scream real loud for him to hear anything.”

I still can’t believe Biggs gave me permission to do this. It was reluctant, but I didn’t have a better option at the moment. If I was going to protect her, like I would do any other property I own, I had to mark my territory. I think Biggs understood that part in his own, twisted way.

Henry laughs to himself as he puffs on a hand-rolled cigarette. “If the rumors are true,” he says after taking an extra-long drag, “she’ll be screaming all night long. I wouldn’t worry about Biggs or me hearing any bit of that action.”

“I don’t know,” I reply, still unsure, as my hands run through my sweaty hair, “She’s not like the other jerks this club keeps around. She’s a spoiled brat. It wouldn’t surprise me if she resisted the entire time.”

“She’ll get there. Girls like that come around once you show ‘em one heck of a good time. You know I wouldn’t have won over Martha if it hadn’t been for this gigantic di—”

I cut him off with a smirk. “Martha ain’t yours, you rear,” I say. “You haven’t claimed her yet. She just screws with you for free rides home.” I walk forward into the doorway of the room, only looking back to joke, “You better watch out, though. I heard she was stepping out with Marcus, and we all know he ain’t clean.”

The heavy wood door begins to ease shut as Henry throws back, “You watch your mouth, Breaker!”

When it closes all the way, the air seems to get sucked out with it, leaving just Aimee and me in this contained bubble. Neither of us moves nor speaks. We just look at one another, trying to anticipate the next move.

Finally, she stands and begins to pace. Her feet practically make skid marks in the carpet. I can tell she’s working herself up to something by the way her fists pop open and close at the sides of her bare thighs.

After a few minutes, she charges at me, her finger wagging in the air as she presses her body into mine. I’m corned into the wall as she shouts, “You know I don’t want this. I don’t belong to any man. You can’t just claim something that doesn’t want to be claimed.”

I grab her arms, pushing them down to her side. And at this moment, I do the only thing I can think of doing. I kiss her. Hard. My head lowered, I crush my lips onto hers. I kiss her so hard, her head and body fly backward towards the bed. She falls down onto her back, with me still holding on as tight as I can without hurting her.

Aimee struggles under my weight, attempting to roll around and free her head. Her small fists beat into my chest until I have to hold her down once again.

When I break for air, she pants, “What was that? Did you not just hear what I said to you…?”

I kiss her again, this time gentler. I open my lips slightly, allowing her thick lips to fall into mine. She softens beneath me. Her arms sink into the bed with her hands unfolding until she finds a blanket to hold on to. Her head tilts upwards as she moves with me.

Together, we begin to rock.

I hate how much I love the feeling of her body underneath me—the softness of her tanned skin, the curves of her round belly resting against my chest, and the bare, smooth leg hitching up against my hips. Girls like her were never my type. I went with ones covered in tattoos—blonde bimbos whose only appeal was to bounce up and down on my cock until I exploded inside of them.

But Aimee is something more. She has this life in her that makes me want to explore it.

I find myself pulling away. I push up on my arms so that I still hold control over her.

As low as possible, I whisper, “I’m not into forcing you to do anything. You’re not going to get that from me. But if you don’t do this… if you don’t submit to me... those fools are going to come at you until you don’t have a choice.”

“Breaker, I…” She loses track of her words as she looks towards the door.

“No, Aimee,” I say as firm as I can, “You don’t understand. Me claiming you tonight is the only way you’re going to make it out alive. You don’t have to like me. Hell if I care a blasted about you. But tonight, we have to act like something is going on between us, or Biggs won’t sign off on it. Do you get my drift?”

“Can’t we just, I don’t know, fake it? I can scream. We can move the bed around… you know.” She gestures towards the still made bed.

“I’m a Gravedigger, Aimee. I don’t lie to my men because it’s more convenient for me. We do this the right way, or I throw you back to the dogs, and you can handle them on your own.”

She closes her eyes for a second. I feel her chest caving in, taking deep, long breaths. I don’t blame her for thinking this over. I’m having second thoughts as well.

This isn’t just a harass for me. This is me attaching myself to a girl who does nothing but hurt herself by being disobedient.

“Will you hurt me?” she asks, her voice growing quiet.

She doesn’t bother to meet my eyes again. But I cup my hand around her chin to force her head up. Her eyes flutter open in surprise.

“I will never hurt you unless you give me a reason to. Do I need to prove that to you?”

Aimee doesn’t answer. Instead, she closes her eyes again and wraps her hands around the white, thick comforter. I lean back down on her, holding myself up so I can watch her reaction to my hand resting on her knee, swirling around her kneecap. She lets out a small gasp and a giggle.

Of course, she’s ticklish.

My fingers travel up her leg, past her thigh, to the line of her silk panties, and then back down again. She tries to hide a sly smile, but it’s written all over her face how much she loves to be teased. Each time I repeat the motion, I knead her skin, pressing a bit harder until my entire hand wraps around her legs.

“Relax,” I whisper, “You’re too tense.”

I can feel the knots in her muscles in the space between her thighs and see the way her hips plant themselves into the mattress as if she’ll float away if she doesn’t hold on. I massage those areas, trying to win over her trust. With my hands moving up, so does the thin black mini-skirt until it bunches up just below her hips.

She eventually sits up, looking straight at me as I pull myself down the line of her body, towards where my hands just were. I replace the fingertips with a series of light, sweet kisses from her knee on up. Both her legs lift in towards herself.

“What are you doing to me?” she asks with an air of innocence.

“Warming you up,” I reply, a matter of factly. I place my lips on her panty line as I breathe hot air against the hint of her exposed skin. “Do you not like this?” I huff, taking my time with each word and breath.

She doesn’t answer; she moans.

It’s so faint that I would not have heard it if I weren’t so close to her stomach, where she clasps her hands around the hiked up skirt. While she was never easy to read, the writing was all over her body with the way it curved and scurried over the blankets.

Aimee wants this as much as I do.

“I’m done waiting for you to answer me,” I say, trying to hold back my excitement, but it comes off as too rough, and I’ve lost her again.

Aimee squeezes out from under my arms and scoots back toward the bed. She grabs the blanket, holding it around her bare legs as if it could protect her from me.

With nowhere left to go, I grab hold of her ankle. With a quick pull, I yank her back down, so that she straddles my legs, her thighs parted and open for me. I fall on top of her, this time pinning her in place. She can’t run for me this time, no matter how good she thinks she is at it. My job as an enforcer has turned me into a hunter, primed for a situation like this where I need all my strength to hold down my prey until submission.

“You move again, and I’ll tie you down,” I warn.

I would love to see that body lain out before me—bound and waiting. But I give her a chance to make it up to me. I pull her hands towards me, kissing at the outside of her hand like some black knight. It cools her down, bringing her back from her panic. Slowly, I unfurl her fingers, placing one in my mouth. Sucking lightly, I spin my tongue around the tip of her index finger before moving on to the next digit. She coos again, unsure of what I am doing to her.

With her last finger done, I take her hand again and place them between her thighs on top of her underwear. The silky, dark blue fabric glows in the soft lamplight before I peel it down the length of her legs. Her hand sits on the top of her clit, waiting for instruction. My own hand rests on hers as I begin to use her own fingers to circle around the folds of her shaved pussy.

I can feel the moisture building. She goes from dry to damp in mere seconds at her own touch, but she still lets me take the lead. I move her fingers counter-clockwise around the thin skin of her clit until it opens for me like a flower blossoming.

“Keep going,” I whisper in her ear.

I move down towards her neck, kissing and sucking at her bare skin. Lilac again. Her whole body is a garden for me to rake.

When I reach the top of her tank top, I use my teeth to pull the wide neckline down until it reaches her bra. That too is hooked in my mouth until it fits neatly under the curve of her breasts. I waste no time working her belly with my hands, rubbing and kneading at the smooth bare skin as she continues to play herself. I change up between kisses and bites as I follow the circles around her chest.

When I make it up towards her nipple, she winces and murmurs, “Please… no… Breaker!”

I go back, even harder, throwing caution to the wind. There is no secret now that I want her and that she is slowly falling for me. I rub my rough skin against the tips of her breasts, caressing the brown nipples with my tongue until they are tight and ready. Her skin turns to goosebumps under me, and I feel her shake and sigh in pleasure.

Her own hands rise unexpectedly to the seam of my jeans as her breathing increases. Her long fingers play with the fabric. She’s too distracted by me taking the lead to really focus on the job. The hand on hers moves faster, spinning around her special nub with only one objective in mind; I want to watch her come.

I pull back and look her directly in the eyes. “You told me you didn’t want this. Are you so sure now?”

I don’t wait for an answer. I fall down to her bare pussy, moving her hand out of the way with a swat. Her hips arch up to meet my lips, inviting me into her. I go deep, exploring her wet, sticky cave, licking upwards until I again find her clit. My fingers fall back inside her groin and go to work.

Aimee’s close to coming. I can feel the heat rising on her skin. Her cheeks flush pink, and she holds on to her breasts and chest.

Urging her, I whisper warm words around her pussy, “Come, Aimee. You know you want to just let go…” I don’t even finish before I taste the change—the rush of her fluids melts around my face, and I can’t hide just how much I want to smother myself in her orgasm.

Her whole body tenses for nearly a minute. Her hips, still raised in the air, fall back down onto the bed as she tries to get some rest.

But I’m not done with her.

It wasn’t enough for her to come. To claim her, I need to get the deed done on my end as well.

I run my hand down her side as she looks off to the side of the room, a smile playing on her face. As she begins to point something out, I stop her, flipping her onto her back. She falls on her hands and knees before me, perfectly positioned so that I get the backend view of her soaking wet pussy.

My cock is already up to the challenge. It pulsates with need as I pull down my jeans and underwear, so they bunch at my knees. She rocks back, anticipating me entering her. As I get back on my knees, I let her rub against me, feeling my hard cock against her soft body. She moans as she pulls herself down so that her head rests on the pillow with her hips still angled upwards.

Slowly, enjoying every second of this view, I guide my toe into her. It’s a tight fit. Unlike the rest of the girls I’ve been with, her pot isn’t stretched out or overused. It’s delicious how it rubs against the veins in my member. I can feel every velvety centimeter of her skin as it lies against me like a glove. I could rest here forever, but the wild part of me is ready to tear into her.

“Do you want me to forget you?” I ask Aimee, not caring what her answer is. I just want to say that word, idiot. There is no better word for what I am about to do to her while she waits for me on her elbows and knees.

To my surprise, she doesn’t fight back. For the first time since we’ve met, she says the two magical words all girls should say to a guy like me.

“Yes, please.”

The warm spot in my stomach begins to fill as I know it’s time. If I wait any longer, I won’t get to enjoy her. I smoothly begin to pull in and out of her, her round rear moving with each of my movements.

I can feel her body vibrate underneath me with each push. Her breasts dangle down just enough for me to grab them as I go deeper, plowing my cock into her. I use her body for balance while I speed up like an engine on the highway. My skin roars in pleasure, but she is the one doing the screaming.

While I take off, she cries out, calling my name into the blankets and bed, “Breaker! Idiot! Breaker!”

“Say it again!” I command her, lost in my own pleasure and pain. “Say my name!”

“Breaker!”

I feel myself falling apart, losing all sense of what is up and what is down. A fire burns along every inch of me until I can take it no more. I lower my head down to her shoulders, pulling her hair away from her ears.

With my lips against her skin, I say to her, “You’re mine now, Aimee. You’re my woman.”

She stutters, mumbling something in agreement, until she finally turns her head, her eyes wide open. “I’m yours, Breaker. I’m yours.”

My member fills and builds up with hot cum until the pressure can hold it no more. I pull myself out of her just in time to watch my white spunk pour onto her arched back as she moans loudly again.

When I’m finished, she falls to the bed, defeated and exhausted. I have made my claim, and there’s no denying it now.

She is, until I release her, mine.

Chapter Seven

Aimee

Oh goodness… what did I just do?

Okay. I know what I did and why I had to do it, but… seriously?

It’s been about an hour since we finished. I’ve been staring at the old electronic clock on the nightstand the entire time, counting down the minutes, during which neither of us has said much. Instead, we’ve just been laying here, our bare shoulders just touching and our hands occasionally brushing up against one another, communicating only in pants and the occasional grunt.

At one point, Breaker gets up, shakes his head, and strides over towards the bathroom. My eyes can’t help but follow his impressive body; the way those tight rear cheeks and muscular thighs sway side to side as he walks the length of the room. I know I shouldn’t want him as much as I do, but I can’t deny that the feelings I have are anything but innocent.

I usually don’t do this. I’m not the type of girl, even with the company I’ve kept, to jump into bed with a guy just because his body impresses me—or even because he can offer me some form of protection. I’ve had those kinds of offers before, and I’ve always managed to weasel my way out of them. No muss, no fuss.

But Breaker had somehow convinced me that it was my only option if I was going to remain safely under his care. I had to take it. I had to be that girl—a motorcycle hussy.

And now, I’m his. That’s a loaded, and pretty ugly, word—his. I know the rules. I know how those girls are treated, abused, and passed around like appetizers at a party. So many of them are used by guys who couldn’t care less about their feelings or their bodies. They are just there for a quickie on demand.

Breaker has to know that I am not going to be that kind of girl that just spreads my legs when he calls. I mean, what we did tonight was good, but... Oh, who am I kidding? It was amazing. My entire body feels like it is humming, like a song on repeat, and between my thighs, there’s this insatiable urgency for more.

Still, I can’t let him know that. I’d lose any bit of power I might have if I confess that I even remotely enjoyed that little roll in the hay. And I’m sure he noticed me screaming out in ecstasy, not just once, but twice, as I came harder than I ever have in my life—first, like an excited thunderclap, then like a rocket exploding in the night sky, both setting fire to my body. And I did the thing I hate the most in those moments; I called out his name. Now, as the afterglow was winding down, I realized just how awful an idea that had been.

“You want a drink?” Breaker asks as he turns off the bathroom’s light and fan. “I always need something to drink after I screw.”

I rub my tongue over my lips. They’re dry to the bone, but I haven’t even noticed. I’m suddenly alert to how sweaty I am and how red my skin is.

“Yeah. I could go for something. What you got to offer?” I croak back.

He pulls out his sack, the one that attaches to the bucket of his motorcycle. Wrapped in a few old t-shirts is a bottle of brown liquid, only about half way full. “It’s not the good stuff, but it’s whiskey. I’d get you water, but I wouldn’t drink out of the tap in a place like this.”

“Whiskey is fine.” I instantly regret it after I say it. My head is already spinning from the rum and tequila earlier. Adding whiskey to the mix felt even more dangerous, especially with all these thoughts running through my head about Breaker and his hands tracing up and down my breasts.

“Here ya go.” He hands me a paper cup from the bathroom filled a little more than halfway with the drink. Tapping the sides, he adds, “To us.”

“To us,” I mutter, not sure what that’s supposed to mean right now, but we both tip the drinks back and, in one throw, swallow all of it. The alcohol burns my throat. The leathery taste isn’t exactly my favorite, but it will do. I should grab a bottle of water on my way out, though.

Carefully, I pull myself out of bed; the sheet still wrapped around my body. Breaker watches as I grab the discarded clothes and quickly toss them on. When I’m done, he clears his throat awkwardly and stands in front of the door, effectively blocking my way out. “Uh, well, there’s one more thing we gotta do tonight to make this thing official.”

“Wait? What? I thought that all I had to do was sleep with you and we could call it a night.” Frustrated at the thought of having to do yet another thing for him and the club, I pull my hair up as tight as I can into a quick ponytail.

“We need to prove that we did the deed.”

“How do we do that?” I ask. A million horrible thoughts run through my head as I remember sneaking off to read my sister’s Scottish romance books where the girl is examined to be sure that the couple consummated their wedding night. No way was I giving any of them the satisfaction of something like that.

“Well,” Breaker says as he rubs the back of his neck; his arm lifting to show even more tattoos I’ve yet to notice. “The thing is that Henry’s been outside the door listening and Biggs is in the room next to us too. They both have to agree that we got the job done to make our thing real.”

I place my hand up in front of his face, stopping him from going on. “Wait a minute… when we were starting to have… well, I suggested that we just move the bed around and make some noises. That could have worked if all they were doing is listening!”

“It’s not enough. Biggs is kind of an expert at lie detecting. He can see through you. It’s his job to read other people, and he would’ve read it on your face and body. You might not get that now, but when you really see him at work and in action, you’ll know it. And Henry, well, he’d lie for me anyways, but I’m not getting him in hot water because we thought we could pull a fast one over on Biggs.”

I sigh, completely exasperated at this situation. Not only did I have to sleep with the beast, but I also have to prove to the others that it wasn’t an act! Goodness. I just can’t take any more of these rules and the pressure to stay in line. But I know I have no other choice. “What do I need to do to get this over with?”

“Just answer Biggs’s questions. Don’t be a smart aleck, spoiled brat, and you’ll keep us both alive tonight. Pull the trash that got you here in the first place, and we’ll both end up dead.” Before I can say yes, he grabs my hand and opens the door.

Like he said, Henry is outside, leaning up against the brick wall. His head is dropped as he snores into his chest. Breaker clears his throat, but it doesn’t wake him up. It takes a kick to the shins to get him out of his dream.

“Goodness. Why the heck did you do that? Do you know what time it is?” Flustered, Henry glances down at his watch. It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning. In just a few hours, this place will be up and at it again. There is work to do to get some more cash for the group.

“Dude,” Breaker replies, “Did you hear it or not?”

Henry looks directly at me with a smile so wide it looks as if it will jump off his face, “Oh yeah. I heard her…”

“Fine. Tell Biggs and get this over with.” He grabs Henry’s arm and shoves him towards Biggs’s door.

Henry knocks twice and stands back. All of us collectively hold our breaths, though the smell of cigarettes and booze choke us when the door finally opens.

Biggs grunts. “It’s about dang time.” He is stripped down to his boxers and a dirty, stained wifebeater tank. He smells as foul as he looks. “Did you hear it, Henry?”

“Yeah. I heard it. I’ll confer as the second.”

Biggs sniffs and spits before saying, “Fine, but I wanna talk to the girl before I sign off.” I don’t have time to retort before his dirty nails are digging into my arm and pulling me into his bedroom. The door slams behind us, and I immediately realize how trapped I am in this dingy room with the metal locks all hooked up.

I stand firm by the window. “I did it. Is that what you need to know?”

“I know you did it. I could hear you through the walls—all that panting and screaming. I didn’t know a little girl like you had it in ya. But now that I do…” He approaches me in a flash, coming so close that I feel his beard brush up against my shoulder. A shot flicks up my spine as I back myself into the wall. It’s a mistake, and I know it.

Biggs smiles as he pushes his body into mine. “Do you know what it means to be someone’s woman when you’re part of the Gravediggers? It means that I control you as much as I control your lover. When I say ‘jump, you jump.’ And when I say ‘strip down,’ you best be on my bed butt naked within seconds.”

Whatever bit of courage I have left in me seems to boil to the surface as I place my hands on his chest and push away as hard as I can. “No!” I scream out. “I won’t do it. I’m Breaker’s girl, and you don’t mess with me.” The words fly out before I can even consider them.

Biggs lands on the side of the bed, his chubby legs still dangling off. He laughs heartily as he says, “We’ll see about that, girly. You think you’re safe from me, but you don’t know the half of what I can do to you when your boy ain’t around.”

“Can I go now?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“For now.” He gestures towards the door. “But I’d watch your back if I were you.”

“I will,” I promise over the sound of my racing pulse beating war drums in my ears. I don’t look back. I spin towards the door and unlatch each and every lock with shaking hands. Biggs continues to laugh at me as I struggle, but I get out eventually.

Breaker is waiting for me on the other side; his long arms catching me as I stumble out. “Whoa there, Aimee. What is the matter? What did Biggs say?”

“It’s done,” I reply quickly, yet not knowing what I mean. Biggs never gave his approval, but I was more focused on his aggressive stance toward me.

“It’s your turn, Breaker. Shut the door behind you,” Biggs calls out from the open door.

Breaker lets go of me and walks into the room; a different man than the one who shared a bed with me. This was the other side of him, the motorcycle maniac linked and loyal to a total psychopath. And suddenly, I’m back to that question; what have I done?

I ignore Henry, still stammering about how tired he is, and run towards the outer edge of the motel where the parking lot is. I know I can’t run far. If I even cross this line, I’ll have at least ten bikers on my trail within minutes. Desperation comes over me, but I’m stuck where I am. My feet become cinder blocks attached to weak legs, and I fall to the ground overwhelmed with grief.

From this spot, the highway becomes the waves from my past. I remember staring out at them three years ago when I ran away for good. I had run straight towards the edge of the island and, having only found the ocean, I tossed rocks into the waves until my eyes became heavy and the sun rose.

Hours earlier, that very day, my dad had hit me again. I was only eighteen and ready to go to college, but he caught me in my mom’s purse. It was the first time I had attempted to steal from them, and he made it known that it would be the last. Every part of my face burned with the imprint of his hand, but I packed up and headed towards the water in hopes of finding a way to escape.

And there it was—right as I was about to leave, I noticed a green, designer purse handle buried under a pile of sand. It called to me as I clawed it out of the fresh groove. Inside the purse was my freedom—over $200 in cash and some credit cards with IDs. The girl looked nothing like me, but it would get me out of here if I played it right.

I booked a ticket to California hours later, and I never looked back at those waves again. Nor did I ever let myself fall victim to a man like my father or the ex who taught me how to steal like a pro. Those rocks sinking into the water was me promising myself that this was it. There was no way I would be a victim to anyone again. I was going to survive whatever was out there waiting for me.

Still in the motel’s parking lot, slumped on the ground, I find a cement rock within reach. I pick it up, examining its curves and edges, before hurling it out towards the highway. It hits with an audible crack, breaking into a tiny, unseen pieces on the ground. I close my eyes again, listening to the roar of the cars passing by, and I think about all the promises I have made to myself thus far.

I am a survivor. I will make decisions that will help me live to see tomorrow.

I will give Breaker what he wants in exchange for the freedom he has promised me. But I am not going to let myself be owned by anyone, no matter what Biggs may say or threaten.

From here on out, I do what my mind and body think is right.

Chapter Eight

Breaker

“You get her in line, Breaker. You’re an enforcer. You should know how to keep a woman in line…” I’m on minute twenty of Biggs’ lecture, and quite frankly, it’s becoming nothing but a long stream of trash. He continues on, though, even as my eyes glaze over. “The situation with Wesley can’t happen again. She’s just a little jerk. She’s not worth breaking the club up over it!”

Finally, I can’t take it any longer. I find myself standing up and walking towards the door with my back to Biggs. He spins me around with his hand. “What do you think you’re doing, Breaker? You dare to walk out on me?”

“Yeah,” I snap, my nostrils flaring. “I’m walking the heck out of here. I’m done with you scolding me like a kid. I’m not a kid. I’ve been in this club for fifteen years now. I know the rules. You know I’m loyal and wouldn’t do trash to bring it down over some girl.” I sigh as I add, “If you can’t see that, then I’m more than happy to take my services elsewhere.”

“Don’t be such a jerk,” he snarls. He walks back towards the dresser and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one up, he continues speaking through the fresh smoke. “She’s a nice pair of titties and has a sweet little donkey. I’m more of a blonde kind of guy, but that’s what the boys want nowadays.”

“What’s the point, Biggs?”

“The point is that when we get to Texas, we’re going to need new avenues, and she could be a start. You keep her in line, or I’ll make the decision to send her out walking with the rest of the ladies I’ve got lined up.”

“You wouldn’t,” I respond in disbelief. “You gave her your word that she could work for you fair and square.”

He laughs, but it catches in his throat, and he ends up hacking up half a lung before he can continue. “If you’ve been in this club as long as you say,” he says, a quiet menace seething through his voice, “you know my word means trash to anyone but real club members. I can do whatever the heck I want to do with her if it’s good for business.”

My blood boils as I growl back, “She’s my woman now. You agreed. Whatever decision you make goes through me.”

He lifts his hands in defense as he continues to shake with laughter. Bitter sarcasm fills his voice and darkens his face. “Oh, I hear you,” he says with a nasty grin, “I really hear you, Breaker. She’s your girl.”

Again, I’ve had enough. I walk back towards the door, swinging it open in a rage. I walk the short distance back to my motel room, not caring about the few men watching me from their windows or Henry waiting for me outside. I’ve had to deal with too much trash today as it is.

I shut the door behind me and peel back the bedding, which is still a mess from earlier—it even still smells like Aimee. In the room next to me, Biggs turns the volume up on his TV again. I turn off the lights and try to drown out everything, including the thoughts running rampant through my head.

A few minutes pass, and I hear the click of the door. Someone fumbles with the lock, shaking the handle. I sit up straight, wondering if this was Biggs exacting some revenge. I reach for the gun I placed earlier on the bedside table, and my hand wraps around the handle.

“Who the heck is there?” I ask louder, puffing out my chest.

The door clicks again, unlocking this time. A beam of light creeps in, and a figure appears. My grip tightens on the gun until I hear her voice.

“It’s me. It’s Aimee. Henry said I should sleep in here tonight.” The door shuts, and she enters the darkness.

I watch her shadow sit down on the old upholstered chair near the desk. “Can I borrow a blanket?” Her voice cracks as if she’s been crying; though I can’t imagine a girl like her shedding any tears no what matter the reason.

“Why don’t you just sleep here?” I say before I can stop myself.

“Are you sure?”

Even she senses my reluctance.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Just lay down. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, and we’re both going to feel it in the morning.”

Without a word, she slips in next to me, and I notice she must have stripped down on the chair, as she’s only wearing her bra and a pair of panties. Her sun-kissed skin is still warm, though. We both lay facing the ceiling, neither turning towards the other nor rolling away. Eventually, she falls even more still, and the small amount of light on her face shows that her eyes are closed, with her lips slightly open.

Hours pass where I do nothing but listen to the sound of her deep breathing into the pillow. It’s oddly comforting, though, in the past, the last thing I have ever wanted is someone laying next to me like this. I’m not one for body heat and compromising the middle part of the bed. Most girls got kicked to the curb the minute I pulled out of them. Still, I listen to each breath, eventually counting them down until my eyes finally grow heavy and her breathing becomes my breathing.

….

“Good morning Colorado! It’s another beautiful day out there. Sunny, high of eighty-two, and not a cloud in sight. For all of you already out on the road and on your way to work, here’s a song to start your day off right…”

The bedroom fills with the sound of some 70’s pop song I vaguely recognize playing over that alarm clock I forgot I had set yesterday. I moan into the pillow as I look over at the time. It’s a little after eight. No one should be that cheerful this early. I slam my fist into the clock until I hit the right button.

“Can you believe that? Why can’t it just be an alarm and not set to some whack-rear…” I turn towards the side of the bed where Aimee slept last night, but there’s nothing. “Aimee?” I call out several times, hoping for a response.

I glance over at the mirror directly across from the bathroom. It’s steamed up, but I can make out the door of the bathroom cracked open just a little. The sound of the water beats in soft rivets, and then there’s a voice. Rubbish if I can believe it, but Aimee is in there, singing. I don’t recognize the lyrics. They’re in a language I’m not familiar with, but she murmurs the words to herself as she tries to find the tune. She’s about as good a singer as she is a motorcycle rider.

Throwing the blankets off of my legs, I force myself to be fully awake. I stretch my arms wide into the air and then pop the tense bones in my neck and back, just as I do every morning. The hangover I predicted I’d have isn’t too bad. I manage to get up and out of bed with no problems before stumbling my way towards the bathroom.

“You know, you suck at singing!” I call out from outside the door. The water and her humming suddenly stop altogether. “No, no, no. Don’t stop on my behalf. I actually enjoy listening to you butcher some native folk music.”

“It’s Hawaiian,” Aimee finally responds as she turns the water back on. “It’s a war chant.”

“That sounds appropriate.” I slip even further into the bathroom and see the outline of her naked body through the glass screen. She runs her long fingers through her soaking wet hair. Her belly rise up with her arms, and I can even make out the buds of her stiff nipples.

I lick my lips as I slowly pull back the screen. She doesn’t turn, but by the raised bumps on her body, I know she senses I’m near.

“You know,” I say, as sly as I can, “We have to get going. The motorcade leaves in about an hour.”

“I take warm showers when I’m hungover. If you want me to be in any condition to ride, you won’t bother me.” Aimee’s tone seems reluctant, but she peers over her shoulder at my naked body with eyes that seem to glow against her wishes. Her arms circle her breasts, and she further hides under the showerhead. As if that is going to stop me.

I laugh as I reach over her, grabbing the motel’s blue, slimy shampoo and body soap. Our bodies touch, my cock grazing over the top of her hip. She doesn’t shy away or fall limp against the tiled wall. Instead, she places a hand on my arm, taking the body soap bottle from me. Facing me, she pours a small amount into her hands and rubs them together until it forms a lather. Without breaking her steel-like glare, she begins to wash her body, reaching down to massage her ankles and toes and then moving up towards her thighs, her stomach, and her belly. Her whole body becomes covered in streaks of silky white bubbles, obscuring all the right parts, almost like a dress I’m dying to peel off.

When Aimee is done cleaning herself, she walks into the stream of water and repeats the process, this time, moving down with her hands and splashing the excess soap off of herself. I can’t take it anymore. When she stands up, I practically maul her. She doesn’t even have the chance to get a good breath in before our bodies are mashing against the wall with the G-force of an oncoming rocket. My arms wrap around her bare skin as she claws back into mine. We kiss with open mouths; our tongues locked in a wrestling match. Near-scalding water beats onto my back, but the pain feels even better with Aimee’s legs wrapped around my hips.

I break into a smile as I begin to move her into position like a rag doll. I wrap her arms around my neck while my stiff cock is already at attention, angled towards her wet opening between the crook of her legs. She moans, relenting, before reaching down to stroke it between the kisses I plant on the line of her clavicle. Her wet, soapy hands feel as smooth as silk as she strokes and gently tugs at my member. My hands let go of her legs as I am forced to brace myself on the wall for support.

Aimee looks at me, her lips slightly pursed, as she asks, “Do we have time for this?” Her eyes float down to my cock molding in the palm of her hand.

I let out a long, primal groan that comes from a place deep within me. I chuckle. “Girl, we always have time for this.”

Aimee’s legs fall back down to the ground, and she pushes me back so that I am standing out of the direct line of the water. She passes through the stream and clears away the dark strands of her hair that cover her face. She pulls the bundle of hair to the side before falling to her knees on the shower mat. With both hands on my cock, she leads it towards her waiting mouth.

At first, she only takes the tip. She sucks lightly, spinning her tongue around the opening. But she gets bolder with every bit of my ten-inch cock. She flicks, flutters, circles and traces my toe centimeter by centimeter until it fits neatly into her tight, suctioning mouth. My breath escapes me as I lean my back against the cold subway tile for support. “Heck, Aimee…”

She laughs, and the vibrations echo through my shaft. It’s a sensation I’ve never felt before, but I want her to talk more. I want her to read me a book with my cock stuffed in that pretty little mouth of hers. But she doesn’t linger long on my cock. The girl slips her lips off and replaces them with her hands. They knead at me while she plunges down towards my stiff balls.

Not every girl would be willing to take this on, but she fearlessly places one into her open mouth. It bounces around with her tongue, moving to the pumping motion of my cock. As her grip gets tighter, so do her lips around my most sensitive skin. I pound a fist into the wall, needing to hold on to this moment. I am not about to come here until I take back control, but with every stroke and lick, she is making it impossible for me to remember that.

When she finishes, she heads back north, taking my pulsating cock back into her mouth. She buries it within her until I see only the rim at the bottom remaining. If she is going to get me, I am at least going to show her how I want it. My hand pulls at the makeshift ponytail and with a yank, I take the reigns. I lead her with each slow, delicious stroke, her lips still doing most of the work. Her head bobs up and down with my guidance, but it’s me that is her now.

Again, I cannot control myself anymore. The sight of her on her knees, her giving into me without complaint or argument—it’s just too much.

I have to have her. And I have to have her now.

I pull back, my cock flying out of her with a sticky pop. I reach down, grabbing her under the arms and lifting her up and off her feet. We spin so that she is the one facing the back of the shower and her arms and legs grasp around me for something to hold onto.

Before I enter her, I reach between her spread legs and massage at the folds of her clit. Whether it be from me or her earlier rub down, her pussy is soaked and ready; the lips swollen with anticipation. She moans once more through gritted teeth, and her head falls down between her shoulders.

“Do it,” she commands, pressing down hard on my shoulders.

I aim my cock directly at the entrance of her pussy, rubbing the skin with the tip, as I get ready to plunge in deep. She squirms back, her legs and hips shimmying against me. I lean down, taking her pink-brown nipple into my mouth and nibbling at the tip as I push myself into her. She screams out from the pain, her whole body flying upwards with the thrust. I don’t let her go, though. My hands wrap around her back and shoulders as I caress that sweet skin.

Each shove into her sends her closer to me. The angle gives me perfect opportunity to plow straight up into her tiny little snatch. How she calls out with her head resting on my shoulder, I can tell she is still raw from last night’s round. But I couldn’t care less. All I need is to feel her from the inside out.

Even from the chill of being wet, I still feel the heat rising in both of our bodies. Both of us are on fire with drops of sweat sticking to our tanned skin. The work of holding on to her as she bounces up and down on my cock while balancing in my arms is taking a toll on me, but I can’t let go. Not until I come. I feel her arms grow tired and her legs begin to shake. With each firm thrust into her, she cries out my name.

“Breaker! Hold me! Breaker! Idiot! Yes! Idiot me!”

I slap her rear with the palm of my hand, bringing her back to the present.

“Tell me what you want, Aimee!” I demand with panting breaths.

Aimee gazes into my eyes. “Idiot me like one of your other girls,” she suddenly says. “Idiot me that hard, and then idiot me harder. Make me squeal. Make me even sorer.”

Her nasty mouth plants onto mine, sucking me in for a long, hard kiss. We both slowly float to the ground, but I can’t stop. My cock drives into that velvety groin without relenting. And that’s when I hear it. She sighs first, so loud that it sounds as if she’s letting go of all the air in her body. Then comes the scream—from deep within her and heavy with wanting. Her orgasm spills out as her nails dig into me, her toes curling around my hips, and her pussy tightening around my cock.

The feeling is too much, and I can’t help but let myself go right alongside her.

“Goodness, Aimee! I’m gonna come!”

Between our two bodies, my cock spills out onto her stomach, leaving lines of my semen on her smooth skin.

We both fully collapse on the cold shower floor. She lies on top of me as we move out of the line of the water. She shivers, and I place my arms around her almost on instinct.

“We should get going,” I say.

“Yeah,” she replies, throwing her hair over her right shoulder. “You’re right. We don’t want to keep a pack of wild motorcyclists waiting for us.”

Aimee pushes off of my chest, leaving an imprint of her body on my cool skin. I watch as she opens the screen door, releasing a waft of steam and fog. She grabs a towel from the rack and steps out.

She is right. Both life and danger are waiting for us out there. It was another day, another ride, and another chance to keep Aimee from killing the both of us.

Chapter Nine

Aimee

Growing up, we didn’t really do road trips. It’s not like Hawaii has long stretches of highway to travel on, and my parents weren’t exactly fans of driving outside our little town. They didn’t see the point when we had everything that we needed within a short walk. Looking back, I think the farthest we ever drove was about an hour to visit a relative on their deathbed.

Now that I’m on my own, I don’t understand why they insisted on staying in one place their entire lives. It’s as if journeying is in my blood. I love cruising in Greyhound buses from town to town, hitchhiking with strangers in the summer, and walking city streets when the nights were clear. Sure, there was a bit of danger to it all, but I never felt I was at risk. All I cared about was the peace and quiet that came with being alone and independent.

This trip is different, though. Here I am, hooked to the back of a biker I was forced to sleep with, as we pass through no-name town after no-name town in search of heaven knows what. Colorado disappears into the second day, becoming New Mexico. And the only difference I can see is that the cowboy hats get bigger and the skirts on the girls get shorter.

The only one smiling here is Breaker who looks like he is in Heaven as we ride three bikes wide on open roads. We skirt cities and places where the guys think the Feds and rival gangs will be hanging out. The way the men mark the maps with red open circles around places they call “hotbeds” make me think they are overestimating their reputation. Up until I got to Denver, I had never heard of the Gravediggers MC aside from a few oblique words here and there. But these guys were making it seem like they were the Hells Angels reincarnated.

Whether the danger is legit or just in Breaker and his guy’s inflated heads, they aren’t taking any chances. What should be a one or two-day trip is turning into three, going on four days. Most of the time, it’s because of the size of the group. Having thirty men, and some of their women, keep up with the pack and coordinating stops and errands takes time and skill. It’s certainly something I would suck at.

But Breaker is right at home with this stuff. The few times I’ve been near him during official business breaks, he takes the lead, often talking over Biggs. He tells the men which direction to go, how to line their bikes up, how fast they should be going around certain corners or sections of the rain-soaked roads. He makes notes of upcoming rest stops, or truck stops he knows are MC friendly. And he makes sure each and every guy knows the drill before we head out again.

I can’t help but notice Biggs when this happens. His face turns the color of putrid meat rotting in a fridge. The deep, sunburnt lines on his forehead scrunch up until they are full-on folds, and he runs his hand through the tip of his graying beard. He doesn’t look pleased with either Breaker or myself, though I have barely said a word since we left the hotel on the border between New Mexico and Colorado.

I’ve taken this time as a sabbatical of sorts. As much as the road is freeing and how I know I should be appreciative for another chance of escape, I still feel as if I am a slave to my situation. There’s no way that I would pick a guy like Breaker, and now I was being coupled off with him like one of those forced marriages, shotgun wedding situations you hear about. And this time, a whole group of motorcycle men were holding the guns and the shivs to my head as I pledge myself to Breaker and the Gravediggers.

By the fourth night on the road, I’m done. I’ve been stewing this whole drive, and I can’t take it anymore. As soon as Breaker shuts the hotel door, I unleash on him, my voice still hushed to a frantic whisper as I am careful of the men in the next room over.

Placing my hands upon his chest, I push him back further into the room, “I need to get out of here Breaker. You have to help me out.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks as he strides back towards me, his arms outstretched. His fingers brush up against the sunburnt skin of my shoulders as he fixes the spaghetti strap that has fallen down.

I again push him away, not wanting to be touched like that. I wasn’t about to give in again, as I have all the nights before. I have justified those times to be one-offs, heat-of-the-moment deals where I was just too emotional to understand what I was doing and what I was giving away.

I firm up my chin and grit my teeth as I say as clear as I can, “I’m done with this, Breaker. I am not supposed to be here, and you’re going to help me get the heck out of here. You got me?”

He slumps onto the bouncy motel bed; his large frame shaking the headboard so that it crashes into the wall. “No, I don’t have to help you, Aimee. You’re part of the club now, and I am responsible for you. We’ve talked about this. If you run away, you’re not only signing your own death warrant, you’re guaranteeing I won’t see another sunrise either.”

“But I’m not yours!” I shout back, stomping my foot on the ground like I would do when I was a kid. “I never agreed to this. You decided it for me. I should have let Biggs kill me that night. It would have been better than this perdition!”

“Watch it!” Breaker shouts as he stands back up again. He moves so fast towards me that I back straight into the dresser where the old box TV is stored. The corner of the furniture digs into my back, but I still manage to keep my eye contact as he places a finger in my face and scolds me. “You won’t be talking to me about this again. You hear me? I’m doing you a favor, and you’re being an ungrateful brat.”

I don’t know what to say to that. His rage always seems to catch me off-guard. It’s just a departure from the man who drapes his arms around me while we sleep and who is there when I wake with coffee ready to go. Maybe I’m getting too used to him. Maybe I’m hoping he is someone he clearly is not. Whatever I am thinking, it’s clear to me that the person deep down is the person I always thought was there—club Breaker.

I slide out from under his arm and grab my bag of toiletries I’ve picked up along the way. At least I can escape him and his dark, disapproving glares in the bathroom.

I sit myself down on the cold seat of the toilet, my head falling into my open hands. I take a few deep breaths to recenter myself, but I just repeat the last few minutes in my head.

I need to get out of this.

“Aimee! Come on! We’ve got to go!”

Suddenly, I’m aware we’re not alone anymore. Men are shouting at one another as the hotel room erupts into chaos. I don’t unlock the door, though. I just grab my bag and pull out the lipstick. I’m not going anywhere until I look somewhat presentable. After a few moments, I hear him bang on the door with his fist.

The whole room rattles with his shouts, “Aimee! Idiot! We have to get the heck out of here!”

“Why?” I ask, not even trying to hide my frustration. “We just got here. I’m not going anywhere until I shower or change my outfit.”

“Phoo,” he mutters before I hear him call out, “Move out of the way then!”

There’s a pause before a loud pound and crash. I jump out of the way just in time before the door goes flying off the hinges, landing in a distorted heap off to the side of the bathtub. Standing before the pile of wood and splinters, huffing and holding on to his bleeding arm, Breaker grits his teeth at me.

“I told you, we have to go. When I say go, you go.”

He reaches in towards me, managing to yank my arm just enough to pull me up and over the door and into the main living area. I get a few glances of the men gathering around a map laid on the queen size bed. They watch with smirks on their dirty faces as Breaker carries me out past them through the entrance and out to the parking lot.

“What are you doing? You can’t do this to me!” I call out, beating my fists on his back. “I’m not your prisoner! You have no ri—”

“Shut up, Aimee!” Breaker sets me down on the seat of his motorcycle. “Do you have any clue what is going on? Or is that pretty little head of yours stuck so far up your rear you can’t see that something bigger is happening here?”

It dawns on me that we’re not alone out here either. Just like in our hotel room, the rest of the Gravediggers are gearing up their bikes in a panic. Henry, next to us, throws his pack on the back, strapping it in with an old rope. Even Wesley with all his macho man ego looks terrified while whispering to his friend.

“What’s going on?” I ask, backing down from my protests. “Why are we leaving?” I don’t know why, but I reach out my hand towards Breaker. I grab hold of the arm he used to break down the door and, with a gentle firmness, begin to massage around the tender spot.

“It’s the Black Eagles. They got beef with us since we did a job in Raton a few years back. Their president is linked up with Vice, so it’s doubly bad if they manage to find us before we get the heck out of here.”

“Vice? You mean Vice from the Devil’s Fighters? The guy Biggs had me rob blind?”

Breaker nods with solemnity as he looks towards the main road connected to the parking lot. “Yeah. They’re the same. That’s why your job is to shut your mouth and sit here until we figure out a plan.”

“A plan? What do you mean? Are these Eagle people coming for us? Do they know where we are? How far away are they?” My voice peaks as I begin to panic. Vice is the last person I want to see here, a few rungs higher than Breaker, Biggs, and my ex-boyfriends. If he found me, I would be the perfect offering. Suddenly, I wasn’t just fleeing with the Gravediggers; I was fleeing for my               life.

“Yeah. They know. Someone ratted us out when we checked in to the hotel. We got the wrong info and crossed into their territory. Now we need to get the heck out of here before they sh—”

“We’re riding!” Biggs appears behind us, his hands raised in the air. “Let’s go. Anyone left behind can fend for themselves.”

“Where are we going?” Breaker asks as Biggs jumps on the bike parked on the other side of us. “Don’t you think we should sit down and map it out before we—”

“No! We did it your way, Breaker. You failed. Now we do it my way. We ride out until we are out of their area.”

Breaker jumps in again, anger building as he shouts back, “But we don’t even know where the heck that is. We could be riding all night in the dark on roads we haven’t scoped out. You don’t think that’s what they want?”

Biggs straddles his bike as he looks out again. The whole crowd of men look away but lean in at the same time. No one moves, probably in fear of either of the men striking out at them.

Finally, Biggs clears his throat. “We do it my way. The last I heard, I’m the president of the Gravediggers, and we live and die by that. Anyone have a problem with that can sit here and wait to be executed with their patches on.”

Breaker shakes his head but still jumps on the front of the bike. I barely have enough time to throw my arms around his waist before the Harley revs forward with a jolt.

We drive slower than usual, watching the rest of the crew pass us by. Breaker’s motorcycle slides back and forth between the other drivers, directing them as we take the backup spot next to the few cars and vans that follow with the cargo and supplies.

Every headlight that doesn’t belong to us shocks me like a spark of electricity. The sound of cars speeding up or a tire shaking and bumping on the highway causes me to jump. I hold on to Breaker tighter, pressing my face into his shoulder so I can’t see what is going on around us. But even holding onto him like this doesn’t feel enough.

We continue on for what seems like a few miles, as my eyes remain closed. Breaker says nothing, as he usually does when he drives, but then I hear him yell back at me. His face goes white as he words something like,  “Shoot! Idiot! That’s not… I can’t make out the patch color…?”

I spin my head around just in time to see a man with a shotgun pointed straight at us. The long barrel reaches over his handlebars as he leans low to position it.

“Breaker!” I shout, but he is one step ahead of me. The bike swerves to the side, flying like a rocket out of control towards the crowds of other riders.

He screams over the roar of their machines, “Go! Go! Go! Get the heck out of here! Don’t look back!”

Another shot is fired seconds later, causing me to duck down even further into the seat. He again swerves, this time towards the shoulder of the street where many of the riders have backed away from. We shoot to the front of the group, somehow finding Biggs in the sea of black and red jackets and bikes.

Up here in the front of the pack, no one seems to notice the danger creeping up behind them. The bikes behind stay in formation like well-trained soldiers, but the shots are flying fast from the few in the know. A few bikes stray to the side as they try to get out of the way.

Breaker pulls his bike so close to Biggs I can reach out and touch him. Biggs barely registers him, or if he does, he’s doing a great show of ignoring Breaker.

Breaker again shouts over the noise and chaos building behind us. “Biggs! It’s the Eagles! They are on our tail. We need to split the group up!”

Biggs looks over his shoulder without much urgency. He shrugs as he calls back, “I don’t see a blasted thing.”

Another gun fires three fast pops. But instead of just disappearing into the air with a crack, this one hits a target. Someone shouts, screaming out for help. I force myself to look behind me and see a motorcycle dip towards the road before tumbling over. The driver, with his head sunk towards his chest, does nothing to stop it from careening towards the ground until it skids in a flurry of rocks and sparks towards another biker doing his best to get out of the way. He too crashes.

Everything goes silent. I’m half-aware that I am screaming and clutching onto Breaker’s jacket, but everything feels like it’s going in slow motion. Breaker raises his hands in the air and pulls past Biggs. A line of bikers follows us while the other half sticks with Biggs. We take off towards the next exit turn while the rest of the club stays behind.

I should care about what happens to those we are leaving behind, but all I can do is close my eyes and force my mind to drift off to a place where there are beaches and oceans instead of blood-soaked roads. There, no one is screaming. No one is shooting. And no one has to lie to tell me that everything will be okay.

Chapter Ten

Breaker

“Did you see who it was?” I ask Henry as we park our bikes outside the rest stop. “I thought I saw Pete in my line, but I’m not so good with faces when they’re wearing helmets.”

I try to get off my bike, but Aimee is still latched onto my hips. Her head is buried in the leather of my jacket, but I can feel the vibrations of her chest as she cries to herself. I’m not sure what the heck I should do here, so I go with my gut and stay put.

“No, I didn’t see. We should probably do a roll call or something and then check in with Biggs.” Henry grabs a clipboard from his backpack. As secretary of the club, he has always been the most organized brother. He flips through the list with a tiny pencil he keeps behind his ear next to the cigarette. He checks the guys off one by one as they park next to us. With our protocol being to split into two subgroups for attacks like this, we could only know so much by those little markings. But we would at least know if it were our guys we’d be mopping off the highway.

Finally, Henry looks up me with a half-smile and says, “That’s all of them. None of the boys in our group were hit. I’m guessing they took up the middle of the pack. You’re the only one I see here who would have been that far back to be hit.”

“Idiot,” I mutter. “That means it’s an old dog.”

Before we left for this trip, Biggs had filled my group with the youngest, most inexperienced riders in our group. Guys like Wesley were thrown in with my right-hand man, Henry. We then divided up the boys that worked with me as enforcers, but Biggs still put a claim on the most experienced ones to back him up. The thought of losing a brother I have spent the better half of my life riding with was crushing.

“That’s not it,” Henry interjects. “If Biggs stayed where he was, the Eagles have to be picking them off one by one. They weren’t riding with much ammo on them—maybe a few glocks for Biggs and whatever your guys got. But there is no way the gun van stayed where it was when it saw them coming.”

Aimee’s grip gets even tighter as I struggle to breathe. I shift my weight just a hair, signaling to her that it was time to loosen up. She lets go, turning her head towards the side so none of us can get a good look at her. I scoot myself off the bike and begin to walk towards the large, framed map outside the brick building where truckers and a few families have gone in and out of. They all avoid our direction when they see our group moving towards them.

Henry traces his finger around the map, pointing to the tiny speck where we were ambushed. With a sigh, he says, “We were pretty deep in their territory. I’m sure they were waiting for us to make a move. You were right. We should have thought it through or stayed put until we could have come up with a better escape. But for now, Biggs and the boys have until they reach the territory line for the Holy Sinners. That’s another ten or eleven miles east of where we got off at.”

“Are we in danger?” I ask as I turn my attention back towards the roads. It’s one of those quiet, autumn days where everything seems in place. Even for New Mexico, the weather was just right for a ride, and the sun hung low for the late afternoon. It feels as if it should be raining or that the clouds should turn this red and yellow landscape gray and black. But the two realities couldn’t seem to meet in the middle. We were stuck with hell in paradise.

Henry continues to study the map. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure we’re out of it. If I remember the map from the hotel correctly, we’re in unclaimed territory. We should consider staying here tonight and having Biggs and whoever makes it meet us here. I can make some calls and find us a place to stay,” he finally replies with confidence.

I nod in agreement before adding a last request. “Split the hotels up. I don’t want them finding us at three in the morning to finish the job while we’re sleeping.”

It’s a little extreme. As a tribe, we stick together. But I had heard stories about territorial clubs like the Eagles swooping in for late night raids just for easy pickings. We’ll be hurting tonight. We don’t need to bleed out anymore.

Henry heads off as I grab the burner phone from my back pocket. Hitting the speed dial, the line on the other side rings over and over again. I take a moment to step outside the shelter and watch Aimee as she wipes her face with the back of her hand. She does that girly thing where she uses her fingertips to smudge away the eyeliner streaks under her eyes.

Biggs’ rough, cracking voice interrupts my thoughts. “You made it out alive, I see,” he says, almost like a threat.

“Yeah. We’re all accounted for. We got off at a rest stop outside Fort County. Where did you land?” I know I need to ask him about the two guys, but I can’t bear to do that just yet.

“The opposite direction. Coppers showed up just in time and broke up the Eagles while our guys sprinted at the turnaround. We lost two.”

I swallow the rock sitting in my throat. “Who?”

“Marco and Gringo. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like Marco was shot. Gringo got taken down by his bike and couldn’t recover. I’ve got the scanner on, and they’re having a hard time getting an ID on him. It won’t be long before they’re onto us as well.”

“We’re going to need to lay low,” I say, knowing he still isn’t interested in my opinion. “I asked Henry to split my guy’s hotels up, so we’re not sitting ducks. We don’t know if they’re going to be back for blood or not.”

There is a long pause as I hear his deep sigh at the other end of the line. “That’s a stupid idea. Do you know what funds are going to be like after we pay for the funerals and pay out Marco’s girl? We can’t afford that. We need to camp out tonight.”

“And wait for the Feds to find us in the KOA campground? We have to think this through, Biggs. We can send some guys out on a run, sell some stash we’re carrying. But the priority should be keeping us safe while we recover.”

Almost immediately, as if he has planned it all out before I can even mention it, he snaps back at me, “Fine. Send out your girl. We need fast cash, and she can get it. We’ve got some knock-off watches she can sell, or she can pickpocket. I don’t care. Just don’t let her come back until she’s got enough for at least fifteen hotel rooms and some gas money.”

“You’re joking. You think I’m going to put her out there with the—”

“You’ve done nothing but question me, Breaker. I’m starting to question your loyalty to the club and me. You do this, and maybe I’ll believe you’re not trying to sabotage this trip.”

With a click, he’s gone. No argument, just a threat that my dedication to the club is in question. Guys who have that allegation thrown at them are removed, or worse, depending on the crime.

I put my phone back and turn around towards where Aimee sits like a stone statue on the bench. Her feet sway back and forth in the air. Her fingers twist and turn in her lap while she hums something to herself. This isn’t the sassy, prissy girl I have been getting used to. Something is wrong with her. There is no arguing that.

I clear my throat until she turns around to face me. She doesn’t say a word, just stares up at me with hollow eyes. “We’ve got to go. We need to get some cash.”

Her voice is deeper than usual, with her tone void of any feeling. “What does that mean?”

“I need you to do your job. Biggs mentioned some fake watches you can sell or you can just—”

“Steal. I’ll just steal. How much do you need?” Aimee snaps, cutting me off.

I watch her walk away towards the bike and past the group of guys that are talking about the new plans. She says nothing as I follow her and gear up. We pull back out onto the road in search of crowds. The only viable location I can find is an outlet mall just on the outskirts of town. As we get closer, she tugs my jacket.

“Drop me off here,” she says into my ear.

I watch her walk towards the crowd, her hands behind her back. In her street clothes, she disappears into the mass of people. I catch sight of her again as she begins to “work.”

Even after seeing her steal the envelope from the bank, watching her go is like watching an artist. She slips in and out of groups of people without anyone noticing her. She has the art of fading away down like a science. Still, even with all her skill, I start paying attention to how she isn’t exactly focused. Her head darts towards different marks. Her arms reach out at several purses at once. And, at one point, she smacks straight into the man she’s trying to fetch a wallet out of when he stops mid-walk.

Aimee’s off her game.

I race my bike up towards her, trying to find a spot where I can call out to her without being obvious. But in the open-air mall, I’m more vulnerable than anyone else. I need a diversion or something—

“Oh my goodness! Someone stole my wallet out of my purse! Who saw who did it? Someone? Anyone!” A teenage girl stands away from her group of friends as they look at her bewildered. Aimee is only a few feet away, her hands clasped around a leather billfold, but I’m not the only one who notices her.

“Her! It was her!” A man points to her as he feels his back pocket for the wallet she has already taken and discarded. “Someone grab her!”

Aimee bounds off towards the parking lot, darting through traffic. I swing my bike around towards the back of one of the long rows. The whole time, I keep an eye on the crowd growing as a few of the braver ones take after her.

And then, she makes the fatal mistake; she looks back.

Her body slams into a parked truck. Aimee flies backward, right into the arms of a young guy trying to play the hero.

I charge off of my bike, running towards her as the wolves descend. A man tears at her clothes, rummaging through her pockets while some women cheer him on. She tries to spin her body away, but his hands are everywhere on her.

When I manage to make it through the circle of onlookers, she has curled up in a ball, squatting low on the ground as the group screams at her.

“Did someone call the cops? That jerk thinks she can get away with this!”

“Who needs the cops? Let’s restrain her right here!”

“Back away from her!” I shout.

“Who are you?” The man eyes me with uncertainty as he stands directly in front of Aimee. Me hovering nearly a foot over him doesn’t seem to intimidate him, nor does my leather jacket full of patches. Typically, that makes a regular Joe Blow back off.

I growl at him. “I’m your worst nightmare.”  The rest of the crowd parts, sensing danger beyond just a street rat pickpocketing them. “You got your wallet? That’s all you need.”

“But… what about mine?” The teenager from earlier calls out among the few remaining people.

I turn to Aimee. “Did you take their money?”

“No. No. No.” She shakes her head, her chin trembling. “I just took his. I don’t know about her.”

“She doesn’t have it,” I snap back at the teen.

“Yes she does!” a woman calls out.

“NO. SHE. DOESN’T,” I roar as loud as possible.

They all take a foot or two backward, some charging towards the stores as if nothing has happened. But as they part, the security cars appear with their white lights flashing and a fake siren blaring.

Aimee turns white as a sheet as she tries to find an escape route. I shoot her a look, telling her not to run. The last thing we need is for her to add a legit crime for reasons to arrest her.

The men in fake blue uniforms push through to where Aimee still kneels on the ground. They point their fingers at the crowd, listening to the people complaining about Aimee as she stands frozen before them. She doesn’t try to resist or run. She doesn’t even dispute it. She just stands and watches as, without another word, and using old school cuffs, they pull her up and over towards the car.

For the first time since this started, I hear her speak. She pleads quietly with them, “But I didn’t… I didn’t… I gave it back.”

“You’ll need to tell that story to the cops, girl. They’re on their way.”

Dang it! Here I thought they’d ban her from the mall and give her a slap on the wrist. Now we’re talking real po-po getting involved. Logistically, I know I only have a few minutes to get her out of this mess and out of this pit.

I take a moment to analyze the situation. The guards have brought her to the back of their car where they are peppering her with questions and rummaging through what they found in her small purse. Her eyes double in size as they find an ID for who knows who. Luckily, she knows to keep her mouth shut no matter what.

I’ve got to do something to buy some time, so I run back to my bike, trying to think of the supplies I have on hand. I travel so light that the few items I have are essentials and an emergency kit for when I go on rides alone. And with that, the plan formulates.

The red road flare stick is stuck in my Harley’s saddlebag. I find a spot just out of the way before popping the cap off of the top and striking the top with the inside lining. The flare sparks to life; burning bright. I toss it under the frame of a minivan before taking off. Almost instantly, people start shouting and running in every direction. The noise and flame of the flare look like a small explosion.

From behind a car, I watch as the security guards take off towards the commotion. They leave the door to their SUV open where Aimee sits with her head slumped against the leather seats.

I pull myself around, kneeling low, before calling out to Aimee. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“But my hands—”

I don’t let her answer. I grab her by the arm, pulling her out of the backseat. As I throw my leather coat on her, I push her through the rows of cars to where my bike waits. In the chaos, the shoppers shouting don’t even notice her slipping away, even as we pass the man who first called her out.

I throw her over the front of the motorcycle, pushing her forward so that she leans over the handlebars. I sit behind her, feeling her weight against my thighs as I push the bike off. It lurches forward as I press on the gas.

Aimee screams out as if it has all hit her again. Not only have we been shot at earlier, but we are also officially on the run from the law.

I slow the bike when I see the police arrive. Aimee pushes her still cuffed hands into her lap, under the jacket, and then turns her head towards the other side of the road. They don’t pay me any attention as they head to the mall with the sirens blasting. Through the driver’s open window, I hear them call to dispatch for a five foot, five-inch tall brunette, Asian descent by the name of Aimee Palakiko detained on suspicion of theft but walked away in the chaos.

Once we’re back at the road stop, I grab one of the boys, an expert at picking to free her. She just sits there, as quiet as a mouse, her eyes welling with tears as he fiddles with the lock near her wrists. It takes him about ten minutes to figure it out before she breaks free. I dismiss him, throwing him a few twenties for the extra work out of the cash pile Aimee still managed to walk away with.

When we are alone, she finally speaks. “What’s going to happen? What’s Biggs going to do to me if he finds out?”

I kick at a rock on the ground, watching it roll out of sight—anything to avoid looking at her. “He’s going to find out. He’s got police contacts everywhere. And as soon as he finds out you failed, he’s going to have to punish you.”

Her somber voice quivers. “How? How will he do it?”

“If you were a real member, he’d strip you of your position or kick you out altogether. He doesn’t take failure well. But I don’t know what he will do to you. We should prepare for the worst.”

She starts to cry. “He’s going to kill me! He’s going to kill me!”

I walk towards her, kneel down, and grab hold of her shoulders. “He won’t touch a hair on your head. You hear me? I promise you that, Aimee. Nothing—nobody—is going to hurt you as long as you’re with me.”

I mean every single word.

Chapter Eleven

Aimee

“I was—I was—” My voice trembles. I know he’s going to rage at me, but even being ready for it doesn’t make his explosion any easier when it hits.

The voice is merciless, unforgiving. “Don’t even bother explaining it to me! You had one job, jerk, and you couldn’t get it done! Even worse, you got us on the police’s radar. Do you know what kind of money that takes to get off it?”

“I’m… I’m sorry. I was just—” I stumble through my thoughts one by one, unsure of how to go on. I don’t have an explanation for what happened back at the mall with Breaker. All I know is that, for the first time in my life, I screwed up and got caught.

Biggs shouts me down, completely unaware of the people staring him down. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear another word out of that whore mouth of yours again!” He points to Breaker who stands at my side, seething. “You! You gave this chick free reign, and she walked all over you. I told you to not let that happen. You had one job!”

Breaker takes a step closer to him, pushing his chest into Biggs. I back up on instinctive as it escalates to Breaker screaming over his leader. “Leave her alone! She didn’t do a blasted thing wrong here. She did exactly what you wanted and walked away with enough cash to pay for your mistake!”

“My mistake? You think this is my mistake? You think being stuck in New Mexico is my problem? Forget you, kid.” With nowhere to go, Biggs pushes himself out of the way of Breaker and walks back towards the crowd of men dressed all in black. They duck their heads and pretend not to have heard the fight between the two.

With arms outstretched, Biggs draws the group to him. The men all share the same look—somber and worn. Even the biggest and baddest of them appear to have been broken down by the funeral for the two fallen men. The widow and family members still sit inside the hall, waiting for the motorcycle escort to the desert where their ashes will be spread. But Biggs doesn’t seem to care about that. He’s got current events on his mind and no care for the dead.

Loud enough for everyone to hear him, he calls out, “I’ve got some trash to say, and I want to say it now.” Reaching behind me, he manages to yank my arm so that I fly forward. I wrap an arm around my body, turning away towards the Gravediggers’ steel-like glares. “You all were under the impression that this girl, Aimee, was an acting member of this club. After yesterday’s events, I’m revoking that privilege.”

“What?” I ask, my breath lost in my chest. Without club member status, I was just another girl passing through. I wouldn’t be protected, fed, or housed. I would have to make do with whatever scraps they gave me when they were allowed to give it to me. And Biggs could decide my fate as he could the first day I wandered into his club headquarters.

I look over at Breaker. He looks just as distraught as I do. He grabs hold of Biggs’ shoulder and spins him towards him. “What about my claim on her? She’s an old lady of this club and gets that title until I let go of her,” he says in a low whisper.

“No,” Biggs spits with venom. Turning back to the club, he clarifies, “No Gravedigger has claims on Aimee, including Breaker. He lost that right when he let her botch up a robbery job and put us all in the position we’re in today. If anyone’s to blame, it’s him.”

Henry comes out of nowhere, one hand raised in frustration. “You can’t be serious!” he bellows. “This is against every rule in our bylaws!”

“My rule is law, judge, jury, gospel here!” Biggs shouts back. “If any of you little jerks wanna challenge me, they can take off that patch and send me to the ring. But I won’t take this trash anymore. We do this my way, or no way at all.”

I look back at the rest of the Gravediggers. They suddenly transform from men I was getting to know just enough to feel somewhat secure around them to a pack of wolves all licking their lips at their next, juicy meal. Even those I can sense are loyal to Henry and Breaker seem to be looking towards Biggs with reverence in his decisions. Have we crossed the line? Where was it to begin with?

With a wave of his hands, Biggs dismisses the group. All of the men head off towards their bikes, Breaker in the back end position and Biggs leading the club. I stand motionless as Marco’s widow passes by with his ashes. She holds the jar tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped protectively around the curves of it. With tender pecks, she kisses the lid before handing the ashes over to Biggs who places it in his saddlebag.

Gringo’s family follows behind her. They look more upset and bewildered than anything. Unlike Marco’s widow who travels with the club, Gringo’s family clearly had no idea what their son was involved with. From what I have heard from Breaker, Biggs had to pay for their flight from California to New Mexico, and when they resisted a club funeral, Biggs had to insist that this is what happens. No doctor, no morgue, no church with flowers. Just a funeral home worker paid off to perform the cremation and a tradition dating back to when the club was first founded.

Gringo’s family gives the ashes to Breaker, who holds them in his arms. He hangs his head low, placing his chin on his chest. Breaker, unlike Biggs, was the kind of guy who knew details about their lives, who had real brotherhoods with the majority of them. He took the club oath seriously in every sense.

He takes off slowly behind the second-to-last driver, looking over his shoulder to be sure the families are keeping up in their rented black cars. The line of motorcycles disappears towards the blank landscape where the sun has just begun to set. For the first time, I’m alone, save for a few members who have stayed behind to guard the club’s assets.

I take a seat on a bench inside the funeral home. The entire place smells like a mixture of heavy cleaning solution and dust. It reminds me of my Grandma’s home back on the island where every bit of furniture and decor felt as if it was nearly twenty years behind the times. With nothing to do, I play with the hem of my borrowed dress mindlessly, trying not to think about what would happen to me when those men get back.

Would Breaker still want me, and protect me? I’m not sure why that question is the first thing I am thinking about when I’ve got bigger fish to fry, but it is. I am suddenly terrified of nights without him, of other men trying to come between us. I am worried about where I will sleep if it is not with him or who will be my get-away backup partner if Biggs sends me out on another run.

“Ma’am?” A pale man dressed in a worn black suit taps my shoulder. “Would you like anything while you wait? There are some complimentary refreshments and finger foods in the lounge if—”

I cut him off without a second thought. “A phone,” I say, sounding a little absentminded. By the way the man’s looking at me, with such care and practiced compassion, I’m able to guess that he’s implying I’m a family member left behind to wait. I have to use this to my advantage. “I’m sorry,” I add. “Can I borrow your phone for a quick call? I just need to check on some things back home, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back at the hotel to do it.”

“Yes, certainly. Right this way. You can use my private office.” He stretches out his long, wispy arms and shows me towards a closed off room at the front of the building. There’s a red leather chair behind a large desk in the middle of the room, but I don’t dare to sit down. Instead, I just walk forward and reach for the simple, white telephone on the desk. The man shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone.

What feels like days pass as I try to dial my sister’s number again. After I couldn’t reach her the first night, I had done away with the idea that she could or even wanted to save me this time. Still, having the phone in front of me feels like there is still hope out there if I could just find the right moment. I stare at the numbers, willing myself to push them, but I can’t. I just can’t. The room grows dark with the sun shifting away from the west-facing window.

“Aimee?” Breaker knocks on the door to the office. “We need to go.” He pushes it open, and I quickly place the phone down. I shouldn’t care if he thinks I’ve been calling for help or not, but still, I try to hide it.

“Yeah,” I say as I walk out, knowing that I’ve missed my opportunity. I instantly regret not placing that call as soon as I am out the door and back on Breaker’s motorcycle.

We ride alone and in silence towards the hotel.

When we park, Breaker answers what is clearly on my mind. “You’re going to sleep with me. Biggs wants you to fend for yourself, but I’m not going to let that happen.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, “You don’t have to protect me. I’ve been watching out for myself since I was a teenager. I’ve been fine.” My pride sticks to me like armor. Even now I can’t seem to let this guy in.

I dismount without waiting for him, heading straight towards the rooms without thinking. I’m about fifty feet ahead of him when I feel a hand on my arm. Someone grabs me, pushing me towards the wall. The smell of stale booze and smoke burns my nostrils.

“Well, look who I caught! Aimee, Aimee, Aimee… It’s so good to see you. After this afternoon, I could use some new pussy in my life to lighten me up.”

A man I can’t name whips me around to face him, pressing my arms together so I can’t strike out at him. He leans his head into my neck, pressing his nose into the flesh of it. His voice slithers up my skin while his hands trace up and under the bottom of my dress. I feel his scratchy fingers with the dangling nails meet the top of my thighs while he coos into my ear, “Goodness, a body like this… I know why Breaker was keeping you all to himself. When I get through with you, you won’t smell or look so sweet.”

He laughs, his body shaking into mine, before pushing me forward towards his room’s open door. I tumble backward, falling to the ground. My head bounces off of the spongy carpet, forcing me to finally let out that scream that’s been hidden in my stomach. “HELP! PLEASE! SOMEONE! HELP ME!”

I barely get out the last line before the man swings back, out of my view. There’s a loud pound, a body slamming against a wall, before I hear Breaker shouting with such force, it takes me a moment to realize it’s him. “Get off of her, Price!”

I sit myself up on my elbows, pulling the hem of my dress down to watch him pummel into the man.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! What the heck, man? She’s free game. We all heard Biggs say it. I can do whatever I want to her,” Price shouts back.

Breaker leans over him, right in his face. “No! I don’t care what Biggs says. She’s mine, and she’s staying mine. Pass it onto your dickless friends that Aimee isn’t to be touched unless they want to deal with me.”

Standing under the overhead light, a halo of fluorescent covers the black waves of his hair. His entire face lightens up as he reaches his long arm out to me. Carefully, I hold on as he picks me up, cradling me upright in his arms. Some part of me knows this is a fairy tale. My knight in shining armor has shown up to save me, but I can’t get past the darkness that falls behind his eyes. Even with him holding me, there’s something there that warns, Don’t go on! Wolf in sheep’s clothing!

So I pull away. I thank him, muttering it under my breath, and then I walk through the door back towards where I remember my room is. He runs to my side as I stop, frozen in my place. My bag is outside my door; it has been torn open, and items are clearly missing. I pull my purse closer to my hip, bite my lip, and march over to it. I dig through the pockets, tearing through the clothes and the torn up notepad, until I find the pictures. They’re still where I left them, untouched. Thank goodness.

“Come on. Let’s go back to my room.” Breaker places his hand on my arm and pulls me to my feet again. I put more weight on him until we finally get into the room and he places me on the bed. I slump backward, staring up, wordless, at the ceiling.

A moment passes, and I feel a tug at one of my thigh-high leather boots. The zipper slides off, scraping my skin. I pull myself up slightly to see Breaker at my feet, turning my other leg so that he can get to the second boot zipper. It slips off easier this time with him pulling it off slower and with care. His large hands plant themselves at my hips so that he hovers just over my chest. I feel his hips press into my knees and then a hand slipping up my dress towards my fishnet leggings. The fingers pull at the thin fabric until it slips over my hips and down towards my panties.

Breaker must have heard my gasp or felt my body tense under his touch, for he stops and lowers his face towards mine. I peer back at his large mass as he whispers, “I’m not going to do anything to you that you don’t want. I’m just helping you get comfortable. You shouldn’t sleep with your boots on.”

I have a choice to make here. I know I do. I could tell him to stop, turn my back to him, and pretend that he hasn’t been anything but kind to me today and this evening. Or I could let him pull these leggings down and throw them wherever my boots have landed. I take a deep breath, searching for that gut feeling, but all I’m getting is how nice his hands feel resting on the bone of my hip and how tantalizing and hot his breath is on my cheeks.

Reaching up, I grab his face in my hands and pull him down so that his entire weight falls on me. My lips part for him, leading him to me so that our mouths blend together in a passionate fury.

With a gentle touch, he moves his hands along the line of my body, starting at my neck and traveling slower towards the roundness of my rear. When he gets to my thighs, he hitches his hand around the fleshiest part and throws my leg around his muscular hip. The scratchy fabric of his jeans rubs against the bare skin, but I don’t mind. The pain is good. The pain makes this real for me.

His breathing picks up along with his motions. He becomes wild, kissing me with such intensity that it feels as if he will force me to jump out of my own body. I hold on for the ride by letting him take control of me. My body melts in his hands as they come back to my breasts. The halter straps of my borrowed black dress peel away, untying themselves by his force, and the neckline falls so that my chest is laid out bare for him.

Breaker stops for a moment. His dark eyes fall on my nipples as a wicked smile draws across his face. “Dang, you are beautiful.”

I don’t quite know why, but I let out a laugh. It’s a burst of giggle that makes me feel as if I’m in the third grade again and some cute boy has complimented my shoes. Of course, Breaker looks back at me as if I’m crazy, but that doesn’t stop him from going in, head first.

Those thick lips plaster themselves around my firm left nipple; the soft vibrations of his low growl pulsing against my skin. The tiny hairs on my body stand on end as he tugs and sucks, alternating the firm motions in such rapid succession that I can barely keep up. Then there’s the sting! His fingers twist around the other nipple, pinching it alert. I cry out, my voice not my own.

My hips rise against his as if lifted by a string, and his growing cock against my pubic bone only sets me more aflame. Something else takes control of me as I push his shoulders and head down as hard as I can. He goes from my breasts to my hips and out from under the skirt of my dress still hitched at my waist.

Breaker kisses the outside of my black panties. Despite the fabric being in the way, I feel his hot breath seep through and the tenderness of his lips. Down there, the skin grows warm as everything opens up in anticipation. My fingers wrap around the waves of his hair as I wait for him to curl the elastic lace of my panties around his hands.

Again, he dives in like an expert. After me several times, he has managed to learn all of my nooks and soft spots. Breaker finds my clit with just a little flick of his tongue, focusing on my pleasure spot with unmatched intensity. His hands massage at the folds in a circular motion so that they open and close for him. It’s just enough for him to slip his finger along the inside edges, rotating it in the opposite direction of his mouth. The sensation reels me, both holding me in place on the bed and sending my insides flying in every direction.

All I can do is grasp hold of the bedding while he digs in. Breaker speeds up the motions of his mouth and fingers while pushing me back down when my hips seem to get out of control. At one point, I feel his fingers curl into the round, curve of my rear. His mouth suddenly stops, but I can’t focus on that. I instead feel the thick, heavy whack against my skin.

I’ve never been one for spanking, but this isn’t the same as getting punished. This was earthy, wild, unhinged. I want more.

“Breaker! Please!”

He slaps my rear again; this time so hard I hear the crack of skin meeting skin. His mouth continues to work on my pussy. The sting and the wetness blend into delicious torment.

There’s another.

And another.

My passion flies off the charts. I’m only vaguely conscious as I feel my own hands wrap around my breasts as if I can’t hold myself in my skin anymore. All I can see is his brown eyes staring up at me as he drives that finger further into me.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but instead what comes out is the orgasm of a lifetime. It pours out of every inch of me like water bursting from a dam.

Breaker must sense it, or at least feel it, as he pulls back, watching me as my entire body shakes, tenses, and loosens within a matter of seconds. My hips fall and then turn so that I curl up into a small ball on the side of the bed. He pulls himself up beside me, his unhooked metal belt buckle digging into my rear, but I don’t care. The long arms draped over me and his lips kissing my bare shoulders and nestling into my hair, is all I need.

I reach behind me, placing my hand on his rough, unshaven chin and whisper, “Thank you for that.”

He pulls me into his chest even tighter and says nothing else.

Chapter Twelve

Breaker

Making it to Houston was a blasted relief. After all that had happened, after all that we had lost, I thought we would never make it. Yet we arrived at the sunbaked city with fewer men but hungry for action. I was skeptical about Houston. I’m not one for Texas cowboy boots and crappy country music, but the city has something much more important—opportunity.

We found our new headquarters within a rundown bar, Diggers Drinks, outside the industrial part of the city. Paying with cash, we moved in on the same day we signed the lease and instantly go to work. Biggs set up the business side of the business in the event and brewing space with each of the exec members living in their offices while we worked to find a central space for the rest of the crew.

While I should be living there full-time, I spend most of my days at Aimee’s hotel room just a few blocks away. Biggs has her guarded most days and nights, but I manage to sneak in and out by padding the wallets of some of Biggs’ butt boys. The system works, but we know it won’t be long before someone snaps or Biggs himself catches on about where I go when my work is done.

For all the worry and anxiety she went through the first few days, after Biggs took away her old lady designation, Aimee has been relatively settled. When we arrived, Henry volunteered to take over as her guard while she was out conning. He didn’t mind her bratty ways or how she had to be in control of every mark. And, for what it is worth, that system worked. Aimee was bringing in thousands a week for the Gravediggers.

Tonight is no different. Henry walks through the back door of the bar with a sly smile on his face, just like he always did.

“Well, well, well, boys,” he crows, “another good night for our girl!”

Biggs and I follow him into his office where he keeps all of his books. He jots a quick number down in his ledger before looking back up at us. “That girl is killing it out there.” He beams. “I really think she ought to be in charge of training the other girls on how to get some quick cash.”

“Out of the question,” Biggs spits. Henry has been suggesting this for a week now, but Biggs, as always, is an unmovable lump of a mountain. Unless it’s his brilliant idea, he isn’t taking anyone’s suggestions into consideration, especially after the whole meltdown outside New Mexico. It’s his way of gaining back power.

Henry just shrugs him off. He’ll say the same thing tomorrow if he and Aimee go out for a run together. You could say a lot about the guy, but the one thing I will agree on is that he’s persistent.

“How much did she make, Henry?” I ask, taking a seat near him. I couldn’t help but be curious. On her best days, when her adrenaline was still running high, the sex was fantastic. Those lean, tan legs would wrap themselves around me, her wet pussy dripping around my jeans before I could even get through her hotel door. Of course, I wanted her to make the bucks for the Gravediggers, but I had some darker motives when it came to her performance.

“Two thousand.” He passes the manilla envelope to me.

I thumb through the bills one-by-one. Money never meant much to me. On the reservation, my family didn’t have much of it, but what my daddy earned in the oil fields and my mama got from her government check. Everything else was put on card.

Now, as a Gravedigger, I understand and appreciate it a bit more. Money was what got us from point A to point B. It’s what put food in men’s mouths and shoes on their kids’ feet. It’s what paid the gas and the rent. It’s what kept us together.

“Incredible,” I mutter under my breath. Visions of Aimee sashaying around the hotel room with that red lace thong bounce in and out of my mind. I have to shift my hips just to avoid the rumble in my pants.

“She could do better,” Biggs says as he takes the envelope from me. “What the heck is she doing that all she’s bringing in is this dinky amount? You watching her to make sure she ain’t skimming from the top? I don’t want our own, dang treasurer to be suckered by a two-bit con artist like her.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” I reply with my arm outstretched towards Henry’s books. “The bar’s barely making the bottom line, and our guys haven’t gotten the territory set up yet. The only one that is performing at all is Aimee and her cash grabs. She’s the one paying for everything right now, and she’s not even a blasted member anymore!”

“You watch your tone, Breaker. I don’t need your trash. I know what that jerk is capable of, and it’s way more than that. Both of y’all going soft on me is not going to be tolerated. Aimee ain’t a member. She’s ours to use, and if she ain’t living up to her potential, then I’m going to have to figure out a more profitable use for her.”

Henry and I eye one another. He’s mentioned her being sold off pretty frequently since we arrived in Houston, but I’ve just ignored it. It’s pretty clear to me that Biggs is going through some crisis where he thinks I’m going to stage a coup or something. Aimee is his only bargaining chip against me, and even I know that I would give her up if it meant the club sticking together.

Still, I hold those words tight to my chest until I see her later.

Coozy is on guard tonight at the Great Ace Motel. Luckily for me, he just wants a few bottles of cold beer and some snort to get him through the night. I pat his back as I pass him the Miller and baggies before knocking on her door.

Like I predicted, Aimee yanks me inside the room, slamming the door behind her. She stands back, staring me down with an expression I can’t exactly read. Finally, after her pause, she begins to walk toward me, her arms reaching out for me. I try to hide the knowing smile, but it breaks away as she lowers her voice to say, “I need to know you’re with me, Breaker.”

“What?” I ask, scratching the back of my neck. Something about the way she’d whispered it makes me uncomfortable.

“I need to know you’re with me... because I need your help for something.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “We’ve been over this a hundred times now. I’m not going to help you escape, Aimee. You’re Gravedigger territory, but I’m working on getting Biggs to—”

She places a finger to my lips and then pulls me down by the neck to her face. I feel the warmth of her breath on my skin as she continues on. “No. It’s not that, Breaker. I need your help because Biggs is going to pull something soon. I know it.”

“How? How do you know it?”

“Henry, he told me that he’s been mentioning that he was going to change my job if I didn’t pull in more money. Is that right?” She looks up at me with those big, doe eyes of her, and I can’t hide the truth. Slowly, I nod my head. “Well, I asked some of the girls, the street girls, and they mentioned that Biggs came over a few nights ago asking for client information. He was telling them he had a new product to sell and that head club guys were going to be clamoring to get it.”

“What does that have to do with you?” I ask. “I would know if he was going to sell you or some trash.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re too close to me, and he knows that. He wouldn’t fill you in on that plan unless he planned on using it against you. Let’s be honest here.” She slumps on the small couch in the corner, her knees pulled into her chest as she begins to rock back and forth. With her head ducked down, she adds, “There’s something I haven’t told you about him, Breaker. That night when we first hooked up, Biggs… well, he propositioned me. He told me he could protect me if I messed him.”

My face goes warm as my hands tense up into big balls of fists. “Did you?” I spit out through gritted teeth.

“No!” She shouts back while looking me dead in the eyes. “I could never, ever be with a guy like him. I already did that once, and I got so many black eyes for it. The only one I’ve ever slept with is you. And that’s why I need you. We have to get into Biggs’ office and see what he’s up to. Please, Breaker. You have to help me with this.”

I walk towards the bathroom, my back towards her so she can’t see the indecision spelled out on my face. My loyalty pledge was to Biggs and the Gravediggers. I took it every single year around a firepit with my men looking on. I was a Gravedigger for life with the patches to prove what I have done to wear our colors.

But, on the other hand, he has broken so many unwritten and written rules. He had taken away my property when he released Aimee as a punishment for just trying to protect the club and its members. Aimee had pulled some trash breaking into our headquarters, but she has proved her worth over and over again. She was acting more like a Gravedigger than our own president was, and that deserved some loyalty too.

Torn between the club and the body that slept next to me each night, I had to make some decisions and quick. She wouldn’t wait long to take matters into her own hands if I didn’t assist her myself. I turn back to face Aimee who stares at me with wanting.

I take my phone out of my pocket and place it to my ear as I wait for the other line to answer. “Hey... Henry? I need to ask you a favor. Is Biggs out yet or is he still working?”

***

Aimee stands next to me as I turn my back to Biggs’ office door. To our surprise, the bar is actually making a killing tonight with the live band some of the boys booked. Drunk men meander around with their bottles slightly tipped towards the ground, while young girls in boots and short-shorts lean into them, looking for free drinks.

None of the guys walking past Aimee and me to hit the bathrooms are with our club, but you can’t be too careful when you’re breaking into a motorcycle club president’s office. We stare at one another, smiling; trying to look convincing as a couple just getting some air from the noisy, smoke-filled bar.

When it clears, I use my basic lock picking skills to use a credit card to slide open the basic bolt lock, making a mental note to replace the lock on my own office when I get a chance. The door opens, and I slide into the darkness with Aimee following behind me.

“Stand by the door and play lookout,” I command her. She stays put, peering through the small crack in the door with her ear pressed against the wall.

Biggs computer is still up and running. The man knows nothing about basic security. Even I, who hates anything technology, have a passcode on my devices.

It’s just too easy to hit his email. I do a search for Aimee’s name, and it comes back with at least twenty emails from the past week. I find the first one; an email that Biggs sent.

I have an opportunity you won’t want to miss. This chick is fine. On a scale of 1-10, I give her a solid 8. Nice C size belly, perky rear, dark skin. She’d make a good addition to your group of ladies and is submissive when put in her place. Not only does she have a pussy worth getting your dicks in, but she also has skills that could earn you big bucks. She’s known all over the west for grifting even the biggest clubs. Just this week, she earned our club nearly $6k.

Pics included. You don’t want to miss.

Interested in getting your hands on her? I’m taking the highest bidder. Make your offers for cash or trades.

—Biggs McGuire, President of Gravediggers MC

My mouth goes dry as I open the attachments—a slideshow of shots of her pops up. I recognize a lot of her outfits or the backgrounds in them. They couldn’t have all been taken just by him, especially not the upskirt ones from the funeral.

“Aimee…” I begin to whisper, but she’s already behind me, her hand wrapped around the metal of the chair.

She gasps. “Is that me?” I stop on a picture of a headless woman, her breasts hanging out of her shirt. “That can’t be…” She goes silent when I find another picture of her smiling as she squints from the sun.

“It gets worse,” I say with a stiff jaw and a pit in my stomach growing larger by the second. “You were right. He’s trying to sell you. These emails are all bids from club leaders. I recognize a few of the names.”

“I— I— don’t…” She races back to the door of the office and sneaks out. I click out of all of the tabs before running after her, following her through the maze of people back to the parking lot.

“Aimee! Stop!” I manage to grab her arm, pulling her back towards me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away, Breaker! Away! I have to go!”

“At least let me take you back to the hotel,” I offer, knowing that there was nothing else I could do right now. By the look of the last email I clicked on, it seems as if Biggs is still taking offers, but isn’t planning on selling her tonight.

She wraps her arms around herself as if she’s chilled to the bone. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go now.”

We begin to walk back to my Harley when I feel the buzz of my phone against my leg. Biggs’ name pops up on the screen, stopping me in my place. Aimee watches as I answer it.

“I need you at the Naughty Spot, Breaker. Can you get here?” He’s already at the strip club from the sound of it; pounding music blasts through the phone as a woman shrieks in the background.

Holding back all the anger festering in my head, I reply, “Yeah. I can get there. Give me about twenty minutes.”

He hangs up, and I’m left with Aimee staring me down with a glare so icy I could freeze in place.

“You’re not. You can’t,” she stutters.

“I have to Aimee. Biggs is my club’s president. And when he calls, I have to come.”

“But… did you see?”

“Yes! I saw it. Do you think I’m not pissed about it? I’m livid. But this is the reality, Aimee—it’s not all rainbows and sunshine. This trash happens when you mess with a club like you did.” The words spill out of me before I can control them. I can tell I’ve wounded her by how she bites the corner of her lips and takes a step back from me.

“I was doing what I had to do to survive. If I would’ve known I was going to end up here, with you, I wouldn’t have done it.”

The with you is like a dagger right to the gut. I walk past her without another word and get on my bike. She follows and positions herself on the back, but this time, she doesn’t put her arms around me or press her chest against my back. She sits straight up, looking forward at the road ahead. Fine. She can have it her way then.

I drop her back at her motel room, walking her past the few drunk club members sitting outside the parking lot and her guard still high as a kite. She unlocks her door and heads inside without speaking to me, not that I’d expected her to. We’re even. I don’t have to deal with her prissy girl attitude when I already have enough with Biggs to worry about.

The Naughty Place is only a few miles from the motel, but I take my time getting there. A little time on the road helps to clear my head and get myself in a good mindset. Knowing Biggs, I’m either walking into a normal night at the club or a trap that’s been set for awhile. Given tonight’s activities with Aimee, something tells me that I need to be on my toes and stay on alert for this.

The club is just as I expected; an ordinary strip club. We go to them a lot when we’re on the road, and the scene is the same in just about every dive. Leather couches, neon lights, girls gyrating on objects as they stare down with blank expressions at their marks. The nudity is nothing. These girls are as cold as corpses when you get your hands on them, even the prettiest of them.

Biggs sits alone at one of the booths. Two girls flank him as they rub their curvy belly into his face and chest. He looks ahead towards the stage, occasionally throwing up a few bills towards his private dancers.

I clear my throat and interrupt his little threesome. “You wanted to see me, Biggs?”

He shoves one of the girls to the side, clearing a spot for me next to him. “Sit down. Have a shot or two.”

I can smell the bad tequila from a mile away, but I still knock it back. Everything instantly feels warmer. Even the lady next to me, touching the neckline of my shirt, appears more attractive to me with her sparkly G-string and black silk bra.

“I wanted to reward you. You’re right. Whatever you’ve been doing with Aimee has been good for the club.” He hands me another shot, which I whip back at the mention of Aimee’s name. “Taking away her from you wasn’t what I wanted, so consider this my apology. I’m not giving her to you, but at least I can show you a good time.”

“A good time?” I ask as the girl uses her neon pink fingernails to shove another shot in my hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “You pick ‘em, I pay. That’s how easy it is to get quality pussy in this town. You’ll forget about Aimee’s in seconds after this one takes a spin on your toe.”

“No thanks,” I try to say, but the girl is already on top of me. Her thick hips rock up and down the line of my zipper like someone tracing a target. She smells of baby powder and roses. It’s not unappealing. She places the shot of tequila in her bra and leans down to me. I don’t even push her away before the glass and her skin are on my lips. She rises, and the liquid pours down my throat.

“That’s a good boy,” she says with a high-pitched, nasal yet seductive southern drawl. “I want to have fun with a big guy like you.”

Biggs slaps my back and laughs. “She’s yours if you want her. I haven’t tested that one just yet.” He attempts to reach over to grab her by the inner thigh, but she expertly pulls away by crossing herself on my lap and resting her head on my shoulder.

This isn’t where I should be. I know that. And this girl can probably sense it. But it’s hard to say no when Aimee’s out of the picture...

Chapter Thirteen

Aimee

It has been nine hours and eighteen minutes since I last saw Breaker—by far the longest I’ve gone without seeing him since this whole thing began. I hate to admit it, but I’m starting to unravel at the seams. The one person who promised to protect me has disappeared, and now, I’m left here to just sit and wait it out.

I’ve been up all night waiting for him. My eyes only closed to blink as I waited, curled up in a ball on my side of the bed, and watching the sun slowly emerge from the crack in the thick satin drapes. Occasionally, I’d see the silhouette of a man walking past, but there was never a tap at the door or one of my guards shouting for me.

I was alone. Henry wouldn’t come for a few more hours to start the day’s shift, and my guards were currently preoccupied grabbing breakfast. They’ve become used to seeing Breaker slip out of the room about now and probably consider me to be well-protected with him around. It would be so easy, easier than ever really, to just walk out of the room and run for it.

I’ve thought about it a few times since I began counting the minutes down and realized that Breaker may not be coming back this morning. At one point, I even grabbed my purse and loaded it up with a few snacks I had Breaker bring me from the bar a few nights ago. But as I touched the doorknob, I couldn’t make myself push that handle down and out. I was stuck; my feet glued to the cheap red carpet.

I tried to tell myself that it was because I couldn’t get away with it. Breaker was right when he told me that they would track me down. The emails from last night proved that he had the ability to get what he wanted and a network to back him up if he wanted. I was a girl with a face dozens of dangerous men have now seen and wanted. I couldn’t just slip back into my old life stealing and dealing my way through life with them on my trail.

However, it wasn’t like the Gravediggers really knew Houston. I didn’t either, but I could cut and dye my hair, wear some contacts, get a few quick tattoos, and become a new girl. I could find a guy to sucker for a plane ticket back to Hawaii. I could call up my sister and stay with her back on the island with her husband and their kids. I could be normal again with a normal job, a normal relationship, a normal life…

No. I can’t. Normal’s not in the cards for me anymore. Nothing could ever be normal when the truth of my situation is that I am standing in a hotel room, my hand holding tight to the handle of the door, and I can’t force myself to go another step.

The truth is, if I force myself to be honest, that I can’t go unless I know what happened to Breaker last night. Did Biggs know about us breaking into his office? I wouldn’t put it past him to have some undercover guys looking out for his stuff or a security camera none of his guys knew about.

And if he did know, what would he do to Breaker? He had already taken me away from him. That enough was a huge blow in the motorcycle club world. The boys talk about it as if he had cut Breaker’s head off and tossed it in the trash. The next step would be kicking him out for good or killing him in cold blood.

I can’t even think about that right now. I just have to focus on getting through this day without worrying myself to death. Breaker is a big boy and a strong one at that. If anyone can get himself out of a jam, it’s him. I have to have faith in that.

I nibble on some chips while doing my hair and makeup—just regular things that make the minutes past. Eventually, Henry arrives. His familiar knock doesn’t jolt me or disappoint me. It’s just a fact of life. He smiles as I open the door, clearly ready to go.

“Good. I want to get this over with early today so I can have dinner with a chick I met last night.”

I can’t help but ask, “A chick you met? Were you at the strip club with Breaker, by any chance?”

“Strip club?” He looks at me like he’s studying me for hints about if he’s going to walk into a trap. I don’t blame him. Girls and strip clubs can be a loaded landmine topic. Still, he brushes it off and replies, “No. I met her at a job. She’s not a street girl or anything, just a dealer. Name’s Marigold and has tits for days.”

“She sounds lovely,” I mutter under my breath. I am still not exactly used to the locker room talk. And even more so, he gives me absolutely no answers about where Breaker may be or what has happened to him.

“So, where do you want to go today? Biggs wants some big numbers from you, so I was thinking we hit the downtown area. It’s Monday. Lunchtime. I’m sure some slimeball bankers have wallets stuffed for their networking whatever…”

“Yeah. I mean, what does it really matter?” It didn’t matter. I thought that by doing my best work, by getting huge numbers of cash for the club, Biggs would let me in or at least trust me to not have this twenty-four-hour surveillance requirement. Maybe I’d even get my phone turned on. But after those emails, I knew the truth. This was just busy work until I could get him the real profits.

Of course, I completely forget that Henry has no clue what I am talking about. He wasn’t there in the office to see the replies from the club members with their questions and bids. He probably has no idea that Biggs is taking pictures of me under my dress and down my shirt. Henry doesn’t seem like the guy who would be part of it, even with his motorcycle guy swagger and his go-big-or-go-home bravado.

“What do you mean?” he asks, repeating himself a few times before it registers.

“Oh, nothing. It just doesn’t matter in terms of getting back in with Biggs’ good graces. That’s all.”

“Breaker’s working on that. It’s gonna take time. Breaker made the mistake and shouldn’t have questioned Biggs. We all know not to cross that line, but he can’t keep his trash together when he thinks he’s right.”

“I understand that.”

Henry points toward the blinding sunlight at an object stammering towards us, “Speak of the devil…”

Breaker appears like a shadow, but even from a distance, I can tell he’s still drunk from last night. His shirt is hitched up around his waist, and his pants are unbuckled so that the giant metal clasp swings from side to side around his hips.

“He looks like garbage,” Henry whispers, followed by a gruff chuckle.

I couldn’t agree with him more. I ask Henry for a minute before storming towards Breaker. He nearly falls backward into the dried up landscape when he sees me coming. We both stand in silence, waiting for the other one to say something.

It’s me, of course, who breaks first. My temper explodes on him. “What the heck, Breaker? You don’t call? You don’t text? You don’t show?”

He sways slightly as he replies, “Why the heck do you care, Aimee? After last night, you made it clear you don’t give a hoot about what I do. Remember?”

I can’t tell if he actually remembers what I said either. His bloodshot eyes are barely open under those heavily, purplish eyelids.

“I care when you don’t show up or bother to tell me what is going on.” I reach over to him, grabbing him by the arm as I say in a low whisper, “I waited up all night for some sign of you.”

As I make contact with him, I catch a whiff. Not only does he smell like trash, but he also smells somewhat familiar. It’s a perfume, a particularly cheap perfume I wore as a high school freshman trying to land my first boyfriend. My sister used to call it “Smell of Skank” and here he was reeking of it under the layers of booze and cigarette smoke. I study him a bit more, noticing how his collar is ripped at the seams and he has nail marks up and around the back of his neck.

Breaker must know what he has inadvertently given away. He grows tense under me, growling to himself. He yanks away with such force that I fly backward, stumbling towards the ground. I manage to catch myself with the back of my palms before Henry runs over to collect me.

“What did you do?” I yell, not caring who can hear me. “Why were you gone all night, Breaker?”

Breaker shoots me an icy glare. “You wanna know the truth, Aimee? You really want to know?” he says, his tone just as cold as his face. With a deep breath, he then confirms it all. “I was another chick. That’s what I was doing. Biggs got me drunk, and I woke up in some girl’s nasty apartment on the other side of town. I don’t remember a thing after my fifth shot, and all I know is that I’ve got you on my back, a hangover pushing down on my temple, and scratch marks burning all over my body.”

“Whoa,” Henry says, summing up just about every emotion I can let myself feel right now.

I turn to the other biker, fighting the quiver that’s creeping into my voice. “I want to go. “Let’s just get today over with.” I walk past Breaker, holding my breath, so I don’t have to smell that “Scent of Skank” again, and towards the parking lot. I half expect Breaker to chase after me or at least say something in defiance, but the silence is somehow worse than either of those. The silence says so much more than his words or actions ever could.

For the rest of the day, I go through the motions. I bat my eyelashes at men in ties while fishing out their wallets with the hand they can’t see. I ask for money for my broken down car that doesn’t exist. I sell them fake pieces of jewelry for girlfriends they obviously don’t have. But I don’t stop to count the cash. I just pass it off to Henry as he leans up against the side of a pharmacy texting on his phone to, most likely, the dealer girl of his dreams.

Finally, he takes the cash and places it in his pocket. “I think we’re done for the day. There’s got to be at least a grand here.” He knew I wasn’t thinking about the bottom line. Between Biggs and Breaker, this was it for me—just go through the motions and hope it’s enough to not be killed or sold.

We walk a few blocks to the car we hid in the back of an alley, out of sight from any cameras or policemen. In the dark shadows of the alley, Henry clears his throat before starting up the car. “I’m not going to drop you off at the motel. Breaker wants to see you first.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to see him, and since Biggs took away my old lady status, I don’t need to follow his orders either.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, miffed at being told that I have to see him. I didn’t have to do anything now.

“Idiot. Don’t make me do this, Aimee.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun. My insides go numb as I edge towards the door. With a lowered voice, he urges, “Biggs put me in charge of you now, and you’re going to do what I tell you. And I’m telling you that you’re going to get out of this car at 9th street and listen to whatever the heck Breaker needs to say to you. When you’re done, you go home with him.”

Dang. The guy’s voice rumbles through the car like thunder. I honestly didn’t know he had it in him. Henry’s always come across as the motorcycle guy with a heart of gold, but he’s just as messed up and damaged as the rest of them. I’m back to learning how dangerous it is to trust anyone with my life but me. Buried underneath every person is darkness.

“You can put it away,” I say, my voice shaking as I fasten my seatbelt around my chest. “I’ll go. I’m good.”

“Good,” he replies as he turns on the car. “Because I’m not playing this high school trash game, you hear me?” I catch him smirking to himself before pulling the car out of the alley and through the backway. We disappear down the side streets towards the outskirts of the city, but he keeps that self-satisfied smile like a beaming fool.

Henry’s car pulls up at Anna’s Diner, a retro place in a cutout bus frame. Men just like Breaker and Henry hang outside, leaning against their cars as they whisper to one another with closed hands. I pause as I see him inside. Breaker leans up against the counter talking to an older waitress in a corny pink plaid uniform and apron. She writes down his order before disappearing.

I grit my teeth before walking in. I just have to listen to him. That’s it. Whatever he has to say to me won’t make up for the fact that he messed some other chick and kept me up all night wondering where he was. Still, I don’t want to give that away. I use the window in the entrance to puff up my hair, adjust my bra, and fix the smear of eyeliner near the crease of my eye.

When I approach him in the booth, I get my words out before he can say anything. “Henry told me that you wanted to see me. Can we make this quick? I want to get back to the hotel before it gets dark.”

“Do you want to sit or do I need to make you sit?” Breaker stands, using that great height difference against me. It reminds me of the first night we slept together when he slammed me into the wall with the weight of his muscular body. The place where his hips met mine mysteriously begins to ache. I opt to sit without fighting the point.

He looks at me up and down, his eyes burning holes through my skin. I hate this about him; how his stare can make me feel small and insignificant, yet desirable all at the same time. My arms wrap around my cleavage in some kind of deflection.

Breaker shifts in his chair and says low over the oldies music blasting on the speakers, “Listen, I know that I messed someone last night. I’m not going to pretend that didn’t happen or it wasn’t a big deal. But that’s not why I went there. I don’t just screw random girls I meet.”

“Funny. That first night we met, I hid out under a bed while you went at some ‘ho,’” I shoot back, the sound of her grunting coming back to me like a master tease.

“Yeah. I get what I want. That’s no secret. You can ask any of the guys about that, but that’s not what happened last night.”

“You saw a girl, you screwed a girl, and you got a wicked hangover. Done.”

“I saw a girl. I didn’t want a girl. She and Biggs got me drunk out of my mind. And I made a mistake.” His voice rises as he adds, “It’s a mistake I regret. You got it?” A fist slams down on the table, shaking the two glasses of water the waitress dropped off earlier.

Something tells me that he’s never admitted to anything like this before. He’s never had to be accountable to anyone like me either.

“Why do you think you need to tell me this—that you regretted it?” I ask, somewhat mystified.

“Because I’m sorry. I’m sorry about it. I promised you something, that I would get you out of this, and being with her… well, that wasn’t part of the plan. When I told you that you were my woman, I meant that.”

“You meant what?” My mouth goes dry as my mind spins. I could jump to conclusions, but I need to hear it.

“I live and die by a certain creed, you know. I take loyalty very seriously. That’s why I could have killed Biggs last night had it not been for the pledge I took for the Gravediggers. And I pledged to you to be your man. That comes with some obligations I take seriously.”

He certainly wasn’t the knight kneeling before his maiden, but his words rang true. He messed up, but it didn’t sound like anything he dared to repeat again.

I slip out of the side of the booth, careful to not catch anyone else’s eyes in the diner. Facing away from him, I place a hand on Breaker’s shoulder, moving slowly towards his chest. Without any emotion in my voice, I tell him, “I’m going to the bathroom. Meet me there in two minutes.”

Through his thin, button-down shirt, I feel his heartbeat skip.

Chapter Fourteen

Breaker

I said goddang is this girl kinky. Aimee’s hair shines under the light of the bathroom vanity as she leans back on the porcelain sink. I push myself into her as she grabs and tugs at my jacket, forcing it off and onto the ground with her blouse that I’ve already ripped off. Her lace bralette was no match for me either as I tore it off of her shoulders and down the length of those tan, smooth arms.

I go to kneel down. With her in this skirt, all I can think about is tasting that warm pussy of hers as she holds onto the faucets for support. But she catches me, pulling me up by the armpits. Putting my arms around her neck, she pulls me towards her.

“Not this time, Breaker,” she says with a sly grin. “You had all the fun last time.”

She winks before I feel her hands move towards my hips. In one, swift movement my belt buckle loosens and then flies away. My cock practically bounces out of the zipper and against her waist. She lets out a small, light laugh. Nothing shocks this girl, and you gotta appreciate that.

I shimmy out of my boxers, dropping them in the pile that is building on the tile floor. Standing before her, exposed, we both seem to stop to listen to the sound outside. The diner was relatively quiet when I got in a little while ago, but now it seems to be rush hour, despite knowing the real time. Was she really going to do this? Was I going to let her?

Every echoed voice near the woman’s bathroom door sets my heart beating faster. I glance over to make sure it’s locked, but part of me knows I don’t care who sees this. I normally wasn’t for public. It wasn’t my scene to do that kind of thing, but I want everyone in this hole-in-the-wall restaurant to hear her and me get it on. And by the way she stares back at me with playful, knowing eyes, it’s clear she’s got the same dirty things on her mind.

“Are you ready?” she asks, well knowing the answer. I was always ready for taking that pussy for my own. Without a reply from me, she adds, “Good.” Her warm hand fingers my cock, tracing the line up and down like a tightrope walker doing a well-practiced routine. My shaft grows longer, tighter, as she presses more pressure on the sensitive skin.

Aimee slips off of the sink counter and down to the floor. Her breasts bounce as she goes, and she spins so that I have to follow her lead. I wasn’t used to giving up control like this, but as she drops to her knees before me, I’m more than willing to play along.

She stares at my cock for a long moment, hungry with wet lips. Her tongue flicks out, lightly scraping against the tip.

“Oh gawd,” I mutter as the prickly sensation travels from my hips up to my spine.

Aimee doesn’t hold back. Her painted ruby red lips glide over the head of my cock, pulling off as she gets to the top. With tenderness, she kisses the tip with a little slip of the tongue again. I reach out behind me to where she was just sitting. The cold porcelain steadies me as she continues to stroke my cock to hold me in place. Those green-brown eyes look back up at me as I pull a strand of her long hair into my hand.

“More, Aimee. I want more.”

She runs her tongue all around the head adding some suction to it. It’s not strong at all, but just the feeling of the skin being pulled to her is intoxicating. I shut my eyes and rock backward as she takes control again. Her mouth travels down the head until it reaches the bottom of my shaft. Her tongue teases the bottom while her hand strokes the back of my balls with the same intensity.

My body lights on fire. Flames incinerate my hips and spark upwards until my face burns, and my hands pound into the sink with each moan that builds in my stomach. I can’t seem to find my breath. The steamy bathroom doesn’t make it any easier for me. My shirt sticks to my skin and hangs low on my hips. I yank it off and away, wanting nothing between her and me but our flesh. Her head bobbing up and down on the tip of my cock becomes artwork, like the lines of tattoos that dot my stomach and sides.

Aimee takes notice of me. With her mouth working my cock with increased speed, she runs her hands upwards to my abs. Fingers trail the lines separating the muscles and then trace the black tattoo marks. Her tan cheeks grow flushed with dots of pink underneath her eyes. I pull on her hair again. My hands run through the rolls of waves and curls at the ends, twisting them in my fingers.

She calls out to me, “I can’t take it anymore. I want you so bad.”

Suddenly, she stands. With the back of her hand, she pats down her mouth while the other pulls up the hem of her tight black skirt to her waist. I barely register any of this. I am too focused on those mountainous belly with the perky red peaks. As she fixes herself, I reach towards them. My thumbs roll over the tips of those nipples while the other fingers work the undersides.

Her head cocks back as she cries, “Goodness, I love when you do that to me.” She pauses before adding, “I need you to mess me, Breaker. Fast and hard.” She turns around towards the sink, her chest leaning down and over so that her bare rear, with the pushed back thong, pops out enough for me to bounce up against.

I angle my cock right between those two lovely cheeks, massaging into the skin as I grow impatient. Aimee looks back at me with that wicked smile of hers before I thrust myself in, finding the spot on my first try.

“Yes… right there. Idiot. Right there, Breaker.” She lets out the longest moan I’ve ever heard her make while falling forward towards the dirty and scuffed mirror. Her hand pounds on the reflection and her nails attempt to dig into the surface.

Aimee’s pussy is like a taste of heaven—tight, despite the frequent pounding, and just the right temperature. It’s like it’s been custom built just for me. Her folds tighten just enough around the base of my cock as I push myself deep into her. I grind myself up against her as her hips dance onto mine as a reply. Aimee’s back arches enough for me to kiss her from behind.

In her ear, with my hand around the long line of her neck, I whisper, “Dang do you feel good, Aimee. Nothing could compare with your little pussy.” I mean every word of it. While I’m lost in Aimee’s world, I get a flashback of last night. It’s apples to oranges between her and the stripper. No one could compare to Aimee physically or the way that she lets me take her like this while still holding her own.

In the mirror, I admire that fine body of hers as those belly bounce with every one of my movements in and out of her. My cock throbs within her in response and her muscles squeeze back in return.

“Pound me,” she growls. This is my cue to take off. I hold tight to her rear as I pull out slightly, feeling my last touch of that velvety soft pussy, before pushing my cock back in as far as I can force it. It’s just a teaser, one last show of gentleness before I launch. With a rhythm pulsating from my head to my hips, I begin to rock back and forth at a lightning-fast pace. I can barely keep up with my thoughts as I go into autopilot. I just let myself feel everything that I can, the sensation of her juices flowing, her clenching of her muscles, the pushing of her own hips into mine.

I lean myself completely over her, letting her hold my weight on her back. Our hands clasp, as my thrusts grow smaller but more urgent. She cries out into the sink so that her voice echoes. It’s my name repeated over and over again. Her back arches upwards as she stretches out. With a sigh, her orgasm comes as quickly as it leaves. Still, I can feel her growing tired. This unstoppable girl could be put in place after all.

I close my eyes, listening to her voice morph, as my muscles begin to tense. The knot in my stomach builds until it is in my chest, my throat, and my head. I can’t control myself. All my senses leave me with each last thrust.

Aimee calls out, “Come, Breaker. Come all over me.” I pull myself out of her as fast as I can. Within moments, all of my contents spill out onto the round curve of her back. They make white lines on her sun-kissed skin like roadmaps of my conquest.

“Oh my goodness… that was…”

“… great,” I finish for her.

She winks into the mirror as she watches me use a brown paper towel to mop up the mess. I move her panties back into place before slapping her rear playfully. Her skirt falls down into place as if nothing has happened and the two of us get dressed in the small bathroom space.

“Do you think anyone heard us?” she asks, surprising me at how innocent she can be.

“With those screams, the whole of Texas heard it.” I laugh. “You want me to go out first?”

Aimee blushes. “You probably should. We should probably think of a plan for how we’re going to get back to the motel too.”

Little did she know that I have spent all afternoon thinking about that very thing. After she had left me with my raging hangover and my glitter covered skin standing in the hot sun, I knew I had hit a crossroad with the club.

Last night was the breaking point. Biggs, with his sly glances and his constant pushing of drinks, had made it clear that his intentions weren’t to really apologize or get back on my good side. He wasn’t just giving me pussy to enjoy last night. That wasn’t his thing.

But the writing was on the wall when I ran into one of his henchmen on my ride back home.

“You weren’t with Aimee last night?” he asked over the sounds of our bikes running over the pavement. “That’s a good choice. Better listen to Biggs and stay the heck away. I don’t want to see you lose that patch, brother.”

I pulled past him, not needing to hear anything else. If Biggs was talking to his boys about Aimee and me, it was clear that our sneaking around behind his back had gotten to him. Coupled with last night at the club, it was so clear to me that he was trying to send me a message to get the heck away from Aimee or pay the consequences.

For all he knew, I was being an obedient soldier. Sleeping with that chick was proof that I could bend to his will if he could ply me with liquor and a pair of T&A. That smug mongrel was probably spending all today talking about how I threw away Aimee when he put a chick on a platter for me. And no doubt, his lackeys were lapping it up like puppy dogs.

But not everyone would be in on this. One guy, in particular, would have something to say about this above all others. I had already messaged Henry to meet me at the motel with a few of his pals, guys I knew would be loyal to him and at least listen to me. Revolutions always begin with a few open ears.

The plan was pretty basic. I would drop Aimee off around the employee entrance, and she would sneak back up with the evening maid staff. Tipping off the motel staff was easy and cheap considering the risk they would be in if they were found to be helping her. They would figure a way to get her back into the safety of her room. The timeline would line up with when she normally would return with Henry from her day’s work. Aimee wouldn’t know that while she attempted to get back into her room, we would be plotting and scheming. She couldn’t know of the next part if we wanted to keep her alive.

Part two would put us all at risk if Biggs were to find out. Henry would still do the cash drops and inform Biggs of Aimee’s pull for the day. He’d then pretend to leave for the day to go get dinner with a few of the boys on break. Instead of heading out, they would meet in his motel room a few doors down from Aimee so we could monitor her room while we hold the meeting.

So far, part one had gone off perfectly. Henry had made it back to the motel room in time to let me in. As Aimee’s guard listened, I pounded on the wood. “Dude! We getting dinner or what?”

He opens the door with some excuse about needing to shower. It is just loud enough to give us an alibi. But as the guard turns back towards Aimee’s room, we pull open the window drapes just slightly so we can watch as Aimee casually chats with a maid doing rounds. The guard barely bats an eye as she walks through the door, forgetting he never let her in to begin with.

With her safely inside, I ask Henry, “Who’s coming? Who do we got on our side that will listen?”

“Nine guys—Jerome, Tyler, Anders, Benji, Fang, Orlando, Smith, Mario, and Gunner. I figured that they were a good start.”

“How so?” I ask as I write the names on a hotel stationery pad.

Henry stands over me as he points to the names. “Jerome and Tyler manage the runners and dealers,” he explains. “They oversee the most guys. Anders and Benji handle the weapons. We’ll need to secure those if we’re going to do this thing. The rest are married or have long-time girls. I figured they would be sympathetic to the cause, you know.”

I have to give it up for Henry. He really knows his trash. He sort of reminds me of those dictators you hear about on the news stations who plot for years, gathering up heads of states and a following to eventually overthrow the other dictator in power. It was cunning and ruthless, but I have no doubt that these were the men that could get Biggs out of the Gravediggers’ way for good.

Still, I have to ask the obvious question. “Are you on board with this Henry? I mean, I know you’ve got your issues with Biggs, but this could end with our heads on a stake or bullets in our patches.”

Henry studies me. “Biggs has been nothing but bad news for the club. Our numbers are dwindling, and I see the books every day. Money goes missing. Skimming off the top is one thing, but when your club is dying, you make sacrifices.” He looks down at his feet as he adds, “And you… you’re the only one I know that loves this club as much as I do. If anyone could lead us, it’s you.”

“Who said I would be in charge after this? That isn’t what I’m thinking—”

A knock on the door interrupts the end of my sentence. “Breaker? Henry? We going to dinner or what?” I check the open window to see five of the nine guys standing outside. They do their best to look casual while surveying the scene. Not everyone is exactly pulling Oscar-worthy performances.

“Let’s get this over with,” I hear Henry mutter as he opens the door. “I was thinking of going to Maple’s on Fourth. Anyone have a problem with that?”

As soon as the door shuts on the last straggler, the eight men settle into an uneasy silence. Each look at the other as we all wait for someone to speak. I know that I should start this off. After all, I’m the one with the biggest and most recent beef on Biggs. I was there when he made the decision that killed two of our members. But I have no idea how to begin a meeting like this, nor do I really know how much Henry has briefed them on.

I grit my teeth and keep my head low as my voice grows stern with each word. “I think we know why we’re all here, so we’re going to keep this brief. Something has to be done about Biggs.” What I have to say flows out of me as if it’s been stuck in my throat for years and has just waiting for an opportunity to come out. “We put our trust in this man to lead us, and he’s done nothing but give us dwindling memberships, brothers killed because of stupid mistakes, and money missing from our accounts.”

“Money is missing?” Tyler rises to his feet, his hairy chest puffed out under that white wifebeater shirt. “What the heck?”

“It’s all right here,” Henry answers quickly. “I made copies of the originals. I highlighted the discrepancies in the accounts. When I totaled it up, it was easily thirty grand in one year.”

“Hell. Are you making this up? You have to be because—”

“You think we’d make this trash up? I’ve been a member of the Gravediggers for a good portion of my life. I’ve given everything to this club—my money, my time, my body. I wouldn’t lie to start a war and break this brotherhood up. We’ve got to do something to keep the Gravediggers running and striving.”

“Is this about the girl?” Benji looks at me with piercing eyes. As the oldest member of the club, he prides himself on being the wise-old-man stereotype.

I find myself responding before thinking. “It is. She messed up when she messed with the Gravediggers, but you can see in Henry’s number that she’s the only thing keeping us afloat. Without her money, we wouldn’t have the bar or hotels for our guys to stay in. And now he wants to sell her.”

“Sell her?” Henry is the only person I told about this. I thought he would pass it along, but it looks like I’m going to have to break it down.

“Yeah. I saw his emails to members of other West and Southern clubs—some we don’t have any alliance with. He wants to sell Aimee to the highest bidder. I have a feeling he wants to start a trafficking side business with girls like her with some value.”

Mario shuffles in his place as he asks, “Isn’t that good business? How much does a chick like her bring in.”

“Before I was in the Gravediggers, I was a member of the Mayans. They sold women, most from overseas,” Henry answers before I can. “It was horrible. The women were sick and beaten to bloody pulps. Getting caught selling or holding a chick would get a guy an attempted murder charge, or worse in some situations. But it didn’t make much either, especially with a girl that was with us for a long time. There’s mouths to feed and expensive transport. We’d maybe make a profit of about $1,000 per girl. It’s not worth it.”

“It’s not for us,” I say as the room goes silent again, “We sell our product. We have our bar. We do our business like a legit operation. We don’t sell people, and we take care of our own. Aimee and the rest of our women are part of that.”

No one says anything for a long moment. The men with the wives and daughters look back and forth at one another knowingly while the other four lower their heads in thought.

“What’s the plan?” Anders finally asks.

I’m about to open my mouth when we hear the voices of men and their footsteps pounding up the stairs. Biggs shouts something muffled to someone near the window. Mario looks through the open blind as he shouts, “Idiot! They’re here.”

I turn to Henry who is already in motion. “Get out! Go out the back way!” He points to the window leading to the fire escape. The group pound out of the room as I take hold of Henry’s jacket.

“Come on man. Go ahead of me!” I shout.

“No. Go. I know what I’ve got to do.” He looks back to the door as a man begins to pound and shout.

“You know what they’re going to do to you!”

“Henry! Open the door I will start shooting!” Biggs’ voice becomes part of our conversation as I look back and forth at the only escape and Henry sacrificing himself for us.

“Go, Breaker,” he whispers again. “I’ll be okay.” He points to his chest, but I don’t understand the message. I have a choice here, and I don’t have time to second-guess it. I sprint towards the window, looking back as I climb out and down the fire escape. I hear horrible, screeching shouts followed by what had to be the sound of a body hitting the floor.

I’m around the building, searching for where I parked my bike when I get the text from Biggs. It confirms it all, I need your skills. Bring your guys to the offices. Get Aimee too.

I try to walk casually back towards the motel, but already my head pounds with the pressure of what’s to come.

Chapter Fifteen

Aimee

I heard them coming long before Henry and the others did. The guard received a call just as I was washing my face. I put the towel down and walked over to the window to hear what the man was getting worked up about.

“You sure... Henry? Who told you that! I can’t believe that he would have the balls to try to bring down Biggs. Jeez, you think you know a guy, and then he goes and idiots it all up…”

My heart skipped a few beats. After Breaker had dropped me off with the motel’s employees, I began to put two and two together. He’d acted skittish, a complete one-eighty from the bold, egotistical biker I knew, and he spoke of talking to Henry as if it was more than just business as usual.

I dash back to the bathroom and throw on the same clothes I was wearing earlier. I had planned on taking a nice long shower to wipe the smell of sweaty bathroom sex off of me, but now I knew that had to wait. Something instinctive warned that Breaker needed me. The louder the men outside became, the more I knew I could trust what I was feeling.

A few minutes later, he came.

“Just shut up,” Breaker said. “Keep your head low, and don’t speak to Biggs unless he talks to you. Be honest with him.” He reaches for my arm, taking out a gun for show. “I need you to trust me here. Can you do that?”

“Yeah. I trust you.” I shouldn’t. I should run crying and screaming out of here, but there’s no way out of this. Breaker hasn’t steered me wrong yet, besides the whole strip club thing, but even with that, my anger was more directed at Biggs than Breaker.

“Remember what I said earlier. No one is going to hurt you. You’re my woman no matter what they say or what I have to do when we get to where we’re going.”

My heart skipped several more beats again. The instinctive feeling I felt only minutes ago returns; somehow I know that after tonight everything will change. But for the better or worse… I have no dang clue.

“Where are we going,” I ask as the motorcycle lurches forwards with me just managing to grab hold of his waist. But under the roar of the engine, I can’t hear his reply.

I’ve been sitting here on the back, grinding my teeth together and contemplating what has been happening while I was busy just trying to survive. The whole world seems to spin without me even realizing I am in motion. And now that I want to get off this crazy ride, it’s not an option anymore. I just have to hold on for a bit longer and hope that Breaker is true to his word.

To my surprise, Breaker pulls up at the bar. It’s still too early for drinking, even by MC standards. A few barflys sit outside with their cups, pretending not to be breaking a few laws. Their heads spin a little off kilter as they spot us. I don’t recognize any of them, but they sure seem to know who we are and why we’re here.

Breaker takes my arm and pushes me forward. I feel something against my back, too hard to be his hand and too lean to be his arm or any other body part. I turn my head to see the shimmer of a jet-black handgun pressed to my spine.

“Is that a…” my voice shakes as I try to figure out why he would ever think to do this.

“Again, you have to trust me here, Aimee,” he murmurs, his tone more hard and serious than I’ve ever heard. “This is how it has to be.”

“With a gun at my back? You have to be kidding me. You can’t just expect me to trust you when you’re thrusting a gun at—”

“Carlos!” Breaker shouts, cutting me off and snapping my attention away from him. A large man I barely recognize as one of Biggs’ personal guards stands before us like an unmovable wall in front of the back entrance to the bar. He doesn’t answer back. Instead, Breaker continues on through the ominous silence. “Where’s Biggs? He told me to meet him here with the girl.”

The girl. I hate it when they refer to me as that. There were other women as part of the club, after all. Plus, Breaker only called me that when he was clearly trying to hide that I was more to him than just some tailpiece he picked up for fun. Something tells me it has to do with the gun burning a hole in my back.

“Biggs is in the den with Henry. He wants her in there too. No weapons,” Carlos finally speaks, his voice flat and his eyes expressionless; a real biker poker face if I’ve ever seen one.

“Come on, man. I’m the head enforcer. If he wants me to do my job, I would think he’d want me to have my gear on hand.”

But Carlos doesn’t budge. He folds his arms across his Hulk-like chest and shakes his head. We’re not going anywhere until Breaker disarms.

Breaker removes the gun from my back and pulls out another that was tucked at his hip. That one doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. When I’ve undressed Breaker before, I’ve seen him detach it. What terrifies me is the one strapped to his ankle, along with the huge bowing knife. Then there’s the tiny handgun in his coat pocket and another in his back waistband. He came armed for anything.

“I’m still going to have to pat you down, Breaker,” Carlos sneers as he takes hold of all the weapons and places them in the bed of a truck parked close to the door.

“You know me. You really think I am going to lie to you about what I’ve got on me? Screw this, man.”

Breaker tries to lead me through, but Carlos is frozen in place again. Breaker pushes Carlos off of him and he tumbles towards the truck. His body slams into it and the veins in his neck are bulging when he gets back on two feet. He charges at Breaker.

I have just enough time to dart to the side before the two men collide. Carlos delivers a hard punch to Breaker’s chest, causing Breaker to grunt from the loss of air in his lungs, but he still manages to use his legs to turn Carlos so that he flips back onto the ground. Breaker’s fist is in the air, his face twisted in rage and blooming red.

“Cut the trash and get inside!” Biggs stands only a few paces away from me, his arms crossed with a slight smile holding up a thin cigarette. He takes a puff before adding to Breaker, “You unload your weapons?”

“I did. But this idiot wants to pat me down. I don’t play that game.” Breaker pants, his chest heaving from the effort of throwing Carlos off of him. The two men glare at each other, neither reacting with even so much as a twitch of a muscle.

Again, Biggs is the one to break the silence. “Get inside with her. I don’t want anyone else to see you before the bar opens.”

Breaker positions himself behind me again and urges me to walk with a pat on the back. As we approach the darkness of the hallway, my legs feel like they’re wading through wet cement. It reminds me of the first time I stepped foot in Gravedigger territory, with the old office building and its winding halls and confusing corridors. My mouth goes dry as my hands begin to shake. I have the sudden urge to burst into tears, but I keep my trash together.

With me in the middle of the two bikers, Biggs shows us to a side room I have yet to be allowed in. It looks like an old sound room at the back of a theater. Tight and narrow, the walls are painted black and red, with white wires dangling from spaces in the ceiling. One glass window looks out at a fake wall the boys must have put in when they converted the event space into offices. Under the window is a long, built-in table where I imagine equipment for running the music would’ve been placed. Three folding chairs are lined up against it, but only two are empty.

The occupied chair holds Henry. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the blood on his low hanging head. Sweat or water trickles down from his hair into his lap. His chest looks heavier as if he is laboring to breathe but a weight keeps him from inhaling completely. His long, tattooed arms are wrapped behind his back and tied together with plastic zip ties.

“What is going on?” Breaker demands. Does he not know? Was I wrong thinking that they were acting together on some kind of plan against Biggs? Is this an act? I try to remember what he told me. I need to keep my mouth shut and trust him like he told me to.

“This idiot was found conspiring to get me removed from the Gravediggers. He told at least a few of the guys he was going to have a meeting about it. Everyone knows the penalty for bringing a mutiny against the leadership!” Out of nowhere, Biggs slams a knife into the table. It rattles, shaking the window. I step back towards the door, but it has closed without me even noticing.

“Are you sure?” Breaker asks, keeping his head turned towards Henry, “You know the guys like to talk…”

“We found these in his motel room.” Biggs pushes a small stack of papers towards him. I get a glimpse of them over his shoulder. They’re spreadsheets with financial accounts. Something’s highlighted with Biggs name next to it. “He was planning on using it as evidence against me to rally support. There’s no other reason he took classified docs from his office back to his room!”

“What’s the girl here for then? Is she involved?” Breaker looks back at me with an expression that is completely blank and uncaring. It’s as if he’s going through some motion he already pre-set.

“I want to know what she knows. And then I want her to see it.”

“See what?”

Biggs walks over to Henry and grabs the back of his head by the hair. His face tilts up so we can see the gash where someone has struck him. “There’s only one option for traitors, and it’s your job to take care of him.” He spits in Henry’s face before he lets it fall back down. “I want it done tonight. You’ve got the truck for that.”

The blood drains from my face to my toes as I push back into the wall. My leg knocks into something, some old piece of equipment that tumbles to the ground with a small clink. Biggs’ attention flies straight to me and a second later he’s right in my face. I try to duck, but he grabs me by the throat, practically lifting me off of the ground. I try to push away and wiggle out of his grasp, but I can’t. I can’t do anything but gasp in horror.

“What do you know, Aimee? What the heck are you hiding from me?”

“I—I—nothing… nothing… please.” My hands hook around his as I stare into those beady black eyes in search of something.

“She’s telling the truth. Henry did his business with her. She knows nothing.” Breaker doesn’t try to get Biggs off of me, he just stares at the pair of us.

Biggs’ grip tightens around my neck. “How the heck do you know? How do you know she ain’t playing us?”

“Because I saw her yesterday. I checked in on one of her jobs without them knowing, making sure this clown was doing his business, and Henry didn’t speak to her. He just drove. If they were plotting, I would think they’d be together more.”

Biggs seems to consider this for a moment. His lip curls as he pushes down on my throat with the palm of his hand. I try to think of a happy thought—something to get me through to the next moment—but there’s nothing. Only the push of air back into my lungs, and my heels touching the floor again. Biggs steps away from me as I hold my hands up to my throat. The muscles in my neck can’t seem to get it together as the air comes too quick and not enough, all at the same time.

Still, I’m alive. He let me go. I survived another moment of this perdition I’ve found myself in. Overwhelming grief and relief take over as I reach for the wall again for support.

Biggs pulls the knife out of the table and hands it over to Breaker. “Gut him.”

Breaker turns the handle of the blade over a few times, avoiding looking at Henry. I want to close my eyes and spare myself from what I’m about to witness, but I don’t. I force myself to watch as the man I’m supposed to trust with my life, the man I’ve come to care a great deal for, walks towards his best friend and digs a knife into his side.

Breaker hesitates, looking down at his victim for a second, before pulling the blade out again. The tip is covered in red. It’s less bloody than I thought it would be, but still, the thick, ruby liquid sends a cold shiver up my spine.

Satisfied, Biggs strides towards the door. He adds one last thing over his shoulder, “Call me when you’re done disposing of him. Make sure she sits here and sees all of it. I want her to know what happens when someone crosses me.” He gives me one last glare before walking out of the room.

A few moments pass as we both seem to listen to Biggs’ footsteps fade out. Without a sight of him, Breaker walks to Henry with the knife in his hands.

“No! No! You can’t do it. Please! Breaker!” I whisper, my voice desperate, pleading.

He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t even look back. He takes the knife to Henry’s throat. With a quick run of his hands, he digs down into the shirt, making a long, quick vertical line down Henry’s chest. I gasp, this time forcing myself to look away. I half expect Henry to scream this time or there to be some kind of sound as one man kills another. But there’s nothing. Just more silence.

I open one eye, willing myself to see it. But there’s nothing. Breaker stands back with a grin. This time, the knife is clean. But more so, Henry’s chest is clear. “The idiot…” Breaker mutters under his breath. I knew it… I knew it.” He moves the shirt further off of him before adding, “How the heck did this guy get a bulletproof vest?”

“He’s alive?” I ask, the words coming out hoarse and shaky due to the soreness of my throat. Biggs really did a number on it.

Breaker shakes his head, still smiling. “He knew. He knew they were coming for him and he planned this out. The mongrel…”

“So what are we going to do? You’re supposed to kill him?”

He turns to me, the knife still in his hand. “Who the heck do you think I am? I’m not Biggs. I’m loyal to my brothers. But I gotta think about what’s important here…”

“So what does that mean? You can’t…”

“Turn around.” He looks over at me, unblinking. I swallow the lump in my throat and turn back to the wall, my hands over my ears this time.

A few minutes pass, and I feel Breaker’s hand on my shoulder. He spins me around to a bloody mess. His hands are covered in blood; it’s smeared on his shirt and pants. Henry’s vest is gone, and this time I see the marks leading a trail along his side and front. His head is still hung low with that gash still bleeding fresh. But he’s breathing. His chest caves in and out slightly.

“You didn’t?”

“I cut him where I knew it wouldn’t kill him. I’ve been diced up enough to know.” He lifts his shirt up. I can’t believe the marks I’m only just noticing. They blend almost seamlessly with the tattoos. My heart quivers for him.

He uses the knife to cut the zip ties off Henry’s hands and then walks over to the door. He sticks his head out and calls for Carlos, asking for some tarp and ropes.

The two men lay the layer of blue plastic on the floor and place Henry’s body on it. They wrap him like a sheet, tying him around his arms and legs before Carlos notices the shallow breathing. “Ya know he’s still alive.”

“He won’t be for long. I’ve drained him good.” He points to his hands and the pool of cold blood on the cement floor.

Carlos doesn’t say anything else, just nods and leaves us with the body. Breaker easily hoists Henry up onto his back and leads the way to the truck.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, realizing that I don’t know the game plan or if I even want to know what is coming next.

“You get in the truck, and I drive you to the hotel. Make sure someone sees you. The back door of your room is unlocked now—”

My mind races as I try to take in all the details he’s giving me. “Someone needs to see me? Why? Why does that matter?”

“There are keys there too for a white minivan. I put some cash in the glovebox. You’ll have about two solid hours to go when Biggs calls the meeting. Wait for that.”

My voice falters as I try to understand what he’s saying. “Go? With you?”

Breaker doesn’t respond this time. He dumps Henry in the truck bed with a gentle thud and then walks around to the driver’s side door. I climb up into the passenger seat and just stare at him as he revs the engine to life. His hands wrap around the steering wheel, the whites of his knuckles visible as he flexes. Those bottomless, mulled brown eyes are focused ahead, with his mouth locked shut.

But I still see it; that twitch of his lips and the way his eyes close in a long pause. I know what’s going to happen next whether he wants me to know or not.

This is the end. He is saying goodbye.

Chapter Sixteen

Breaker

The words, you have to run away, now, had been on the tip of my tongue the entire day, ever since I’d formulated the plan in my head. But no matter how much I’d practiced saying them over and over again in my mind, I couldn’t get them out now.

Look, I’m definitely not the type of guy who hides his emotions behind some trash macho face. When I feel something, you’ll dang well know what I am feeling. And when I’ve got something to say, you’re going to hear it even if you don’t want to. It’s gotten me in trouble more than once, especially with girls. There was one, in particular, Rhonda, who wouldn’t leave me alone no matter how much I tried to get her off of me. It only took an hour or two of us playing this game before I snapped on her, leaving her crying on the roadside outside a hotel in Cheyenne.

Aimee wasn’t any different. When I parked the truck, she didn’t move. She stayed stiff in the seat, her eyes glazed and staring straight ahead as if a movie were playing in front of her.

Now, as the song on the radio changes over to a commercial, she begins simpering. “I can’t leave now, Breaker,” she says, her lower lip quivering. “I know what I’ve said in the past, but I can’t leave right now with Henry and…”

“Henry is none of your business. You can’t be around if someone gets word that he’s alive. That’s why you need to go through with this. You need to make it look as if you left on your own accord.”

“And when they find out that I’m gone?” she asks, looking over at me with hollow eyes. “What about you then?”

“They won’t touch me. They’ll see I dropped you off. That’s the point. I have an alibi. You’re getting a huge head start on them, and I’ll have a free and clear breakaway. And even if they find out, one of us will be able to get the heck out of here.” I swallow hard, thinking of all the ways I’m breaking club oaths. I’ve got Henry in the trunk, still very much alive, and Aimee about to run, with my help. I started a coup earlier that blew up in my face with the consequences yet to unfold.

Aimee can’t be part of that baggage, no matter what that nagging voice in the back of my head was telling me to do. I have to do this. I have to get her out of this truck so we can both move on to the next step.

She lets out a huff of air. Though she’s still knockout gorgeous, something about today has aged her at least ten years. Her tan skin is missing that bright, youthful glow, and her shoulders, usually brown and supple and muscular in that sexy, feminine way, now slump over her lap as she holds back something that sounds like another whimper.

Finally, she bursts out, “Please. Please, Breaker. Just come with me. We can do this together… I know we can. I just… I just can’t go without you.”

I pull her by her shoulders toward me, almost yanking her over the middle counsel of the truck. With her wrapped in my arms, I lift her chin so that she has no choice but to look at me. “Get out of this truck, Aimee,” I instruct, “and don’t look back. You get the heck out of this town. Go back to Hawaii and start over again without me. There’s nothing here for you anymore.”

She looks as if she has more to say, at least more pleading to do. But my word is my word, and she knows better by now than to question me. We stay this way for a while, her body getting heavy in my arms as the minutes pass. Eventually, she pulls away, her hands and arms shaking. She has let go.

Aimee hops down from the truck and walks toward the hotel. I want to wait around to see if she actually goes inside, but I don’t have the time. While I only inflicted minor wounds on Henry, he was losing blood, and I needed to get him somewhere safe.

I take off, making sure I pass a few members of the club that aren’t exactly on my side. They have to see me leave to make this believable. I nod to them as I pass by. They’re leaning up against their bikes, drinking their afternoon beers, not even processing what is going on. Good.

I drive about an hour outside of town, using only side roads. Cement turns into gravel pavement. Pavement turns to dust and dirt. Dust and dirt become hot, floating sand that swirls around the truck’s red body.

Finally, in the cool shade of an oak tree somewhere between Nowhere and Nothingsville, I pull over and stop the car. I’d passed a gas station about twenty minutes back, so I think there’s at least somewhere Henry can go to get some help. Plus, this is far enough out that I doubt any guy I know has any sort of tie to the town or its people. It sure as trash doesn’t look like a place any of my boys would be bold enough to do business.

I walk back to the bed of the truck, and the first thing I notice is that Henry has managed to untie himself. He’s sitting up on the bed, leaning his back just under the window.

“You drive like a lunatic,” he says as he strips off the rest of the blue tarp.

“Yeah, well,” I say, extending my hand to help him out, “I had to make it look like I was desperate to dump a dead body, didn’t I?” He hops down off the bed, and I crack a wry grin. “And while we’re on the subject, I didn’t hear a ‘thank you’ come out of your mouth.” He freezes up for a moment, until I throw my head back and laugh. He joins in, sounding a little nervous, though, and shakes his head.

I throw the blue sheet down on the ground. We should probably bury it; we don’t want word getting back about an empty tarp without a corpse floating around the Texan countryside. Luckily, Carlos or Biggs had thought ahead and left us with a few shovels in the back.

“You feel like digging your own grave?” I ask Henry as he takes a sip out of a water bottle from the front seat.

“It could be worse, I suppose,” he replies, staring at the tarp in morbid fascination. “I could be lying face down in it.”

We spend an hour in front of the low beams digging a small trench. We use the extra dirt to fill the tarp so that it forms a rough shape of a round, long body when tied with the strings. It rolls into the tight hole in the ground without a hitch, making for easy work. We both breathe something like a sigh of relief as we throw on the last few shovels.

“You think this is going to be enough?” Henry asks through a yawn. He leans over the shovel handle looking somewhat unconvinced. In all this work, I had completely forgotten that he was injured. I now feel a twinge of regret for not doing all the hard stuff by myself. But true to his character, he doesn’t complain.

“It’s going to be enough to buy you some time to figure out what you’re going to do next,” I tell him. I pause as I think over the words I want to say. “You know,” I say slowly, “I need to thank you. You shouldn’t have taken the fall for me. Taking over the Gravediggers was my deal. I should be the one with knife marks in my side.”

He looks up at the darkening sky as he answers, “It had to be this way, Breaker. You know that. If anyone has a chance of taking Biggs down, it’s you. And now the guys know. They’re going to need you to lead them.”

“Are you serious? You really think I should go on with this? No way, man. I’m done. I’m keeping my head low. Aimee’s gone. You’re gone. I’ll just bide my time till the club blows itself up and find another brotherhood to join up with.”

“Aimee’s gone?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah. What the heck was I supposed to do with her? I can’t handle having to take care of her too.”

Henry doesn’t respond this time, just looks me over as if he has figured out the secret of the universe, and I’m not in on it yet.

I shift uncomfortably in my boots before continuing, “Look, man, keep in touch. Find a way to tell me where you got to when you get there. And get some help for those wounds. A few of them are pretty deep.”

“Scratches. You can’t cut for trash.”

“Idiot off, Henry,” I say as I walk back to the truck.

“I’ll see you around, Breaker.” He smiles at me before I shut the door, but doesn’t watch as I drive off. Instead, he just stands there in that battered and bloodied t-shirt looking off into the distance. I can still see him as I close my eyes against the last, sharp crest of sunlight dipping on the horizon.

It seems like it takes forever, but I finally make it back to my dusty office bedroom and collapse onto the bed. I replay the day’s events over and over like a dream that I can’t wake up from. Henry should be here. I should be with Aimee. Those things I was certain of now, but neither were true.

I hear a few shouts from outside. The guys are searching for Aimee. She’d missed a call from Biggs to meet him down at the bar. And when security were told to do a check-in, they found an empty motel room with all her stuff missing. There wasn’t even a note, though I’m not sure why I’d expected that. The back door was unlocked, and the stolen security footage showed her breaking into a white minivan without plates.

It was all very “Aimee-like” according to the rest of the guys in the know. No one had questioned me when I walked up. And why should they? Biggs knew where I was, and there were plenty of guys around at the motel to see her get out of my truck and head back to her room. I’d come back without Henry’s body and told them exactly where I buried him with mile markers and everything to guide them in case they doubted me. They’d find an empty tarp, of course, but I knew they wouldn’t go that far. They were too lazy.

Tomorrow we’ll look for her. I’m in charge of the search and recovery mission since I know her so well. It was a task I certainly didn’t volunteer for. It was almost like Biggs was testing me to see how eager I was to get his little future moneymaker back.

Hours pass. The night turns to morning, and I force myself out of bed before the sun is even fully up. I head back towards the motel. Something forces me there, like a siren to the open ocean. Aimee’s room is empty, as I knew it would be. I open up the mini-fridge where she kept a few beers that I like. I swig them down one at a time, lying back in the bed we’d shared many nights. Her smell is still on the sheets, unerasable.

I close my eyes, letting the liquor wash over me. And then, a knock. It’s light at first but then grows a little louder, more urgent. I don’t answer. I can’t let any of the guys see me here, even though I know I could just pretend to be looking for evidence of where she’s gone. But seconds later, the knocking stops and I hear a click. The door unlocks and swings open. Light streams in, and I place a hand over my eyes to peer at whoever is attempting to break in.

I shout towards the door, “What the fuc—”

I’ve seen a lot in my life. I’ve watched as good men have gotten their lives cut down in a flash. I’ve been there to see true leaders get torn apart by their own brothers. Heck, I saw my own dad waste away from drugs—his body and mind disintegrating into oblivion. But nothing I’d ever encountered could have prepared me for what walked in.

Aimee.

“Breaker?” she asks, her voice sweeter than spun sugar.

“Aimee?” I stand up, dusting myself off. She leans against the thick wooden door, clutching her bag over her shoulder. Her hair is tied up, with a few small strands falling across her bare shoulders. She looks dirty as if she’s been walking for miles in the desert. But there’s a light about her that I can’t explain away.

I rush to her side, but when I get to her, I don’t touch her. I stand five feet away, still in partial disbelief that she’s even standing in front of me. “What are you doing here, Aimee?”

“I—I couldn’t do it, Breaker. I’m here to get caught.”

“Do you know what they will do to you when they find out you’re here? Biggs is going to sell you off or kill you.”

She bites her lip, her eyes unflinching. Determined. “I don’t care. I need to be with you.”

With a heavy sigh, I make up the space between us and draw her to me. Our lips meet as I take her head in my hands, those beautiful loose strands of hair brushing over my fingers. Her steamy, sweaty body eases under my weight as if it’s been waiting a millennium for me to finally melt to pieces. Her hands wrap around my body, delving under the waistband of my jeans with her sharp fingernails.

Aimee doesn’t hesitate and lifts my shirt over my head. Her tiny tank top twists off of her lean body seconds later. I press her against my chest, our beating hearts now in sync. Her bra unhooks, and those belly fall out for me. I squat down slightly, burying my face in between those gorgeous mountains. That flowery scent of hers fills my nostrils as I claim each of her nipples with my lips. She lets out a gasp, pulling me back up to her mouth.

“Can I be with you, Breaker?” she asks between our kisses. “Say yes… please.”

I spin her around, leading her towards the long wooden desk only a meter or so away. I wrap my hands around her backside. In these tight little jean shorts, I can feel the entire underside of her rear. I slap the cheeks with a small, satisfied grin. She gasps again when I hoist her up and push her so that she sits straight up on the desk.

I lean forward again, resting my head on her shoulder. My unshaven chin scratches and tickles her skin, causing goosebumps to rise to the surface. She coos with blushed cheeks while her arms press her belly together.

In her ear, I whisper, “Yes, Aimee. I’m not letting you go ever again.” And boy do I mean it.

Chapter Seventeen

Aimee

There are so many things I want to tell Breaker right now.

I want to tell him how I called Eva a million times at the truck stop I walked to after I ditched the van. She never answered. I just heard my sister’s voice replay on the voicemail over and over again. The trucker who loaned me his cell stared at me with wet lips and eager eyes. I handed him back his phone when I was done and walked away towards a more public space.

I want to tell him how I did break down and called my father. This time, it was with a different guy’s phone. He looked hungrier than the other, but I just turned my back to him, eyeing him from the window of a truck as I tried to hold myself together.

“Are you okay?” Dad asked, his voice sounding more irritated than relieved to hear from his long-lost daughter.

“I—I’m not sure,” I answered with a bit of a hesitation. How could I explain what had happened to me to someone so removed from this scene? What would he say if I told him his daughter became a street drifter on the run from the law, abusive ex-boyfriends, and motorcycle clubs? Would he even care that the only place that provided me some kind of security was also days, if not hours, away from selling me to a prostitution ring? I doubted it.

“I need to get a hold of Eva,” I said to break the silence. He couldn’t help me, but she could. She had always been the one and only person that could help me when I needed it the most. That is, until I met Breaker. My heart broke at that moment as I thought of him driving back towards Gravedigger territory with the blood of his not-dead best friend on his shirt.

My father cut through my thoughts as he quipped, “I haven’t heard from Eva in a few years.” There was a pause before he continued, “But I know her husband’s law practice. They are on the big island now. If you want, I can get you that number.”

I shook as I tried to find a piece of paper to write it down. All I could find was that tattered picture of our family with the long white streaks where I had folded it to fit into whatever I was carrying.

Once I had taken the number down, he asked, “Is there anything you want from me or your mother?”

There was a lot of things I wanted—an apology, time, help—but I couldn’t ask for any of it. Not right now. Right now, I just needed to figure out what my next step was and how I could get away as fast as possible. I didn’t bother to give him a “no” though. I hung up before I could muster up anything else to say.

Eva’s husband wasn’t in his office. He was at court. I had completely forgotten about the time difference between here and Hawaii and had figured I’d get a voicemail there too. Funny how that happened. But instead of a low-key message, I had to stumble my way with my words as I tried to explain to his secretary who I was and what I wanted. She took my name down as “Annie,” Eva’s sister, and wrote out a message that I would call Eva and she should pick up next time. She sounded as confused as I was, but that was all the time I had to explain. Any longer and this second guy would have jumped my bones.

I want to tell Breaker about how my stomach turned as I walked back towards the van, seeing no other options than to just get on the road. Everything about it felt wrong. I drove for an hour or two, music blaring to drown out my tears and the red hot beating of my angry heart. But nothing could stop me from thinking about him, even if I did everything I could not to.

This cocky, arrogant mongrel of a guy who had kept me captive and then tried to claim me as his property has managed to weasel his way under my skin. He had promised to protect me, and he had lived up to it. I can’t deny that. Even though forced, our bond has become more than just between the sheets. I owe him my loyalty, as useless as it may be when it comes to Gravediggers. And I couldn’t let him possibly go down because of me running away.

I want to tell Breaker that all of the above are the reasons I turned back and came to his motel room. When he’d asked why I’d simply said to be with him and if he’d accept me again. After he said yes, everything melted. The room spun. My feet felt lighter. The dim pounding in my head quieted down.

And now all I can feel is the roughness of his hands as they travel up the length of my body.

His scent, that earthy musk that seems to drip off his body, is intoxicating and everything that happened before this moment has fallen by the wayside. I’m speechless as I grab on with my legs circled around his waist for balance. All I can think about is the taste of his skin on my tongue and how much I just want him to take me right here, right now.

Breaker’s strong hands cup my breasts, bringing them up to meet his mouth. He suckles on one of the nipples with such force that my head flies back toward the wall. My hands wrap around the back of the desk I’m sitting on—not just for anchoring, but also to keep me from pushing him away. The sensation of him nibbling at me makes every part of me quiver and squeal. My hips naturally push into him while my legs pull his firm erection closer and closer to me.

The cotton panties I’m wearing feel soaked already. The fabric itches at my skin as I long to pull them to the side and let him go at me. He must be reading my mind. A hand claws at the underside of my black skirt and pulls them down the length of my legs until they hit my knees. I do the rest from there while he unbuckles his pants.

Fully undressed, Breaker stares back at me longingly, his tan, muscular chest and strong, forcible arms almost twitching in anticipation. I want all of him on me, pushing into me. He almost dives into me, throwing me back against the wall. I mash my mouth to his, feeling his tongue, another muscle he’d finely honed, dancing with my own.

He nuzzles into me, with his two-day-old scruff scratching against my neck. His hands grope every part of me, not sensually but forcefully. He’s telling me I’m his.

But I’m not ready to be his—not yet.

I push back on him, allowing my hands to cop a feel of that massive chest before nudging him with more force away. I lay a kiss on his cheek, then down his neck, along his collarbone, to his sternum, teasing him while he anticipates what’s next. Finally, I make it down past his six-pack abs to the insides of his legs. I kiss them gentler, my lips lingering just long enough to make him squirm, before moving my mouth to his cock.

A single bead of precum sits on the tip of his shaft. I wink up at him and lick it off, then proceed to move my tongue around the head. I turn and, almost upside-down, give some attention to the bottom, paying special closeness to the vein that’s now throbbing with desire.

I place my hands on either side of his cock, feeling his entire body tense up as I lick teasingly in long, broad strokes. Eventually, I give him what he wants, what his body is aching for; I open wide and take him fully into my mouth, his hardness going for the back of my throat. I feel his hands, one on my shoulder, the other on my head, pushing me into him. I let him do it; I want him to do it.

I increase my speed, my mouth forming a suction around his erection. He pushes back, and I force myself to take him all the way in, my entire mouth wrapping around his cock like I can’t get enough. In a way, I can’t.

He lets me go, and I take a deep breath as I go back to loving flicks of my tongue. I give him one last lick down the bottom of his shaft before making my way up. I stand before him, my fingers immediately shooting to my clit. I’m vaguely aware of how wet I’ve gotten, but right now, there is just him, locked dead on me like a heat-seeking missile.

With a cross between a groan and a grunt, he hikes the rest of my skirt up and shoves his cock into me. There’s no need for me to even lead him inside my pussy. He knows my body like a favorite book. His lingering fingers play at my pages, opening it carefully before thumbing at the best parts.

The pressure of his long cock inside of me used to be unbearable, but now it glides into me like it’s always belonged there. He gives a few slow thrusts, pulling himself almost completely out. Both of us look down to watch the long shaft slide, coming back wetter and wetter each time. And then, with a wordless growl, he gets to work.

I have just enough time to scoot myself to the very end of the desk before he pummels into my folds. I try to move with him, following his patterns, but he’s too fast. It’s almost like lightning how each stroke strikes me. My toes curl deeper into his skin, and my nails crunch down on his back. He lets out a shout, but it’s not from pain. It’s something deeper, more natural than that.

Breaker’s eyes open. They hold mine as I tip back slightly, giving him an even better angle in which to take me. He digs straight into me again, more and more powerful with each motion. All the while, I melt and fall to pieces over and over again as I cry out his name. “Breaker! Take me! Breaker!” I can’t stop saying it. Even his words sound like they belong to our love making.

The ball of twine inside my stomach unfurls. The pressure in me tightens and then relaxes, each time letting go even more. The muscles in my vagina that hold on to him spark like a campfire being lit until I can’t hold it anymore. I feel as if I am about to burst into flames from my fingernails to the tip of my head. I scream out his name again.

But to my surprise, he eases off a little and presses deeper into me. I feel his body fall on mine, his chin resting in the crook of my shoulder. He chokes back something, maybe my name, but the sound echoes between our bodies. Breaker doesn’t pull away as he comes. His cock lingers inside of me, rocking the last of himself until he is empty.

We both stay motionless, soundless except for our panting breaths and our hands slapping the wood top of the dresser. When he’s ready to let go, he pulls away. My pussy tries to clench onto his still stiff cock, which makes the feeling even more delicious for the both of us. Breaker can’t hide that swift little smirk that crosses his face.

“I’ve never done that,” he finally remarks while he walks towards the bed to grab the towel I used after my shower. “I mean, I’ve never come inside anyone before. It was awesome.”

“I’ve never let any guy do it either.” It’s true. I’ve never been so sure about anyone else, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Still, I think he knows. We both know. Me coming back to him made what we just did different from the times before—when we were playing around or doing it because we needed someone warm to cling to.

After a long while, he sits next to me, still on the desk, and stares at the other side of the room, as if he can see through the walls. No doubt, there’s a Gravedigger in the conjoining room sleeping off a hard night or getting ready for a new shift. Who knows if they heard.

“What’s next, kid? What’s your plan? Because I sure as idiot don’t have one.”

I look at him, more tired than I should be, as I say, “I get caught.”

“What?” He looks at me, his eyes blinking.

I stand up quickly, grabbing my panties and pulling down my skirt around them. I find my shirt and my bra next. He waits for me to turn towards him. “You have to go,” I say firmly. “You don’t want to get caught when I show my face.”

“Where are you going to go?”

Honestly, I’m not sure yet, but I blurt out, “The bar. I figure it’s the easiest way to get caught. They probably aren’t really looking for me around here.”

“And what are you going to say? That you just went on a little, twelve-hour walk after disposing of a body with me?”

“Yeah. I guess. I’m going to say that I tried to escape, but I came back. My dad always told me that when I have to lie, keep it as close to the truth as possible.” That was true. While lying got a whipping in my family, there were a lot of secrets to hide in my past. That little piece of advice probably kept me alive when being questioned by marks or other scammers.

“That’s suicide! You’re out of your mind.” He grabs my arm when I’m halfway out the door. I scan for anyone that may see us, but the surrounding rooms are mostly dark, and there’s no one idling in the courtyard. The bikers are probably where I want them to be, back at the bar.

“We’ve got to do something. And this is it. I can take whatever they want to throw at me, Breaker. Can you?” I know that calling him out isn’t exactly the best choice, but I have to use some reverse psychology to get his ego to let me go. My main concern was making it out alive, and I need to be on my toes to con the rest of these guys to let me back in. Breaker’s grip isn’t helping either. When he lets me go, I almost fly forward.

“Do me a favor, Breaker,” I say as I turn back to his stunned gorgeous face. “Give me about an hour and then meet me at the bar. When you see me getting drunk, please try to act surprised.”

I know Breaker’s honest to a fault. I know he can sniff out deceit like the best of them. But I didn’t know how good of a liar he could be. I just hope he’s a good of an actor as he is a lover.

Chapter Eighteen

Breaker

“What’s your plan?” I ask as I talk into the phone over the noise on the other end. Aimee sure picked the worst time to pull off this job.

“I go in. I sit at the bar. And I order a blasted drink. I figure I’m going to need one,” she answers, carefully.

“And you’re just going to act like nothing happened?”

Aimee corrects me, “Nothing did happen. I was short on funds, so I went out to town in hopes of grabbing a few extra bucks for some food after you dropped me off back at the hotel. I had zero idea that those guys were on the hunt for me.”

I know this excuse will probably work for a few of the slower guys in the club. Heck, it may work for me if I wasn’t deep in the situation, but she sure wasn’t going to pull this over on Biggs. My gut told me that I was about to let my woman walk into a lion’s den.

As if sensing my hesitation, she adds with an air of confidence, “Just give me fifteen minutes and walk into the bar. Act surprised to see me. Hopefully, no one saw you when you dropped me off at that store…”

“That’s not what I would worry about. I’m more convinced you’re about to end up in that fake grave with Henry. Should I get the shovel ready?” I can’t help being testy about this whole thing. I hate giving up control or not knowing what the outcome will be. She was really grating on my nerves by insisting on doing it her way.

“Just be there.” Aimee sighs. “The rest, well, leave it up to me.” I can almost see her bite that ruby red bottom lip of hers and wink at me as she says this.

My head smacks the back of the driver side seat in frustration as I hang up. What have I done in my other lives to get wrapped up in an irritating, addictive chick like Aimee?

I count the minutes down as I watch the club from the parking lot across the street. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. The regulars and club members stream in and out with warm beers and hand-rolled cigarettes in their hands. A few hang out on the porch, talking so loud that I can hear them from here. I make a mental note to shut them up when things settle down.

But as I’m taking in the guys spreading Gravedigger secrets to the neighborhood, something through the window catches my eyes. Something—maybe an arm or an elbow or a bottle flies past the two framed windows and out of view. Someone’s large back gets up to stand, rushing towards where the object landed. The rowdy music is masked by the shouts of men and then one distinct yell—Aimee’s.

I knew it. I freaking knew that this was going to happen. I put the car in park as I dart across the street towards the bar. Already, a few of the girls are retreating, practically running away from the scene.

One of them says to her friend, “She slapped him! She slapped him! She may be dead, but she’s got balls.”

Slapped who? Was this part of her plan? With Aimee, it felt as if anything was possible. I whip open the metal screen door. Frozen inside, I try to take it all in. The room is basically split in half. Biggs’ loyal men, with the new boys flanking Wesley, the punk that danced up on Aimee and then tried to fight me over it back at that hotel in Colorado. He holds his lily-white hand to his cheek where a small scratch leaks drops of fresh blood.

On the other side of the bar is Aimee. Her chest heaves in what looks like anger and her jaw grinds back and forth, but I can’t tell if it’s put on or not. Her tan fists clench at her sides. One of my friends, Red, stands behind her, whispering in her ear. She nods a few times, not wanting to turn herself away from Wesley.

I clear my throat as loud as possible, but no one even dares to blink. The tension seems to boil and bubble over so I do the only thing I can think of to break through. Grabbing an empty bottle left by the windowsill, I smash it on the edge of a black metal table. The glass crushes under my feet as I stand up on the faux-leather chair.

All of the heads in the bar turn to me as my voice begins to boom, “Does someone want to tell me what the heck is going on in here?”

Everyone looks over towards Aimee, and I realize that this is the time when I’m supposed to act surprised. I let my face fall, and then my eyes squint as if they don’t recognize what they see. She smiles slightly but then walks down at her hands.

I shout over the music towards her, “What are you doing here, Aimee? Do you know we’ve been hunting you down all night?!”

“I—I—I—” Like a child, she kicks at an imaginary rock on the ground while stammering with her well-thought out explanation. “I didn’t go anywhere, Breaker. I was only going to pull a job and then come back. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal…”

She almost sounded convincing. The side of the room with my friendlies even nodded as they talked amongst themselves. They seemed to take this at face value. After all, why would she come back if she was lying?

“She’s a lying jerk, Breaker!” Wesley breaks through the noise as he approaches my chair. “This skank ran and then chickened out when she knew she’d get caught.”

“What did you call me?” Aimee looks offended. Her hate for this little prick seemed to radiate off of her as she tried to defend herself. “I’m not lying! With Henry gone, I had to! You guys expect me to starve here?”

“Henry?” Red chimes in. My heart sinks as I realize just how much of a mistake Aimee has made by bringing him up. Henry’s “death” wasn’t supposed to be spread throughout the club. In the past, these guys just disappeared, joined new clubs, quit on the road… the darker inner workings of the club were kept quiet.

“We’ll talk later about that.” I snap, shirking the subject. “I want to know what the heck happened.”

“That perv took another pass at me, Breaker” Aimee points at Wesley as she screams out. The men around her nod as they eye me, searching for some reaction that shows Aimee’s still my property.

Wesley laughs out loud with that sniveling twerp of a laugh of his. “This jerk doesn’t know squat. All I did was touch her knee. After all, Biggs told us that she didn’t belong to anyone and we could do what we want to her. She can’t pass me off if she wa—”

I have my hand up, ready to cut him off, but he stops short himself. His head turns towards the door where the offices are. Biggs steps into the light of the bar, dressed only in a pair of dirty jean shorts and a sweaty tank.

“Breaker! What the heck?”

“I was trying to break up this trash, boss. You wanna blame someone, blame the kid again.”

There’s a rumble of support, but Biggs doesn’t register it. His eyes are fixed on Aimee who is holding her arms across her chest as if it would help her shrink into the background.

“My office. The three of you.” He turns his back on us and walks off.

I let Aimee go first, Wesley next, and take the rear. The point of all of this is to act surprised and show no involvement. I couldn’t show my hand by being too eager to defend her. I had to put some trust in her that she knew what she was about to do.

Aimee’s halfway through her explanation when I get into the office, her arms still crossed over her chest. She goes back and forth between us, looking as if she will cry one moment then punch someone the next. But she manages to keep it together, even giving elaborate descriptions of the places she claims to have been. Stick to the truth, Aimee, I think.

When she’s done, Biggs turns to me with a half smile, “You believe this trash?”

I pick my words carefully, “Yes and no. Why would she come back if she wasn’t lying? And why go out of her way to do a job on her own?”

Aimee turns to me with a look of complete disgust, but I can see the crinkles around her eyes that spark with something more like approval.

“I told you…” she jumps in, “I needed the cash. If Henry is gone, I won’t have any cash for meals.” Her hands rest on her thighs with her palms up, as if to say she’s got nothing but the air between her fingers to live off of.

“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve got a job for you. Do it right, and I’ll let this, uh, incident slide.” He clicks his fingers at Wesley. “You back off the chick. She’s still not anyone’s jerk, but you got no claim on anyone or anything in this club until you earn your full patch.”

Wesley’s head drops down towards his chest as he nods to himself and then walks out of the room, leaving Biggs and us alone.

Some time passes while he takes a drag of his cigarette and watches the smoke billow in the dim lit room. The small white clouds dissipating in the air only make it harder to read his face or Aimee’s silent instructions. He is literally trying to smoke us out. I can feel it.

“I’ll talk to Breaker alone, girl.” He points to the door with the toe of his shoe. Aimee seems to want to argue the point, but he shoots her down before she can get a sound out of her throat, “I’ve been patient enough with you! Girls like you need a swift kick in the rear, and you’re lucky I’m not giving you up to that creep Wesley. So unless you really want to test me, I would get the heck outta here until I call you back.”

She hesitates, appearing stunned, before storming away. As she opens the door, her head tilts just enough to the side so that I can see her bite that lip of hers. She’s nervous, and I don’t blame her. He clearly doesn’t believe her. And worse, the man I know most likely has got something in plan for retaliation for her dishonesty.

When the door shuts, I do my best to act casual. I do what I always do; sink into the leather chair near the door, with my hands running up and down the sides of the upholstery. I take a deep breath. I need my head to be as clear as I can get it.

“I need you to take Aimee on a job tonight.”

“Tonight? You think it’s a little late to be running marks at the mall? And what happened to me no longer working with her? I’m not exactly eager for her to make a dumb rear mistake and get me hauled away in some cop car tonight.” That’s it. I need to keep him on track, remind him that she isn’t as good as he thinks she is.

But maybe that’s his end game.

“It’s not civilians. I need her to rob someone else.” His eyebrow rises as he fingers a file sitting on his desk. “I got some intel on Vice and the Devil’s Fighters.”

“What?” I ask, the word stuck in my throat. Vice Elroy is one of the most feared bikers in the West. His club, the Devil’s Fighters, is another group of roamers. They travel with just a small band of guys, elites in our books. They perform high-risk jobs like heisting a bank or selling quality coke and then skip town before they can be tracked. The Feds have wanted them for years. We have wanted them for longer.

The last time we saw them was when Biggs had Aimee pulled that bank job on them. I had hoped it would be the last. Now it seems like Biggs has other plans for us.

Biggs can sense my mouth watering over this. “They’re in town for some business.” He looks at me with both eyebrows raised this time. The way he says business makes the hair on my neck stand straight up. “What I need you to do is bring Aimee to a drop point, have her get into his safe and take the cash. It should be at least thirty Gs. I know they finished a job just last week with at least that much.”

“Wait,” I say, stopping him as he contemplates. “You want to send Aimee into their den, grab an insane amount of cash, and get her out of there alive? You have to be kidding me. There’s no way. No way!”

“That’s the point, Breaker. I don’t care what happens to her. All that I care about is that cash. You too. Alive or dead. It doesn’t matter, but don’t even think about coming back to the Gravediggers without thirty Gs in unmarked bills and Vice on your tail.”

“You’re insane. You can’t—”

Biggs stares me down, towering over me as he points a chubby, hangnail finger into my face. “You think I can’t do this? You’re wrong. You may have been able to pull off that trash with Henry and break into my office, but you don’t dare cross me and then pretend everything is all hunky-dory without getting put to the fire first. Prove you’re loyal, get the job done, and we’ll talk.”

He opens the door. The sounds of the bar explode into the room, but all I can hear is the rush of blood through my ears. In my peripheral, Aimee stands just across the way. Her hands run through her hair, sweeping it back. She looks hopeful, but I know the truth.

We’re walking to our deaths together.

Chapter Nineteen

Aimee

I can’t seem to find my balance. I grip the wall of the bar while the weight on my chest presses down on me. My voice shakes as I squeak out, “Vice? The Devil’s Fighters?”

“Yeah.” Breaker takes a drag on a cigarette. I’ve never seen him smoke before. I don’t even know where he got it. But he puffs it heavily, breathing it out through gritted teeth. Even in the hot Texas air, the smoke rings linger in the space between us. He hasn’t moved closer to me since he walked out of Biggs’ office. It’s as if I’m a bomb about to go off.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and looks back up at me, his head slightly cocked, “Do you know who he is?”

“Of course I know who he is, Breaker! Everyone in our circles knows who he is! Plus, you forget that we pulled that job on his lackey just a month or so ago?”

Does he really think I am that ignorant, or is he trying to soften the blow? The way he’s acting with everything so close to his chest, I can’t tell.

“It’s what we have to do, Aimee. I don’t know what to tell you. We robbed him once, maybe it won’t be so bad the second time around.”

“How much?”

“What?” He looks down at his feet, already giving me the answer.

“HOW MUCH, BREAKER?”

“Thirty thousand,” he mutters under his breath. “From their safe.”

I spin on my heels as I face the empty parking lot. Looking up towards the darkened sky, I let out the longest, loudest scream I can muster. My throat and lungs begin to burn, but dang does it feel good. I don’t care what Breaker thinks or if anyone can hear or me. This is what I need.

When I’m done, I run my fingers through my coarse hair. A small thought pops into my head about needing to re-dye my hair, but I don’t let it linger. I need to focus on the present now, and about surviving tonight. I know that my reality runs even deeper, though. If I don’t get this job done, Biggs won’t just kill me. He’ll take out Breaker as well. He’s shown his teeth, and now he is coming in for the bite.

“We need to go, Aimee.” I don’t even notice his hand around my bare arm, tugging me back toward the other end of the lot. “We can figure something out when we get there. But it’s not safe for us to be here, having this conversation.” He looks over his shoulder toward the open back door of the bar. Who knows who is real friends are, and who we can trust. It was a lion’s den in there.

I nod my head slightly and walk, nearly floating off the ground, towards the same truck we’ve been driving since he dropped me off hours ago. I scoot into the seat with my hands rubbing up against the worn down leather. I pick at the small holes as we take off towards an address on a piece of paper Biggs gave to Breaker when he told him the job.

It’s a tired looking old office building that reminds me of the place the Gravediggers were in when I attempted to rob them. It has busted out windows that are boarded up with plywood. In other spots, furniture has been pushed up against the shattered green, white, and red panes. I can only guess that this was an old factory that was later allowed to operate under the radar as a club location when the Devil’s come to town to do their business.

“Makes me glad we got the bar,” Breaker says as he parks the truck and turns off the lights. We’re sitting about a block away from the building’s entrance. Breaker leans his seat back just enough so that his face is covered by the edge of the window. Even the shadows cast long over his chest and arms as if he has melted into his seat. I follow suit. He obviously knows what he is doing.

A long moment passes where we lock eyes without saying a word. Our bodies turn toward each other, as his hand floats to the center section separating us but then falls back down to the seat. I want to reach out and touch him—to have him comfort me—but I can’t. My hands stay folded under my head, making a small pillow for my cheek.

Breaker finally clears his throat. “When you were trying to rob us the last time, how did you do it? How did you get in?”

“I pretended to be a girl with the club. Put my hood up, stood a few feet behind everyone, and just floated on in. Someone asked me what I was doing when I got up the stairs, but I just said I was visiting Biggs and gave him a wink. He didn’t even register me.”

That day feels like forever ago, but it’s only been a month. So much has changed, and yet, so much has remained the same. A smile escapes Breaker’s weather worn face, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing too. How I laid under his bed while he screwed that chick, how we fought for days over silly things like me complaining that the seat on the motorcycle was too hot, and how the first time we had sex all ears were on us.

“That’s what you should do, Aimee.” Breaker slides up in his chair just enough so that I can see those dark eyes flame to life. “One of the intel pieces that Biggs gave me was that he’s got some girls running the streets. They check in every three hours unless they’re on a job. You go in. Give them some money. And make some excuse to slip away to the fourth floor where they keep the safe in Vice’s office. He should be out tonight. That’s what Biggs mentioned, but you can pretend to be surprising him.”

I lift up a little in my seat to get a better glimpse of the building’s lot. The intel is right. A small group of women huddles together outside the building. They’re flanked by a few guys staring down at their phones. It wouldn’t be too hard to get past them or look as if I was meant to be there all along.

“Yeah?” I think it over quickly, running through this plan in my head. It’s risky, but all my best ones are. In most situations, one distracted guard, usually by a flash of belly and rear, was enough to pull through.

“I’ll get myself on the first floor, with the truck for a quick getaway. If I can find a way in, I’ll attempt to meet you up there to help you pick the safe. If not, you’re going to have to drag it down yourself and meet me outside without anyone seeing you.”

I roll my eyes as I mutter to myself, “It sounds so easy.”

“It is, Aimee. For a master like you, this should be nothing.”

I know he’s trying to amp me up, but the sinking brick in my stomach feels as if it’s weighing me down into the seat. I shudder a little, even when his hands grasp my shoulders.

“Come on. I know you. I know what you’re capable of, and this is something we both know you can and will do. Just keep your head down, and we’ll get out of this with that safe,” he says.

I close my eyes, visualizing the plan again, and then, I make my first move. With one swift motion, I manage to yank my bra off of my chest, pulling it out of the bottom of my shirt. Breaker stares at me in complete wonder as I place the lingerie on his lap.

“If I’m going to be believable as a hooker, I better start here.”

He licks his lips as he tosses the cream-colored bra onto the dashboard.

***

“Girl, I had the best night ever.” This woman will not shut up. “I made at least a grand. Vice is gonna love me for that.”

“Vice doesn’t even know who you are, Sissy.” Her friend crosses her arms over her large, smooshed up boobs as she laughs to herself.

“Oh shut up, Kelly. He does too. I’ve slept with him more than you have.”

“You’ve slept with everyone more than I have. That’s why the boys call you ‘Stretch!’” The small group of girls chuckles to themselves, and the line moves up slowly as another girl disappears into the back room.

I feel a warm breath against my ear, making the hairs stand up on end. “It’s like this every night.”

“Huh?” I ask, turning around. The girl behind me has to be at least five or six years younger than me, but she looks dead tired. She holds a pair of sky-high heels around her fingertips as she gnashes on a piece of gum.

“Your first night, right? I’ve never seen you around before. I heard we picked up a girl here in Texas, but I thought she wasn’t going to be here for a few more days…”

My mind goes back to that email. Vice’s name was on that email thread. It had to be. Maybe the deal was already sealed, and this was just another part of Biggs’ plan that I hadn’t considered.

I try to think this thing through, but the chick won’t stop repeating her question. “How much did you pull?”

“Three hundred and ninety bucks,” I say, holding up a small wad of bills in my hand. It was all Breaker had in the truck.

“That ain’t too bad for your first night. You’ll get more when the boys start lining up clients for you. Plus, with a jerk like yours, that won’t be for long.”

I try to zone in on the man standing a few girls in front of me. He’s holding a clipboard and an envelope, taking names and numbers.

The girl keeps talking. “What’s your name?”

“Aim—” I stop, catching myself before I reveal something stupid. “Tessa,” I amend quickly, “I’m Tessa.”

“Tessa? Pretty name. I’m April. You need a street name, though. All us girls use different names. I’m Birdie. You already met Sissy and her friend Kelly.” She appears to think for a second before adding, “You look like this girl we used to have. We left her at our last stop… I think her name was Minnie. Like Minnie Mouse.”

“Minnie?” I repeat. “That’s good. I like that.”

If I use another girl’s name, this guard may let me slide without noticing that I’m not who I’m about to say I am. He’s barely looked up from the clipboard. It’s worth a shot.

My hands shake as I get closer to the front of the line. Sissy goes next, handing the guard a huge wad of cash. Kelly stands behind her, shaking her head in clear disbelief.

“Two thousand bucks, ladies!” Sissy shouts! “I’m going platinum tonight!”

April leans in again to explain, “Platinum is when Vice invites the girl that does a two Gs night up to his office. I’ve never been. I heard it’s just champagne and, well, you know…”

“Name!” the guard suddenly shouts at me.

“Minnie.” I barely get the name out in time. I’m almost there.

He runs his hand down the line of names. Thank goodness—it stops near the bottom where there’s an ‘X’ in the column. “How much?”

I hand him the money, being careful not to touch his dirty little fingers. “Three ninety.”

His eyes glance up slightly, giving me enough time to turn back towards April. Still, he doesn’t pick up that I’m not the original Minnie. “That’s low. You know what happens when you get two nights under five hundred,” he scolds me, still with that booming voice.

“Yeah. I know.” I have zero idea, but something tells me I want to be far away if that happens. He shoos me back towards the group of women where Sissy and Kelly continue to fight.

When April joins us, I ask, “Where can I go to the bathroom here? Is there a place inside I can freshen up?”

“Uh. Yeah. They didn’t bring you to your dorm yet? That’s strange. It’s up on the third floor. We all stay there, but the doors are locked.”

I hate to do this to poor, dim April, but I ask, “Can you come up there with me? I hate going to the bathroom alone.”

“Nah. I can’t, but don’t worry! The bathroom’s not hard to find at all. Just don’t get caught. They’d kill us if they found you in there when you should be out working.”

“Oh.” I smile. “You’re the best. Thanks, April.”

She opens the door to the building for me and points towards an unmanned stairwell. With a few vague directions, I’m off, sprinting up the metal stairs as lightly as possible. The metal rattles under my feet, but at least I’ll be able to hear when anyone else comes and goes.

I push past the third floor, around the bathroom where I see the room the girls stay in. Like an observation room, there are windows everywhere with only two doors on each side. Inside are rows of cots, each decorated with their own blanket, pillow, and personal items. My heart breaks for girls like April. I have no idea how they got themselves here. I just know I don’t want to be either.

Once I reach the fourth floor, I push the heavy metal fire door ajar. Lying on top of the first few stairs, I watch two sets of feet pace outside the door. There are no weapons, but one man has his hand on his pocket, feeling the bulge of the gun tucked away.

“What time does Vice get back?”

“An hour, he said.”

“One of the girls hit platinum. Tony just called it up.”

“He’ll be glad about that. Boss hasn’t gotten puss—” He suddenly stops when he notices me standing in the doorway, my arms outstretched to hold it open. “Who are you?”

“Sissy,” I say, with confidence and a sultry smile, trying to emulate the girl’s voice as best as possible. A thing like her was probably widely known by these guys. “I hit platinum. I’m sure you heard. I want my champagne.”

The men eye one another. The second one seems to sense something, but he’s too dumb to go much beyond that. “You usually don’t come up until after your shift is done,” he says.

“I know, I know. But I’m eager and so, so, sore.” I walk towards him and place my hands on his chest. My braless press against him. He stiffens under my touch. “I guess I could wait…”

“No,” he answers with an unsteady voice. “Just go in.” He even opens the door for me. What a gentleman… I almost can’t believe it. I give both of them a show of my rear as I strut towards the door, making sure they get their money’s worth. After I pull this off, who knows what’s going to happen to the girls who inadvertently aided me.

I sit myself down on a long leather couch and flick on one of the lamps. The man holding the door smiles and then shuts it behind me. I listen to them for a short time, laughing to themselves while describing my “tight” body and how I’m just Vice’s type.

Apparently, he’s got a thing for tan chicks.

But as their voices grow more and more distant, I get to work. Breaker mentioned the safe being somewhere in his office. I have to be in the right spot, but this looks more like a bedroom than anything. The couch has a queen-sized, plush throw blanket tossed over the side and several luxury pillows too, with a large screen TV hanging in the center of a bare wall. There isn’t even a computer in here. Office my rear.

As I turn to check under the couch, something red and shiny catches my eye, glimmering under the lamplight. I walk towards it, studying it until I confirm it’s what I’m looking for. I pull the safe out from the hiding space between two empty bookshelves. While it’s not much, it’s heavy. I nearly drop it as I try to lift it onto the couch.

Kneeling before it, my heart sinks. I’ve never been the best lockpicker, even with my ex’s help. And this safe has a lock I’ve never come across before. It looks almost digital, with no key point. How am I supposed to—

A loud slam forces me to hit the ground. The door breaks open, nearly tearing off of its hinges. My pulse surges into overdrive as a pair of boots steps into the light.

“You find it?” Breaker stands before me like a cowboy in one of those old Westerns. His hands look bloodied and bruised, and he wipes a bit of sweat from his temple. I tilt my head and see the boots of one of the guards resting against the floor.

“Don’t worry,” he says like he’s read my mind, “I didn’t kill them. Just knocked out.” He holds up a long metal pipe-shaped tool that he must’ve gotten from the back of the truck.

I move out of the way, letting him take over opening the safe. He studies it for a few moments, turning it over and looking at it from every angle. Finally, he takes the pipe and slams it at the screen. The red metal box dents, and the screen cracks and sparks. A little puff of smoke comes out one of its ends. He hits it again, this time harder with the pipe above his head for a better swing.

After the third hit, the box pops open.

My mouth goes dry as I peer over his shoulder. Thirty Gs never looks like much when you see it in hundred dollar bills, but it’s still got that distinct smell of paper money wrapped in rubber band stacks. Breaker places them in his pockets and in the lining of his coat that I now only just notice belongs to another member of the Devil’s Fighters.

“Is that all of it?” I ask in a hushed tone.

“It should be. It feels right.” I don’t want to know how he knows what this kind of money feels like. “Let’s get the heck out of here before someone notices those two punks are out cold.”

Breaker reaches back, offering me his hand. I take it as we sprint off towards the stairs. The metal once again rattles under us, but this time, I can’t stop to hear if anyone is coming from above or below. We have no choice but to run.

When we get closer to the bottom, Breaker slows and lets go of my hand. He says something to me, some instruction, but I don’t catch it. He gestures to the door on the opposite side of the room; the getaway door. Get there, and we are practically home. Get there, and we live.

He walks ahead of me, keeping his head down as he passes some stacked boxes and a few guys chatting over some beers. No one gives him a second look. No one even notices him. But someone notices me. April.

“Minnie! Come on! We gotta go. The car’s waiting!” I’m only halfway to the other side of the building, but now I’ve got a choice to make. Go with her and keep this ruse up so that Breaker can escape or run away as fast as possible and risk it all.

I take too long to decide and a door slams. Everyone turns.

It takes a few seconds but then I hear Vice’s gravely voice shout me down, “Why the heck is she here?”

I freeze, knowing we could be royally messed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Breaker walk towards him. Everything in my body goes numb as I hear Breaker tell Vice, “She’s here to rob you, man.” He drops the stacks of bills at his feet.

I shake my head as tears cloud my vision. No... He couldn’t have done this to me. Breaker couldn’t have played me. Could he?

I swallow the hard, sore lump forming at the back of my throat and manage to cry out to him with venom, “You idiot! How could you?”

Chapter Twenty

Breaker

“How could you? How could you do this to me! To us! Breaker!” Aimee’s eyes are wide and livid as she pushes up against the two men attempting to restrain her. Her tan, muscular arms thrash from side to side, forcing a third biker to intervene and grab her by the hips.

“Get that jerk out of here! Bring her up to my office, and this time, make sure there are men up there who can actually play lookout,” Vice spits. He’s exactly how I remember him to be in the few encounters we’ve had, and that bald head with the fresh tattoos only makes him look more ominous.

Aimee screams back at me again, “Breaker! Are you serious? Why did you do this!?”

I don’t look at her, staring at the ground under my feet instead. I can’t bare to see her taken away from me, knowing that I’m the one responsible for it.

She puts up a fight all the way up the four flights of stairs. Not that I didn’t expect anything different from her. So many underestimate a girl like Aimee. They think she’s broken and rundown, but she’s much more than that. She’s got spunk and fire. She’s tenacious. I was confident of that when I made the choice to out us, and I know it’s going to get her through what comes next.

Finally, the room goes silent. About a dozen men have formed a circle around me, each with a makeshift weapon in their hands. Some clutch broken pairs of scissors from the packing supplies, while another few have pieces of plywood thrown over their shoulders. The rest have guns.

This is my cue to drop mine. With caution, I lift my bare hands towards Vice to show him I’m clear. Then, I make a motion towards my pants.

“Let me take mine out. I’ll completely unload.” I’m not even through my sentence when he lifts his chin towards two men behind me. They manhandle me, tossing my arms higher. Their burly hands travel the length of my body, finding my stash of weapons easily. One by one, they examine what I’m carrying with sly, satisfied grins. In our world, this was equal to stripping a man down.

“Is that it?” Vice asks though I’m not sure to who. I stiffen in response while the other two nod back to him. “Good. Now that that’s taken care of, I want to know who you are and why the heck you think you could get away with robbing me.”

I don’t see it coming. The guy’s fast—too fast. He lands a jab straight to my diaphragm so that the air seeps out of me like a popped balloon. Every muscle in my abs contract and the strength in my knees gives way. They hit the ground with a clunk, and I have to use my hands to keep me from falling head first at his feet.

“I’m Breaker Monroe. I—”

He interrupts me, looking towards the man I assume is his second or an assistant. “Breaker Monroe?” he growls. “I know that name. How the heck do I know that name?”

“He’s with the Gravediggers, sir.” The second man crosses his arms over his chest; his face lit up like it’s Christmas morning. Something tells me that they’ve been looking for me.

“You’re kidding me!” Vice kneels before me, not taking his steely black eyes off of me. “This pile of trash is the Breaker Monroe that got away with his men from the Eagles? This idiot was the one that drove the getaway for that job back in Denver? That must mean... “

“The girl. She’s probably the one that robbed Anderson at the bank!” The second man is all too eager to get in Vice’s way. Vice shoots him a look that says, “Get the heck out of here,” and the guy scurries away obediently towards an office near the entrance. No one else bothers to speak. It’s clear who holds the balls in this club.

Vice turns his attention back to me. His long fingers pick up my chin, forcing me to look dead at him. I still haven’t recovered from the first hit; otherwise, I’d sucker punch the prick right in the face. But with the air still flooding back into my burning lungs, I have to listen to his slimy voice.

“I suppose it’s like that old phrase they say about fools. Rob me once, shame on you. Rob me twice, and well, I learned that lesson. Killed Anderson the day we found him on the interstate for being so incompetent. But a third time…”

“... time to get a new dang club?” I offer, knowing what was going to come next. A boot slams into my eye, knocking me blind this time. I can’t see the other men as they dogpile up on me. There’s a flurry of fists pummeling into my flesh. Low, bloodthirsty shouts batter my eardrums. Something hits my head—once, twice, and then nothing.

Everything goes blank. I fall into the darkness without even trying to hold on. The void takes me away, and I’m floating. I try to force myself awake, promising that if I could just move my arms or kick my feet, I could get some revenge. But nothing happens. It only gets darker, colder, more silent... until there is nothing.

“HELP ME! PLEASE! ANYONE! HELP ME!”

Aimee? I try to turn my head towards the sound, but the muscles in my neck won’t budge. Then there’s that whole thing with my eyes. Bruised and battered, I can only get the lids open enough that a small burst of light pops through. I try speaking next, but my lips and mouth taste like fresh blood, causing me to gag.

“No! Please! Please don’t. I’ll stop. I will. Just don’t—” Aimee’s voice rumbles through the room as if she’s right next to me, but by the echo, I know I’m most likely hearing her through a grate or through the walls of a few empty rooms between us.

I have to get to her. Every instinct tells me that I need to rescue her. Whatever they are doing in there with her is much worse than what they’ve done to me. A few cuts, some bruises, a concussion—that’s nothing. They’ll kill me quick, but they’ll torture her for what she has done to their club. And that’s a far worse fate for a person like Aimee to endure.

Wherever she is, she’s gone quiet again. The hairs on my neck stand on edge. Something ain’t right. I force my eyes open wider, and that light grows, but as soon as I can come to my senses, I realize that it’s just the light from the crack under the door. They placed my body on the floor of an open, blank room that smells of mothballs and dust clouds. The carpet under me is stained and wet. It’s most likely my blood I’m lying on, but with Vice, you never know.

The light flashes dark. The shadows of two feet, then more, pop into view through the crack. I turn everything off in my mind so that I can hear the men speak.

“You know what to do with the girl and our guest, Nico?”

“Yeah, boss. But you sure you don’t want some backup in there? I’ve heard stories about that guy. He’s not just—”

Vice walks closer to the door so that I can hear his hand take the metal handle as he responds, “Do your job. Don’t worry about mine. I’ll call you when you go to the next step.”

Quickly, I force myself up, darting towards the corner of the room so that I can use the two pieces of wall to prop myself up. The worst thing I can do is come across as weak from a little beating like that. Obviously, those guys heard the rumors about me. They know about my past. If anything, I have a reputation to uphold, and I can use that to convince Vice.

“Well, well, well,” Vice snickers, “Someone’s up—finally.”

I wonder how long I’ve actually been out for. Judging by the tiny window in the corner, the sun is just beginning to rise. So it couldn’t be more than three or four hours since we left the Gravediggers’ bar.

“You’re not looking too bad,” he continues, hardly able to contain his glee. “I’m disappointed. I thought you would have bled out by now.”

I grit my teeth and push through the pain in my stomach as I try to speak. “Didn’t want to ruin your carpet, Vice,” I pant. “That would have been rude of me.”

“That would’ve been a real issue…” He tries to hold back something, maybe a smile. This guy was a prick like me. They all are. It takes bravado and a ton of ego to get to this point of being the president of a club.

“So then, tell me, Breaker. Why the heck are you here? Who gave away our location? And why did you turn yourself in?”

Aha. Now, he’s finally made it to the real questions at hand. I thought we’d never get here, or that I would’ve been a corpse in the back of his truck by the time it dawned on him that I gave us away to him instead of just dashing out the door with the safe in my hand.

“I have something that you want, Vice. And you have something that I need. I came here to make a deal.”

“You steal my safe and pretend like you actually came here to make me a bargain?”

I cough back the taste of blood pooling in my throat, ignoring the red splotch on the inside of my fist when it’s done. “No, that was part of Biggs’ plan. He forced Aimee and me to rob you—both times, actually. Threatened to kill us if we didn’t. But when I saw you, I realized that we want the same thing.”

“And what’s that?” he asks, his eyebrows raised, clearly not convinced.

“We want the Gravediggers.”

He takes a seat in a metal folding chair camouflaged by the darkness. It creaks as he leans back with his hands resting on his head. “Are you really telling me you’re betraying your club? A guy like you takes that loyalty oath to his grave.”

“I took a blood oath, man,” I spit back as I remember that day nearly fifteen years ago when I stood before the fire with my hand outstretched over a dug grave. A member cut my wrist so that it bled fiercely. He turned it towards the empty grave and let the red liquid melt with the dust of the earth and the blood of my brothers.

Their faces pop into my mind, one by one, as I add, “But I took an oath to my club, not to Biggs. He’s been running the club into the ground, stealing money from its members, and challenging us. No more. No more. So I want to make a deal with you.”

“My brothers and me,” I explain, “we tried to pull a coup. There’s talk of an uprising coming. The club is split into two factions. The oldest, most experienced guys fall in line with me and Hen—with me. They would follow me.” I stop myself with Henry’s name, unsure of how much I should share at this point.

“Huh. So what’s stopping me from finding out where your base is and taking the club myself?”

“Because we’re more powerful to you alive than dead. You go in there now, and there will be a shootout. Good men, good fighters, and business guys would be out cold trying to defend the Gravediggers. You know that. Your sect of the Eagles took out two of mine.”

He goes silent, letting me continue. “All I want is your support,” I say. “You take the Gravediggers and keep the colors like you did when you sided with the Eagles. Put a few of my guys in charge and then let us do our business. We’ll pay memberships to you for protection and some business help.”

I can tell he is mulling it over by the way his face transforms. It softens a bit, but his jaw stays jutted out like he’s chewing on my words. I need to say one more thing.

“What I also need is for you to give me back that girl. She’s no harm to you, and she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Biggs threatening her life.”

“You’re messing with me, right? Do you know who the heck you are talking to? You don’t demand that trash. I’m Vice, idiot! I control these highways, and those chicks! I rule every inch of this territory and beyond. And when someone messes with it, I make sure they’re never able to touch it again!”

He laughs to himself, lighting up a cigarette with a match from the inside of his pocket. “I think you, Breaker, need to meet the Devil’s new enforcer. He’d love to see you, I’m sure of that.”

Dang it! The blood in my veins boils as Vice walks away, the cigarette leaving a trail of smoke in his steps. The door closes, but I hear him make a call to send the guy up. Frantically, I scan the room for something, anything to protect myself with. But there’s nothing but that chair. I scoot myself over towards it, noting the several loose screws holding it together. As fast as I can, I take off part of the back of the chair, pocketing the screws in my hand, and taking off a metal stability bar. I place it under my leg and retreat back towards the corner.

A few minutes pass, and the door finally opens. Like a ghost, the guy’s feet shuffle towards me until he kneels down into the light. I begin to shake as I ready the bar clutched in my hidden hand.

“Well, well, well, Breaker. I thought I’d never see you again.” Henry reaches out his hand for me to grab onto, but I don’t register it in time. The bar goes flying through the air, landing him square on the shoulder hitting him so hard that he falls backward onto his rear.

“What the heck? What the actual idiot? What are you doing here, Henry? Are you working with these mongrels now?” I stumble over towards him, pulling him back so I can see him for myself. Part of me wants to beat the living trash out of him for joining up with these mongrels, the other part of me would rather take my own life for letting him go now that I know what he had in mind to do.

“Shoot! Breaker! You have to pound that into my face?”

“You came to kill me, Henry. You think I wasn’t going to try to protect myself and at least get a swing at their enforcer? I didn’t know it was gonna be you!”

“Still—dang!” He sits up, a hand on his bloodied and swollen lip. “I wasn’t here to kill you.”

“Then why the heck are they calling you their enforcer and sending you in here to deal with me?”

“Because I am their enforcer. When you dropped me off at that field, I walked back towards the road. About twenty minutes in, I flagged down a biker I knew was with one of the local clubs. I offered my services, telling him I was on the lookout for a new, local based club. I didn’t realize then that their club was bought and paid for by the Devil’s and Vice. When they figured out who I was and worked for, they promoted me.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not.” He lowers his voice as he says, “I’m not exactly happy to be wearing these colors, Breaker. But I gotta do what I gotta do to survive.”

“So your oath to the Gravediggers means nothing?”

“Not when they put me in a grave. And you’re one to talk? You don’t think I didn’t hear about your offer to Vice to sell the club down the river so you can get your piece of rear out of that other room? You’re lucky if she’s still alive.”

“My loyalty is for the person who’s stood by me the entire time, and that’s Aimee. You don’t think I want Biggs gone? Then you’re crazy. I want Biggs out of my club and buried in that grave I dug for you. But I can’t do it alone, not right now.”

“So you come here? Rob the club’s enemy and then try to sell your club’s secrets down the river?”

“Who’s on trial here? I’m not the one wearing their patch,” I fire back, “I’m doing what’s best for the club and for me—like I always have.”

“And you don’t think I want that?” Henry looks hurt by my accusation.

“I don’t know what the heck your endgame is here, Henry. And I don’t think I want to find out.” I hobble back towards the corner. “So if you gotta do something to me, you get it the heck over with. I’m done waiting to be killed.”

Henry marches over, the piece of metal I used to hit him back in his hand. “Good. I’ll make it quick.”

I rise to my feet, my fists clenched, and wait for the first hit to come.

Chapter Twenty-One

Aimee

I knew this day would come. All this running, hiding, stealing, planning… it had to catch up to me eventually. I just didn’t think it would be so soon, and I’d hoped it wouldn’t be someone like Breaker orchestrating it.

Replaying the sound of his voice calling us out to Vice has been more torturous than the actual torture. I’d honestly take the brute of a man, with the smoke-smelling hands, slapping and kicking me around, over listening to Breaker’s voice repeat itself in my head. That’s why I’d screamed—not because I thought I’d be rescued, but to overpower the noise.

Right now, the room is silent. It’s been awhile since anyone has appeared or the man with the cracking slap, who terrorized me until my nose bled. Even though it kills me to open my eyes, my tears burning my hot cheek, I force them open so I can take a longer look at where they’ve put me.

It’s dark, save for the metal desk lamp they’ve strapped to the wall. The cord winds out of the room, through a hole in the door someone has shaved away. Below it is a metal desk, like one of those old-style versions you’d see in a 1970s classroom. The man who hit me over and over again would take breaks by leaning up against the side of it, his raw hands curled around the edges.

There’s no chair, though. Probably for their own good. I could makeshift something with a chair if given the chance. That or I could swing it in the air down on some unexpecting person’s back like one of those insane wrestling TV shows my old boyfriends loved to watch. Instead of risking that, they have me on the floor with a blanket that smells as if it hasn’t seen the clean end of a washing machine in decades. It’s covered in little black specks I suspect belong to an entirely different species.

I lift myself up off of it, scooting towards the cold, cinder block walls. The itchy carpet scrapes at my hands as I move, but dang does it feel good to stretch my legs. I need to muster up some energy before they come back for round two. Or was it three—it’s all blended together…

Deep breath in, deep breath out. I can do this. I’ve been living with a motorcycle club for the past month. What would they have done to get out of this situation? What would—no, I won’t think of his name right now. He’s dead to me, utterly dead to me. This plan will be my own and have no credit to that trading mongrel who sold me out to save his own rear.

I need more light besides the lamp, but by the looks of the long wire leading around and then outside the room, this is all I’m going to get. Then a plan formulates, like one of those cartoon light bulbs popping over a character’s head. It’s risky, but I have to try something.

And by the sounds of it, I haven’t got much time. The noise from the offices around me has picked up. The men’s voices grow louder and small movements seem to grow and grow into thuds and then crashes. The Devil’s Fighters were getting anxious, and no doubt they’ll be coming for me next.

I rise to my feet, using the side of the desk, willing myself to just get going. Resting my weight on the desk, I reach my sore and stiff arms up towards that dangling wire hooked to the lamp. The slack is relatively tight, but it gives when I unplug the lamp from it. In the dark, I climb onto the desk so that I’m standing barefoot on the cold top. Squatting down just at the entrance of the door, I wait with the power cord wrapped around both of my shaking hands.

The voices get closer. I can hear them saying my name, giving mumbled instructions on what to do. Nothing is clear, so instead, I count the seconds. One… two… three… My plan replays itself over and over in my mind, giving me the courage to hold out to some hope that this is going to work. It has to work. I have to make it work, or I’m dead.

Someone grabs the door handle. A deadbolt glides out of its place with a metallic click. A chain rattles. And then there’s the twist and push. I bite my lip, keeping myself from screaming. The timing is right. The man is just the height I need him to be. Like a waiting cheetah, I wrap the wire up and around his head so that the thick, plastic cord wraps around his neck. I yank it back so that his body falls down over the side of the desk.

He stutters and spits. In the small light of the hallway, I watch as his feet attempt to get some balance on the floor, but they just scrape at the carpet. His hands wrap around mine, trying to push me away, but I’m too strong for him when he’s losing this much oxygen. He coughs, trying to scream out, but it’s of no use. I’m not listening to him.

I tell myself to look the man in the eyes. If I’m going to kill another human, I should have the balls to look at him as I do it. His dark brown eyes bulge as they meet mine. They’re older, wiser, familiar. I lose my grip, letting him slide out and down from the cord’s grip on his neck. He falls to the ground, his hands around the deep red lesion I’ve imprinted on his skin.

“Henry?” I whisper. “What are you doing here? I could have killed you!”

He rubs at his neck, still coughing and sputtering. I stand back against the wall trying to catch my breath while he recovers. I take this time to stare him down. The last time I saw him, he was wrapped up in a tarp and bleeding out. Even though I knew then that he wasn’t dead, and would most likely survive, it felt like a ghost had appeared before me.

“What… the heck… was that?” he asks, gasping.

“What do you think it was? I’m trapped in some dungeon hellhole with the country’s most deranged motorcycle gang. I was trying to get the heck out of here the only way I know how!”

“You could have, at least, waited to see who I was.” He shakes his head in disbelief as he adds, “We don’t have time for this trash, Aimee. You’re coming with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what the heck is going on! Why are you here? How did you get in—” Suddenly, I spot his jacket. It’s not the usual Gravediggers colors with the shovel decal. This one features horns around the words “Devil.” My feet scuttle back towards the wall as it dawns on me. Henry is working with them.

He knows I know. He can see the recognition and fear in my eyes. He reaches out a hand to me as he stands on his feet. “You have to come with me, Aimee. I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t understand what’s going on here.”

“Understand? What is there to understand? I should have killed you when I had that cord wrapped around your neck,” I spit towards his feet, not caring what danger I’m putting myself in. It was over for me anyways. At this point, I want to die with some answers. “Was this part of your plan the entire time? Get Breaker to let you go while you join up with the club you always wanted to be a member of? Then have him and I killed? I thought you were on our side, Henry!”

“I am on your side, Aimee! That’s why you need to let me get you the heck away from here before they notice.” He looks towards the door, panic in his eyes. Finally, he huffs and grabs me, slamming me to the ground. I feel like every bone in my body is about to crack as he pulls and yanks me the small length of the room and towards the door.

I kick, scream, and dig my nails into his arms, but he manages to hold on, step by step, until I’m outside in the empty hallway. The industrial light above us flickers, casting an eerie glow over Henry—my ghost captor. I watch his face transform once he hears the sound of others coming down the opposite end of the hallway.

“Go limp. Don’t say a word. Don’t move a muscle. Let me handle this!” he tells me. I have a split second to make a decision to trust him. It’s my only option at this point, so I close my eyes and let my body fall slack to the ground with my head tilted in the opposite direction of where the men are coming from.

They approach laughing to one another as they get louder. Finally, they stop, scuffing their heels at me.

“You do your job, Henry?” I recognize the voice straight away. Vice—it has to be him by the way he says everything with a throaty growl.

Henry laughs as he replies, “I knocked the jerk out… for now. I’m going to bring her down to the basement and finish her off there where I can make a bigger mess, ya know?” He says it so casual, so cool. It’s as if killing me is like skinning a fish he caught on some camping trip with his boys.

“Must have been rough. She looks like she put up a fight there.” The second man with Vice has apparently noticed the mark around Henry’s neck, or the fresh scratch marks up and down his arms. At least I’m giving off the impression that I’ll fight back when necessary. I hate to admit feeling proud about this.

Henry pauses, probably to show off his wounds. If he’s trying to pass me off as nearly dead, it would make sense that he would have something to show for the messy job. “She wasn’t too bad. Got me with that light cord. We really need to check the rooms before we put them in there. Breaker got me with the pole earlier.”

No one speaks. It’s the first time I’ve heard his name since I left him. I get that overwhelming urge to scream again, to cancel out whatever explanation or update they are about to give, but the hairs on my neck prick up, and I can’t help but let out some of the air stuck in my throat.

Vice is the one to break the silence. “Yeah. That reminds me, Henry—”

Henry interrupts him as if he can sense that something is up. “I’m gonna get the job done—get them done together. Make it easy for the boys to move their bodies off site. It’s how we did it in the Gravediggers. Leave no trail back to the site, ya know?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.” Vice sounds impatient, but that could just be that tough guy edge he’s trying to give off. They all sound impatient when they’re trying to lead. “It’s about the girl. I was thinking about her and Biggs. He was charging a huge rear price for her. It’s got me wondering what it’s all about… if that pussy can be put to good use...”

The second man chimes in, “Plus, we took out those girls who let her in last night. We need some bodies to pick up some slack.”

Incredible. Those poor girls. They had nothing to do with this. They were played! My body feels clammy and shaky, like it does before I’m about to be sick. I grit my teeth and bare the pain and guilt. I’ll deal with it later.

“She’d be a fine piece of rear to get out there,” Henry answers back, “I worked with her as her supervisor with the Gravediggers. She certainly knew her way around a guy’s cock when she was playing them.”

The second man sniffles as he says, “I’d be interested in taking a piece of her…”

“Shut the heck up, Rick. Ain’t no one taking her but me. If she’s Biggs’ pawn, I’m going to make sure I understand why he’s trying to sell her myself. Plus, I think there’s no better way to punish a chick than making her get on her knees and—”

Henry cuts him off again, “Yeah. Totally agree. So you don’t want me to kill her then? You still want me to bring her to the basement or take her up to your room? I just needed to get her out so we could bring in the guards from last night. It’s their turn to talk.”

Vice doesn’t answer right away, seeming to mull over his options. Finally, he replies, “Bring her down to the basement first. I want her to see Breaker’s corpse when she comes to. When she knows you killed him, have one of my guys come and bring her back up to my room. They’ll clean her up for me there.”

Corpse? What Henry’s done? Breaker’s… dead? During the hours I’ve spent locked away, I’ve wished him dead. I’ve wanted to do it with my own hands but actually hearing it confirmed tears my stomach apart. I try to choke back the brick stuck in my throat, as the sob vibrating in my chest threatens to come out. I have to keep my trash together. Only a single tear streaks down my face.

“Sounds good, boss,” Henry answers. “I’ll bring her up as soon as she’s awake. Should be a while, though. I knocked her out cold.”

“That’s fine. I want her to be good and ready for what I’ve got planned for her.” I hear Vice walk towards me. He kneels down so that I can feel his warm body hovering over me, his hot breath sticking to my hair. A wrinkled, scraped up hand grabs at my chin, forcing my face up. He hums to himself, sounding satisfied, and then lets my head fall back down to my chest like a rag doll.

Henry begins to move again, this time taking both my arms and legs like heavy grocery bags. He gets about three or four feet when the second man asks, “You want help with that, Henry? I can take her down for you if you’re too—”

“No, I got this,” Henry quips back. He moves forward, a little faster, even though my weight slips in his arms. Finally, he bends down and throws me over his shoulder. I have no choice but to hang there, bouncing uncontrollably off of his back, until he is safely in an elevator.

When the doors close, I whisper, “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you killed Breaker! Was that part of your plan? After he saved you, you go and do this. You’re a mongrel, a traitorous piece of trash mongrel!”

“Shut up, Aimee,” Henry hisses back. “You don’t know what the heck you’re talking about.”

“Do you think I was deaf back there? I heard you! I heard you!” I beat my fists on his back, not caring what he thinks or tries next. I just want him to know the pain that has taken over me. This is not what was supposed to happen. We were supposed to make it out of here alive, with the cash, so we could … I don’t know… keep fighting for our lives! Not this.

The elevator beeps, and the door opens. I go limp again, unsure of what or who will be down in the basement waiting for us. All I know is that I don’t want to see what is there. I can’t bear to see his body—Breaker’s body. That was mine to care for, to make love to, to punish when I was angry. And now, I get to see it at its end, and I can’t stand it.

Henry kicks the door to one of the last rooms in the hallway three times with his boot and then knocks once before fishing a key out of his pocket. With no one around, he places me back on the ground and holds a finger to his mouth. “Stop,” he orders me before I can say anything.

The door opens, and I hold my breath. Breaker sits upright, slumped on the ground, with his head hanging low. My feet can’t fly fast enough over to him. But just when I’m about three feet away from him, I stop mid-stride. His head lifts, and he smiles; that invincible, impossible smile, all white teeth and thick brown-pink lips.

I fall to my knees. “Breaker!” I whimper, letting the tears cascade down my cheeks. “I thought you were… They said you were…”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Breaker

“Dead?” I finish Aimee’s sentence as I crawl over to her. “I feel like it. I look like it, too… no thanks to our pal Henry over here.”

“Our friend?” she sobs. “What do you mean? He was supposed to kill you and then give me to Vice!”

I’ve never known a woman who would willingly suffer like this for a man like me. And the craziest thing is, I’ve never seen her look prettier than this; a weather-beaten, vulnerable mess, with the bruises, cuts, and smeared mascara to prove it. Her tough, spoiled-girl wall has been broken down into bits, leaving her looking kind of like a waif, one with an inner strength she didn’t know she had.

I scoop her up into my arms, smelling her fresh hair and the perfume from days ago that’s still lingering on her like an imprint. In the tangles of her wavy curls, I answer, “He saved us. Just like I knew he would. He owed us one, and now he pulled through.”

I can hardly believe it myself. Henry was proving to be the master manipulator and plan maker for impossible situations. Back in the room where they held me, he’d explained to me that he conned himself a spot in the Devil’s Fighters with the intention of just getting a safe place to land while he worked on his next step. But every day, he talked to one guy after the other, and just like with the Gravediggers, a few had complaints about Vice’s leadership.

Within a few days, he’d managed to convince a strong fraction of men to go with him, start a new club, and make a clean break. Their first mission was me. Getting me out of here without drawing suspicion and alive in one piece was crucial because, without me, the Gravedigger men loyal to us wouldn’t budge from Biggs’ side. If we were going to split off into a third group, I was the key.

But Henry also knew that I wouldn’t leave without Aimee. My whole purpose in getting Vice’s attention when he first caught her sneaking out was to buy us more time and perhaps talk an alliance. When the alliance fell through, I luckily had Henry to help with the time aspect. He took over duties from one of the other enforcers working Aimee, volunteering to take over her interrogation when he was done with me.

And as he promised, he delivered her safely back into my arms, though I could feel she had lost something along the way. The Devil’s Fighters had managed to break her in the process. That spunk of hers—the strength that carried her through the last month with us—was missing. I could feel it in the way she collapsed into me, pressing her hands into my chest for support.

“You’re okay now, Aimee,” I reassure her, “you’re safe. We’re going to get the heck out of here. We’ve got a plan already in place. It’ll just be a few minutes, and we’ll have you on our truck headed back to the hotel.”

“And then what, Breaker? We won’t have the cash. Biggs will kill us. And if he’s planning on selling me to Vice, wouldn’t he just raise the alarm that I’m gone and alive when Biggs contacts him?” She panics as she goes through each scenario. I finally have to hold a finger to her dry lips to get her to stop. Her big green eyes close shut.

“Can you give us a minute, Henry?” I ask, knowing it’s what she needs. “Get the truck ready and whatever we need to get on outta here.”

“I’ll go grab the cash. I’ll do the knock when I’m back and it’s time to play, um, dead again.” He scurries away, closing the door behind him. I listen to his footsteps and the sound of the elevator opening and closing seconds later. We’re alone, finally.

“Breaker… I’m… I need to…” Aimee looks up at me from the crook of my arm. She looks tired, defeated. But there’s something there, something breaking through the surface and boiling to the top. After a moment, she gets it out, “I need to say that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I said. I didn’t understand what you were doing back there when you called us out to Vice. Now I get it. You were just trying to get us out of here. You asked me to trust you, and I didn’t.”

“No, shh, stop,” I insist. I don’t want or need to hear this. “You don’t need to say sorry to me. There was no time to tell you what I was thinking, and I know what it looked like from your side. If I were you, I would’ve killed me with my bare hands.”

“I thought of that. I really did.” She smiles a little, grimacing from the large bruise on her face. Every part of me wants to take an eraser to her face and take off that physical pain she went through. It’s nothing compared to what Henry did to me to get me down to this room, but it feels like so much more when it’s marked up on her.

“But that’s not all that I wanted to say to you,” she adds. “I don’t really know how to say this. I don’t know if I can… but here it goes.” Aimee heaves a deep sigh, her body shaking as she exhales, “I love you, Breaker.”

I go blank. I literally stiffen from my spine to my arms. Maybe she feels it too. She has to with me holding her like this. “Aimee—I...” I struggle to finish the sentence. I know what I know and what I feel, and I can’t answer her right now, not here.

“Stop, Breaker,” she says, a weary look on her face. “I get it. I do. If this is something you don’t want, then that’s okay too. I just have to say it. It’s been eating me alive since I saw you alive. And it probably was before. You’re the only person in my entire life who has cared about me and protected me even when you shouldn’t. I can’t keep that back anymore. I love you. I love you so much, I’d go to the grave with you.”

I sense my opening. “Well, then you’re in luck.” I grin wryly. “Because Henry’s back.” I hear boots begin to kick the bottom of the door so that it shakes. And then comes the tap. That was a quick break, but I’m grateful he’s back to break this up. “Remember that I need you to do what Henry says. No question, no fighting it. He knows what he’s doing, and if we’re going to get the heck out of here alive, it’s going to be because of him.”

She pulls away from me. “I will.” She nods in agreement. “I will.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it. Her touch is still electric The shock sends waves up and down my arms. How can she still have this effect on me after all this time? How have I not grown tired of her like all the other girls that I’ve messed on the road? What makes Aimee different?

Henry walks into the room, a brown bag in his hand. “You ready for this?” He shoves it towards me.

“I am. What about those guys? You think you can trust them?” I motion towards the three men standing near the back of the hallway, their eyes fixed on Aimee and me. “I know what you said about dividing the groups, but do you really think they’re going to be okay about going along with this?”

“I trust them as much as I trust the guys we have with the Gravediggers. We need them as much as they need us. There’s nothing else we can do. Plus, if they don’t join in, this whole thing is going to seem way more suspicious.”

“Yeah? Then what’s the plan? What are we pulling off here?”

“The same thing that got you down here. You’re dead. We’re just moving the body. The boys here will help make it look authentic. It’s their job to handle disposal, so they know what to say to make it sound real. They’ve even got the bags they use.” One of the men holds up a long black body bag. God only knows where they got that thing from or if it was used before.

“Fine. Fine. But what are we going to do about Aimee? You said that Vice was going to be looking for her. Won’t he get a little worried when she doesn’t show up in his office?”

Aimee walks a few steps closer to me, her arms crossed tight over her body as if to say, “You’re not leaving me here.” At this point, I have zero plans of letting her get a foot out of my site from here on out.

“We pretend like we’re following orders.” He points to the bag in my hand, “That’s what the bag is for. Put it over your head and look like you’re struggling. They’ll want to see that.”

Aimee stutters as she asks, “What about you, Henry? When I don’t go up to that room, what are you going to do? Vice will kill you and anyone he thinks is in on it, right?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m not coming back.”

She steps towards him, her hands raised. “Henry?” she says, almost in a whisper.

“I’m taking everything I can and getting the heck out of here. A war is coming for all of us, and there’s no stopping it now or backing down from the trash we put into motion. We’re all in as soon as Breaker’s in the bag and your head is covered.”

Aimee and I look towards one another, each unsure of what to say. He is right, after all, but it’s a thought Aimee and I have avoided discussing. We weren’t going to a safehouse or safe space. We were going from one battlefield to another until Biggs and Vice were taken care of. This was our reality now, and it was time we face it.

I grab Aimee’s hand again, swinging her around to me. Squatting a bit so that we’re eye level, I repeat, “You remember to trust Henry and me. Please don’t do anything stupid and get us killed?”

“Only if you promise to do the same, Breaker?” Her lips quiver. I can’t hold myself back from wrapping my arms around her and claiming that pretty mouth. To the side of us, I hear the men shuffle uncomfortably, but I couldn’t give a hoot. If this was potentially the last moment I see Aimee alive, it was going to be a blasted good one.

She’s the one that eventually pulls away, pressing her hands to my bruised chest to indicate she’s done. We both stay put, our foreheads resting on one another’s and our breaths trying to catch up with our thoughts.

Aimee, exhausted, says to Henry, “Let’s do this.” She pulls back her hair into a sort-of ponytail and waits for me to place the bag over her head. I walk her towards the door with her hands tight behind her back. She remains this way as I lean her up against one of the smaller men.

Two other guys lay out the bag while I wait. It’s just long enough for me, barely. I have to partially bend my knees to get my boots in there. I take a few breaths in—I was never the best at keeping my cool in dark, tight spaces. Henry leans down and with a sadistic little grin, zips the bag with a whoosh. Everything goes blank, but I can feel the guys over me as they begin to bind my legs, arms, and chest together with rope or twine. For something fake, this sure felt real as can be.

When they’re finished tying me up, Henry must have walked over to Aimee to give her instructions because within seconds I hear her scream and kick. My body lifts off of the ground, and we’re in motion. I concentrate on trying to figure out where in the building they’re taking Aimee and me. Like a procession, we march through what I think must be the basement hallway, up to the top floor, and past some onlookers who occasionally make a remark to one of the guys holding on to me.

“I wouldn’t think the big guy would go down so fast,” one says to the man holding my legs.

“He put up a fight. Her too. Old Henry’s got plans for that one.”

“I thought Vice wanted her alive?”

“That’s not what I heard. Boss says she goes with him.”

“Hmm.”

With that, we move faster, almost at a near jog. I bounce more, rustling against the arms of the men. Their fingers jut into my sore skin, and I bite my tongue so I don’t scream out when one of them hits a fresh bruise from Henry’s pounding.

The light changes from pitch black to gray as we pass through a loud, metal door that slams behind us. I hear a truck door opening, and my body lifts higher. Aimee sobs and screams, “Please! No! Please! I’ll do anything.” She lies at my feet as they place me inside.

The four or five men get in beside me as the truck takes off.

“You okay in there? You can breathe?”

“Idiot no,” I reply honestly. “Open this thing up as soon as we’re clear.”

He murmurs something about it being a few miles, but I can barely hear him over the engine and the bouncing metal in the back of the truck. I wait and wait until they think it’s time. Finally, sunlight and a rush of hot and dry Texas air float inside my bag.

Aimee leans down before my sweaty face, her hair curling around her chin and cheeks. “We’re almost there. Back to the hotel.” She sounds less than excited, but I can’t blame her.

“Where’s Henry?” I ask, sitting up.

“He’s driving. Making some calls to the guys in the Gravediggers,” the closest guy to me replies. He hands me a bottle of water and a loaded handgun. “You better drink up. From what I hear, you’ve got a speech to give. Rally the troops and trash.”

“I’m not sure I’m up for much talking. I just want to take a bath and be done with it.”

“Not with Vice on your tail. He’s going to have every crooked copper tracking this truck and you all for miles. The whole town will be shut down looking for you guys… and us, I guess. Whatever you gotta do, you gotta get it done tonight.”

“He’s right, Breaker,” Aimee chimes in. “You’ve gotta get as many of those guys on your side. If not, we’re not going to have the numbers.”

“I was just going to let them all kill each other and take over when it’s done,” I reply. It’s not far from my original plan, really. Vice is going to think this is all Biggs’ master plan. Biggs is going to see it as an attack on his territory. Heck was going to break out tonight whether we were there or not.

“What about the guys that are loyal to you? Aren’t you a brotherhood? You talk about that all the time. You can’t abandon them and hope the good ones come out alive, Breaker. That’s not what you want to do. That’s not who you are.”

I lean back against the hot metal side of the truck ruminating over her words. That’s not who you are. Who am I then? Who am I if I’m not a Gravedigger anymore? No one. I’m back to that scared, overgrown boy living on the reservation with his family, wondering when his life was going to get better. I promised myself then that I didn’t want for anything. I made things happen.

And I’m going to make things happen tonight.

Chapter Twenty-three

Aimee

I stand among the Gravediggers in complete awe of the scene before me. Breaker’s voice booms over the heads of his men, who all look up at him. “Who can put up with this trash anymore? Not me. I know it’s not me.”

The men around nod in quick agreement. Someone shouts, “Not me!” until it becomes a battle cry, uniting them.

“It’s time to take back the Gravediggers—make it the club that it was always supposed to be. It’s time to stop running, put down our roots, and claim what is rightfully ours!” More screams and hollers when he pauses for dramatic effect.

“What I’m about to propose isn’t going to make me any friends. In fact, if you want to hightail it the heck out of this bar and never look back, I don’t blame you. What I’ve got to do is for real men anyway—men who care about their pride and the oath they took before the fire. What we have to do is run Biggs out of the Gravediggers for good. We have to take back our club starting with him and those that are faithful!”

This time, the room goes dead silent. All I hear is the sound of the jukebox playing some old foggy rock song. I can sense the shift from exclamations and rally to something else… something more sinister. Breaker watches, as I do, but no one moves. No one heads for the doors or utters a word of dissent against him. While it isn’t a full-on cry of support, it’s probably the best response he could think of getting when declaring war against the president of his club.

“If you’re with me, stay in this bar. Henry and I are dividing men up in groups so we can talk about our strategy on a small group basis. Each of you will have roles. Some of you will be on the front line, and for those men, I say thank you. For those who stay behind or man supplies, you play an equal part in our win or loss. Remember that as we fight. Remember the brothers we may lose and the ones already gone because of Biggs. And always remember who our enemy is.”

The men start to divide up on their own, probably heading towards their work groups or off with their friends. They take seats at the bar, ordering drinks that may be their last. It’s not until the center of the room is clear, and Breaker has jumped off of the top of the bar when one of them steps forward.

“Our enemy, Breaker? Our enemy? You wanna talk about what those Devil’s Fighters are doing back in our office?”

“They’re keeping Biggs out while we do some recon, Tex.”

“You trust those scum-of-the-Earth mongrels? They’re the ones that ordered the kill on our boys back on that highway. You forget that or are you so desperate to mutiny you’d put us all in danger?

A few others stand up, joining Tex side by side as a show of support. Not that I blame them. Even as an outsider, I fully admit that I don't trust those Devil's Fighter deserters. They may have gotten us out of that basement and put their lives on the line, but they haven't proven that they deserve to be here.

"I get it," Breaker says, his hands lifting to his chest. "I really do. When I met those guys, I didn't know what the heck to think, but Henry vouches for them, and my gut knows that Henry would do anything for the Gravediggers. Our brother was the whole reason why we're here tonight—taking down Biggs together. Without him, we'd be scraping up the trash our president has been leaving behind for us until we die or he gets us all killed."

The man leans into Breaker, pulling him in so I can barely make out what he says. I only hear, "You best know what you're doing, Breaker. Because if you don't..." His voice trails off, but I can guess at what's missing.

Breaker nods and then hits him square on his back like a brother would. When they pull away, he motions for me to follow him. It's not like I've got any other choice.

"That was..." I try to say, breathless from the speed we’re walking towards his office. He clicks his fingers at a few of the Devil's Fighters leaning up against his door. They respond quickly, taking off towards their trucks and bikes near the parking lot.

I'm pushed into the dark room, barely catching my feet on the steps before feeling his arms wrap around my hips. He pulls me into him so fast that my lips just part in time to meet his. Naturally, my arms dangle around his neck so that I take in every ounce of this man—my man.

When he pulls himself away, I finish the sentence he interrupted. "... amazing," I breathe.

He laughs, loosening his grip on my hips. "I had the boys grab you some clothes from your room. I figured we could both freshen up, though I don't know what good it's going to do me."

Breaker tosses me a pile of mismatched clothes, almost all of it black. Wrapped in one of the black, halter top dresses is that picture of my family. I hold it up to the light, memorizing it. Breaker notices my pause and pulls it away.

"You still hold on to this?"

"I've never let go of it. I don't think I ever will."

"I thought your dad—"

"Yeah. It wasn't a happy situation, but that's not what that picture is about. It's my sister and my mom. It's silly, but..." I can't finish my thought. It's so out of place knowing what's about to come.

"What? What's silly?" I turn to see him studying me with those glossy brown eyes and the jaw that leans down as if pointing straight at me. It wasn't easy to deny a face like his.

"I just always thought I would go back—back to Hawaii. Have a family. Get a real life. Stop doing this trash where I’m just trying to survive each day. You never thought about that? What life would be like if you weren't with a motorcycle club?"

"No. Not really. I knew I wanted to join one when I was a boy. I didn't, and I don't look back. Life wasn't all that nice to me on the res, and there's nothing for me to go back to."

He takes a step towards me, pulling the ripped and blood-stained tank top over my head. I stand before him, naked besides my bra and panties, as he says, "There's something here for me now."

"Me too," I answer with the breath caught deep in my throat. "I never thought that—"

"Me either."

We kiss again, this time at full throttle. I somehow manage to push Breaker up against the wall so that his back slams into the brick. A finger slides itself under the strap of my bra and then peels it down the length of my arm slowly. The other one follows. I shimmy out of it while he reaches behind me to remove the clasps.

"I've never wanted something so much in my entire life, Aimee," he blurts out before falling to his knees. His chiseled and scratchy face buries itself in the space between my breasts with his hands pressing the two against his cheeks. I try to exhale, but I can't seem to let it go. He lays hundreds of kisses on my skin with his lips dancing over my erect nipples.

"Breaker... we can't..." I want to push him away, but my arms and hands are paralyzed. I imagine an entire room out there waiting for his command, but all he can do is kneel at my feet to take me in. I will never fully understand how he can make me feel so powerful and so weak all at the same time.

"Shh..." he calms me. "Let me do this." His large hand cups at the space between my legs and soon my panties fall around my ankles, and he is back to massaging my clit and the folds of my wanting pussy.

I pull away, just long enough to switch sides with him. I press my back against the wall and hitch a leg over his shoulder. I open myself up for him so that he can take it all in.

Breaker's head disappears from under me. The next thing I feel is his warm breath on my soft skin. It teases and tickles, but nothing could feel any better at this moment. He alternates his breaths so that my mind goes foggy from the sensation of hot and cold washing over my body. And just when I think I understand his rhythm, his tongue slides its way in.

I shiver uncontrollably, my hand grabbing hold of his head for support. But as he begins to lap at me, that hand presses in deeper, showing him the way to my throbbing clit. A finger replaces the lips, and it touches it just right, almost too right.

I scream out, turning my head away from the door in case anyone is listening. My body becomes a wave moving in and out from his motions with my hips sliding off of the wall and then crashing back down. I feel my skin separate and contract as everything builds from my stomach to my neck.

"Breaker, I'm so..." He looks up with those devilish eyes, and it's over. All that pain and tension from the last few days disappear in one sweet, hazy moment of absolute pleasure.

When I come back down, I practically fall on top of him. We laugh together on the floor of his old office. Breaker's long arms wrap around mine, pulling me into his chest. I rest my head upon it to hear the pounding of his heart calling out to me.

And for the first time, I'm scared.

I pull my hair back so that I can look up at him "Is this the right way to do this, Breaker? What happens if..."

"Stop, Aimee," he shushes me, placing a finger to my lips. I hate when he does that. "What did I tell you back in that basement? You trust me, and everything will be okay. I promise you that."

A knock interrupts my attempts at arguing with him. "Boss! Biggs is on the move. We gotta go!"

Boss? I shiver at the thought. Being in charge makes him more vulnerable than ever. Being a boss makes him responsible until the end.

Breaker removes his arm out from under my neck and stands. After switching up his clothes, he offers a hand to me. I throw on a pair of clean panties and bra. The picture of my family gets stuffed in the cups. The halter dress comes next. Not exactly an appropriate war outfit, but it is what it is.

With me now dressed, Breaker opens the door and begins to speak urgently to the four or five guys on the other side. They talk back and forth, debating over something. At one point, he looks back at me before turning back to them with a finger directed at someone out of my sight.

A few minutes pass and they disperse, each running off back towards the bar. Suddenly, it dawns on me just how loud the bar has become. Men are shouting, glasses are banging, and the pounds of boots on the tile floor are like war drums tapping away. I make my way to the door, but Breaker stops me.

“Where do you think you’re going? Do you know how dangerous it is out there?”

“Breaker, you can’t be serious? I’ve survived everything this club and those two jerks, Vice and Biggs, have thrown at me. Do you really think I can’t make it through—”

“I don’t care, Aimee,” he snaps, looking over his shoulder towards the hallway. “I’m not risking your life too. This is my fight, not yours. Plus, if Biggs gets a hold of you, you’re going to be used as leverage. You’re too much of a liability for me.”

“Liability… What does that mean?”

He looks at me with a scowl on his face. “It means that I love you. He knows that. Vice probably suspects that. The rest of the club is on to it—”

My mouth goes dry as I ask dumbstruck, “What? What did you say?”

“Aimee! Goodness!” He twists in his place. This can’t be easy for him. He looks as if I’m torturing him. But still, he manages to spit out, “I love you. And I don’t plan on letting you go for a long, long time. But for now, you have to just shut up and listen to me. Do you understand that?”

I can’t help but smile. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good. You’re going to go with Jake. He’s a young guy, no use to me today. He’s going to take you to the far side of the parking lot out front, in a truck we jacked today. I need you to be my ears and eyes. Play lookout. Hide out in the bed with the binoculars I’ll give to him and call me or Henry with any movement. Can you do that?”

I nod my head, with more eagerness than I’m probably ready for. At least I’d be of some use.

“But there’s one more thing. If something happens to me, if things go south, Jake knows to run with you. He’s got instructions that even if you’re kicking and screaming, he’s to drive off with you until you make it back to California so you can get on a plane and go home.”

“Home?”

“You just told me you wanted to go back to Hawaii, Aimee. This is your chance. I’m giving it to you in case… Well, you know.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere without you.”

“Aimee!” he growls “I’m done with this. You have to listen to me for once and for all.” He reaches out and pulls me into his arms. I snuggle into his chest, smelling the vague scent of detergent, cologne, and smoke on his shirt. I sigh as he continues, “I will find you, whether it be in this life or the next, but I will find you. Ain’t nowhere you can go that you can lose me.”

“Breaker?” One of the Devil’s Fighters steps into the room, a little too close to us. “You ready? He’s about a half mile away, the scout says.”

Breaker doesn’t push away or let go of me. Instead, he says, “I’m ready.” Then he kisses the top of my head and disappears out the door.

There are no words left when he leaves the room, only the sound of the men shouting when Breaker walks back into the bar. I watch from the hallway as they hoot and holler while others hold their guns and weapons high in the air. Then they follow him out into the parking lot to make their last stand.

There’s a cough behind me. “You ready?” a guy asks. By the looks of him, he’s my age, maybe younger. His face is ashen, and I wonder if he’s going to be sick. This must be Jake.

“Yeah. Show me the way, Jake.” He takes the lead and heads toward the back door. We slip out unnoticed by the crowd of about fifty of Breaker’s men who are lining up in small group formations. In the back of some trucks and motorcycle storage compartments, other men line up their ammo and weapons, helping to reload and restock. There’s a captain at each “station” to supervise it all. And then there’s Breaker, standing dead center with his arms crossed over his chest. He stares out at the road, waiting for Biggs to show.

Jake pulls me off towards an opening in the fence just outside the shade of an overgrown tree. I barely notice the black lowrider truck so at least I know we’ll be camouflaged enough. Jake jumps in the back and then helps me inside. We sit next to each other as we do what the rest of the Gravediggers and Devil’s Fighters do; watch and wait.

It’s minutes later when we see the bikes rolling down the hill. The caravan of jet black motorcycles is much larger than I think any of us thought Biggs had. With a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, I stand up to see more, but as I get to my feet, I hear it.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Men scream and holler as they duck to the ground and behind their vehicles.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

A hail of bullets come flying from a block or so away and are then returned seconds later from the Gravediggers.

Jake pulls me down. "Are you crazy! He'll know you're here if you do that trash again!" Jake already looks as if he's seen it all, but I've heard about club-on-club wars. This is just the beginning. It won't stop until a truce is called.

But hopes of a peace negotiation dwindles as the bikes pull into the lot. Leading the pack isn't Biggs but Vice. The men behind him make up the bulk of the crew we saw back at the factory. And they've come armed.

"That's not—" Jake says in disbelief.

Vice takes off his dark colored helmet and flashes a broad smile to the Gravediggers circling his bike. Sniffing the dusty air, he yells out, "Where is that pussy rear idiot?"

"He's not here." My heart drops. Before I see him, I know Breaker is there, front and center. Vice doesn't look surprised to see him alive and well and back with his crew. I wonder how long it took them to figure out what game Henry and the rest of us played.

"Well, well, well, Breaker. It's nice to see you kicking. I thought our mutual friend Henry had done a number on you. My bad. I should’ve done the work myself."

"Hindsight's tough, ain’t it?" Breaker throws back. "Maybe we call it even and go our separate ways. As I said back in that room you stuck me in, we want the same thing."

Vice dismounts his bike, but no one moves. I choke back all the anxiety building inside of me as I plead with someone, anyone to just take him down. But all the Gravediggers stand frozen, watching on from a distance.

He takes another two sliding steps towards Breaker and says in a calm tone, "No. Here's the difference between what you want and what I want. You wanna take this club over from your president. But I just want the club, the territory, and that sweet rear princess of yours. I don't care who I have to destroy to get it."

Vice's hand shoots through the air, grabbing at Breaker's neck. Breaker lurches forward with his toes scraping up against the gravel rocks. The Gravediggers and the Devil's Fighters all draw weapons but are reluctant to move. This was between the two titans meeting eye to eye as they yanked and pulled at one another.

Breaker's face turns a pinkish blue with the veins in his face bulging. I can't bare to watch him go down like this, but I can't look away. Just when I think he's taken his last breath, he manages to strike Vice with the handle of his gun square on the back of his neck. Vice's head shakes forward and then back onto Breaker's shoulder. He pulls him down to his hip height and then slams a knee into his face.

"This is for Aimee, you jerk!" Breaker growls. Another boot lands on his chest, and Vice falls to the ground. A gun flies out of his vest pocket and towards the ground, but no one seems to notice Vice's hand fumbling towards it as Breaker sinks more and more blows to his chest and stomach.

"The gun!" I scream out, still hidden behind the tree.

A hand wraps around my mouth. I kick myself out, but as I spin to fight off Jake, I see Jake's feet lying next to me, still as can be. A puddle of blood forms around his stomach where his hand clutches a wound. "Aimee..." He tries to whisper, but it's too late.

From my side, Biggs appears. He places his arm around my neck in a chokehold and then drags me out of the back of the truck. I attempt to kick and drive up some attention, but he pushes harder into my windpipe.

No matter how much I cry out, no one can hear me over the sound of the shouts of men beginning to brawl. The war had broken out on all three sides.

"Shhh..." he coos into my hair. "I'm not gonna kill you, Aimee. Not yet, at least." He laughs while we duck behind the tree.

Just as I manage to see through a patch of greenery, a gunshot rings out. Everything in my mind goes blank as I search to spot who was on the receiving end of that bullet. A man lies on the ground, unmoving. But the one standing before him kneels down. That dark, slick hair covers Breaker's face as he feels for a pulse.

The entire parking lot goes silent, and all fighting stops. The men stand arm-to-arm, and in a few cases, pause their bloody knuckles in mid-air to see what comes next.

"Looks like your man won. Good. More for me to pick off!"

Pick off... I don't know why that phrase rings to me. Pick off...

"Come on, Aimee. We've got work to do." He holds me close as we peel off towards the groups.

Breaker doesn't notice us as he addresses everyone. "Devil's Fighters! I ain't got no beef with you. You're free to leave and do what you do. Take this as a peace offering between our two clubs from now on. We respect your territory. You respect ours, and we won't have any problems. You wanna join up with the Gravediggers; we can discuss that too."

The Devil's Fighters look to their interim-president, the second-in-command. When he drops the pipe he was using to beat the back of one of the younger Gravediggers, the rest follow. Defeated ghosts, they march off towards their bikes.

The remaining men look as shell-shocked as I feel. Breaker beat the most legendary club president currently roaming the streets. And he did it on his own turf using Vice's own men. They stare at him from afar as he directs the boys on how to go about the cleanup.

With his arm still around my neck, Biggs interrupts the silence with five loud, slow claps. One-by-one, the men turn to see him. They part before us till Breaker finally spies us in the crowd. Biggs pulls me in so that I'm practically wrapped around his body. A gun points up against my forehead.

"Tsk! Tsk! I thought I taught you better than that, Breaker! You don't let clubs retreat back home when you got them on the run."

Breaker drops Vice's gun on the ground as he replies, "It's not your club anymore, Biggs. You see these guys, they're with Henry and me now."

"Traitors!" Biggs calls out. "Traitors! The Gravediggers is my club! This is my bar! And this is my territory!" I can feel his rage radiating off of his body as his arm tightens. I begin to cough from the pressure.

"Oh yeah," Biggs adds, "And this jerk is mine as well." The gun pushes further into my temple. I look up at Breaker, wanting to scream out his name, tell him to just let me go and run, but I can't. I'm silenced.

"Let her go, Biggs! Walk out of here now, and we won't have to kill ya!"

"You know how I know you won't come a foot closer to me? It's because you're vulnerable. You let this jerk get close, and now I know you'll do what I say."

"What do you want?"

"I want you down on your knees begging for her life."

I cough out, "No!"

"Aimee!" Breaker scolds me before turning his eyes back on Biggs. "Let her go, and I'll leave."

"That's not good enough." He looks down at me, licking his big, dry lips with his pale tongue. He's not the only one radiating rage now. I take a few deep breaths to steady myself. "First, I'm going to make you watch as I take Aimee. She must be good if you're willing to just beg like a—"

I drive the knife, his knife, through his side, twisting it out as I go and then pushing it into his stomach.

"Gah!" I cry out, and Biggs lets go of me, stammering forward on his toes towards Breaker. He leaves a trail of blood behind him while his mouth spurts out rusty, red splats.

"Breaker... I..." Biggs can't get the rest out. With an arm outstretched towards Breaker, he falls and does not get back up.

I sink to my knees. Two dead men before me, and one alive. The one that matters. Breaker. I place the knife on the ground, just out of the way of Breaker as he slides over to me.

"Aimee... how did you? Where did you?"

"It was his," I say, my voice hollow. "I pickpocketed him."

Breaker scoops me up like a noble prince carrying his wounded princess and heads back toward the bar. His men watch as we leave the scene, never looking back. It’s all finally over.

Epilogue

Ten Months Later

Breaker

"Come on, Breaker! Come get some lunch!" Aimee leans against the metal fence of the patio. The wind blows through her newly dyed and cut hair. The sunhat blocks her face, but I can tell she's smiling. She always smiles now.

I dust off the sand from my hands and grab the surfboard from its perch up the beach. Aimee's brother-in-law has tried to convince me a million times that I'll learn to love surfing as much as I like riding a bike, but so far, that’s turned out to be a crock of trash. It had some of the hallmarks—the wind hitting your face, the sun on your back—but where is the thrill? Where is the feeling of your life entirely depending on how well you can control your bike? Last time I tried surfing all I got was a strained calf muscle and a wasted hour coughing saltwater out of my windpipe. If I’m entirely honest, I miss that feeling of control that being on a bike gives me.

But then again, that control—that rush—was what almost killed me. Giving it up probably has saved my life, and as much trash as I give Hawaii, there’s a lot of good going on along the waterfront. The town we are calling home—at least for the time being—makes me feel as if I’ve stepped back in time. It’s much more innocent and pure than anywhere I’ve ever known, even the place where I grew up. I can tell why Aimee wanted to get back here; it has this crazy way of making you feel like a completely different person. It purifies you—body, mind, and spirit—with every bath you take out in that salty ocean or when you step out into the warm rain.

Goodness, I sound like a hippie who’s hit the bong one too many times. But this trash is infectious, and I’m shocked at how much I actually enjoy the peace it gives me. After everything that went down last year, this is like a reprieve, a world so far removed from the one I’ve known that it might as well be another dimension.

Our cottage is this little wooden house the locals all dig. Without a doubt, it’s a far cry from living on the road or back on the reservation. And honest to heaven, I don’t have a clue how we're going to pay Aimee's sister back for letting us stay here while we figure out whatever comes next. Not that she expects it, I guess. But I hate owing anybody anything.

Thankfully, we've got just about enough money to buy our own place. Henry and the new Gravedigger's administration made sure we walked away with more than our fair share. Henry himself had insisted. "Payment for taking down our biggest enemies," he explained as he cut me the check with more dollar signs than I’ve ever seen in my life. "Now, don't spend it all at once, ya hear?"

He shook my hand, and I turned towards the waiting car. Aimee had her bag and that picture of her family ready to go. All I took with me to the airport was my Gravedigger jacket. Now, it hangs on a wall hook near the entrance, patches still on display, even if I’m nothing more than an honorary member.

Aimee got the same treatment. Henry gave her some cash for her troubles and paid for the plane tickets back to Hawaii. It wasn't easy telling him we were leaving the Gravediggers and Texas behind, but he knew it had to be done. With the Devil's Fighters regrouping, we were sitting targets.

Once we got off the plane, Aimee's sister was waiting. Aimee had worked it out with her, over many long phone conversations, for us to stay in their beachside home while Aimee’s sister and brother-in-law were on the mainland working some legal cases.

They're scheduled to be back in a week or two, which means time is ticking down for me to make a decision on what road I want to take. There isn’t much here in Hawaii for me, or for Aimee, but there’s a fresh start to make or do whatever we want with our lives. Aimee can stop stealing and running, and I can start living life on my own terms. Maybe form my own club and map out my own territory in a place low on guys like me.

Whatever we chose to do with our lives, at least we can do it together.

Aimee’s waiting inside, cutting up some fruit. Her skin has gotten darker since we’ve been here. It practically glows. I walk up to her, and she shines as she says, "I got some coconut water for you. It's not exactly nasty bar beer, but I swear it's good."

Coconut water. Goodness. This was never the life I’d envisioned for myself. Granted, I’d never really seen myself as much of anything—figured I’d probably end up dead first, anyway—but serene forests, Zen-like beaches, and coconut water? Never would’ve thought this would be my life, not in a million years.

But it’s what I want now. Or, more accurately, Aimee is what I want now. I want to be where she is.

My long arms drape around her body from behind, as my lips find her soft neck. Aimee tilts her head back to peer at me. Her hands trace the lines of my face, scraping away some sand stuck to my cheek. "I like this sun-drenched look on you, Breaker."

"Well, I like the look of nothing on you."

She laughs, her head pressing back against my bare chest. "Later. Right now, let's eat."

I take her hand as we walk out to the patio. “Let’s hold up on that for a second,” I say. “Right now, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

Aimee bites down on her bottom lip, looking a bit apprehensive. "Should I be scared?" she asks, a  nervous lilt to her voice.

I sit us down on one of the long wooden benches facing the ocean. She leans her head against my shoulder, her hand resting on my swim trunks pocket. The expert at pickpocketing, it takes her only a few seconds to feel the outline of the box.

"Breaker?" she asks, sitting up a bit straighter.

I whisper back, "Go get it." I lean my hips to the side so she can reach her tiny hand into the pocket to retrieve the blue, velvet box. She studies it with widening eyes.

I open the lid for her as she gasps. The diamond stone glints in the sunlight.

"Aimee," I begin, my nerves suddenly getting the better of me, but I manage to keep my trash together, "it's time we take the next step. I made an oath before, but it's nothing like this. This means more. My blood is your blood. My heart is your heart. And my oath to you is that, as long as you're wearing this ring, I’ll protect you and love you until my dying breath."

Aimee lets out one last long sigh before cupping my face in her hands, a water veneer glazing her eyes. She leans in and presses her lips to mine for a long, deep kiss, and as she pulls away, she smiles and says the only word that matters.

“No.”

I lean back, startled. “N-no?” I stammer, thunderstruck.  “Aimee, I— I—”

But the smile on her face says more than I could’ve asked for. “I totally had you there for a sec,” she laughs out. “You’re still an idiot.”

“And you’re a blasted vixen.”

“In that case,” she says, holding out her hand and motioning to the ring, “I think I’ll revise my answer.”

“Oh you will, will you?” I say, grinning, and slip the diamond ring onto her slender third finger. I wrap my arms around her waist and gently guide her back inside, towards the bed. “And what will you revise it to?”

“I dunno,” she teases. “I’m thinking, maybe.”

I kiss her again, letting go of all the anger, all the resentment, all the needless trash of my past life.

“And now?” I ask finally after I release her lips.

“Oh, you big moron.” She slaps my chest playfully. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

“Marry me?” I ask, pretending to be startled. “I was just hoping you wanted to go steady.”

“Go steady?” she mocks me. “What is this, 1955?”

“It could be any era, any year,” I say. “I would want you no matter what.”

“Dang right you would,” she purrs. “Well, I guess I could say…”

I don’t let her utter another word. I press my face to hers, our deep love bubbling between us. I kiss down her lower lip, her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. She brings my face back to hers, and she’s started to cry just a little bit. I catch a glimpse of the shiny ring as I kiss her again—one full of the promise of a fresh start and a real future. And I think—for the first time since this craziness began—this is what I’m meant for. This is who I’m meant to be.

THE END

Read on for your BONUS book – Dirty Whispers!

DIRTY WHISPERS

Chapter One

Jude

If there’s one thing guaranteed to get your blood pumping in this life, it’s a cocktail of whisky and bare-knuckle boxing.

I feel the whisky in my bloodstream, making me reckless, making me not care. I savor the sensation, feeling invincible. All around me, the crowd is cheering. The crowd filled with hungry-eyed mongrels from a hungry life, eager to get their fill of bloodshed for the night, before slinking off to the strip clubs and bars and squatter’s houses where they can lose themselves all over again in drink or drugs. One man doesn’t wait so long. As I leap back in the circle, I see him between my raised arms, pushing a mound of powder around on the back of his hand and then, in one quick snort, vacuuming it all up.

I focus on my opponent. He’s a big man, at least twice my size, but that doesn’t bother me much. I learnt a long time ago that big men fall just as easy as little ones when you catch them right. Just got to find the right angle, the right amount of power. Just go to reach deep into that killer’s place and show them what’s what. A tall, wide vending machine of a man, ugly as all heck with a ten-time broken nose, all mangled and twisted.

We stand at opposite ends of the circle. The crowd screams:

“Get him!”

“End him!”

“Knock him out cold!”

“Do him!”

“Take him!”

“Idiot him up!”

Anybody’s guess as to who they’re cheering for, and against. Doubt even they know themselves. They just want blood.

The man squints at me. He’s not calm. I can tell that right away. A calm man’s lips wouldn’t tremble. A calm man’s hands wouldn’t shake. A calm man’s chest wouldn’t rise and fall so dramatically. No, this man’s feeling the pressure. And that’s a blasted good thing, because I never feel pressure. Easygoing, even when it comes to blood. Easygoing and carefree. Life’s more fun that way.

“Come on, you prick,” the man grumbles, lumbering toward me. “Come on. Come and get it.”

“You that eager to spend the night in the hospital, eh?”

My tone pisses him off. He flinches, as though my words hit just as hard as my punches.

“Cocky mongrel,” he hisses.

“Yep.” I grin at him sideways. “This is one cocky mongrel who’s about to show you what it means to be put on your back.”

The man growls through gritted teeth, spraying spit everywhere.

He charges.

He comes at me like a bull at full tilt, no patience, no practice, no strategy apart from the desire to cave my skull in. I watch, his charging form made hazy by the whisky surging through my body, and then, at the last moment, I weave aside. He charges straight into the crowd, is thrown back in by pushing hands, and launches himself at me. I’ve been in so many fights, sometimes it’s like time slows down. But sometimes, even time slowing down doesn’t do a bit of good. Too much whisky . . .

The man’s giant fist catches me cleanly under the chin, knocking my head at such a severe angle that the back of my skull touches my shoulder blades. The rest of my body follows, flipping over. I land in a heap, grunt, and try to rise. Dizzy, dang it. I stumble again. I look up with hazy eyes and see the vending-machine idiot at the other end of the circle, arms raised, lapping up the cheering like a cat at an all-you-can-drink milk buffet.

My gaze snaps around when she emerges from the crowd. What the . . . Maybe it’s the whisky or the blow to the head, but she looks like an angel. I’m not one for that sentimental trash, not since my first love turned into a junkie, was shipped away by her family, not since Mom and Dad drowned to death because I was too weak. No, that sentimental stuff isn’t for me. But this girl . . . Is she really an angel? My drunk mind wonders.

She walks timidly into the circle and kneels beside me. She’s young, probably a few years younger than me, nineteen or twenty, and breakable-looking. Looks like she’d shatter if she tripped. Her hair is long and flowing, red like fire, and her eyes are enormous saucers of green, the sort of eyes that seem to invite a man in. She wears a modest shirt and pants, not one inch of skin showing, and around her neck is a small, gold cross.

She takes me by the arm and before I register what’s happened, this angel has helped me to my feet.

Maybe I’m not thinking too clearly, but with this good luck charm right in front of me, I can’t resist.

I lean in and steal a kiss, full on the mouth. She’s caught unawares and for a few moments, she kisses me back. I feel it, I hear her soft moaning even over the gasping of the crowd. Then something in her triggers and she takes a step back, forehead creased, eyes burning in confusion and outrage. She shoves me hard in the chest.

I stumble back, away from the angel, and spin as I fall. The momentum of her shove sends me right across the circle into the vending-machine idiot. Never one to waste a golden opportunity, I aim my fist as I fly. He yelps, but it’s too late. My fist pounds into the side of his head. A sound like cracking wood fills the arena for a moment. Then the crowd erupts into cheers. The man falls boneless to the floor.

I go to the other end of the circle, arms above my head.

Then I watch in disbelief as the angel who helped me to my feet walks across the circle and kneels next to my opponent, making as if to help him to his feet.

Who is this woman? I think, intrigued despite myself.

Chapter Two

Emily

A quiet life, I think, as I kneel next to Patrick. That’s all I ever wanted. A quiet, peaceful life.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Sometimes at night when I close my eyes I imagine that Patrick is not my brother, my tormentor, my abuser. I imagine I find the strength to leave him. Find the strength from God, maybe; or maybe not. Anywhere I can find it. I become stronger than I ever dreamed and I tell him: No more. I won’t live with you. I won’t let you hit me. I won’t be a part of this madness.

But here I am, kneeling beside him in an abandoned warehouse.

That man . . .

He kissed me. Just kissed me. I don’t know why I helped him to his feet. He just looked hurt and sometimes, I can’t bear to see things hurt. But I didn’t expect him to kiss me, that’s for sure. But it felt good, didn’t it? You kissed him back before you remembered everyone could see, you don’t know this man, it’s not who you are. I tell myself I didn’t, but I’m lying.

I steal a glance at him now. Around mid-twenties, with an easy, carefree smile despite the surroundings. Dark red hair, cut short, with a shadow of red stubble. No freckles. His hands are covered in tattoos, making him look dangerous, the sort of man you cross the street to avoid. And yet I helped him.

He walks through the crowd to the organizer, a large man in a suit sitting on an umpire-style chair overseeing the fights. The organizer hands him down an envelope and the man nods. He weaves through the crowd, to the makeshift bar in the corner, hands the barman a note and takes a bottle of whisky. He swigs it and then drops onto a barstool.

“Patrick,” I whisper, prodding him as gently as I can in the arm. “Patrick, it’s time for us to go. I think they want to set up for the next fight.”

Part of me wonders what it would be like if Patrick never got up. Maybe that’s a nasty thought to have about your brother, but Patrick is a nasty man. Even now, as I kneel down, pain throbs from my ribs where his giant fist beat me last night. And for what? What did I do that was so dreadful, so unacceptable, so evil that I deserved to be punched? I forgot to rinse off the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Patrick’s the only family I’ve ever known and I tell myself I love him, but I’m not so sure of it.

Slowly, his eyes blink and he rolls onto his side. Propping himself up on his elbow, he squints at me. “What the . . .” He shakes his head, groans. “What happened, Emily?”

“You lost,” I whisper. “The other man hit you and you went down.”

As if that needs explanation.

“Oh.” He grunts as he tries to stand, wobbles, falls back down. “Are you going to help me or not, for idiot’s sake?” he snaps.

Biting down my pride—sometimes it seems all I do is bite down my pride—I take him by the arm and help him up. It’s not easy. He weighs at least ten tons and he doesn’t help himself, flopping in my arms like a dead fish. After around a minute of panting and pulling, he wobbles to his feet. He waves me away, as if already forgetting that I’m the one who just helped him up. He looks around the arena with big dumb eyes, mouth hanging open stupidly, and then he glances at the victor and then to me. I see the cogs working in his face, trying to figure out how, exactly, he got beat.

“We should go,” I say quickly.

He ignores me. I see the moment it dawns in his features, a sudden tightening.

He wheels on me. “You helped him up!” He makes himself big like a Silverback standing at its full height, intimidating. I shrink down, feeling like there’s nothing in this world I could do against somebody so much larger than me. “You did! I remember! Why the idiot would you do that, huh? And . . . And . . .” He spits onto the concrete. “You kissed him, too!”

He takes a few steps until he’s standing directly over me. I know his expression well. It’s the I’ve-got-you-now expression. The expression that says there’s jack I can do to stop the beating that’s about to come. I want to delve inside of myself, find the strength, find some iron, but he’s three, four times my size and I know if I fight, the beating will only be worse. None of the crowd steps in to help. He might’ve lost, but he’s still big.

I want the blood-flecked concrete to open up and swallow me, but life isn’t a fairytale and Patrick lifts his paw, ready to strike.

“You’re a hussy,” he says. He states it matter-of-factly. I hear the little girl in my head, the little girl who believes all the cruel things he says: You must be a hussy if he says it like that. He sounds so sure. It’s absurd, I know. But sometimes self-doubt doesn’t listen to reason.

He clenches his hand into a fist. “You made me lose.”

I feel rooted to the ground. His fist sails at my face. I wonder if he’ll break any bones, a detached part of my mind wonders.

But then a tattooed hand catches Patrick’s wrist. Patrick turns; the man is standing right next to him. “Hit a woman, eh?” The man growls. “Hit a woman?”

Patrick tries to pull his hand away. The man flings himself forward and brings his fist around in a wide arc. Crack! For the second time tonight, Patrick goes down.

Chapter Three

Emily

All I can think when Patrick goes down is: I’m going to get it later.

When you’ve lived with an abuser for as long as I have—my entire life—you start learning the tricks. One of the tricks is to always appear to be on their side, even when they’re in the wrong. Especially when they’re in the wrong. All I have to do is make sure to appear to be on his side, and maybe I won’t get it too bad when he finally wakes up.

But when I make to kneel beside him, the tattooed-hand man takes me by the arm. Not hard, but not soft, either. A firm grip.

“No way,” he says.

I spin on him. “I have to make sure he’s okay,” I insist.

He stares at me with dark eyes. “That piece of trash was about to hit you. Look how dang small you are. He would’ve laid you out and for what? ’Cause you helped me to my feet? Pathetic. No way I’m letting you go with him. Who is he, anyway? Your boyfriend?”

“My brother,” I say. His hand is warm and strong. I can’t help but relive the kiss when he holds me so securely.

I glance down at Patrick, unconscious but breathing, and try to pull away from the man. He shakes his head. “No way,” he repeats, voice stern.

“Listen to me, Mister Whoever You Are, if you don’t let me go to him, I’m going to—”

“I’ll kill him if he touches you,” the man states flatly.

I roll my eyes. “Look, I don’t need a knight in shining armor, okay?” Are you sure? A voice asks. Are you one-hundred percent sure of that, Emily? Maybe a knight in shining armor is exactly what you need.

The man shakes his head stubbornly. Then, before I can react, he bends down and picks me up by the waist. I let out a wail, but I’m sure there’s as much thrill as fear in my voice. He throws me over his shoulder, my arms flailing at his back, and turns away from Patrick’s prostrate form. “What are you doing?” I demand, voice breathless.

“Getting you out of here,” the man says.

He begins carrying me toward the exit. The crowd loves it.

“Look at him go!”

“There’s a brave man!”

“Saving the girl!”

Everybody’s drunk or drugged-up and nobody steps in to stop him. He carries me up a flight of stairs, maneuvering me as though I weigh nothing, and out into the pitch-dark night. Across a parking lot and to a car.

I should be pounding on his back with my fists, kicking out with my legs, desperate to get back to my brother. But the truth is, I’m intrigued. I know I shouldn’t be. I know it’s wrong. My brother is laid out back there and here I am, not even putting up a good fight to get back to him. But when this mystery man lays me in the back of his car, I don’t dive for the handle. Instead, I sit with my hands in my lap, trying to catch my breath. There’s something about his touch. Conflicting voices scream at me. Go back! But he’s interesting! But what about when Patrick wakes up? Can’t a girl go on a ride of her own every now and then? Not you, Emily! You know that! But this is the first exciting thing that has ever happened to me.

That last thought seals it. Always, it’s Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Everything happens to him and I’m just along for the ride, his quiet sister, his obedient sister, his beaten sister.

When the man starts the car, I don’t jump at the door. I look at him in the rear-view mirror instead. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a cynical smile on his lips. He looks in-control as few men do.

“My name’s Jude Kelly,” he says.

“Emily Ness,” I mutter.

“I’m taking you somewhere safe, Emily Ness.”

I should fight, I should scream, I should break the glass and leap out into the street if that’s what it takes. But I don’t do any of that. I lean back in the passenger seat and watch as New York drifts by, the lights and the partiers and the twenty-four-hour stores. Jude drives us to a block of apartments and stops outside.

I’m about to step out when he walks around the car and opens the door for me. “I can carry you again, if you like.”

I step into the street. “I can walk,” I say shortly, still wondering what the heck I’m doing. I think of Patrick, back there, still out cold. Or maybe not out cold anymore. Maybe on his feet and swearing bloody vengeance. I swallow; there’s going to be pain when I return. But for some reason, that isn’t enough to stop me from following Jude through the lobby, into the elevator, and up to his apartment.

His apartment is a one-bedroom place with a lived-in look. Clothes are strewn across the floor and empty beer bottles rest on the coffee table. No pictures hang from the walls. The only decoration is a large flat-screen TV which sits in front of the couch. Jude waves at the couch and I sit down, pushing aside a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Jude brings me a glass of water. I drink it down, savoring the coolness on my throat. I didn’t realize how hot I was until I drink it.

I lay the empty glass on the table and Jude drops onto the couch next to me. I turn, realizing he’s looking at me. There’s a heat in his eyes, an intensity I’ve never seen before. His eyes are hard. His body is harder, every contour outlined under his clothes, packs upon packs of muscle.

His eyes move up and down me, from my toes to my face. A shiver runs down my spine. I should stop this, I think. But a man has never looked at me like this before. Despite myself, my body starts to respond. Shivers, tingles, a tickling sensation between my legs.

“You’re beautiful, Emily,” he says.

When he leans across and kisses me, I should shove him away, or even just turn my head to the side. But I just want to taste it, if only for a moment. When his lips press into mine, I take in a long, deep breath. I’ve never moaned because of a kiss before, but there is sound escaping my throat. I don’t think; I open my mouth and push my tongue forward. He meets me, and for a while our tongues dance, clashing. Nerves tingle and dance down my tongue and over my body. Then he reaches his hand across and presses down on my pussy. My pussy! I should push him away. This is beyond bad. But I can’t.

The pleasure is too much.

He breaks off the kiss. His lips are red. The mood I’m in, suddenly his red lips are sexy, a sign of our kissing.

He slides off the couch and kneels in front of me, hands working at my pants. He unbuttons them, pulls them down, along with my underwear. I’m bottomless, pussy right there, naked. I should cover myself, but I don’t. My clit is aching like mad and when he brings his face close to me, I don’t moan in resistance. I moan in encouragement.

He grabs my thighs, parts my legs, and then shoves his face into my pussy. His tongue darts from his mouth and licks my clit. Oh. My. Goodness. I’ve never felt pleasure like this. I’ve touched myself sometimes, in the shower, or in the dark under covers, but its never felt like this. He teases my clit at first, circling it with his tongue, and then he licks it with full power. Pressing his tongue down so hard it feels like a burning rod, pushing firmly into me.

I lean back on the couch, letting my head roll, and start moaning louder and with more passion than I’ve ever moaned before. He digs his hands into my thighs—hands that just beat the garbage out of Patrick!—and licks faster. Soon, his licking turns my clit into a fire-hot orb. A ball of pleasure so hot I’m surprised it doesn’t singe his tongue. He licks with more ferocity, trailing his tongue up my lips, down to my hole, and then with a quick jerk back to my clit.

I’m moaning louder and louder now, and then—

Oh . . .

My . . .

“Goodness!” I cry.

The orb of heat explodes and the orgasm rocks through me. I feel as though I am being thrown about the place, from wall to wall, crashing. I sink my fingers into his hair and press his face closer to me. Pleasure explodes. I moan louder, with more hunger, and then the orgasm surges through me one last time.

“Idiot!” I roar, shocked at myself for cursing.

When it’s over, Jude rises to his feet, offers me his hand, and leads me to the bedroom.

We flop down, side by side.

“Dang,” he says.

“Dang,” I agree, hardly able to catch my breath.

Chapter Four

Emily

We lie in silence for a time. Pocketed silence, a silence just for us, because outside New York is as loud and lively as ever. Horns honk, people shout, alarms blare, cars backfire, tires screech. But inside, lying side by side in Jude’s bare-walled bedroom, we are silent.

After a while, the madness of the lust passes and I come to my senses. I take a blanket from the end of the bed and drape it over my naked legs. “That was something,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m half-naked in a strange man’s apartment. That he just went down on me and gave me the best orgasm of my life, easy.

“It was,” he agrees. “Don’t know what came over me. Guess I couldn’t stand to see that big mongrel hit someone so small and vulnerable.”

“Who says I’m vulnerable?” I shoot back. Is it that obvious?

Jude shrugs. “Just a guess,” he says. “I had to take you. I couldn’t let him do you like that. It’s too messed up. Why does he treat you like that?”

I feel a wall rise inside of me. It’s the same wall that’s risen many times before, the wall that blocks me from revealing just how awful Patrick is, just how scared I am of him. “It’s not that bad,” I murmur.

“Right.” Jude laughs gruffly. “Of course it isn’t. And pigs fly every dang day. I saw it, Emily. I saw just how bad it was. Trust me, I know a thing or two about the bad trash in this world.”

“What, you’re a philosopher as well as a kidnapper now, are you?” There’s acid in my voice. “I should tell you. My brother’s a very dangerous man.”

“Not as dangerous as a mob man,” Jude says absentmindedly.

A mob man. That would explain the tattoos. What have I gotten myself into?

“Maybe you aren’t so different, then, you and Patrick. Neither of you take my feelings into account. You just picked me up and—”

“I didn’t hear you complaining just now,” he cuts in.

I feel myself blush. “That was different.”

“Different, how?”

“I . . . I couldn’t stop it.” My voice is weak, but I’m telling the truth. It really felt like I couldn’t stop it.

“And the moaning, the begging, the screaming? What was that about?”

“Oh, shut up.” I sigh. “Maybe I did like it.”

“There’s no maybe about it.” With a groan, Jude climbs to his feet. He walks to the door. “I’m going for a drink. You can rest up or join me. Choice is yours.”

“I’m going to lie here awhile,” I tell him.

He shrugs and goes into the living room, closing the door behind him.

I stare at the closed door for a long time, wondering at myself, at the entire crazy situation.

Chapter Five

Jude

Maybe you aren’t so different, then, you and Patrick.

I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but dang it, it does. Bothers me a whole lot. I take a swig of whisky, straight from the bottle, and turn on the TV. There’s a basketball game on. I half-watch it, but really I’m just thinking. Being compared to that piece of trash doesn’t feel good, not in the least. But she enjoyed it. She came. She was moaning. All true, but she didn’t sound too happy after the fact. And she isn’t in here, drinking with me. She’s in the bedroom, probably thinking about how her jerk brother and I are two sweet peas in a pod.

My mind wanders when I drink. Shouldn’t let it, not with all the depressing trash that has happened to me, but I can’t help it. I think of Anna, my first love, and how she always tried to keep up with me. I drank; she drank. I partied; she partied. On and on until one day I realize Anna wasn’t partying because she wanted to, but because she needed to. Addicted to the booze and the pills, so addicted that her parents scooped her up and took her away from me, then shipped her to a rehab clinic. I’ll never see her again, and that’s alright. I’ve doubled down, committed to my path. I’ll drink as much as I want, blot everything out, live moment to moment.

Mom and Dad.

It always comes back to Mom and Dad. I remember when Dad drove the car straight into the lake. Dang old man wasn’t paying attention. Too busy singing along to the radio. I remember the pressure of the water, the gargling screams, bubbles rising. I remember unbuckling my seatbelt and grabbing my sister, Moira, under the armpits and swimming her to the surface. When I set her down, resuscitated her, and then dived back into the lake, Mom and Dad were stone-dead. Moira never blamed me, but dang, it’s hard to look your sister in the eye after something like that. Not that there’s love loss between us. We’re still close, or as close as two people walking different paths through life can be.

I drink and I drink until my memories turn to vapor. The game ends. The after-game chat begins. Soon, I’m so drunk I can barely keep my eyes open. I want to go into the bedroom, lie down next to that precious-looking woman, maybe make her feel something again. But I’m too tired and her comment about me and her brother has rubbed me the wrong way.

I set the bottle down on the table and lie on my back.

I wake after what feels like a moment, but my head is pounding and sunlight slants in through the windows.

She’s gone, I think.

There’s no doubt about it. The bedroom door is ajar and the apartment is quiet.

But who else draped me in this blanket, if not her?

Chapter Six

Emily

A week passes and I don’t see Jude again.

When I fall asleep at night, my mind returns to the way Patrick reacted when I returned that morning. Patrick’s a small-time drug dealer with a group of small-time friends. But just because they’re small-time, that doesn’t mean they’re not vicious, mean men. The bruise which blooms like a purple rose across my belly is testament to Patrick’s anger. I keep quiet, go to work at the bakery, and try to keep my head down.

But often when I return at night, Patrick and his right-hand Barry O’Malley are in the living room, smoking and drinking. Barry is a psychopath. Small, leery, with beady grey eyes, he’s easily the creepiest man I’ve ever met. Despite his size, his arms are sinewy, proof of his violent, firecracker nature. I remember when I was younger, a little girl, seeing a slightly younger, slightly less drunken Barry beat the heck out of a kid for no reason. We were walking down the street, Barry twitched—and left the kid for dead. Once, he tried to slide his hand up my skirt. If I had it my way, he’d never set foot in this apartment. But of course I don’t have it my way.

Sometimes, they let me retreat to my bedroom. Other times, Patrick grabs me and shoves me on the couch, forcing me to talk with them late into the night when all I want to do is shower and relax.

“Did you know,” Patrick says one night, “Emily harassed the mob guy? Jude Kelly, or whatever the heck his name is. Left me for dead and stayed at his place all night, like a whore rabbit. Isn’t that right, Emily?”

“We didn’t have sex,” I say quietly.

“Huh?” Patrick snaps, trampling my words. “Don’t think you can start getting smart with me, little sister. I think you forget how much I do for you, sometimes. Do you have clothes on your back? Do you have somewhere to sleep? We’re orphans, but I didn’t let you suffer, did I? I took care of you, was a mom and a dad to you.”

He really believes it, I think numbly.

“You should be more grateful,” Barry agrees, leering at me over the rim of a glass of beer. Icy fingers move up my spine.

“What sort of sister do I have, Barry, eh? Maybe she’s forgetting what business we’re in. Maybe she’s forgetting that when she spreads her legs and invites this Irish mafia idiot in, she’s not only betraying me as her brother, but she’s betraying our business. We’re always fighting with the Irish for territory, aren’t we?”

He says this with unearned arrogance. The truth is, Patrick’s operation is about as grassroots as it gets. Him, Barry, and three or four of their friends, playing at being big time.

I bite my tongue. Nothing good would come from me pointing out this inconvenient fact. My mind returns to Jude, how he looked asleep on the couch. I remember draping the blanket over him, the way he tugged it up to his chin with a sleepy smile on his face. I remember wanting to lie down next to him, feel the warmth of his body beside mine. On the nights where Barry and Patrick sit up, lying about me, I wish I was back there.

One evening after a particularly hard day at the bakery—we were preparing a big order for a party, all whilst serving customers—I get into the apartment wanting nothing more than to crumple into a tired heap. When you’ve worked hard, sometimes all you can think about is your bed. Even a shower is out of the question. I just want to curl up in the covers, close my eyes, and let the peace of sleep take me. No stress, no problems, no whirring thoughts. Today I’m so tired I might even get to sleep without being hounded by Jude into my dreams.

But as soon as I get into the apartment, I know that’s not going to be the case. Barry, alone, sits on the couch. He’s shirtless, showing a concave chest, the kind of thin that looks unhealthy. A white jagged scar runs down one side of his torso, probably received in some bar fight, though I’ve heard him lie and tell people he got it when tooling up five guys—all by himself. Bluster and blank-faced lies are standard routine when it comes to Patrick and his pals.

“Where’s Patrick?” I ask, hovering near the entranceway. Patrick may be a horrible, evil man, but at least he’s the horrible, evil man I know. I can play him, somewhat. I can avoid the worst of him. Barry is like a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit, just waiting to go off.

“Working.” Barry smiles, a sadistic grin. The laptop is in his lap and the sounds of pornography fill the room, moaning women and grunting men. His gaze flickers between me and the screen. It’s not my religion that makes me sick at this moment; it’s the idea that Barry is imagining me in the movie.

“Right. I’m going to bed.” I wish I had a lock on my door. I say goodbye to guaranteed sleep and hello to a night spent worrying if Barry is going to do something Barry-like.

I’m at my bedroom door when Barry calls out: “Patrick told me to keep an eye on you tonight. He’s going to be working late and he doesn’t want you sneaking off to be with the Irish idiot.”

“I’m just going to sleep,” I say. “That’s all. I don’t have any other plans.”

“Dang right you don’t. But you’re not going to sleep. Not yet. I have my orders.”

He takes orders from Patrick. What a fool. But then, Patrick must have some level of competence if they take orders from him. Maybe he really does know the business. Maybe he’s becoming a real leader. These thoughts, in constant war with each other, are the norm when it comes to me and Patrick.

“Barry . . .”

“Ooh.” He sits bolt upright and grins sideways at me. “I love it when you say my name.”

I feel as though a snake has just coiled around my neck. I try not to let the revulsion show on my face. “I’m tired. It was a long, long day.”

“Tell me about it.” He pats the seat next to him. The woman in the movie bounces, bounces, and moans loudly.

“Turn that off.”

Barry slams the laptop and drops it on the floor.

“I can’t let you out of my sight,” he says. “Seriously, Patrick’s orders. Why are you so scared of me, Emily? What do you think I’m going to do?”

Assault me, abuse me, insult me, hurt me. I saw you leave a kid for dead for no reason at all.

I shrug. I feel as though I am in a room with a lion, just waiting for the beast to twitch into violent action. I imagine Barry lunging across the room and grabbing me by the hair, dragging me to the couch and . . . And what? How far would he go without Patrick here to stop him? Patrick isn’t a good man, I know that, but at least he stops his friends from hurting me. Yes, I think bitterly. He leaves that for himself, doesn’t he?

“Come on.” He groans, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms. Is he getting ready to beat me? I wonder. It’s not entirely out of the question. Crazed lions tend to be unpredictable.

“There’s no exit to my room,” I say, keeping my voice as reasonable as I can. “If I stay in there and you watch the door, you’ll know I haven’t gone anywhere—”

“Are you trying to trick me?” His voice is sharp.

“What? No.” I take a step back as Barry climbs to his feet. “I’m trying to go to sleep.”

“Hmm.” Barry strides across the room until he’s standing so close to me I can smell the drink and drugs on his breath, a sickening mixture that makes me want to clutch my belly. He displays his teeth, yellow and black from years of neglect. “Patrick told me to keep an eye on you.” He brings his forefinger to his eye and points at it melodramatically. “An eye on you. Not on the door. Do you understand?”

“I understand, but—”

His tone grows dark, low. “Don’t make me force you, Emily.”

“Patrick would be furious if you hurt me,” I say.

I hope that’s true.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Your brother is a curious character. And he has his mind on other things right now. Expanding our business. I don’t think he’d even notice. Anyway, tell me this, what’s a good little Christian doing spending her evenings pining after a psychopathic Irish mob hitman, eh? Make that clear to me. Let me see the light on that one!” He chuckles at his own not-really-a-joke. “What do you do, close the doors tight, close your eyes tighter, and then bring your hands down to your tight little—”

“Barry!” I cry, unable to stop myself. “I am your boss’s sister. You will show me some respect.”

My lips are trembling. My hands are trembling. My ribcage is trembling from where my heart butts against it heavily.

He giggles. It’s strange to hear such a girlish noise from such a twisted, decayed mouth. “Okay, okay, okay, okay.” He dances across the room and drops onto the couch. “But let me tell you this. You better stay away from that mob idiot. We can’t have one of our women spreading her legs for every guy that passes by. What’s next? The mailman comes to deliver a letter and leaves with the taste of your groin in his mouth?”

I clench my fist. I would love nothing better than to punch him right across the face. But that would give him the excuse he needs, I remind myself. That would make it easy for him. I can hear him now, explaining it to Patrick: She came at me. What was I supposed to do?

I unclench my fist.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t try anything funny. And if you get really dang hot thinking of that Irish mongrel, give the door a knock. I’ll come through and help you along.”

“You know Patrick and I are Irish-Scottish American, don’t you? So you might want to stop saying Irish f-word.”

“Ha!” Barry slaps his knee. “Patrick doesn’t care about that. Patrick cares about two things, you stupid little girl. Money and power.”

He has neither.

Barry picks up the laptop, opens it, and resumes his movie. I retreat into the bedroom. It seems I’ve barely closed my eyes when I open them and it’s the deep of night, Patrick and Barry outside the door, drinking and laughing.

“My sister harassed that guy!” Patrick laughs, but there’s bitterness in it. “Why would she do that? What is wrong with her?”

This is not fair, I think, burying my head in the pillow as Patrick and Barry get louder. Somebody stumbles; a glass smashes; Barry giggles. I never messed him. He just went down on me. And let’s say I did idiot him, so what? I’m single. As far as I know, he’s single. It was just a bit of pleasure. For once, just a little bit of pleasure for me. But he can’t stand that, can he? Neither of them can stand the idea that I, the quiet scared girl, had a little bit of fun.

I close my eyes and try to find a safe, warm place in which I can hide until sleep comes. The only image that achieves this is Jude, arms wrapped around me, kissing me on the forehead, the cheek, wherever his kisses land.

Soon, the sound of Jude’s phantom breathing in my head is even louder than Barry and Patrick.

I fall asleep, Jude on my mind.

Chapter Seven

Emily

After around ten days, Barry and Patrick let up—a tiny bit. They still rag on me, make fun of me, accuse me, bully me, insult me, but far less frequently.

I sink back into my normal routine, which is basically a coin with work on one side and the apartment on the other, interspersed here and there with attending underworld events with Patrick. Fights, clubs, deals. I never want to go, but I’m all too familiar with Patrick’s particular brand of persuasiveness and I have no desire to have it used on me. He hasn’t hit me in a few days and I count that as a victory.

One night, I can’t sleep and as I lie there, listening to the sounds of the night and the far louder, far more annoying sounds of Barry and Patrick, I learn something about Barry.

Patrick tells the story to another of his friends in hushed whispers when Barry’s in the bathroom. I know it’s true because Patrick sounds scared, a rare thing. Apparently, they were at a night club when Barry saw this woman he wanted. Instead of going over there and asking her to dance, for a drink, he swaggered over and shoved his hand up between her legs, under her skirt, and inside of her. The girl was furious, but not as furious as her fiancé. When the fiancé showed, Barry took out a knuckle-duster and beat the man to death. To death, I think, shivering despite the blankets. “It was crazy,” Patrick says, voice stunned. “Just crazy.”

Lately, I’ve been falling asleep every night with the image of Jude in my mind. But tonight, I fall asleep watching Barry beat a man to death for no other reason than that man wanted to defend his fiancé. How is this my life? I ask myself. I work in a bakery. I keep to myself.

I’m still asking myself that same question when I leave for work the next morning. Mrs. Montgomery gives me a smile and hands me my apron. Everybody at the bakery is nice to me; I think some of them suspect that my home life isn’t all roses and picnics.

We’re about halfway through the day—serving customers, clearing tables, washing dishes, and of course baking—when Barry swaggers in. He pushes past a man and a woman, ignoring them when they protest, and claims a table in the corner. He drops down with a heavy thud and then lets out a laugh which has the whole place turning to him. He doesn’t care, just glares back.

Not here, I think. Not now.

Mrs. Montgomery is about to go around the counter and approach him. I touch her arm. “I’ll do it, Mrs. M.” I swallow, hating what I’m about to admit. “I know him.”

“Oh, okay, dear.” Pity etches into Mrs. M’s features.

I ignore it and approach Barry. He lolls in his chair, rocking back and forth. When his gaze snaps up to me, I know he’s on some sort of drugs. His eyes are shot with red and his lips are watery. “I was right!” he cries. “I knew you worked here!”

There are around ten people in the bakery, sitting at tables or standing in line. Professional types, students, a man in a suit in the corner, typing at a laptop. I wave Barry quiet. The bakery is my safe place, the place I can get away from everything.

He ignores my waving hand and gargles out a laugh. “I’ve been looking for you.” He grins up at me. “Isn’t that nice, Emily? I’ve been looking all over the place for you. Who would’ve thought my long journey would lead me here?” He rambles on for some time. I wait for him to finish and then step forward.

“You can’t be here,” I say quietly, heart hammering in my ears. “This is my place of work, Barry. You can’t cause a scene here.” I sort through excuses. I can’t just tell him I hate him and he’s embarrassing me. I settle on one I think might work. “Patrick wouldn’t like it. Do you understand? He relies on this income for half the rent. He would be very angry if he found out-”

“He doesn’t need your money.” Barry wipes sweat from his forehead and then suddenly sits up, resting his forearms on his knees. “He doesn’t need trash from you. You’re a wasted girl, Emily. The only man that’ll ever want you is me. So why don’t you start showing a little gratitude?”

Gratitude? Gratitude for what, you psychopath?

Before I can reply, he darts forward, grabs me by the waist, and pulls me into his lap. He moves quickly, far quicker than I ever would’ve given him credit for. I squirm, trying to get free, but he holds me close to him. With a real sense of horror, I realize that he’s hard. His stiff penis presses into me, and I try not to gag. Mrs. M calls over the counter, but nobody intervenes. I hear somebody say they’re calling the police. I keep squirming, but his grip is like iron on me.

He whispers in my ear: “I’ve always wanted you, ever since you were a little girl. But of course you already knew that, didn’t you? And did you ever show me any love, Emily? Did you ever open yourself to me? No, you’re too laa-dee-daa do that, aren’t you? Well, here we go. Can you feel it? Can you feel how much I want you?”

“Let go.” I rasp out a breath. “Please, just let me—”

He moves so fast I don’t know what’s happened until it’s over.

Afterward, when I’m standing with my back pressed against the counter, I go back in my mind and reconstruct it. Jude bursts into the bakery. He must’ve seen me by chance, or perhaps he’s had somebody keeping an eye on me. Whatever it is, he charges in, and as Barry whispers sickening words into my ear, he grabs the man’s head and slams it so hard against the table that the wood snaps.

Now, Jude stands over him, chest heaving, fists clenched. Barry lies, unconscious, on the floor.

Jude takes my hand and announces to the bakery: “Emily is mine now. She is under my protection. If anybody lays a hand on her, ever, they will pay.”

He speaks with a killer’s calm. With a mob hitman’s calm.

“Come on.”

He doesn’t give me much of a choice as he leads me out of the bakery, down the street, and into his car. I know I should be tugging at his hand, telling him I don’t need protection, but the fact is, I’m happy to see him. Stunned, too. Only once when I’m sitting beside him as we drive through New York, I find my voice. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Your place,” he answers.

“Why?”

“’Cause there’s no way I’m leaving you with these pricks for another day. And you’ll need clothes.”

“What if I don’t want to go with you?”

“Do you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. The idea of being whisked away from Patrick has not occurred to me since I was very young and very naïve. Little girl Emily dreamt of it often, a knight in shining armor swooping down and saving me from my brother. But not lately. Somewhere between childhood and adolescence I learnt a cold truth. There is no such thing as a hero.

We climb up the stairs of my apartment building. I unlock the door and we go into the apartment. Luckily, Patrick is out.

“Pack your things,” Jude says. His face is stern. His voice is steady and calm. “I’m getting you out of here.”

A strange sensation comes over me, something between threatened and protected. I don’t think Jude would hurt me, but I don’t think he’d let me stay here, either. As I go around the apartment, stuffing clothes into a duffle bag, I glance at him. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, torn blue jeans, and boots. His tattoos are on full display and he watches me with a steady gaze. I don’t think anything could shake this man.

When I’m packed, he takes my hand again. He doesn’t hurt me, but he holds me tight as he leads me down the stairs and back to his car.

He just slammed Barry’s head, I think. He just slammed it like it was no big deal. Barry. Sadistic, psychopathic, drug-addicted Barry!

We don’t say much in the car, and then in what seems like a few moments we’re in his apartment. I drop the duffle bag on his bed and turn to him.

He watches me for a long time. Then his expression softens, but only a fraction. “I just want you safe,” he says. “You can shower. You can sleep. You can read. You can order in food. Anything you need to relax. I’ll be in the living room if you need me. I’m done for the day.”

As he turns to leave, I can’t help but look at his arms. Ripped, huge, pressing muscle. I realize I have to add another emotion to protected and threatened. Lust. Hot, burning lust. Lust like I’ve never felt.

I drop onto the bed, thinking: What just happened?

Chapter Eight

Emily

For the first few hours, I sleep.

I don’t realize how tired I am until I lie in Jude’s bed, safe from Patrick and Barry, without their voices just outside the doors, laughing and drinking and insulting late into the night. When I wake, my mouth is dry and I’m groggy. The curtains are open. Moonlight shines into the bedroom. I sit up with a groan, disoriented for a moment. Then I remember where I am, what happened. My first thought is of Mrs. M. I left her in the lurch. I take out my phone and text her. She texts back almost immediately. Everything’s okay, she tells me. One of the temporary staff came in. She asks if I’m okay. I tell her I’m fine. But is that true?

Jude placed a bottle of water and some cereal bars on the bedside table when I was asleep. I munch on the bars and wash it down with an entire bottle of water.

Then, sitting up in this strange man’s bed, I think things through. Patrick has probably heard about what happened by now, I reason, and he’s probably mad. Maybe he’s looking for me. I check my phone. I have ten missed calls from him. I place it down again, swallowing. Despite the water, my mouth is dry again. Fear lances through me. My mind moves from Patrick to what I want, which is something I rarely think about. Patrick bosses me around; Jude simply leads me here and there like a dog.

It was heroic, sure it was, heroic and brave and knight-like. But on top of that, it was presumptuous, charging to my rescue and turning a bad scene into a worse scene. Everybody saw this tattooed killer march in and slam Barry’s head. Everybody heard him proclaim that I belonged to him now. What about my wishes? He didn’t ask me if I wanted to be his. He just assumed, like every man has assumed my entire life.

I don’t want to go back to Patrick, but at the same time I don’t want to be the sort of woman who can be carried anywhere by anyone and doesn’t so much as let out a whimper of protest. Without giving it too much thought, I stand up, slip on my sneakers, grab my duffle bag, and go into the living room.

I’ll leave, I tell myself. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’ll just get away for a while. I know this is futile. Sooner or later, Patrick will find me. But I want to feel as though I have a say in my own life—even if that say is temporary.

The apartment is quiet. I’m sure Jude is not in. But when I open the door to the living room, I see him, sat on the couch, a bottle of whisky in his hand. The lights are off and he sits in moonlight; it glints off the rim of the bottle. In his other hand he holds a folded-up photograph.

I creep into the room. He’s asleep, snoring softly. I drop the bag and creep across the room to him. I know I should respect his privacy, but the temptation is too great. I lean down and look at the photograph. It’s a family portrait, a man who looks like an older, cleaner version of Jude, a beautiful red-haired woman, and two little kids. Softly, I take the photo from his hand, turn it over. The back reads: Family portrait, Jude, Moira, Mom and Dad. Gently, I place the photo back into his hand.

I look at his face, wondering. His lips twitch, his cheeks are red, and his eyes are only half-lidded. They’re watery. He’s not crying—I don’t think a man like Jude cries often, if ever—but the pain is clear on his face. They were his family. What happened to them? I think. How do you know something happened? Well, why would he just stare at a photograph all night if everything was fine?

I return to my bag. It would be easy now to walk out. Walk out onto the street and take my chances in the night alone. I’d be free, if only for a few hours. Eventually, Patrick would pull me back. The steady march of my life would go on.

I look again at Jude. He mutters in his sleep. I lean closer, listening. “Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad,” he whispers, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll save you. Moira . . . I’ll save them. Forgive me. Forgive . . .”

His head snaps up, eyelids opening. He looks around in confusion and then his gaze settles on me. “Oh,” he says, quickly folding up the photo. He stuffs it into his pocket. Setting the bottle of whisky on the table, he glances at my bag. “Are you leaving?”

“What happened?” I ask, voice soft. A strong instinct rises inside of me, the urge to protect this man, to soothe him, growing stronger by the moment.

“Nothing.” He sniffs, wipes his eyes. “Just got nothing-faced and fell asleep, is all.”

“The photo . . .”

“Maybe I’ll tell you all about it, but not now.” He gestures again at the bag. “Are you leaving?”

“I was going to,” I admit.

“Was? You’re not anymore?”

“No,” I say.

There’s more to this man than I first thought. Much more.

I surprise myself by walking across the living room and sitting next to him, so close our legs touch. “I think I’ll stay here for a while.”

Chapter Nine

Jude

We sit together for a long time, pretending to watch TV but really watching each other.

Her legs touch mine. An animal hunger rises in me, but I keep thinking about that prick in the bakery, pulling her around like she was a piece of meat. And I remember when she compared me to her jerk brother. I’m aware, for the first time in a heck of a long time, of how I behave around a woman. Strange, women and me usually agree to mess and then never see each other again, a mutually beneficial arrangement as far as I can tell. But there’s something different about Emily. She’s so fragile-looking, so vulnerable-looking, and yet there’s iron in her, I’m sure of it.

Did she look at the photo? I wonder. Even if she didn’t, I was having a nightmare, and when I have a nightmare, I tend to talk in my sleep. Did I give anything away?

Emily smiles across at me, and all at once I don’t care if I gave something away. It’s enough to just be here with her. For now, at least.

“Do you mind if I switch over?”

It takes me a moment to realize what she means; I’m so absorbed in watching her instead of the TV. “Sure.”

She changes the station to a nature documentary about whales. “I love nature documentaries,” she tells me. “But Patrick never lets me watch them. We only have one TV and he won’t even subscribe to internet service.” She flinches, as though hearing her voice for the first time. “Never mind that. What’s this one about? Ah, whales. Whales are so interesting. Did you know that bowhead whales can live for up to two-hundred years?” Her face lights up. It’s like I’m seeing the woman she really is underneath the fear and the self-doubt. “Two-hundred years.” She makes an O with her mouth. It’s the cutest dang thing I’ve ever seen, no doubt.

“I’m glad you stayed,” I mutter. It’s weird for me to say a thing like that to a woman, but it just comes out. It’s the truth.

“Huh?” Her eyes are fixed on the TV.

I chuckle. Feels good to laugh. “Nothing,” I say. “Tell me more about whales, Emily.”

She grins girlishly and talks at length about different types of whales.

“Where did you learn all this?”

“Library.” She brings her finger to her lips and makes a shh noise. “Don’t tell Patrick. Sometimes I go there after work and read some of the nature books. Patrick says that book-learning is a waste of time. That’s actually what he calls it. Book-learning. Like we’re in medieval times or something.”

I laugh again. “Do you want a drink?”

“Just a soda, if you’ve got one.”

I go to the kitchen and get a couple of sodas. This is something else I’d never normally do for a woman. I guess I’m a bit of a jerk when it comes down to stuff like that, but usually, I’d make her get her own drink. But Emily is different. She’s peeping out of her shell and I like what I see. A bright, smiling, happy woman. A good woman. A smart woman. A woman beaten and abused, sure, but give her the chance to be something different, and I bet she’d pounce on it.

I return to the living room and hand her a soda. She’s so absorbed in the documentary I have to thrust it into her hand. She mutters a thank you, cracks it open, and watches the TV with her large saucer-like green eyes.

When the knock sounds from the door, I jump to my feet at once. Nobody knocks on my door, ever. I go to the bar to get the details of my next job, fight, whatever. Never here. This is my no-work zone. Emily looks up at me, startled.

“Is everything alright?” she asks.

No idea. “Yes. Wait here.”

I go to the kitchen, take my pistol from under the sink, and stuff it into my waistband. Then I go to the door.

When I see him, the huge vending-machine idiot I 1eveled a couple of weeks ago, my blood turns to ice. He rears up like a drunken bear, looking over my shoulder. “Emily!” her brother barks. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out here. Right now! Don’t make me—”

I launch myself at him with all the power, practice, and ferocity of a man who does this for a living. I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall. He might be a big mongrel, but he’s a blasted sloppy one, too. He paws at my hands. I head-butt him. Blood sprays down his shirt.

“She’s not going anywhere,” I growl, and head-butt him again. “And if you ever come to my apartment again, I’ll bring the entire mob down on you. You won’t be able to run. You won’t be able to hide. That girl in there is worth more than your fist, you piece of trash.” I’m losing my cool. I never lose my cool. But this piece of piss thought he was going to take Emily back, hurt her, abuse her.

Patrick starts whimpering through puffy, bleeding lips. I take a deep breath, calming myself. “Leave,” I say, digging my hands into his chest. He squirms. “If you ever come back here, it’ll be the last thing you do. I should kill you right now—”

“Don’t,” Emily whispers from the doorway. “Don’t kill him, Jude. Just . . . just let him go.”

I bring my face close to his. “You’re lucky your sister is so compassionate.” Then I throw him down the hallway. He stumbles, trips, and then climbs to his feet with a gasp.

“She’s mine!” he cries, and then runs down the hallway.

I return to the apartment. Emily sits on the couch, knees drawn to her chin. She looks tiny, breakable, like something that could shatter at any moment.

I want to make her feel better, but the truth is I’m good at killing, not soothing.

“He’s gone now,” I say.

Emily stares empty-eyed at the TV. Her guard is up again. That mongrel has strengthened her shell. Worst of all, her girlish enthusiasm is gone. She’s cold and dead-faced.

Just like me, I think, as I drop onto the couch next to her.

Chapter Ten

Jude

Every night when I return to the apartment, I expect Emily to be gone. But every night, she’s there, waiting for me. Sitting on the couch watching nature documentaries; lying in bed after work; in the shower. It’s strange to have a woman living with me. I’ve never experienced it before. But what’s stranger is that we don’t idiot, or kiss, or anything even close to or kissing.

Most nights over these two weeks, I come back with some kind of injury. It’s not unusual in my business. In fact, it’s run-of-the-mill. If I got a bonus for every new scar I received, I’d be getting bonuses every night of my life.

The first time I walk through the door with a fresh gash down my eye, Emily gasps and jumps to her feet. She turns away from what has to be her sixth viewing of Planet Earth, which is how I know she’s taking it seriously; she loves this one documentary more than anything else.

“What happened?” she demands. There’s iron in her voice, the iron of a protector, and it makes me smile. “There’s nothing to grin about.” She points at the cut, a line which starts above my eyebrow, skips my eye, and ends halfway down my cheek. “Does it hurt? Here, sit down.”

I normally take care of my injuries myself with a slug of whisky and some self-stitching I learnt back when I started in the life. But when Emily leads me to the couch, sits me down, and starts fussing over me, I’ve got to admit part of me enjoys it. A pretty big part, too. She retrieves the first-aid kit from the kitchen and tends to me with skilled hands.

“Have you done this before?”

She winces. “Often,” she admits. “Though usually I’m doing it in a mirror.”

“Ah.” My blood freezes in my veins every time she mentions her jerk brother, but I fight back the rage. Rage is a tool, to be aimed, to be used with skill. Getting angry at a phantom doesn’t do anybody any good.

She patches me up quickly, skillfully, and then forces me to sit down with her and watch TV. Perhaps forces is a bit of an overstatement. It’s not like I put up much of a fight. In truth, it’s nice to sit down with her, relax, let the madness of the day sink away.

The second time I return with a fresh wound—this time badly grazed knuckles—she doesn’t as much as bat an eyelid. She just walks into the kitchen, gets the kit, and goes about her work. I come to savor the feeling of her hands, even if they are probing painful cuts and scabs. Her fingers are small, thin, but always warm and capable. She never wavers, never flinches. She’s stronger than she realizes, I think, over and over.

As the nights move on—and one of us sleeps on the couch—I begin to wonder why the heck I’m not making a move. It’s not like me to hesitate when it comes to women. I’m usually quick to act and slow to think, but with Emily it’s the other way around. It seems all I can do is think. Most of all, I think about the comparison she made between me and her jerk brother. It whirls around and around in my head until it echoes all over my skull. Neither of you take my feelings into account. Normally, I’d laugh something like that off. Who cares if I take a woman’s feelings into account? But with Emily, I can’t help but care. Whether it’s how breakable she looks, how cute and enthusiastic she is, how caring, how kind, how genuinely good, I don’t know.

All I know is that nights pass and nothing happens.

Maybe, I think one night when she’s bandaging my arm, I should just take her. I went down on her and she didn’t stop me. Maybe if I just took her, right now, she wouldn’t put up a fight, either. And she came, hard. I felt it. Felt the vibrations in her body. She moaned. Dang, she moaned loudly. I’m sure if I took her, she’d enjoy it.

When the bandaging is done and she’s placing the things back in the first-aid box, I tell myself to lean forward, grab her, kiss her. But I don’t. Something stops me, something I’ve never felt before, never dreamed a man like me could feel. Self-doubt, I realize with a shock. Me, Jude Kelly, killer, doubting myself.

We don’t harass that night. We watch TV instead.

She improves my apartment, too, turning it from a place where I crash and watch TV to an actual home. She’s like a blasted house fairy. Over the weeks, she buys pictures, beautiful landscapes of faraway valleys and groves, and hangs them on the wall. She buys a glittering purple vase and fills it with fresh flowers. Rugs begin to appear all over the place, soft on the feet and appealing to the eye. New utensils appear in my kitchen.

Seeing her every day is driving me crazy. I need her. That’s the truth. Need her bad. But I don’t want to be like Patrick in her eyes. I couldn’t stand that. I don’t want her to think of me as a monster. I want something else, instead, something I’ve never wanted with a woman before.

I want her to see me as a person.

Chapter Eleven

Emily

Every day, I think about leaving.

I’m at work at the bakery and I think to myself: Tonight, I’ll go to his place, pick up my things, and check into a motel. From there, I’ll find my own way. I’ll make a new start. But no matter how many times I think that, my feet lead me back to his place. Sometimes, they lead me somewhere else first: home decoration stores. I don’t know what fit of madness prompts me to start outfitting his place as though it’s mine, but he doesn’t complain and so I carry on. I turn the place from a series of cell-like rooms into an actual apartment, a place to which we can return with a smile.

I’m shocked by how often he injures himself. But I suppose that comes with the territory when you spend your days and half the evening working as a hitman or beating the heck out of men in the fighting pit. I know a little first aid from my time with Patrick and I help him out. It feels good to help him, make something better.

He doesn’t make a move on me. I don’t know how to feel about that. It’s a two-sided coin with relief on one side and longing on the other. There’s my religion to consider, but that takes a backseat over other thoughts, like my own freewill. Part of me wants him to just grab me, pick me up, take me; another part wants him to wait, be patient. I can never decide which way I want the coin to land.

He comes home after just over two weeks with a nasty cut down his neck, as if somebody tried to slit his throat. He’s wearing a torn shirt and muddy jeans with dirt-crusted workman’s boots. His tattoos are on full display and he looks dangerous, exactly the sort of man a woman like me should stay away from.

I get the kit and we sit at the couch.

He takes a bottle of whisky from the coffee table and sips. He offers me some. I take a sip. It burns my throat but it warms my belly.

“This place looks nice,” he says, voice tight. It’s the first time he’s mentioned it.

“Thank you.”

I dab the wound, clean it, and then dress it.

“What made you do it?” he asks.

I finish the wound and pack away the kit, and then sit next to him on the couch. Our legs are touching and tiny sensations skitter over my skin, up my thigh, up higher to that sweet place that makes my whole body warm. With the whisky to prop it up, I feel like I’m on fire.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I guess I wanted this place to look nice.”

“But why?”

We face each other. He’s let his stubble grow out a little, a close-cropped red beard, and his eyes are hard. But beneath the hardness, I think I see something else. A glint of humanity, maybe.

I search my mind in earnest. “Oh.” I giggle when it hits me.

“What?”

“Maybe it’s because Patrick never lets me decorate. We end up moving every couple of years and he always says there’s no point. Why bother when we’ll be moving? When I point out to him that just because we’ll be moving, it doesn’t mean we have to live like prisoners for two years, well . . . He doesn’t like it when I say that.”

“He hits you.” He winces, as though aware he might’ve crossed a line. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No.” I place my hand on his leg without thinking. “It’s fine. I’ll tell you a little about all that, if you want.”

Jude nods. “I want to hear it.”

I take a deep breath. I’ve never shared this part of my life with anybody before, but I feel comfortable with Jude, far more comfortable than living with somebody for two weeks should make you. Maybe it’s because I know he’d never let anything happen to me.

“My parents died when I was very young, too young to remember. I must’ve been one or two years old. All I’ve ever known is Patrick. We were at the same foster home together. He protected me from the other kids. You know what kids can be like. He was my cool brave older brother; that’s how I saw him at the time. He didn’t let anybody push me around. And when he hit me?” I laugh grimly. “Well, to be honest, he’d been hitting me for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t new and I didn’t question it until I got older. As soon as he was old enough, he took me from the foster home and we jumped from apartment to apartment. I was in and out of dozens of schools; maybe that’s why I love those documentaries so much, because I can catch up on some of what I missed. When I was seventeen—this was a couple of years ago, I’m nineteen now—I got a job at the bakery and my life has been Patrick and work ever since, with a few beatings here and there.”

I stop, taking a deep breath, shocked by how much I’ve spoken. “Sorry.” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to overshare.”

He lays his hand atop mine, pressing it into his leg. “You don’t have to say sorry to me. I’ll protect you.” His tone is fierce. “I’ll protect you from Patrick, that creep Barry, I’ll protect you from the whole dang world if that’s what it takes. I swear it.” He speaks intensely, clenching his jaw, and anger burns in his eyes. I wouldn’t want to be the target of anger like that.

“What about you?” I ask, eager to change the subject. I feel like I’ve just pried open my ribs and flashed him my heart. Deep secrets aren’t unearthed easily and my life spent under Patrick’s thumb is my deepest, darkest secret without a doubt.

“What about me?” he responds.

I flip my hand, interlock my fingers with his, and give his hand a squeeze. “Men don’t become hitmen for no reason, Jude. And I remember the night I walked in on you with the photograph . . . You were muttering in your sleep, something about your parents.”

“Oh.” He flinches. “That.”

He pauses. I say nothing, giving him space to open up. After a while, he sighs.

“It’s not a particularly exciting story. We were driving and they skidded off the road into a lake, all of us. I managed to get my seatbelt off. I didn’t think, Emily. I was like an animal, spurred into survival. I just unclasped Moira’s belt and dragged her out of the lake. Moira’s my little sister. When I go her to shore, I resuscitated her. By the time she was coughing up water, the car was deep in the lake. But I tried.” He smiles tightly, as if the memory brings him both relief and pain. Relief that his little sister lived, pain that his parents died. “I dove, but the car was too deep and they were already dead. I tried to drag them up, but my air started to run out. I was almost seeing black by the time I resurfaced. By then there were adults on the shore, shouting at me to get back. I tried to dive again. Some trucker leaped into the water and dragged me out.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“It was just me and Moira after that. We clung to each other, protected each other. I promised I’d never let anything hurt her and I’ve kept that promise. She works as a nurse now.”

“You protected each other,” I whisper, imagining what that would’ve been like. Sure, Patrick stopped the other kids from hurting me, but only so he could hurt me himself.

“Just like I’ll protect you,” he says solemnly. “When I promise to protect somebody, Emily, I keep it. I promise you, I’ll never let anybody hurt you again.”

“Thank you.”

We stare into each other’s eyes for a long, long time. Outside, New York throws up its nighttime sounds, a cacophony of shouting and honking and screeching, but inside we are in a bubble, silent, alone.

I feel safe, I realize. It hits me with a thud. I’ve never really known what safe—really safe—feels like.

“Thank you for opening up to me, Jude.”

He shakes his head. “No, I should be thanking you. Look at this place. You’ve done a great job. It looks like a real home—”

I don’t plan it, but I’m incredibly attracted to this man. Not just his body, his tattoos, his strength, but his emotions, too.

I lean across the couch and kiss him on the lips.

I feel a jolt move through his body. Surprise, maybe. I can’t blame him. I’m just as surprised by myself. The surprise doesn’t last long. I feel his passion open up, passion which has been pent-up for weeks. He groans and presses his lips harder into mine. I return the pressure, savoring the rough feel of his lips, the manly feel. I breathe in through my nose and smell his cologne, musky. This man shared himself with me. He protected me. I don’t care if he’s a killer. To me, he’s just Jude.

He moves his hand down my chest and cups my breast. Sparks dance on his fingertips as the fabric of my t-shirt rubs against my nipple. I hear myself moan, muffled by his lips. With his other hand he reaches up and slides his fingers through my hair, pulling me close to him. I roll over, sit in his lap. His cock is hard, pushing urgently against his pants. I sit on it, grinding my lips. It’s like there’s a creature of lust inside of me which has been waiting a long time to come out and play. It’s playtime now and it can’t stop itself.

We stay like that for a long time, me grinding my hips, him massaging my breast. And then he breaks off the kiss. He’s red-faced, as red-faced as I must be.

“I want you,” he moans. “I’ve wanted you since the first night you stayed here.”

I kiss him softly on the cheek. His beard tickles my lips. “You have me,” I say.

He climbs to his feet, pushing me onto the couch. I’ve barely sat down when he scoops me up, bridal-style, and carries me into the bedroom. We walk over plush new rugs and past beautiful new paintings and then he lays me down on brand-new sheets. My heart is a jackhammer, pounding through my body. My chest is like a bellows, compressing and opening in huge movements. My body is warm, tinged with lust, and my eyes are fixed on Jude, standing over me.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he says.

“Prove it,” I shoot back. I’m shocked by the strength in my voice, but it’s welcome. It’s been a long time coming.

He leans over me, kissing my neck. I grab his strong back, massaging the muscles. The power of him. He’s like a wild animal.

I can’t take it anymore. Lust overtakes me. I tug at his shirt, pull it over his head. He throws it into the corner and then pulls at my clothes. In a matter of seconds both of us are stripped, naked, and panting with anticipation. He looks down at me for a moment. His naked body is intimidating and magnificent at the same time. His arms and legs, his chest, his belly, his shoulders—every inch of him is covered in well-defined, corded muscle. His cock is huge and hard, at least nine inches, and his tattoos make him look like some Viking raider.

He stares down at my naked body, taking me in, my lithe limbs and my pert breasts.

“Idiot,” he mutters.

He goes to the bedside table, takes a condom, and returns to me.

Then we’re lost to the world.

He lies on top of me, propping himself up with one arm, and with his other hand he reaches down and slides his middle finger inside of me. He buries it deep in my pussy, right to that spot which drives me crazy. He circles it with his finger, and with each stroke, my pussy gets hot. After less than a minute—I think, though time has gone loopy—I’m squeezing my legs around his hand, desperate for him to keep going. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been, soaked.

I close my eyes. Everything pauses. And then—

The orgasm releases. My body gyrates. I pant, gasp, moan.

Then the orgasm is over and Jude slides his finger from me.

“Do you want it?” he asks, voice deep. The hunger in his eyes makes my mouth dry.

“Yes.” I don’t have to think about the answer. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He tears the condom packet with his teeth and slides it on with a one-handed expert movement. When he pushes inside of me, I think I might break. His cock is huge, not just long, but huge around the base, a massive weapon of a thing. He pushes deep, deep, deep until he hits my sweet spot, still tender from his finger. He holds himself inside of me for a second, and then, slowly, I open for him. I feel my pussy loosen. Pain is replaced by pleasure. Searing pleasure. Steaming pleasure.

“Idiot me,” I moan, my voice no longer my own. “Idiot me, Jude. Oh, idiot me. Hard.”

“Hard?”

“Hard.”

Like a starving animal finally thrown a meal, Jude unleashes himself on me. He slides his considerable length out of me, pauses, and then pounds into me with all his killer’s strength. He hits that special place inside of me over and over. It’s like his cock is made for my pussy. With each thrust, he hits the spot, until all I can feel is the mounting warmth in my pussy.

I stare into his face and he stares into mine. His teeth are clenched and moans come like the rumbling of an earthquake in his chest.

I claw my hands down his back, feeling the hard-packed muscle.

“Harder,” I breathe, barely able to speak. “Harder—”

His body goes into overdrive. When he moans, spit flies into my hair. I don’t care, not now, not here with Jude. We’ve wanted each other all this time, a distant part of my mind thinks. We’ve longed for each other every single night. Every touch has been leading to this. We’ve been desperate for each other. And here it is, finally. Oh, it was worth the wait.

I grab the back of his neck, tugging on him, pulling him inside of me. I bob up and down with the motion of his thrusts. The sheets stick to my back; my body is coated with sweat. But I don’t care. Right now, all I care about is the animalistic power of his body.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot . . .”

Never mind that I don’t swear, never mind that I’m the good, quiet girl, never mind that my whole life has been spent playing the mouse. I’m a lioness now and nobody can stop me.

“Yes, yes, yes . . .”

I dig my fingers into his skin, pierce it. Blood drips over him but that only urges him on. I can’t feel anything now except for the orb of euphoria inside of me, an orb which gets bigger and bigger with each thrust, an orb which makes me forget about everything and simply be in this moment with Jude. Strong Jude. Loyal Jude. Hard Jude. hitman Jude.

“I’m going to—”

I moan so loudly my ears ring. I’m sure everybody in the adjacent apartments can hear me, but for once, my own pleasure seems more important than everybody else’s.

“Come for me,” Jude groans, spraying sweat over me. “Come for me, Emily. I want to feel you go tight around my cock. I want to—oh, idiot, idiot, idiot.”

“I’m coming!” I cry, bouncing so hard on his cock now I feel friction burns on my back from the sheets.

My pussy goes tight, so tight Jude has to push with more power to thrust inside of me. I clamp my eyes shut, clamp my mouth closed, clamp my hands into fists, and ride the orgasm. It starts in that sensitive spot and spreads through my body in hands of pleasure, tweaking my nipples, rubbing my rear. Everything burns. I’m on fire. I’m exploding.

I float atop the pleasure for what feels like a month.

Then I sink down, panting, gasping, hardly aware of where I am. I feel spent and when Jude pushes into me one last time, burying his face in my neck, I’m glad. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss him on the cheek.

He rolls aside.

We stare at the ceiling , both of us recovering, and then Jude lies on his side and stares at me. Just stares. For a long time. I stare back. Slowly, we both begin to smile. Soon, we’re grinning ear-to-ear at each other like a couple of loons, and then we start laughing. I giggle and Jude chuckles, laughing into the night like two carefree kids.

“That was incredible,” Jude says, placing his hand on my chest, between my breasts.

“It was,” I agree, stroking the back of his hand, trailing my finger over mafia tattoos. “Let’s not wait so long until next time.”

His grin does something I didn’t think was possible. It gets wider.

Chapter Twelve

Emily

The next morning, I walk with a spring in my step.

I remember when I was a girl and I saw people walking along like I am now—whistling a tune, a broad smile on their face—and wondering what in the world could make them so happy. I remember being angry at them, unfairly, but angry all the same. I remember wanting them to stop smiling because I could never imagine a world in which I was filled with such happiness. But today, I am that person, and it feels fantastic.

Mrs. M grins at me when I enter the bakery.

“Howdy, smiley.” She hands me my apron. “Somebody had a good night.”

“How can you tell?” I ask, with a wicked smile, exactly the sort of smile I’d never normally give.

“Oh, just a guess.” Mrs. M arches an eyebrow. “Do I smell man on you by any chance?”

“You evil old woman!” I snap, grinning all the while.

Mrs. M brings her hand to her chest in a melodramatic gesture. “Excuse me,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows in mock offense. “You will not talk to me in that tone, young lady. You may be my best employee, and the nicest girl I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, but don’t think I won’t bring out the baseball bat!”

We meet eyes, and then giggle.

“You’re mad.” I laugh, wiping a tear from my eye.

I spend the morning in the back, baking and decorating cakes, whilst Mrs. M and another worker man the storefront. At midday, after the lunchtime rush, it’s time to switch. Mrs. M signs off with a wave and a smile and I man the storefront alone, the other worker—a youngish kid—going into the back.

My happiness is infectious today. Every customer that comes into the store leaves with a smile on their face. Even a stern-faced businessman, wearing an earpiece, who looks as though he hates everything and everyone, gives me a smile as he takes his muffin. I wipe down the tables whilst tapping my feet. I clean the coffee machine whilst humming a tune. I fold napkins while bobbing my head.

We shared. We made love.

I relive last night in my head a dozen times, feeling his hands, his breath, his strength. I feel his muscles beneath my hands, the beads of blood from my eager fingers.

I’ve heard the phrase walking on air many times, but I never knew what it meant until today. It’s like there’s a coat hanger wedged in my mouth; I couldn’t stop smiling even if I wanted to.

But then the coat hanger is wrenched away, leaving me numb. No, I wish I was numb. Terrified is more like it.

It’s the end of the day and I’m cleaning away tables, washing the last few dishes. The store is empty and the kid has gone home. I bend down under the counter to get the keys, and when I rise, he’s there, arms at his sides, eyes wide and bloodshot, seeming bigger and scarier than ever. A huge bear lumbering into the store.

Patrick swaggers in, wobbling from side to side, clearly on something.

“Hey, sis.” His words are slurred, coming out heyis. “How’s it going?” Howsgoing.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I walk around the counter, hands raised. Why now? Why today? After two weeks of leaving me alone. Oh, yes, he’s on drugs, and people on drugs don’t tend to be too reasonable.

Almost as soon as I’ve done it, I realize walking around the counter was a mistake. He jumps at me, backing me into the corner. I have no choice but to walk backwards. Then I hit the wall and he looms over me, mouth twisted in disgust.

“I protected you,” he says, spit dribbling down his chin in rage. “I protected you, and this is how you repay me.”

“Patrick—”

He lifts his hand, fist clenched, and aims at my face. “Shut up,” he growls. “It’s time for you to learn who the real boss is.”

Jude, where are you? Jude. Panic courses through every nerve in my body. I want to run, to fight, but these are life-old nerves, nerves which have seized up countless times as Patrick hits me.

I close my eyes as his fist sails toward me.

Chapter Thirteen

Jude

And I thought this day couldn’t get any better, I think as Tool explains it all to me.

We sit in the bar—called The Leprechaun ’cause whoever named it thinks of himself as a funny mongrel, I guess—sipping whisky. The curtains are drawn, just like they always are, and we sit in dusty beams of sunlight. Photographs of past hitters and hard men hang from the walls and a shotgun is mounted above the bar with the sign circa. 1922 below it.

Tool, a short, squat man who is known in the business for his viciousness with hammers, plyers, wrenches, crowbars—just about any tool you could think of, this man uses as a weapon. He sucks on his cigarette and blows smoke into the room.

“So you’ve been promoted,” he tells me. “You won’t be taking your orders from me anymore, man. You’ll be taking them from the top.”

“The top, as in . . .”

“As in Mickey O’Donnell himself.” Tool nods. “Heard the news last night. He’s dang impressed with the work you’ve been doing, Jude. Dang impressed. We all are, if I’m being honest. You’re legit, man.”

I incline my head. “Thanks, Tool.”

“Boss wants to see you, though, so we can’t sit around here fiddling each other’s ladies’ parts all dang day.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a mongrel, Tool?”

Tool flashes his nicotine-stained teeth. “More times than I would’ve liked, but that’s life, ain’t it?”

“For mongrels like you, maybe.”

He grins. “You getting all cocky now ’cause you’re the boss’s new favorite?”

“Nah, just in a good mood, is all.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

I won’t tell him, of course. It’d be a blasted difficult thing to explain to a man like Tool what I’m feeling right now. Heck, it’s hard enough to explain it to myself. “Just living life to the full.”

“Yeah? Me too.” Tooth takes a bag of white powder from his pocket. He holds it up. “Want some?”

“Nah, like you said, I’ve got a meeting.” I finish my whisky. “Where’s it at?”

“It’s the boss, man. Where’d you think? Central Park.”

Tool measures out a neat line on the table, leans forward, and vacuums it all up in one quick snort. He shoots back in his chair, letting out an ahh. Winking at me, he grabs hold of his whisky so hard his knuckles turn white. “You’re a blasted good hitter, Jude,” he says, voice shaky. “I’ve never met a man as cold as you. You’re like ice, man. It’s like you’re dang carved from ice. What’s your secret?” He lets out a low, guttural laugh, coked off his head. “I’ve got to hear it. I need some advice.”

“Shut your face, Tool,” I say cheerfully.

“I know what it is!” Tool cries. “It’s ’cause you never bother with women. I’ve seen you. They throw themselves at you and sure, you take them for the night, don’t you? But I never hear you talking about a girlfriend or—worse still—a wife. You don’t have that complication in your life. That’s it, isn’t it?” He leans forward eagerly, as though he’s caught me in a lie. “I knew it. Right, first thing I’m doing when I get home is telling the wife and kids to get the heck out. I’m going lone wolf, like you.”

But I’m not lone wolf anymore. I think about Emily, about last night, about the amazing sex and the closeness afterward. It was weird, it wasn’t just about the sex, more like the sex was a byproduct of how close we’d become. I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually glad we waited so long to finally do it. It made it sweeter, in a way. Not that my balls didn’t turn ice-blue in the meantime. But I guess that’s the price you pay for really mind-blowing sex.

“You wouldn’t last a week on your own.” I laugh. “First time a mark nicked you, you’d be on the phone to your wife begging to be babied.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Tool mutters. He nods at the door. “Don’t keep the boss waiting, man. If there’s one thing Mickey don’t like, it’s being made to wait. I remember he was angry for a whole dang week once ’cause he had to wait in line at the bank. Drove him crazy. Odd, too, ’cause he’s about the most chilled man in this life.”

I stand up and make for the door.

“He’ll be at the Azalea Pond,” Tool calls after me. “Just like always. With his little bag of crumbs.”

“The most dangerous man in the city,” I call back, “and he spends his time feeding the ducks.”

“Hey, man, appearances can be deceiving.”

As I walk out into the street, I think: Yeah, don’t I know it. Look at me and you see a cold-eyed, cold-hearted, cold, cold man. You see a man who nothing can get to. You see a man made of ice. And then you scratch a little deeper and you find something else. Heck, what am I saying? Emily is the only one who found something else. She’s so beautiful. Dang it, she’s too beautiful. Funny, too. And smart. And brave. I think I’m falling... I force the feeling away. Don’t get ahead of yourself, I think. Don’t blow your wad too early. That road leads to disaster.

As I walk to Central Park, I think about Emily. I walk past businessmen and women, mothers, kids, filling the sidewalk like a swarm of flies attracted to sugar, writhing here and there like one great mass instead of many individual people. The sun is shining and a woman wearing nothing but a bikini top and short-shorts struts by me. She gives me a look with her black-ringed eyes, smiling through heavily-applied makeup. It’s the sort of look I know well. It’s a look that says: I’ve seen you, and I like what I see, and if you want to take me to a motel I’ll forget you now, today. I don’t even consider it, which is how I know something is changing inside of me. I never would’ve second-guessed taking this woman if it wasn’t for Emily. As it is, I turn away from the woman, making it clear I want nothing to do with her.

Why would I want you when I’ve got Emily? What purpose would it serve?

She was so cute this morning, I remember as I enter Central Park on the north side and walk across the grass, past families having picnics, dogs being walked, and couples walking arm in arm. I woke to the sound of her whistling from the bathroom. When I went to the bathroom door, I watched her for a while without letting her know I was there. She went about getting herself ready for the day, dabbing on a light layer of makeup and whistling a beautiful tune. It felt like being with a proper woman, nothing like my usual after-morning routine: sneaking out of a motel; hoping the woman’s gone before I wake up; telling her it was fun, but I’ll never be seeing her again.

Finally, I make it to the pond. I skirt the edges, the air filled with the quacking of ducks and the giggling of children from the park proper. I make my way to the south side until I come to a huge leafy tree which throws a giant shadow over the water. Beneath the tree, a man stands, a plastic bag of breadcrumbs in his hand.

If you passed Mickey O’Donnell on the street, you wouldn’t think he was the leader of the most dangerous crime family in New York. You’d be more likely to think he was a librarian. He’s a large, soft man who wears an overcoat which reaches down to his knees and thick walking boots. He’s short and his face is soft-featured. He wears thin-framed glasses and his hair is nothing more than a band of grey revealing a bald spot on top. You’d have to look for the tattoos on his neck to know he was anything more than a kind old man feeding ducks at the park.

I join him, standing just off to the right. He holds up a forefinger. Wait.

I wait patiently, knowing he could be anywhere between five minutes and five hours. I watch as he methodically feeds the ducks, taking the same sized handful of crumbs from his bag every time. The ducks quack loudly as they congregate around him. After around ten minutes, he waves another finger at me. Come.

I stand at his shoulder.

“Sir,” I say.

“Jude,” he replies. His voice is calm and soft-sounding, the voice of a kind old man. “Look at them.” He nods at the ducks. “They’re so easy to please. They live such simple lives. They’re happy with a few scraps of bread and a place to paddle. That’s all they need. You know,” he goes on, turning to me with a frank expression, “I often think I’d like to be one of those ducks.”

“Okay, sir.” I don’t know what else to say.

He shakes his head. “Never mind that. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, Jude. You’re rising fast. From street-level thug to a bouncer to a hitter in less than a year. Very impressive. You’re methodical, fierce, tough, and loyal. And you value money more than most everything else, a characteristic I always respect in a man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I value Emily more, I think. But I don’t think this unmarried man, this man who is notorious for his lack of interest in sex with anybody, would understand that.

“Patrick Ness,” Mickey says. “He’s becoming a real problem. You remember Patrick, don’t you? He’s the man you fought a few weeks ago. A big man. A bear man. I’m growing concerned about his little operation. It’s a small operation, sure, but it’s growing with a vengeance and it seems Patrick and his friends don’t have any regard for the status quo. If there’s one thing that cannot be tolerated in this life, it’s upstarts who have no regard for the status quo. Go through the proper channels, earn your stripes, and then you can start earning some real cash. But don’t…” A flicker of rage touches his features, his lips going flat. He kills it at once and his calm mask returns. “But don’t infringe on my business.”

He pauses, taking a breath. I don’t say anything. That moment of rage is scarier than a dozen men in the fighting pit. I understand why everybody fears Mickey so much. It’s the rage behind the veneer of calm.

“I originally sent you to fight him as a warning, but clearly the big dumb oaf is too stupid to take a warning when he’s given one. There’s one man on his team, Barry O’Malley, who’s giving me toothache. He’s been running a protection racket on one of our laundering operations. He doesn’t know that the general store is one of ours, of course, and I’ve told the owner to keep quiet and play along for the time being. You see, Jude, I want Patrick and his gang taken care of. We can’t allow this.”

He wants me to kill Patrick, I think, with an unexpected jolt of uncertainty. If there’s one thing I’m sure of about Emily, it’s that she’s conflicted about her brother. She doesn’t hate him. Neither does she love him. It’s somewhere in between. I don’t think she’d be too keen on me killing her brother. But I can’t voice these concerns to Mickey. He’d laugh—or worse.

“But Patrick isn’t the real problem. Like I said, it’s his pal, Barry, who’s the real pain in the rear. I’ve done a little research on this man. Some of the things I learned made me shiver, Jude.”

I doubt that, I doubt anything could make Mickey shiver.

“Did you know he tortured and killed a seven-year-old girl? This was up in Maine. He went down there a few years ago to settle the death of his father. Whilst he was down there, a little girl—still in pigtails—went missing. She was found a few days later, tortured, killed, abused in every way you can think of. Barry was arrested. There were witnesses who saw him picking the girl up, and forensic evidence. Mysteriously, all of it disappeared before trial. The monster got away without a scratch. We do bad things in this life, Jude. I won’t pretend otherwise. But none of my guys would ever torture and kill a child just for the fun of it.”

Mickey snaps the last words. I take a surprised step back and then immediately right myself.

“He’s visited New Jersey quite a few times over the years. The disappearance of several children coincides with his stay at nearby hotels. There’s no doubt in my mind that he kidnapped and tortured those kids, too. Barry’s a priority, Jude. I want him gone first. And then the rest of Patrick’s little gang.”

Including Patrick himself. But Emily . . .

Mickey turns back to the pond, takes out a handful of crumbs, and tosses them into the water. Instantly, ducks begin to gather.

“What’s the world coming to,” he muses, “when men can do things like that and get away with it, over and over?”

He’s not expecting an answer, so I don’t give him one.

I turn away and skirt around the pond, all the while thinking about Emily, sweet, strong, smart Emily, Emily who loves her big brother, even though he’s a monster.

Chapter Fourteen

Emily

“When the kids at that orphanage wanted to hurt you, who stopped them?”

My mind detaches from my body and it’s like I see the scene from somebody else’s perspective. I watch as this frail-looking, skinny girl curls up on the floor. I watch as this giant beast of a man rains fists down at her head. How does her neck not snap? I think, watching as knuckles pound into her face. How is she still alive?

He hits her—me—around ten times, but he’s a practiced sister-beater and he doesn’t go too far. He hits me hard enough to make a point, cause two black eyes to sprout on my face, but not hard enough to do any lasting damage. In a way that’s even worse, because it’s not like he’s completely lost control. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

I watch as Patrick stumbles back, staring down at the crumpled-up woman.

Then, slowly, I return to my body. My face aches like I’ve just been thrown into the side of a brick wall. Blood trickles down my cheeks from cuts imbedded within the black eyes. I cough, sputter, and then sit up with a painful grunt.

Patrick sneers down at me. “I’ve always protected you,” he whispers, lips trembling. He looks down at his hands like he can’t quite believe what he’s just done. “Why do you make me do this?” he asks. “I don’t want to. I don’t enjoy it. But you make me, Emily. Why can’t you just be a good sister? Why can’t you just do what you’re told? Why does everything have to be a long fight with you? Why can’t you just be good for once?”

Because your version of good means not really being a person at all. Your version of good means letting go of everything that makes me a real, living person and becoming a robot. A silently working robot whose only function is to give you money for rent and to be quiet the rest of the time. Never meet people, never have any fun, never have any pleasure. Just give myself to you until when I look in the mirror I don’t recognize the person looking back at me. That’s why, you stupid man.

I can’t say any of that. My survival alarm is blaring in my head and I know if I voice my real emotions, it would only set him off again. He’d beat me until I stopped singing my own tune and started singing his. He’d beat me until I was blood-covered and caked in bruises. He’d beat me until I turned into a mass of pulp and blood. But I don’t feel any fear. Just a kind of detached need for survival. After all, I’m a veteran when it comes to getting beaten up by my brother.

I stumble to my feet, wincing as my bruised eyes crease, and grip the counter. Facing him, I speak in as calm a voice as I can. “You have to leave, Patrick,” I say. I wish my voice was stronger. I wish it didn’t tremble. I wish I could be like Jude, carved from iron. And to think, only a few minutes ago I was happier than I’ve ever been.

“What?” Patrick snarls. “Why would I leave? You’re coming with me.” His fists are clenched at his sides, knuckles stained carmine with my blood.

I need to get out of here. But how?

I reason it out: he’s high and drunk, when he gets high and drunk, he gets paranoid, so I have to play on his paranoia.

As if God is listening, the air suddenly fills with sirens. There’s nothing unusual about that. More often than not, the New York air is filled with sirens. But that’s from a sober person’s perspective. I see it in Patrick’s face, fear flitting across his expression.

“I called the police,” I say at once, making my voice calm when all I want to do is scream. If this doesn’t work, he’ll take me, beat me, imprison me.

“W-when?” he stutters.

“I saw you coming down the street.” My heartbeat pulses in my face, something I’ve never experienced before. It’s like it beats up my neck, my cheek, and directly into my bruises. I fight the urge to wince in pain.

“You didn’t,” he mutters, but he glances behind him at the windows. “Did you?”

“I did.” I take a step forward. My legs feel weak, jelly-like, like at any moment they could collapse.

He stares at me for around half a minute, all the while the sirens getting louder and louder.

“This isn’t over,” he snaps, pacing to the door with wide steps. “It isn’t over!” he screeches, as he walks out into the street.

I watch as he breaks into a jog and disappears down the street. I wait for five minutes—the sirens grow quieter as they head toward some other disaster in some other place—and then go to the bathroom. I wash and clean the cuts, apply Band-Aids where I can, and then continue closing the bakery. When I’m done, I lock up and walk down the street faster than I’ve ever walked anywhere. I always thought it looked silly when people did that power-walking thing, but I do it now, pacing as fast as a jogging person.

I look over my shoulder every few seconds, terrified that Patrick might come to his senses and realize I tricked him. But then I’m at the door to Jude’s apartment building. I open it gratefully, run up the stairs like a person running to a safe haven, and lock and bolt the door behind me.

Only when I’m safe, I sit on the couch and let the panic overtake me.

For a few minutes, I pant like crazy, my lungs seeming empty and shallow.

When I catch my breath, I go into the bathroom to check on the black eyes. I hardly recognize myself. I’ve always liked my eyes, though I’d never admit it to anybody. But I have, ever since I was a girl. I like how big they are, I like the shade of green. People have often complimented me on them and, despite my shyness, it makes me feel good. Now, I can hardly see them. My skin is black and taut, puffy, turning my eyes into small beads which peer from two bruised mounds.

Jude will see these, I think, with a chill.

I could lie to him, tell him I fell over at work, but a man like Jude knows bruises well and he’ll know I’m lying. You don’t get two massive black eyes from falling over. No, he’ll know it was Patrick. Even now, after he just kicked the heck out of me, I don’t want Jude to hurt Patrick. I try and persuade myself otherwise, telling myself that he’s a monster, he’s beaten me my whole life, he’s always hurt and manipulated me, discounted my feelings, never even seen me as a person. But the idea of Jude hurting—or killing—Patrick provokes an involuntary tug in my chest. He’s my older brother, even after everything. It’s a love-hate, love-despise, love-loath relationship I can’t seem to get free of.

I go into the bedroom and collect my makeup kit, sit on the bed and open my little pocket-mirror. Maybe I could hide the bruises. I laugh darkly as I study them again. There’s no way I’m hiding these. All the foundation in the world wouldn’t be enough. Anyway, Jude would sense something’s up. I don’t wear much makeup. How would he react if I suddenly started wearing twenty layers of the stuff?

“Emily.”

Dang. I didn’t even hear him come in.

His voice comes from the living room. As one last desperate attempt, I take my pot of mascara from my makeup kit. Maybe I can cover it after all. But then Jude is standing at the bedroom door.

I pause, brush inches from my face.

“Emily?” He crosses the room and kneels beside me. “What happened?” His voice is unusually soft, probing, and for a moment I consider telling him the truth.

But then an image thrusts into my mind: Jude, bathed in blood holding a straight-edge razor, standing over my brother with a mad grin on his face. I see Jude kneel and cut him some more. I see the life empty from Patrick’s eyes. Despite everything, it makes me withdraw into myself. I can’t tell him. He’ll hurt Patrick. And Patrick is the only family I’ve ever known.

But he beat you, bad. He hurt you. How can you still stand by him? I swallow. That’s a question I’ve been asking myself my entire life without a satisfactory answer.

“Nothing,” I mumble.

“Nothing?” Jude cocks his head at me. “What’re you talking about, Emily? You look like you’ve just gone twenty rounds with Mike Tyson. Look, you’re in pain!”

I try and make my face a mask, stop myself from wincing, but the pain resurfaces every few seconds. It’s like there’s a creature in my face, behind my skin, prodding the tender places.

“Nothing,” I insist.

I jump to my feet, throwing my makeup onto the bed, and pace into the living room. Dropping onto the couch, I switch on the TV to the nature channel. Jude follows closely after me. He leans down behind the TV and yanks out the plug.

“It’s not nothing,” he says, hands trembling. He sits on the couch next to me. “Do you really expect me to believe that, Emily? Look at your face. I want you to tell me what happened.”

“No.”

“No? Why? I promised to protect you, didn’t I?”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

“No,” I repeat. “Can’t you just leave me alone? I want to be alone. I want to relax. It’s been a long day.”

In this moment Jude doesn’t seem all that different to me than Patrick. It’s unfair, I know, but Patrick will often bother me when all I want is to withdraw into myself, empty my mind, just sit and do nothing and let the worries of the world drift away. Jude is nothing like Patrick. I know that now. And yet right now he’s having the same effect on me. I feel anger rise in my chest. Unfair anger. Unearned anger. But anger all the same.

“I’ll leave you alone once you tell me what happened,” he presses.

“Just leave me alone!” I screech, wheeling on him. When I scream, my cheeks pull at my eyes; the black bruises pulse in pain.

Jude leans back on the couch, watching with me dark eyes. “Why are you shouting at me?” he asks. No emotion touches his voice but curiosity. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Maybe I don’t need your help,” I grunt.

“Maybe not, but I think you do.” His tone is infuriatingly calm, the tone of a patient teacher talking with a problem child. But then, when he next speaks, an undertone of rage enters it. I look at his hands. They’re shaking. He’s trying hard not to lose control, I realize.

“What, are you going to hit me?” I hiss, hating myself for taking my anger out on him, but unable to stop. “Is that what you want, Jude? Do you want to dominate me? Do you want to hurt me? Do you want to make me feel small and useless and pathetic? Is that what you want? Well, is it?” I bark the last words, hardly able to believe the acidic voice I’m hearing is my own.

“It was Patrick, wasn’t it?” Jude’s voice drops low, turns into a growl. “Patrick did this to you. You’re protecting him.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I stand up and go into the bedroom.

Chapter Fifteen

Jude

“Well, we’re going to talk about it!”

I follow her into the bedroom. Dang it, I’m trying to stay calm but when I look at her, her beautiful saucer-like green eyes turned into tiny emerald glints, rage bubbles through me. It’s a rage I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I’m Mr. Ice. That’s how I do my work so well. That’s why I was promoted. I don’t let my emotions cloud my judgement. I just get the job done. But twice in my life I’ve felt this broiling rage. The first time was when Mom and Dad sank deep into the lake; the second time is now.

She sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at her feet. Her hands are shaking, just like mine. Is she angry with me? How can she be angry with me when it was that prick Patrick who did this to her? How can she take her rage out on me? For idiot’s sake, Emily, wake up! He’s a piece of trash and all he wants is to hurt you!

“It was him, wasn’t it?”

She doesn’t look at me, just keeps staring at the floor. One of the Band-Aids has come loose, revealing a fine red line.

I try and make my voice calm, but I can hear the rage rising in it. I can’t stop it. “Emily.” She doesn’t so much as flinch. “Emily!”

“Yes, and now it starts, doesn’t it?” Her voice is devoid of emotion. She glares up at me. It’s like she’s checked out of her head and has put herself on autopilot. She isn’t the Emily I’ve come to know over these past weeks, not even close. “Is this when you let your anger take control, Jude? Is this when you start hitting me?” She tilts her head, offering me her cheek. “Go on, then. Do it. It’s what it always comes down to in the end, anyway, isn’t it? You’re a killer, a bad man, an evil man. Why wouldn’t you hit a woman?”

“You don’t believe any of that,” I say, clenching my hands into fists. I don’t have much in the way of fingernails, but even so they stab my palms. “Just tell me what happened. That’s all I’m asking. I know it was Patrick . . . wait, it was at work, wasn’t it? Unless you went out of your way to see him, which I can’t imagine you did, he came to your work and did this to you. Wasn’t anyone else there? How did he just march into the bakery and tool you up like this?”

“Just . . . stop.” She sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I think about Patrick, that giant pile of trash, twice as high as Emily and twice as broad. I see his giant fist smashing into her breakable face. How could a man do that? How could a man hit a woman half his size and not feel . . . something. Anything. Some small pang of guilt. It’s always confused me when big men hit little women. Aren’t they scared they’re going to kill them? I see Emily backed against a wall, trying to protect her face with her thin arms, as Patrick rains down blow after blow. My blood is like lava in my veins. Anger coils around my heart. Tiny devil-horned beasts roam around my body, poking me, singing into my mind: Are you going to let him get away with this? He hit your woman. He beat the heck out of your woman. Are you going to let that stand?

But I can’t do jack without Emily’s permission. That’s the truth. I value her too much.

“Emily.” I say her name slowly, trying to make her see I’m trying here. “Just, just tell me, okay? Just tell me what happened.”

“No,” she snaps. “How many times do I have to say it? No, no, no, no! There, do you get the picture now?”

“Idiot!” I roar, jumping into the living room, vision hazy, seeing blood-red. “Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!” My mind fills with Patrick, his fists, and Emily’s whimpers. In my mind, the whimpers are the worst of all. They’re not surprised or outraged; they’re the whimpers of somebody who is used to being beaten, somebody who has accepted it. “Idiot!” A woman like Emily shouldn’t have to just accept something so awful. Heck, no woman should. “Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!”

I charge into the kitchen, barely conscious of my movements, and punch the microwave so hard the glass shatters. I tear it from the counter and hurl it to the floor. It lands with a crunch as the loose glass knocks around inside. I bring my boot down on it, caving it in. I tear cupboards loose, sending cutlery and cooking trays flying. I head-butt one, snapping it in half, my vision so red I can barely see what I’m doing. I’m bleeding, but I don’t feel it. I punch through another. Snap a third over my knee. I roam the kitchen like an enraged beast, end up near the oven. I kick it as hard as I can, rage coursing down my leg. The glass explodes and I take the oven glove—draped over a hook near the cooking surface—and rip it in half. The tear is loud in my ears, louder even than my frantic breathing.

After a few minutes, the kitchen is destroyed. I come to my senses slowly, and then return to the bedroom.

Emily stands near the opposite wall, fear etched into her features. She’s scared of me, I think numbly.

“Let me tell you something,” I say, chest trembling like the prologue to an earthquake. “There’s no way you’re going to that bakery again. Look at you, Emily. I’ll die before I let you go back. Do you hear me? I’ll die. Over. My. Dead. Body. You’re not going back there ever again. I can’t believe you’re protecting that piece of trash!”

I pace into the living room and throw myself on the couch.

Chapter Sixteen

Emily

My job is the only tiny shred of independence I’ve ever known. Sure, I have to give Patrick a large chunk of my paycheck, and sure, I can’t spend the rest of it on books or decorations or nice clothes or even a holiday because Patrick would explode in rage, but there’s something wonderful about going to work, alone, and having to face the challenges of the day, alone. It’s the one thing that’s ever made me feel like a real person.

And he thinks he can just take that away, I think, digging my fingernails into my knees. I sit hunched up on the edge of the bed, feeling a second wave of anger and resentment and confusion pass over me. He can’t just tell me what to do, I think, hands getting tighter. My fingers prick the fabric of my pants, but I don’t care. I bleed, but I don’t care. Does Jude really think he can just order me not to work?

And yet, a voice whispers, Patrick will find you again. If he had the guts to do it once, he’ll do it a second time. Who knows, maybe this time he’ll bring a gun, a knife. Maybe this time he’ll end it.

“No!”

I jump and go into the living room. Jude is sitting on the couch, head buried in his hands. I’m about to scream at him—something, I don’t know what—when I look over his shoulder and see the kitchen. I walk past him, poke my head around the wall partition.

“Careful,” he says. “There’s glass.”

“Like you care!” I snap back.

I feel mean but, oddly, I don’t feel mean about being mean. This is the first time in my life I’ve been in an argument with a man without feeling the need to hold back, to make myself small and mouse-like. With Patrick, I always let him win, let his deranged perspective become the norm. But I don’t have to with Jude. I can finally let out some of that years-old rage. Maybe, a background part of my mind muses, that’s why you’re getting so angry, because you’ve never really been angry before . . .

I ignore the thought and walk gently into the kitchen. The floor is covered in glass and shrapnel pieces of wood are littered everywhere, huge chunks of cupboard and sideboard. The oven is all but destroyed. Cutlery and trays lay strewn across the floor.

I return to the living room and stand over the couch, looking down at the back of Jude’s head, at the tattoos which creep up his neck. “I’m going back to work,” I say.

Without turning, he snaps, “You’re not.”

“I am.”

“Patrick will find you again. He’ll hurt you. Now, unless you give me your blessing to kill him—”

When he says those words—those words which should bring me joy—some twisted, beaten, submissive part of me recoils like a struck viper. Then it rears up, making itself big and dangerous. It spits, and acid-like anger courses through me. My brother! It roars. He wants to kill my big brother! That absurd protective urge inside of me is driven by something deeper than reason.

“You won’t kill him!” I hear myself scream. A vicious scream. A scream which cuts through the air like a sword.

Jude jumps up, spins, faces me. His face is as twisted as my insides feel. “Why the idiot are you protecting him?” he barks. “Why, Emily? Just explain it to me. The man hit you your whole life, and now you stand here protecting him. Humiliating yourself.”

We stare at each other over the couch like two people about to duel, arms at our sides, chests rising and falling almost in tandem, anger shooting from our eyes and clashing in the center of the room.

“He’s my brother,” I say, voice quaking. I try and restrain my anger, but it feels like a wild dog on a loose leash, pulling harder each moment. It’s made worse by the fact that Jude has a point, a point I could accept if Patrick were not the only family I’d ever known. “You can’t talk about killing my brother and think that’s normal, Jude. Maybe that’s just a sign of how messed up you are.”

Jude steps forward until he’s as close to me as he can get without walking around the couch. He stares down at me with murderer’s eyes. “I will kill any man who hurts you. Patrick came to the bakery and he kicked the trash out of you. Patrick, a man twice your size, beat you to a pulp. You’re standing there like some battered wife defending him. You need to get a grip. You need to realize that he’s not your friend. He’s never been your friend. He’s your enemy.”

I take a step back. His argument makes sense. Of course it makes sense. But sense has very little to do with family. I think of Jude pushing a blade into Patrick’s chest, or perhaps shooting him, or strangling him, or however he does it. I don’t feel relieved, as perhaps I should. I feel guilty. The world in general agrees that family is important. You hear it all the time. And he has protected me over the years, in his way. But he beat you! But he stopped other kids from beating me! He sorted out the apartment! He makes a bigger deal about that than he needs to! It’s just signing a tenancy agreement! How hard can it be! But how many times has he told me that without him I’d be helpless?

Thoughts, whirring, spinning but never settling.

“Don’t talk to me about family,” I snarl. “You let your family die and you did nothing.”

No! No! No!

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I can hardly believe I said them. I want to take them back. I start to walk around the couch, but then Jude leaps over the couch and charges bull-like into the kitchen. He smashes the wall with his fists, blood staining the wallpaper. He head-butts it. He elbows it. He turns in a circle, frantic, eyes scanning for something else to break.

“Jude,” I say, but my voice is quiet beneath the sound of his violence. “Jude.”

I creep to the kitchen partition. “Jude.”

“Jude.”

“Jude.”

“Jude.”

After around five minutes of destruction—every single thing in the kitchen is snapped and shattered, the walls are full of holes and little flecks of blood are painted over everything—Jude collapses to his knees. He brings his fists to his face and looks at the scabs and the grazes coldly.

“Jude.”

His gaze snaps to me like a startled animal, like he’s only just remembered I’m here. “What?” he growls.

“I’m . . .”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “I don’t want to hear it. All I want to hear from you is two things. One, you’re not going back to work. Two, you’ll stop protecting your brother.”

The hurt is plain on his face, well-hidden but definitely there. I can’t believe I said something so cruel. But even now the anger is surging through me. Anger like I’ve never felt. I guess it’s the anger of somebody who has never been allowed to be emotional before. Suddenly, Jude is not just Jude. He’s everybody I’ve ever met who’s put me down, made me feel small, made me feel powerless. He’s Patrick. He’s the kids at the orphanage. He’s the cruel life which took my parents from me before I knew them.

“You don’t own me.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“I never asked for your protection.”

“You didn’t need to! That’s the point!” He launches himself to his feet. Blood flies across the room in droplets, landing in the chaos.

I step back reflexively. “Are you going to hit me now?”

“I wish you’d stop saying that.” He grimaces. He pauses, and then says: “I just want you safe. Can’t you understand that?”

“Safe, or under lock and key? Safe, or property?”

He groans, rubbing his eyes with his thumbs. “Safe, dang it!”

“But your safe, Jude, means giving up the only tiny piece of independence I’ve ever had. Plus, what’s Mrs. Montgomery supposed to do when I just suddenly don’t turn up one day?”

“Call her. Text her. She’ll understand. You told me the people at the bakery sense something’s up with you and your brother anyway. She’s a good woman, from what you told me. She’ll keep your job for you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to put her in that position.”

“We’re going around in circles now,” he says tightly. He walks back into the living room. Without even thinking about it, I back away to the other side of the room, near the couch. He stares at me flatly. “Just tell me you won’t go back to work.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Idiot!”  He thumps his chest. “Can’t you see I’m just doing what I think is right?”

“Maybe your right is wrong,” I mutter.

Jude rolls his eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me!” I snap, anger making every little thing into a giant event. “I’m not doing what you say and that’s that.”

I march into the bathroom and lock the door behind me before he can react. I hear him on the other side of the door, breathing heavily. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking a shower. Or is that against the rules now, too?”

“You sound like a spoiled brat,” he says bitterly.

“You sound like a controlling freak,” I spit back.

“Emily . . .”

“I’m getting in the shower now.”

In truth, I only came in here to get away from him. He scares me, though I don’t think he’d actually direct his anger at me. I walk to the mirror and look at my face. Jude’s right. It’s awful. But is any battered face so awful that it should be met with murder? People can change, and Patrick’s not a jerk all the time. I have memories of him—few, admittedly—being a nice man, a good brother. I remember once when I was a girl he read me bedtime stories every night for a month. I remember a few trips to the park with him when he bought me ice cream and pushed me on the swings. I remember . . .

You remember the sugar-coated version. Don’t forget that in between the stories he beat you. Don’t forget that he never respected you.

I strip naked. It’s only when I’m peeling off my clothes I realize that my body is covered in bruises, just like my face. A purple welt across my belly, a yellowish blossom on my shoulder, two fist-sized marks on my forearms from where I tried to protect myself.

I go to the shower and turn it on. Water blasts. Steam rises. The room grows moist.

“Emily,” Jude says, voice barely audible over the shower. “Emily. Please. Dang it. I’ve never been this close to a woman. Any other woman said what you just did about my parents, I’d never talk to them again. I’d cut them out of my life. But I’ve already forgiven you for it. Do you realize how strange that is for me?”

He sounds hurt. I want to go out there and hold him, make him feel better, but there’s a stubborn streak in me tonight and despite my desire, I can’t shake it.

I step into the shower, wincing in pain as the water drips over my bruised and bloody body.

“Emily.”

I wince again, this time at the sound of his voice.

Confusion grips me. What should I do? If he really just wants me safe . . .

But my independence . . .

But I’m covered in bruises. My entire body is in agony . . .

But Patrick is my brother . . .

Ah! Why can’t things just be simple!

Chapter Seventeen

Jude

“Emily,” I say, and my voice comes out sounding like somebody else. Like a man who’s not in control, a man who cares, a man who’s not easygoing when it comes to his attitude toward women. With a mixed sense of resentment and surprise, I realize my voice sounds like a man who cares, really cares, about the woman on the other side of this door.

My mind is thrown back three years, when I fell in love for the first time with Anna. But now I think of it, was it ever really love, or were we both just trying to numb something inside of us? Anna partied like mad; Anna was taken away by her parents. I let her be taken away. I wonder, if it was Emily who was being snatched away, would I back down so easily? The answer is simple: no. I thought I loved Anna, that wild, reckless woman who by the end of our relationship was little more than a drugged-up, liquored-up wreck. For the first time, I understand that I didn’t love her, not at all. If Anna was on the other side of this door, I wouldn’t linger. I would leave. That’s the difference.

So I love Emily, I think. It comes to me numbly, with little emotion. It comes to me like a revelation I’ve known all along but just haven’t admitted. I love her. That’s why I want to protect her. That’s why I forgave her just now for throwing my parents in my face. If Anna had done that . . .

My first love was not a love at all. My first love is on the other side of this door. Suddenly, I ache for her. Physically ache. The ache I feel for her makes the various pulsing points of pain throughout my body seem small. Dang, but I want this woman.

“Emily.”

“What?” she calls over the gushing shower.

“Let’s leave Patrick to one side for now. Let’s just talk about going back to work.”

“What about it?” Her voice softens. She adjusts the shower pressure so I can hear her more clearly.

“Just tell me you won’t go back to work for a little while. That’s it. Just a little while.”

I’m pleading. I never would’ve pleaded with Anna, not for any dang thing. I never would’ve stooped so low. Is this what it feels like to value somebody more than yourself? Idiot, it’s weird.

“How long?”

“I don’t know, just long enough...” I trail off. Just long enough for me to make it so you never have to be scared again.

“How long is long enough?”

This woman threw your parents into your face! This woman insulted you! Who are you, Jude? Who are you becoming?

“A few days, a few weeks. Just long enough.”

She pauses. I imagine how she must look right now, stark-naked, hot even with the bruises. Despite the situation, my cock hardens, gets harder than steel and harder still. I let out a groan from deep in my throat. Passion, fire-hot, scorching, passion I’d never dream a man like me could feel, fills me up. I clench my fists, stretching the skin of my knuckles, making the scabs and cuts pulse.

“A few days,” she says. “Maybe for a few days.”

“Okay. Good.” I take a deep breath.

“A few days,” she repeats. “And if I decide I want to go back, I will! You have to understand that, Jude. I’m not a puppy, being bossed around, led all over the place like I don’t have a mind of my own. I’ve lived my whole life being told I don’t have a mind of my own. I’ve lived my whole life in fear. I don’t...” Her voice rises in pitch, as though surprised at what she’s about say, as though it never occurred to her as a possibility. “I don’t want to live in fear anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, thinking: That’s something. She’ll stay away from work. That’ll have to be enough for tonight. I can’t go on with this argument. It’s going to kill me. It’s true. For a man like me, a man who never gives himself to rage like this, it’s exhausting. I feel drained, spent, as though all the energy has been vacuumed out of me.

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse,” Emily says.

“Yeah.” I sigh. Thank goodness.

“Jude.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your family. It was wrong of me. I was . . . I’ve never been in a real argument before. I don’t know what came over me. It was like there was another person in me, talking with my lips. I . . . I feel like a mean jerk.”

“Don’t,” I say. “Just don’t. It’s okay. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s strange to hear you apologize.” She sounds like she’s smiling, but it sounds like a bittersweet smile. We must be close; I’ve never been able to detect smiles through doors before. “When I first met you, I thought you were a blasted ice man. I thought you didn’t feel a thing.”

“And now?”

“Now I know you feel more than most people, but you just push it deep down and try and hide it.”

“Yeah, maybe.” My cock presses hard against my pants. It seems there’s nothing like a fight with your woman to get your blood pumping. “Are you still naked in there?”

“Why?” Her voice is cute now, despite the tiredness. “What’s it to you?”

“You know what it is to me.” I grip the edges of the doorframe, bringing my face close to the door. “Why don’t you come over here and open the door?”

She giggles. Dang, it’s good to hear her laugh. We’re closer now, I sense. The argument has bridged something between us. We’ve shown each other our worst, most malicious sides—and we’re still here. The way I see it, that’s a pretty rare thing.

“Maybe you’ll just have to kick the door in.” She giggles again, this time louder. The sound calls to me. Calls to me like some ancient siren calling to a ship. It pulls on my entire body. My blood is pumping so hot and fast now I can barely think. I close my eyes and all I see is Emily’s naked body. “That’s the only way you’ll—”

I kick the door with such power that the lock breaks from the wall and one of the hinges snap. Emily gasps and hops out of the shower. Her gorgeous green eyes widen as much as the bruises will allow. Her body is bruised, too, patched here and there with purple and yellow. But her belly are as pert as ever, her legs are as long as ever, her pussy is as cute as ever. She bites her lip, reading my face, perhaps. Reading the plain lust and the plain desire to take her, right here.

Then she backs away to the sink with a wicked smile on her face. “Maybe I don’t want you,” she whispers.

Dang, we’re messed up, aren’t we? Smashed up the place and then kicked in the door and all because I need this woman, need her like I need air, need her more than I need air. She’s the sexiest thing alive.

There’s still anger in us, pushed far back. It fuels our lust until we want each other not just because it’ll feel incredible, but also because it’ll give us a chance to take out some of that rage. I feel it in my chest, and I see it in her face, halfway between lust-captured and rage-filled. It’s a bizarre medley, one I expect most people wouldn’t understand. How can you hate each other one moment and want each other the next? I guess that’s what happens when two broken people come together.

I walk across the room to her, unable to take my eyes from her breasts, so pert, her nipples hard, ready for sucking, her chest flushed and red from the heat of the shower.

“Get back in the shower,” I say. My tone is one of command. If she’ll listen to me about one thing tonight, it’s this. Fight me about her brother, about her job—but not about our sex. I want her, need her.

“Are you bossing me around?” she asks, with a tilt of her head, a little-madam tilt.

“Yes.” I reach forward and grab her arm, softly so I don’t hurt her, and direct her to the shower.

She walks past me, into the shower. I watch her rear, tight, begging to be spanked.

Suddenly, the argument fades away.

My cock is so hard it feels like it might explode.

Chapter Eighteen

Emily

The anger flared between us, twisted us into something we’re not, made us think we hated each other, made us do and say things we didn’t mean. The anger was so strong, so potent, so all-consuming that if Jude was any other man and if I was any other woman—if there wasn’t this connection between us—we would no longer be together, let alone about to idiot.

I still feel the anger, deep in my belly, but it mixes with lust and becomes a cocktail I like the taste of.

As I walk across the room, I feel Jude’s eyes on my rear. I strut for him without even really meaning to, shifting my hips from side to side.

In the reflection the shower door, I can see him, made murky by the steamed glass. He looks like a predator about to pounce. I’m his prey, I think, and I find there’s nothing wrong with that. Not in this moment. Not this night. Everything’s changed. I pried open my ribs with this man when I told him about Patrick, and now I’ve just done it a second time by showing him the cold rage that lurks within me. And he’s still here. He hasn’t run. Which means there must be something between us.

“Stop,” he says, when I’m about to enter the shower.

“Why?” I ask, not turning my head.

“Bend over for me.”

My pussy goes tight, warm. Hot. So hot that the pulsing of the bruises becomes a dim background noise.

“Bend over for me so I can see that beautiful pussy. Bend over for me so I can see what I’m about to mess.”

I swallow. Confusion rests in me, but lust pushes it aside. Lust overpowers everything, even the anger. Goose bumps rise on my flesh, causing me to shiver. I bite my lip and then do as he says. I lean forward, bracing myself on the shower, and push my rear out for him. It’s the most vulnerable position I’ve ever been in, fully on display, but with Jude it’s comfortable. I feel his eyes on me, searing into me, fixated on my pussy. To be wanted with such passion by a man is exhilarating. My heart pounds all over my body, down to my toes and in my forehead. I can barely think. All I know right now is Jude’s eyes, the curve of my back, my on-show pussy.

“Now step into the shower.” He groans, lust making his voice husky.

I stand up straight and step into the gushing water. It runs down my face in rivulets, sluicing through my hair, dripping over my bruises. But the bruises don’t hurt anywhere near as much anymore. I’m so horny even the pain abates.

I hear him undressing, kicking off his pants, dropping his clothes in a pile on the floor. But I don’t turn. I just wait. I sense he needs this, needs to tell me what to do, needs to put his mark on me. And the truth is I need it, too. That’s not true. I don’t need it. I want it. I don’t want to be ordered around in everyday life, but when it comes to this, I find I like it.

Suddenly, he’s standing right behind me. I hear his breathing even over the constant shhhhhhh of the shower, even with water in my ears. “You’re going to come for me,” he says, his voice the cold, steel voice of Jude the killer once again, “and then I’m going to forget you harder than you’ve ever been messed.”

My throat goes dry. I let out a whimper. Then I nod. “Yes.”

He kneels down behind me, takes my legs, and pulls me to the edge of the shower. He slides his hands up my soaking legs, gently smoothing over the bruises, until he reaches my rear. He squeezes my rear cheeks, pushing them together, moaning deeply. “You’re so sexy,” he says. “You’re the sexiest thing alive, Emily.”

“Touch me, baby.” Is that me? Is that sexually confident woman really me?

He pulls my rear cheeks apart and stares at my pussy for half a minute. My clit throbs with anticipation, throbbing for him, begging to be touched and played with. The sensitive place inside of me throbs along with my clit. Heck, even my nipples throb.

“I’m going to lick your perfect groin.”

He’s do dirty. He’s such a dirty man.

Holding my rear cheeks apart—me bent over, hands propped against the shower tiles—Jude brings his tongue to my pussy. He licks me slowly, starting with my lips and trailing up and down them with the tip of his tongue. Then he brushes my clit. Just brushes it, teasing me, but that single touch is enough to send a rush of rapture through my body. I close my eyes as the ball of heat deep in my sex begins to grow. I know that heat well. It’ll grow and grow and when it’s too big, it’ll implode.

“Idiot, I can’t hold back.”

“Then don’t,” I moan.

His tongue flickers back and forth on my clit so fast I bet it’s a blur. That perfect, oh-so-tender point of pleasure turns into an inferno. I close my eyes and in a few moments of mad licking I can’t feel the water, the bruises, the anger, the confusion, anything. All I feel is the euphoria of his tongue and his strong, hitman’s hands on my rear cheeks. He’s a dirty mongrel. He’s a dirty, violent man. You’re bent over in the shower being licked out by a dirty, violent man. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Yes. Phoo all. Idiot being the good girl. Idiot being the quiet girl. Idiot being the scared girl. Be his instead. Idiot, be his!

The orb of fire becomes huge in my tender place. Every inch of me tingles. My legs begin to vibrate like crazy, my knees knocking together. My toes curl in an effort to keep gripped to the shower, lest the pleasure send me tumbling down.

Bigger, hotter, steamier than the walls of the shower, hotter than the gushing water—hot, hot, hot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

I close my eyes shut so hard I feel, as if from faraway, a pang in my black eyes. But the pain passes quickly when the orgasm hits me.

I never knew I could squirt, but when the orgasms strikes, pleasure like I’ve never felt gushes out of me, gushes with more force than the showerhead, more anger than our argument, more ferocity than Jude’s deathly trade.

When it passes, I loll against the wall. Jude stands up behind me and leans forward. “You squirted all over me, baby,” he says, voice so sexy right now I almost come again just from his breath touching my ear. “Now I’m going to forget you. I want you to squirt on my cock.”

“Y-yes,” I moan.

The water, my come, and the pre-come on his rock-hard, massive cock let him slide into me easily, as though his cock is meant to be in my pussy. He buries balls-deep, touching my sweet spot, and his abs press against my soaked rear cheeks. I close my eyes again as he idiots me, resting my forehead against the shower wall. He slides in and out slowly, both of us feeling every minute movement. Slowly, gently, passionately, he idiots me, and then he gets harder and faster until, before I know it, the tip of his cock is slamming into me with all our pent-up passion.

It’s like he unchains himself; he lets himself go.

He smacks into me. Each time his cock hits that wanting place inside of me, the orb of heat returns, grows bigger, and bigger and bigger. He pushes my rear cheeks together. “Idiot, your rear is perfect. Idiot, idiot, idiot, Emily. Idiot. Come on my cock.” His voice is desperate as he tries to hold himself back.

As if his words are a trigger, the orb releases. All at once I come so hard, and for so long, moisture is coating my thighs. I’m wetter, something I didn’t think was possible, and Jude idiots me so hard now his cock is like a force of nature, in, out, in, out. Then, he pushes deep into me one final time, groaning, biting my ear. I reach up and touch his face as I squirt and he comes.

We stay like that for a long time, his cock wilting inside of me, and then I stand up and face him.

“Wow,” he says.

“Wow,” I agree, and then step forward and kiss him, pressing our naked, tired bodies together.

Chapter Nineteen

Jude

When I wake up, I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of déjà vu. At first, I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.

Then I feel Emily in my arms, snuggled into the nook of my armpit, and it hits me. I woke up with Anna like this many times, though Anna usually reeked of stale whisky and weed. I remember looking down at Anna—as I look down at Emily now—but I didn’t feel then as I do now. Now, I feel a deep warmth in my chest, a safe warmth, a warmth unlike any I ever expected to feel after Anna was shipped away by her parents, after Mom and Dad died deep in the lake. I’ve only ever loved Emily, I think, with a jolt in my chest. It’s the truth and yet each time it hits me, it’s a surprise.

I stand up, naked, and go about the room picking up clothes. Emily mutters in her sleep and pulls my pillow close to her, snuggling into it. I watch as she brings the pillow to her nose and sniffs it, a long breath, as though in her sleep she wants to trick herself into believing I’m still next to her. The desire to climb back into bed with her is so strong for a moment I almost succumb to it. She’s naked, too, and her naked body is the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes upon.

When I’m dressed, I go into the kitchen and gather up my tools from the lockbox under the sink, buried far back amidst cleaning spray and sponges (all Emily’s purchases). I take out the box, unlock it, and tool myself up. Two pistols, a knuckle-duster, and a short, fat knife. I lock the box and return to the bedroom. I should leave right away, but I can’t resist one final look at Emily. There’s going to be blood today, nastiness, pain, and for the first time in a long time, I question it.

What if I just climbed back into bed with her? I think. What would happen? What if I just snuggled in next to her and ignored this bloody business?

I would lose my place as a hitter—or it would come into question at the least. I wonder, as I stand here looking down at the strong, independent, willful, fiery woman I’ve given myself to, if that would be such a bad thing. Maybe I should just leave the life and make her my life instead.

But even as I think it, I know it’s just a silly dream. This woman has changed me, is changing me, but I doubt the change would ever go that far.

Still, as I leave the room, I stop at the door and steal one last glance at her. She’s huddled up, her knees drawn to her chest, and then she brings her thumb to her mouth and starts sucking it. She looks dang cute and dang sexy at the same time.

I leave before I really lose my nerve.

Time to go to work, I think, as I walk into the hallway.

Chapter Twenty

Emily

I open my eyes, a sleepy smile on my face.

I was dreaming of Jude, of the sex we had last night. But other things, too, mad things which are blue-sky in the extreme. I dreamt that I woke up one morning, but I wasn’t here or in Patrick’s apartment. I was in our house. I woke up and Jude was standing over me in a bathrobe, hair wet, looking sexy and stern. He walked over to the bed and knelt down next to me. “Ready for the barbeque today?” he asked me. “Barbeque?” I responded. He nodded. “Yes, Jimmy’s looking forward to it.” I was about to ask who’s Jimmy when a little boy, red-haired and looking every bit like a miniature Jude, charged into the room and sprung up on the bed.

Silly, I think, sitting up and massaging the sleep from my eyes. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. There’s no doubt about that. Jude and I are—what? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Not even that? Perhaps we’re just people who are having sex. Idiot buddies is the phrase, I think. But I don’t think it’s that, either. It must be somewhere in between.

My first instinct upon waking is to get ready for work, but I texted Mrs. M last night and she shot a text back almost instantly, telling me it was fine if I took a little time off. She’s too understanding for her own good, but then, she knows my home life is less than perfect.

I sit in bed for a long time, paralyzed by this unexpected stretch of free time. My life, always, is one long course of activity. I wake up, I go to work, and then I return home and Patrick whisks me up like a mad tornado and drags me to a fight, a deal, some other dark dingy place I have no business being. I can’t think of another time in my life where I’ve been able to just sit with no consequences.

But sitting up in bed can only be done for so long. I get up and get dressed, and then go into the kitchen. The kitchen. It’s still a wreck, glass and shards. Some of the glass has been crushed into the kitchen floor, telling me that Jude has been in here with his boots on this morning. So you’re Sherlock Holmes now? A voice taunts, sounding annoyingly like my brother. I push it away and let myself smile. I put on my sneakers and return to the kitchen, looking over the chaos, evidence of our fierce argument, an argument which brought us closer together. We’ve shown the monsters inside of us, and neither of us has run. Strange.

“Right,” I mutter, looking from destroyed cupboard to exploded oven, “I think I’ve found my project for the morning.”

I drink a coffee and eat a cereal bar, and then set to work. I gather up trash bags, a broom, and a dustpan and brush.

I work from ten o’clock until around eleven-thirty. When I’m done, the place looks bare and empty—cupboards are still missing, stray pieces of glass cling to the oven—but at least it’s safe. Must get a vacuum, I think, and then laugh at myself. It’s not even my place. But it’s not like Jude’s going to buy one. Just the idea of Jude prancing around in the apartment with a vacuum cleaner is enough to make me giggle.

I pile up the trash bags next to the door and then drop onto the couch. Let’s hope he doesn’t go crazy every time we have an argument, I think. We’re going to have to either get a new oven or pay someone to put some more glass in. New cupboards. New mugs. If he goes like that every time, we’ll be replacing it all every month.

Part of me knows I should leave this apartment. I shouldn’t stay with a violent man. But Jude’s violence is different from Patrick’s. Jude, not once, made a move toward me as if to hit me. It didn’t even cross his mind to direct his rage at me—at my face, at my belly, at my tender flesh. It never once occurred to him to bring his fist down on me, like Patrick has done innumerable times. Jude was just angry; he broke things. That was all. Anyway, I reflect, bringing my fingers to the soft, puffy flesh around my eyes, Jude would never do this to me. Heck, Jude wants to kill the man who did this to me.

That makes me shiver. Patrick the monster, Patrick the psychopath, Patrick the junkie, Patrick the man who deserves all the bad things Jude could do to him . . .

And yet he’s still my brother.

Don’t get into that again!

I switch on the TV, turning to the nature channel, and lean back on the couch. The documentary is about penguins, the one with Morgan Freeman, about how they mate for life and go on journeys together, about how the couples’ calls are tailored to be able to find each other in crowds of thousands. I wonder if people ever get that close. I wonder if it’s possible. I wonder if love can really be like that.

The documentary’s almost over when the apartment buzzer rings.

My chest seizes at the noise, carving through the quiet apartment like a machete. I swallow, mouth dry, and walk on shaky legs to the intercom. Has Patrick found out where Jude lives? I swallow again and this time my throat’s so dry it’s like there’s something lodged in there.

With a hand that won’t stop trembling, I press the answer button.

“Emily?” a woman barks, voice high-pitched and authoritative.

“Um, yes?”

“It’s Moira, Jude’s sister. Are you going to let me up or what?”

“Oh,” I mutter. “Sure.”

I press the button to open the door, thinking: Jude’s sent me a babysitter.

Chapter Twenty-One

Jude

Tool greets me with a wide, toothy grin, shoving shotgun shells into a sawn-off. The bar is empty apart from a few old-timers sitting in the corner drinking whisky in the dancing-mote half-light and a few new-timers pouring the whisky for the old men. Tool leans an elbow on the bar as he loads his weapon.

“Got everything you need, man?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, patting the holsters hidden near my waistline, just under my shirt. “Don’t know why you’ve always got to be so loud, Tool.” I gesture at his sawn-off. “Anyway, I thought you preferred—”

Tool rolls his eyes. “A few times, man, a few times I used a hammer—and once a wrench—on some really nasty pieces of trash. Rapists and pedophiles and all that. Thought they deserved the special treatment.” He cracks the sawn-off, loading it, and drops it into a duffle bag at his feet. “And just ‘cause of that, I have to spend the rest of my life with the word Tool tattooed on my forehead.”

I gesture at his head. “There’s no tattoo there.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” He scowls. “Funny man. You know what I mean. What about you, with your Judas Kiss?”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “It’s just a punch,” I say.

“Just a punch? Ha! Last time I punched a man—and trust me, I do it often enough—I didn’t fly through the air like a ninja.”

“I don’t fly through the air. I just throw my weight into it, is all.”

“I’d do that, but I’d end up breaking my knees. I think there should be a warning on cake, man: Don’t eat if you like your knees. Mine are shot to perdition.” He pats his rotund belly affectionately. “Anyway, shall we get going? The van should pull up any second—” Tool grins. Outside, the screech of tires sounds.

“Who’ve we got with us today?”

“We’re the seniors today, man. The rest are green kids. Shouldn’t matter, though. I’ve heard this Barry jerk is a real monster, but no one’s too much of a monster for us, eh?”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “We’ve got it handled.”

We walk into the street, and then directly into back of the van. On the side of the van are the words: Sandwich Service! Sandwiches Direct to Your Office!  Tool and I sit on one side, opposite three men who I haven’t learnt the names of yet. You get plenty of new fish in this business. The cold truth is most of these men won’t be able to cut it. They’ll be dead, in prison, or running in a couple of years. It takes an iciness to survive this life, the ability to freeze your veins, which most men lack.

What about you? Your veins aren’t frozen anymore, are they? Not with Emily.

I ignore the voice and listen as Tool drones on, which he tends to do before any job. The van cruises through the city, the only light the dim glow through the porthole-like back windows.

“Have you all heard of this Barry guy?” Tool asks. He goes on before anybody can reply. “Because I have, and let me tell you, he sounds like a real piece of trash. He sounds worse than that, even. I don’t know if the boss told you, but this man’s a kidnapper, a torturer, and a rapist—of children. That’ll give you some idea of the kind of man we’re dealing with. I also talked to some buddies of mine last night, you know, to get a lay of the land. Man, man, the trash they told me would make toes curl.”

“Like what?” an eighteen-year-old kid with freckles and a mop of brown hair asks.

“You don’t want to know, kid,” Tool says. “But I’ll tell you anyway if you’re so curious.” The van goes over a bump. We all jostle in our seats and then sit back down. “My buddy’s got a buddy who’s got a sister. This sister, well . . . she can’t be the brightest light in the world, let’s just say that. This Barry jerk seduced her, took her on loads of nice dates, all that stuff. And then one day, out of the blue, he just beat the rubbish out of her. The man told my buddy that his sister was on life support for a while, multiple breaks, fractures, punctured lung. She still has health troubles now. So, ladies and gents.” He winces, and then chuckles. “So, gents. We’re dealing with a man who does not deserve to breathe. Never forget that. Hold it close. Push it deep into your mind. This. Man. Does. Not. Deserve. To. Breath.”

The brown-haired kid laughs, and Tool’s eyes dart to him. “Something funny, kid?”

The van goes over another bump. We’re all thrown up—and then down.

“N-no,” the kid whispers, holding his hands up in a show of peace.

“You laughed,” Tool says through gritted teeth. “You laughed at me.”

“N-n-no, I’m . . . I’m s-s-sorry . . .”

Tool leans forward, staring daggers at the kid.

I clap Tool on the back. “Leave off, Tool,” I say. “Look at him. You’re scaring the poor mongrel.”

Tool lets out a laugh and rocks back in his seat. “I’m just messing with you, kid. You’re my teammate. I don’t friendly fire. We’re about to meet the real enemy. Got some intel he’s going to be at a certain hooker’s apartment.” Tool strokes his sawn-off. “I don’t think he’s going to get the happy ending he’s looking for.”

Everybody laughs, the tension dissipating.

I clench my fists—my palms still sore from last night—and think of the moment I saw Barry pull Emily into his lap. The fear on her face. The fear on my woman’s face.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Emily

Moira marches into the apartment like she owns the place. She’s a short woman, about my height, but she’s thick where I’m thin, sturdy where I’m fragile. Her hair is jet-black, which makes me double take when I step back and let her in. She looks me up and down, a stern expression on her face, a face devoid of freckles, just like Jude’s.

“We’re not all redheads,” she says, and then walks into the living room. She doesn’t acknowledge my bruises, which is refreshing. She’s holding a big pile of books and she’s dressed in nurse’s scrubs. “I came straight from a nightshift, so you ought to thank me, really.” She sets the books on the coffee able and drops onto the couch. “Jude has told me a lot about you,” she goes on, without waiting for my response. “He’s told me you have a natural talent for caring. Well, I told him right back, it takes more than a natural talent to make a nurse. But he was adamant. Says you fixed him up every night for the past two weeks. Said you were brilliant at stitching and patching and soothing. Said you had great bedside manner.”

“Oh.” It’s the first thing I’ve said since she walked in, and even that seems too much for her.

She twists in her sitting position. “Oh?” she echoes. “What do you mean, oh? I’m telling you what Jude’s told me.”

I join her at the couch. She follows me with Jude’s hard eyes.

I sit next to her.

“I didn’t realize Jude had spoken about me at all,” I say.

“Oh, yeah.” Moira nods. “We talk on the phone often, usually about run-of-the-mill stuff. He doesn’t mention his work and I don’t ask. That’s one thing I’ll ask of you, too. I don’t want to know. I know what he does. I don’t agree with it. But he’s my brother and I’d stand by that man no matter what. You know he saved my life?”

Her speech is like the firing of a machine-gun, constant tat-tat-tat. She doesn’t even seem out of breath.

“Well,” she says, staring at me plainly.

“Well . . . what?”

She gestures at the textbooks, piled high. “Aren’t you going to take a look?”

“I’ve never had any desire to be a nurse,” I say.

“Have you ever even thought about it?”

“Before right now? No.”

“Well, then, how do you know? Eh?” She smiles for the first time. It makes her seem less jarring. “Seems to me you need some direction in life.”

I blink at her. “You don’t even know me.”

“Of course I do!” she explodes. “Jude has told me all about you! Not all the details, of course. He wouldn’t betray your trust like that. That’s what he said to me, anyway, and I was dang surprised to hear him talk like that. He doesn’t talk about women like that, my brother. More of the . . .” She winces, realizing she’s saying too much. “More of the cold type, if you get my meaning.”

“I do,” I say. “But he’s not cold anymore.” There’s a hint of pride in my voice.

“No,” Moira says, “he’s not. You must have magic powers. So, you don’t want to look at the books?”

I glance at them out of the corner of my eye. They call to me. I can’t deny that. After being denied education for so long—after Patrick ranting at me for countless hours about how learning is useless for a woman like me—I can’t deny that the books are appealing. And nursing, helping people . . . maybe there’s something in that. But there’s another response inside of me, too, a life-long response which causes me to recoil at the idea. You can’t do it, a voice whispers. After a moment, I realize it’s Patrick’s voice. You could never do it. In my mind, he’s standing over me, eyes burning with drugs and anger. What do you think you are? Some prissy smart jerk? Just keep your head down and get on with your work, jerk!

I realize I’m shaking. With an effort, I stop myself.

“Are you okay?” Moira asks, her voice suddenly softer. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I lie. “No, I’m fine. Just . . . thinking.”

“Don’t do that,” Moira snaps. “Never waste time on that. All it does it rot your brain.”

I tilt my head at her. “You just said that thinking rots your brain.”

The corners of her lips twitch. “Oh, yes, I did.” They twitch again, and then she breaks into a full smile. Her face transforms. “What am I talking about!” She giggles, clutching her sides.

The laughter is infectious. I can’t help but laugh along with her. Whatever atmosphere was in the room turns to vapor at once.

When the laughter passes, Moira leans across and pats me on the knee. “It’s good to laugh now and then,” she says.

All at once, I feel an outpouring of gratitude to this woman. Perhaps it’s because she’s related to Jude or perhaps it’s because she’s taken the time out of her life—when she’s tired after a night shift, when she should be sleeping—to come and make me laugh.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask.

“And something to eat, if you’ve got it.”

I go to the kitchen. “What do you want?” I call. “A sandwich?”

“Sure.”

I check the refrigerator, which luckily escaped Jude’s anger. “Ham okay?”

“Yes.”

I make the sandwich and pour a glass of orange juice. I’m about to take it into the living room when Moira appears in the kitchen. She looks over the broken cupboards and ruined oven and sucks in breath through her teeth. “Jude, Jude, Jude.” She sighs. “He must’ve been really angry.” She sees me flinch and holds her hands up. “Don’t worry. I won’t pry. Not my business, I know. But I know Jude and I know he wouldn’t have done something like this unless he cared. Jude doesn’t get angry, not usually. That part of him died a long time ago. I think only giving a trash would make him angry now. He doesn’t even get angry with his work, as far as I know . . .” She shakes her head. “But I don’t talk about that. What I’m saying is, he must care about you, Emily. Care about you a whole lot.”

“I know.” It’s like I hear the words instead of speak them. The confidence is unlike me. But I do know. Jude and I have reached a place I never thought a woman like me could reach. A close place. An intimate place. A place where we can tear open our chests and reveal the soft places inside. A place where we idiot like animals and love every minute of it.

Moira takes a step back. “Well, excuse me.” She grins. “I didn’t know you were so in love.”

I hand her the plate and the glass and we return to the living room. The TV’s still on, but the documentary has changed. Now the camera follows a pack of wolves as they run across an icy wasteland, hunting, mating. I get so absorbed in it I don’t realize that, when it ends, an hour and a half has passed. Moira stirs next to me, yawning and stretching.

“You can take a nap if you like,” I offer.

“No, not yet.”

“Not yet?”

She gestures at the textbooks. “My mission today is to get those books in your hands. And I will not sleep until my mission is complete!” She waves her hand dramatically. Suddenly, she’s not a sleepy nurse on a couch; she’s a vibrant actress on the stage. She yawns again, deflating.

“You need sleep,” I press gently. “How long was your shift?”

“Ten hours.”

“Ten hours, and here you are still awake. Do you want to take a nap in the bed?”

“Yes, of course I do.” She looks at me flatly. “But not until you have picked up those books. And not just picked them up, missy, but really lost yourself in them. Put your all in. Really try.”

“Has anybody ever told you, Moira, that you’re an extremely annoying person?” I wink at her, shocked at my own playfulness.

“Too many people.” She nods meaningfully at the books. “Now, are you going to take a look—or not?”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, can’t help but smile. I pick up the first book, which is titled, A General Introduction to Nursing. I sort through them. All but one is a textbook; the final one is a guide on how to apply to nursing courses.

“I’ll take a look,” I say, but already my curiosity is piqued. Learning. Expanding my mind. Actually getting a chance to apply myself.

“Good.” Moira heaves herself up, walks across the room, and stands at the bedroom door. “I’m going to question you after my nap, so study hard.”

I bury my face in the book, reading the introduction. By page two, I’ve already learnt two new things. It feels good.

“Thanks, Moira,” I mutter, but she’s already snoring.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jude

The van stops outside a tall apartment building in a rundown neighborhood. I peek out of the window and see a gang of kids at the far end of the street, one man handing out little baggies of weed. The leader, a tall black man with cornrows and a tear-drop tattoo beneath his eye, is packing. I can see the outline of his pistol beneath his trousers. The rest are just kids, can’t be older than fifteen.

Of course we’d find that prick Barry in a place like this, I think.

Tool holds a shut-up finger and takes out his cellphone. The van goes quiet as Tool speaks. “Hey, baby doll,” he says, grinning like a madman. I can see the other guys are as nervous as I must’ve been a long, long time ago. The kid with freckles and the mop-hair swallows, his Adam’s apple a solid ball of shifting anxiety. “Is he up there now? Ah, you’re pretending I’m one of your girlfriends. Very clever. There’s a bonus in it for you; your acting is so good.”

He grins at the rest of us and then hangs up.

“Right, he’s up there. Let’s go.”

We pile out of the van like men ready to do murder, ’cause that’s exactly what we are.

Tool leads us to the apartment’s main door. He presses a buzzer. The door beeps and opens.

“Told him I was another girl.” Tool smiles as we walk into the building. “Stupid mongrel thinks he’s about to have a threesome.”

Normally, I’d laugh, just to help the day along. But I can’t get Emily’s face out of my head, the fear in her features when the sleazy mongrel pulled her into his lap. I know he’s done worse things—much worse things—but seeing him handle Emily like that burns into my mind. I clench and unclench my fists, bloody intent making my muscles hard, my senses honed. I’m not Jude anymore. I’m more than Jude. I’m a killer, stalking. The other guys, even Tool, keep their distance from me; I must look mad, scary, mad and scary.

“Which apartment is it?” I ask.

Tool tells me.

I run up the stairs, past graffiti-covered walls and over discarded needles. All around us, the sounds of drunk and high people smash through the walls. Somebody stumbles; somebody cackles; a plate shatters; a woman screams. I run faster, mind going into overdrive: Pull my woman into your lap, eh? Make my woman scared for her life? use my woman like she’s a toy? Try and hurt my woman? He’s a dead man. No question. He’s dead. Dead!

“Jude,” Tool mutters, at my shoulder. “You okay, man?”

“Fine,” I say, voice distorted because I’m growling like a beast.

We gather outside the door.

“Who’s doing the honors?” Tool asks.

I kick the door so hard all the hinges snap loose. It flies through the air like a tiny piece of fluttering paper and lands with a pathetic thump. The apartment is even more of a mess than mine was before Emily got her hands on it. The couch is not so much a couch as a threadbare collection of fabric and plywood. The walls are bare and black with damp. The floor is uncarpeted and reeks of alcohol and drugs. Needles are scattered everywhere like deformed flower stems.

The woman stands near the door, just to the side, and Barry sits on the couch, facing the door. The small, beady-eyed man is shirtless, displaying his twisted muscles. He’s small, but some men have a violent aura around them no matter their size, and Barry is one of them. I get the sense looking at this piece of piss that he wouldn’t flinch at hurting a child, a woman, anybody. A killer, like me, sure—but so much worse ’cause at least I leave innocents out of it.

His beady eyes do something impossible when he sees us; they go wide.

He leaps to his feet, reaching into the waistband of his jeans. He fumbles. Reaches again. But it’s too late. I’m across the room like a torpedo. The world seems to slow as my heartbeat speeds up. I see individual beads of sweat dripping down the man’s naked upper body. I see his teeth, biting down on his lower lip. I see the way his hands shake and I see the light dusting of white powder around his nose. I hear him yelp. I hear the hooker run from the apartment.

Then time speeds up and my fist crunches into his stomach.

He keels over, collapsing onto the couch in a bundle.

I smack him in the face. I feel his cheekbone crunch. I smack him again.

“No! Please! No! Please!” he wails, bringing his hands to his head.

“No?” I spit. “No? You’re going to beg me? That’s your plan? We know all about you, you pedophile. We know about all the trash you’ve done.” I kneel down, grab him by the neck, and bring my face so close to his I can smell the coke. “And do you think I’ve forgotten about the way you grabbed Emily, like she was a piece of meat for you to enjoy? Do you really think I’d let you get away with that, you moron?”

I head-butt him. His nose caves and blood, powdered white, gushes down his front.

“P-p-please,” he whispers. “Just . . . please.”

“Have some self-respect,” I snarl.

I lift him by the neck so he’s on his feet. He tries to fall backward, but I hold him up. His arms hang limply at his sides.

“Not so nice, is it, having a big mean mongrel in your face when there’s nothing you can do about it? Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you raped children!” I explode on the last words, crushing my hand around his windpipe.

He splutters and dribbles, spit dripping down his chin in big phlegmy globules. I see Emily’s face, running continuously like a stuck DVD in my mind. I imagine this piece of trash tailing kids in his car, grabbing them . . . using them. My blood has turned to ice, lava, fire; my blood has run with hatred and killer’s intent more times than I can count. Now, it runs with a strong protective urge. I’m no longer in some hooker’s rundown crack house. I’m standing on the shore of a lake watching the bubbles of my dying parents rise to the surface. I have to do something.

“P-p-p—”

“Prick!” I let go of him and take a step back. I feel the others at my shoulders, ranged either side of me, but all of them know better than to get in my way right now, just as any smart man knows to get the heck out of the way when a bull comes charging at him.

A hush falls over the apartment, as though everybody knows what’s about to happen. The Judas Kiss has become a sort of joke around the bar at this point, but just because Tool has a laugh over it, that doesn’t mean it isn’t feared. I take another step back, aiming. Barry totters from side to side, a drunken man struggling to stay on his feet.

“You’ll never hurt anybody again.”

My voice is iron.

I jump, spin—and give him a Judas Kiss which sends him hurtling over the back of the couch, flipping head over toe, and landing in a crumpled pile on the floor. I jump through the air, throwing my entire weight behind my right fist, an MMA-style move that earns me a gasp from everybody, even Tool. I never know exactly what I look like when I give anyone a Judas Kiss, but Tool once told me it was like a giant mousetrap flinging shut.

I walk to the edge of the room. Barry moans softly from behind the couch. He coughs; he gurgles.

“Finish him off.” I wave a hand at the men. None of them argue.

They walk around the back of the couch and lay into him. His gurgling and coughing is replaced with whelping.

I turn my back on the scene and inspect my knuckles. They’re cut and grazed, but that doesn’t bother me much. It’s tough to think of a time in my life when my knuckles haven’t been cut and grazed.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, calming myself.

The prick who pulled Emily into his lap will never hurt anybody else.

A scream—a shout—and finally a gargling, choking noise.

“It’s done,” Tool says.

“Good,” I reply.

It’s only when we leave the apartment and a few pedestrians look at me sideways, I realize I’m coated top to bottom in a misty layer of blood.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jude

When we get back to the bar, the only thing on my mind—except for Emily, who is always on my mind, even if every so often she’s a background track—is cleaning myself off. I make toward the bathroom as the other guys go to the bar for a drink. I’m about to enter it when Mickey’s voice cuts through the bar. He speaks quietly, but it’s the quietness of a feared king, the quietness of a man who knows he never has to raise his voice to be heard.

“Jude, my office.”

I go into the backroom, past containers of whisky and potato chips, and into the small office hidden in the back. I walk in and Mickey gestures at the seat opposite his. A man like Mickey, you’d expect him to have a grand, kingly office, but this room is bare and plain, the chairs simple wooden stools, the desk devoid of any personal indulgences. It’s a Spartan office.

I sit down. If Mickey has any problem with me smearing blood all over the chair, he shows no sign. He doesn’t seem to notice the blood at all. But then, he’s Mickey, the leader of this crime family. His entire life has been spent in the presence of blood.

“Heard you gave the man a Judas Kiss,” Mickey comments, with the shadow of a smile.

How does this man know everything?

He reads my expression, and then says: “Tool texted me. In code, of course.”

“I just did my job,” I mutter. Too much is made of this Judas Kiss business. It’s almost as though a man can’t just go about his work without people twisting his bloody tasks into some kind of heroic gesture. Judas Kiss, is, really, only, a punch, and yet people treat it like some emblem of the life.

Mickey grins openly now. “Yes, yes, I know. We don’t have to indulge in all that nonsense, do we? That’s why I called you in here, actually. I’ve got your pay.”

Already? You go freelance, you get paid when you work; you sign up with a family, you wait for the cuts to be spread out.

“And a bonus,” Mickey goes on. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a huge roll of twenty-dollar bills. At a glance, I’d guess there was around twenty thousand dollars there. He casually counts out ten thousand dollars and slides it across the table. Then he counts out another three and drops it on the pile. I take the money, roll it up, and stuff it in my pocket.

“Thanks, boss,” I say.

Mickey waves a hand. “You’ve earned it. That jerk didn’t deserve to live. That’s the truth about some men, Jude. They don’t deserve to breathe. How much do you know about natural selection?”

I blink at him, dumbfounded. Mickey is like a pinball sometimes. One second he’s beating the blood out of some unlucky gentleman, the next he’s philosophizing.

“Nothing,” I admit. “I think it was that Darvin guy, wasn’t it?”

Mickey’s grin is positively beaming now, like a little kid on Christmas morning. “Darwin, but close enough.”

“Okay…”

I want to go back to the apartment, take a shower, see Emily. I know Moira’s there, but it’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon and I want to see how the ladies are getting along. I decide I won’t bother washing up in the bathroom. I’ll just get home as quickly as I can. But of course I have to let Mickey finish. If there’s one thing you never do in this life, it’s interrupt the man in charge.

“Survival of the fittest,” Mickey says.

“I’ve heard of that phrase,” I offer.

“It’s commonly misunderstood,” he lectures. That’s what he sounds like: a professor giving a lecture. “People misinterpret it to mean survival of the strongest, but that’s not what it means at all. Fit, in the biological sense, means a collection of genes and traits which are suitably adapted to their surroundings. For example, a chameleon, whose entire life is based around hiding, is fit. That’s interesting, I think.”

“Yes, sir.” When he starts talking, he can really get going, can’t he?

“You are suitably adapted to your surroundings, Jude. You’ve lived it. You’ve breathed it. You are the fittest, and that’s why you’ve got a bonus. Barry and his friends, they are not adapted, which is why they have to go.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m rambling, Jude. Forgive me. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately about the life, the nature of what we do.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, what I mean to say is, we’re suited to this. We’ve been doing it a long time. We know how the game is played. Barry didn’t. His friend, Patrick, doesn’t. My hope is that Patrick and his buddies take Barry’s death as exactly what it is: a proclamation that they are not, nor ever will be, the fittest. We are. Failing that, it will at the very least send a different message: we’re coming for you, so don’t get too comfortable.”

The blood has dried and stuck to my body now. I feel it peeling away from my skin.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You can go, Jude,” he says.

“Thank you, sir.”

I go into the bar and make for the door. Tool touches my arm.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Did he give you the survival of the fittest speech?”

I laugh. “He’s given you the same one?”

Tool nods. “He bought a book about evolution a few weeks ago. How survival of the fittest applies to business management. He told me he regrets not reading more when he was younger.”

I leave the bar, chuckling to myself. You can be in this life for a year or a decade and it’ll never fail to surprise you. People think of us as monsters, but the truth is we’re just men like anybody else.

I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s a comforting thought.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Emily

Moira emerges from the bedroom at around half past three. Her hair is messy and her eyes are wide and bloodshot. “Never sleep in the day.” She groans as she walks across the room, dragging her feet, and into the kitchen. She pours herself a glass of water and returns to me on the couch.

My nose is buried deep in the nursing book. I’ve gone from general housekeeping to assisting in advanced operations. I’ve learnt about hospice care, which sounds tragic but also somehow beautiful, to childcare and general nursing duties. When Moira sits next to me, I place the book on the table.

“Enjoying it?” she asks, but I can see by her bright eyes and her smile that she knows I am.

“It’s okay, nothing special,” I reply, years of being forced to hide my interests coming to play. I can’t even fool myself.

“Yeah, right.” Moira drains her glass of water and leans back on the couch. “When I came in here, you looked like a little kid, all excited because the next book in her favorite series was out.”

“I feel like my mind is electrified,” I tell her, wondering if I’m putting into words what I’m feeling. But that’s the only way I can think to describe it. It’s like my mind, stunted and ignored and battered for so long, has finally been set free.

“I know what you mean,” Moira assures me. “That’s how I felt when I first started. It’ll all the new knowledge. It makes sparks when it goes into your head.”

I giggle. “Is that the scientific explanation?”

“Don’t laugh at me, stupid girl!” Moira cackles, waggling her finger, doing an impersonation of some despotic matron on a hospital ward. She settles down. “I’m glad you like it. Do you think nursing is something you’d go into?”

Before I’ve even formulated an answer, I realize I’m nodding. Nodding eagerly, too, like it’s something that’s been building up my entire life.

“Wow, enthusiastic,” Moira says.

“Overenthusiastic?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Whoever told you there was such a thing as too much enthusiasm?”

Patrick.

“Just . . . people.”

“Well, people can go to perdition. Let me tell you something, Emily. There’s no such thing as too much enthusiasm for learning. I remember school, how the kids ridiculed the smart kids. A kid did well in a test, he was beaten and insulted because of it. Why do you think that is?” She barrels forward, pausing for a quarter-second before going on with her machine-gun speech. “It’s because the kids were jealous. They wanted to be smart, too. Maybe they knew they could’ve been smart if it were not for their desire to be popular—”

The apartment door opens and Jude walks in.

Moira and I turn.

Patrick, I think again, but this time I feel an old reflexive twinge in my chest. I remember watching once as Patrick got the garbage beaten out of him by some of the older kids at the orphanage. It didn’t happen often, but even a mean huge man like Patrick struggled with five on one. I watched, backed against the wall, as they kicked and bit and punched him. This was years after he had started beating me. I remember thinking: I should be happy. He’s getting what he deserves. But I wasn’t happy. I was terrified. Hateful or not, evil or not, he was my brother . . . He is my brother, I think, staring at Jude, bathed in blood.

Moira shoots to her feet. “I have to go,” she says, facing away from Jude.

“Sorry, sis,” Jude mutters. “Slipped my mind about, you know—”

“About me not enjoying the sight of my brother covered in somebody else’s blood?”

Jude winces. “Yeah, that.”

“Right. You know, Jude, for a man who saved my life, you sure are a piece of trash.”

“Ha, ha.” Jude steps aside. “I’ll see you later, sis.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Moira collects her things. She leaves one book on the table, the one I was reading. “You can keep this, hon.” Before she exits, she scrawls her cell number on a piece of paper, folds it up, and slips it into my pocket, all while I sit statue-still. “If you ever need to talk,” she says, and then leaves.

I don’t hear her. I don’t hear anything. My mind is spinning. The man I’ve given myself to, the man I very well might love, has just entered the apartment covered in my brother’s blood. Ha! Some twisted part of my mind cackles. What sort of joke is your life, Emily? You fall for a man, he shows you things about yourself you never knew, and now here you are, sitting on his couch when probably less than an hour ago he was killing your brother. What sort of sister are you? What sort of woman are you? He’s your brother, your family! Are you going to stand for this?

Moira leaves the apartment. I gaze blankly down at the nursing book as Jude walks across the apartment and leans down into my field of vision.

“Emily?” he asks.

I try to speak, but I feel as though something vital has been wrenched from deep within me. I hate Patrick; he’s my brother. Patrick hits me; he’s my brother. Patrick ridicules me, insults me, resents me; he’s my brother. Patrick is an evil drug-dealing man; he’s my brother. It seems the latter always, no matter the circumstances, overrules the former. Brother is a trump card my emotions, my mind, my everything can’t help playing. And no matter how much I try and fight it, I can’t. When you’ve lived with something your entire life, it’s difficult to just let it go. I feel like a woman’s who’s lived her entire life with a glass eye, only to find that the eye has rolled out of my socket and disappeared. Maybe the glass eye was a nuisance, maybe it was a chore, perhaps it was annoying, but it’s been there forever and that’s all I register.

“Emily?” he prompts.

“I asked you to leave him alone,” I say. My voice sounds distant, disconnected from my body. It’s an out-of-body sensation I know well. It’s the same one that comes over me every time Patrick beats me.

“What?” Jude flinches. “Are you serious right now?”

“What do you mean, am I serious?” I look deep into his eyes. I feel rage bubbling over again. The presence of the rage provokes more rage. I don’t want to be angry with Jude. I want to be close to him, love him, and yet when I think about him laying into Patrick, the rage turns volcanic.

“That’s not your blood,” I mutter.

He takes a step back, regarding me with a perplexed expression. “No,” he says. Something in his face hardens. He’s not even sorry about it! “No, it’s not. But you shouldn’t even care, Emily.”

“Well, I do!” I explode onto my feet, waving my hands at him. “I do care! Do you understand! I. Do. Care. I can’t help it, Jude. We talked about this. I said I wouldn’t go to work as long as you left Patrick alone! You completely ignored me! Do you even care about me, Jude? Or are you just using me for sex?” The words spill from my lips as though somebody else is talking. I don’t even think about what I’m saying. I just ride the wave of rage. “Well?” I bark, when he just stand there, blood-flecked features getting harder each moment. “Do you even give a hoot about me? He’s my brother!”

Jude paces up and down near the table, shaking his head, muttering under his breath. “After everything he’s done…so what if I did…after everything he’s done…so what if I did…”

“Jude.” Voice shaky, threatening to blow up. “Jude, you’ve ruined my life.”

Even I’m not sure what I mean by that. But then, it isn’t me speaking. It’s the scared little girl in the orphanage who, despite everything he’s done to her, sees Patrick as her only lifeline.

“How the idiot would that even be the case?” he snaps. “Look at your eyes, Emily. How long until they heal? How long until you don’t look like a woman who’s been in a car accident? I can’t believe you’re defending him again.”

“What if it was Moira, huh?” I chuck the question at him like a knife. “What if I came home one day covered in Moira’s blood? Wouldn’t you care? Wouldn’t you defend her?”

“It’s not the same.” Jude stops pacing and turns his blood-ringed eyes to me. “Moira is a nurse. She spends her life helping people. Patrick is a monster who spends his life hurting women.”

Suddenly, unbidden tears sprout from my eyes. They slide down my cheeks, over the pitted bruises. My tear ducts don’t seem to see the irony in crying over the man who caused the black eyes; they just go right on ahead.

“You’re . . . crying.” He speaks in a tone of complete disbelief. “Why are you crying? Even if I . . . He’s not a good man, Emily. I can’t have you defending him like this.”

“You can’t have it?” I hate how my voice sounds, tear-choked and desperate. “It’s none of your business, Jude. It’s not up to you how I deal with my own brother . . . Oh my goodness, Patrick. Patrick is dead! My big brother is dead!” I sound hysterical. I pity the woman. I pity how under Patrick’s thumb she is. But then, when you’ve lived your life under somebody’s thumb, that thumb doesn’t dislodge without a fight. I try and think: This is good. Patrick was a bad man. But my mind just plays the brother card, halting that train of thought.

Jude walks to the bathroom door. His boots leave bloody prints on the floor, on the rug I bought for him. It seems grotesque, my brother’s blood staining the rug, which after all is a sigil of my dedication to Jude. Suddenly, the dedication seems misplaced. I feel lost.

“I’m going for a shower,” he says. “We’ll talk when I get out. There are some things I want to say. I’ll . . . I’ll explain everything after the shower.”

He goes into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. Without giving myself time to think, I charge to the front door, pull on my sneakers, and walk out into the hallway. As I’m walking down the stairs, I misstep and trip. My arms flail and I manage to catch the banister, but the sensation of falling doesn’t stop, even when I’m in the street, even when I walk away from the apartment, marching blindly through the city. I’m still falling, reeling, spinning. Control has been wrenched from me. I feel as though I am lost at sea.

I tell myself, time and time and time again, that Patrick is—was—a bad man, but bad man or not, he’s the only family I ever knew. He was the one constant in an otherwise hectic life. He was the man who—who what? Who beat you? Who hated you? Who made you feel small? I want to listen to this voice, part of me knows it’s talking sense, but a bigger part of me keeps imagining Patrick on his back, Jude’s boot stamping on his face. I hear Patrick screaming in agony, begging for mercy. Surely Jude must’ve paused, just once, and thought that Patrick is my brother. Surely he must’ve thought how this would’ve affected me.

But, in the end, my first observation about Jude was right. He doesn’t care one tiny bit about how I feel. My desires mean nothing to him. In the end, all he cares about is himself, his own desires.

I pause at the end of the street, wondering if I should turn back, but then my mind throws up another image, this time of Patrick cold and blue.

I keep walking.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Emily

I walk through the city in a state of profound shock. It’s like I can feel the spinning of the earth. Every time I walk by somebody, I expect them to stop me and ask if something is wrong. I feel as though I must look like a lonely, wandering woman. But people just brush by me and that suits me fine. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t want to have to explain how I’m feeling to another person. They’d never understand; nobody would. How can I explain to another person that I’m distraught because my abusive brother is dead? But distraught is the right term for it.

I walk for a long time through the sunlit streets, past honking cars and bustling businessmen and frantic parents dragging along even more frantic kids. I walk until my legs carry me, by accident, to Central Park. I don’t think. I just plunge into the park.

I pass by a man and a woman holding hands. The woman has a wide smile on her face as she leans across and kisses the man behind the ear. The man turns, kisses her on the cheek. The love between them is almost physical, reaching across the park and nudging into me. I stop for a moment and imagine that I’m that woman, that life is carefree, that fear and pain and longing and regret and confusion are alien to me. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t completely put myself in that woman’s shoes. She’s one of the smiling, happy, loving women, the type I’ll never be.

I reach into my pocket, meaning to take out my cellphone, but I forgot to bring it with me.

I press on, deeper into the park, until I reach the pond. I go to a bench and throw myself down on it. My mind is filled with memories and not all of them are bad.

Sometimes, Patrick was a good brother, and right now the good seems to massively outweigh the bad. It doesn’t help that I know it’s a skewed point of view. It doesn’t help in the least.

I remember once, after we’d moved out of the orphanage and into our first apartment, I had recurring night terrors. I would dream that I was standing at the edge of a cliff, rooted in place as you often are in dreams, and behind me there was a huge, lumbering beast. Every night, the beast loped at me, slowly. I could hear every step, its breath as it got closer, its claws tearing up the earth. I looked down at the rocks, jagged and razor-sharp. Soon, I thought, the beast will push me over the edge and that’ll be the end. Despite the pain, I didn’t want to die. I always woke just as the beast smashed into me, sending me toppling over the cliff edge.

I would scream and spasms would course through my body. I would pound the bed with my fists. I would claw at the sheets.

I remember Patrick coming into the bedroom. I fell silent, a hand of terror gripping me. He’d hit me now, I thought, and no matter how many times he’d done it before, the pain never became less, just easier to accept. I shrank to the other side of the bed, arms at my face in a pathetic attempt to shield myself. But he didn’t hit me. He crawled onto the bed and wrapped his arms around me.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking my hair. Stroking my hair with hands that would, the next day, bruise my face. “You don’t have to be scared. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” Never mind that all the bad things that happened to me were his fault. “You’re safe.” A lie, because I was never safe with him. But in that moment, with the phantom of the lumbering beast in my mind, I didn’t care about the other things Patrick had done. All I cared about was how safe he made me feel. He kissed me on the forehead, tucked me into bed, and sat on the floor as I fell asleep.

That’s what people on the outside never understand, I reflect as I watch the ducks drift across the water, leaving ripples in their paths. The ripples spread outward and create more ripples until the whole pond is shimmering in the sunlight. There is no such thing as just bad, or just good. There’s always an in between space. But nobody ever sees that. They think a devil must be a devil and an angel must be an angel. They never stop to consider that sometimes devils wear halos and angels sprout horns.

And yet . . .

I allow another part of myself, so far ignored, to pour its feelings into this potent brew.

And yet now, I will never again have to fear him. I will never again have to shrink in terror as his huge, lumbering body comes at me. Because the truth is, Patrick was the monster in my dream. He was the monster and he was the protector. He’s dead. I never have to fear him again. I don’t have to be scared anymore. But he’s my brother. But he hit you. He’s dead. Be happy; he sad. Be strong; be a good sister. See him for what he really is; sometimes he was a good man.

“Ah!” I snap, picking up a stray twig from the bench and throwing it into the water. I mutter under my breath: “Why can’t life just be simple for once?”

“It rarely is.” The voice comes from behind me.

I leap to my feet, spinning.

The man doesn’t make a move toward me. He’s large and soft-looking, wearing an old-man overcoat which covers his knees. He’s short, squat. His face is squashed and he wears wire-framed glasses. A crescent of grey hair frames a bald spot on stop. His coat is pulled up around his neck, but there’s something under there, marking his skin.

“It’s not polite to sneak up on people,” I say, voice breathy. The tears have stopped flowing now, though, so that’s something.

“I didn’t mean to sneak up,” the man says, completely at ease. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a transparent bag of breadcrumbs. “I’m just here to feed the ducks. I couldn’t help but overhear.” He strolls to the edge of the pond, passing by me, and begins throwing breadcrumbs into the pond. The ducks gather around him at once.

“Well, you did,” I say, backing away to the bench and sitting down again. Really, I should go away, but my legs are aching from so much walking and this old man doesn’t seem to even notice I’m here.

For around ten minutes, I watch as he feeds the ducks. He takes a genuine pleasure in it, oohing and ahhing every time a new duck joins the fray. He even waves away some of the bigger ducks so that a duckling can get its share. When his bag his empty, he turns to me.

In his other hand, he holds one final pile of crumbs. “Would you like to feed them?” he asks.

“Uh, sure,” I reply, grateful for the distraction.

I take the crumbs from him and toss them into the water. Together, this kind old man and I watch as the ducks polish off the last of the breadcrumbs.

Then he faces me. “Are you okay?” he asks, gesturing at my eyes.

“I tripped,” I say shortly.

“Ah.” He nods knowingly. “I’ve known many women who tripped—”

“I tripped.”

He holds his hands up and wanders over to the bench. Without even thinking about it, I join him, dropping next to him. “I knew a girl once,” he says. “She was young, pretty, smart. Brilliant, really. She was eighteen years old and her father was a real nasty piece of work. Real nasty. The sort of man to kick a homeless person in the stomach whilst he’s sleeping. That’s not some random example. He really did that.” The old man sighs. “The girl had a boyfriend, but back then the boyfriend was too weak and pathetic to do anything about it.” He shrugs. “Long story short, the inevitable happened. The man beat the girl to death. By the time the boyfriend learned of it, it was too late. Not even killing the mean old mongrel could do any good. He was half a man after that.”

“You’re talking about yourself,” I’m not sure how I know, but it’s so obviously true that I don’t question the statement.

The man smiles tightly. “Yes, I’m talking about myself.”

“Is there a moral to this story, old man?”

“No moral. There never are morals, not in life. Just decisions.”

“Are you a philosopher?” I ask, genuinely curious. He talks like one.

“No.” He laughs. “I’m just an old man with too much time on his hands.”

There’s a pause, lengthening, ducks quacking and kids giggling and wind rustling the leaves overhead.

“Was she scared?” I say. “The girl, I mean.”

“Right up until the end,” the man murmurs, voice choking. “Right up until the end.”

“I know fear like that,” I say. There’s something about this old man which allows me to open up, some disarming aspect. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never known a father.

“You do?”

I nod. “Too much about it, I think.”

He spreads his hands. “I have all the time in the world. Why don’t we talk awhile?”

I think: He’s a stranger. But I say: “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jude

I shower quickly, realizing it’s cruel of me not to tell her the truth. But there’s something else, too, something which slides under my skin and spikes through my body. Rage. Cold, hard rage, the sort of rage which makes a man clench his fists until his knuckles strain to burst out of his skin.

Why would she keep defending him? I ask myself as the blood runs down my body in rivulets and swirls down the plughole. He’s a monster. And the way she reacted . . . it was like he was the best brother who’d ever lived! Why would she keep fighting for him after everything he’s done? Worst of all was the way she looked at me, like I’m the monster. Like I’m the man who should be ashamed of himself. Like I’m the beast. She went from loving to distant in the space of a couple of minutes and all for him. She chose his side. She defended him. It makes me dang sick.

I get out of the shower and towel myself off. Blood is a tricky thing to clean, especially when you’re caked head to toe in the stuff, but I’m used to that by now. I’ve been dealing with it for most of my life. It gets under your fingernails, in your hair, sinks deep into your pores. You have to scrub it off. I splash water in my face and then walk into the living room with the towel around my waist.

I need to tell Emily the truth. I need to tell her I didn’t kill her brother. It may piss me off, but I can’t have her hating me.

I walk around the apartment. I expect her to be sitting on the couch, watching one of her documentaries or perhaps reading Moira’s nursing book. But the apartment is empty; it feels deserted. I go into the bedroom, but she isn’t there, either. Dang it. I return to the living room and pick up my cellphone, call Emily. There’s a vibration. Her phone is on the couch, humming against the cushions.

Dang. It.

So she’s stormed out. I immediately begin to panic. She’s left the apartment in a rage under the impression that I betrayed her—at least from her point of view. I look at the clock—the clock which she bought and hung above the TV, a stylish modern thing—and see that it’s been ten minutes since I stepped into the shower.

Okay.

I dial the bar.

Normally, Tool or one of the other guys picks up, but Mickey’s voice rings down the line at me.

“Hello,” he says, sounding like a kind, sweet elderly man who isn’t quite sure how the telephone works.

“Boss, it’s me. Jude.”

“Jude. Are you okay? You’re probably wondering why I’m answering the phone. The rest of the guys are out, partying. I gave them the afternoon off.”

“Oh, okay.” I sense one of Mickey’s long, drawn-out speeches coming on. I press on quickly before he can get started. “I was just calling because Emily…She’s my, err…”

“Girlfriend, isn’t she?” Mickey says. “I heard the report from the fight—and from the bakery.”

“Oh.” Is there anything this man doesn’t see? “Well, she’s stormed out and I was going to ask one of the guys, one of the new guys, to track her steps, just to make sure she’s safe. But obviously I’ll do it myself now—”

“No, no,” Mickey interrupts. “I can handle it. I’m bored anyway. And in my experience, women tend not to be too keen on seeing the man they just walked out on. I think it’d be best for both of you if you stayed out of it until she’s had a chance to calm down.” Is this man a relationship expert now as well as the boss? “I know what you’re thinking,” Mickey goes on, and when he says it, it’s as though he really does know what I’m thinking. “You’re wondering how a man like me would know something like that. Well, let me tell you, Jude, I wasn’t always the boss.”

“Yes, sir.”

I don’t know what else to say to that.

“I’ll find her,” he says.

“How?” I ask.

Mickey chuckles. “How does a bird know where to migrate when the weather changes?”

This man… “I don’t know, sir.”

“It’s in his nature. Well, it’s in my nature to find people. Keep your cellphone on. I’ll call you with an update if there’s an update to give. It’s like we’ve switched roles, isn’t it? I’m out in the field and you’re the one waiting for an update.” I can hear him smiling down the phone.

“Ah, yes, sir.”

“See you on the other side, Jude. Or should I say boss?” He laughs, and then hangs up the phone.

I go into the bedroom and get dressed.

I pace the apartment for about two minutes before I think, phoo, and take a bottle of whisky from the kitchen, stuff it in the inside pocket of my jacket, and walk out of the apartment. I need to move. I can’t just sit here. I check the battery of my cellphone, make sure it’s on loud, and place it in my pocket. I walk out into the sun, glancing up and down the street, but Emily’s nowhere to be seen.

I take a slug of whisky, burning my throat and making me feel warm, and walk down the sidewalk, my eyes never resting in one place. My hope is that Emily is lingering somewhere out here, waiting for me to chase after her. It’s funny, because if Anna had pulled a stunt like this, there’s no way in any circle of torture I’d be chasing after her. But that’s just another sign that I love Emily, that I didn’t love Anna.

I’ve just turned a corner when I spot an old black man hobbling down the street. He’s eighty, older, at a guess, with straggly strands of hair clinging to an otherwise bald head. He leans heavily on a walking stick and his clothes are the cardboard-like, papery suit jacket and trousers old men often wear. Behind him, three young men—around nineteen to twenty—hurl insults at him. The old man walks on, ignoring them, but I can see by the way his eyebrows are furrowed he isn’t enjoying it.

Two of the young men are little jackrabbits, scrawny things with backward caps. One has a misspelt tattoo on his neck. Curage. The other sucks on a fat joint. Their leader is a tall, brawny man wearing a tank top to display thick muscles covered in layers of hair. As I watch, he passes the joint to one of the jackrabbits.

“Run, Forrest, run!” the leader cackles.

“Run, Run!” his pals echo.

The old man looks up, meets my eye, grimaces, and then looks down at the sidewalk.

Right.

I pace down the sidewalk, skirt the old man, and stand in front of the three mongrels.

“Walk away.”

The leader cocks his head at me, the sort of gesture that makes me want to grab him by the head and just go snap.

“Say what?”

“I said, walk away. What sort of mongrels are you, eh? Taunting an old man? He can’t even walk without a stick and here you are taunting him.”

All their eyes are shot with blood, all their hands shaking. One of the jackrabbits, the one with the ridiculous tattoo, looks around with the snappish paranoia of a person who’s smoked too much.

“Why do you care?” The leader laughs uncomfortably.

Good question. Maybe because I did a bad thing today. I didn’t tell Emily the truth. I could’ve put her out of her misery but I just couldn’t stand the way she was defending him. And now she’s roaming the streets, alone.

“Three.”

“What the heck—”

“Two.”

“Come on, man—”

“One.”

“Run! Run!” the paranoid one screams, turning on his heels and sprinting away.

The other two study me for a moment, and then decide they don’t like the murder in my eyes. They join their pal.

I go to the old man, who stands at the edge of the street, watching.

“I didn’t need you to do that,” he says in a crackly voice.

“I know you didn’t,” I reply. “Just thought I’d do it anyway.”

“Your good deed for the day?”

“Something like that. How far away do you live, old man?”

“Not far. Five minutes.”

“Want some company?”

He thinks on it, and then nods. “Sure.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

I take another slug of whisky. The old man eyes the bottle as I replace the cap. I unscrew it again. “Thirsty, old man?”

“Wouldn’t mind a sip.”

I hand him the bottle. With a shaky hand, he brings the rim to his mouth and takes a swig.

“Feels good.” He smiles as he hands the bottle back to me.

I walk with the old man toward his apartment, thinking: Do I really think this is going to make up for withholding the truth from Emily like that? Do I really think this makes it alright?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Emily

“That isn’t what a brother is supposed to be like,” the old man says quietly.

I’m shocked at myself. This old man asked to talk, and I talked. But I didn’t just talk casually, mentioning a couple of things. In fifteen minutes of breathless ranting, I told this old man as much as I could about my relationship with Patrick. I told him about the orphanages, the apartments, working, and most of all I told him about the beatings. I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s like this old man has the power to reach inside of me, pull a couple of strings, and open me up.

When I’m done, I lean back on the bench, feeling hollowed out as though my memories and experiences have been pushed out into the park.

“I know that,” I reply, with an effort. My jaws ache from talking so much. “I know that, old man. Don’t you think I know that? But it’s not that easy.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my brother.”

“Yes. And that confuses you.”

“Well…yeah.” I look at the old man. He sits comfortably, hands in his laps, as though he hasn’t a care in the world. I wonder who he is, what he does. Maybe he’s a retired doctor or police officer or something. He certainly knows how to quietly unravel the inner life of a person. Or maybe I wanted to share with him—anybody—and he’s just the person who happened to be here. Whatever the case, it feels good to finally unload.

He faces me. “I think people overestimate the important of family,” he says. “Or, at least, family in the strictly biological sense.”

“What do you mean?” I prompt. Patrick is dead! Your brother is dead! I push it back in my mind, focusing instead on the old man. I feel as though I am in the presence of an old sage, a wise man from a fairy tale.

“People think that because you are born to this or that person, or have this or that person as your brother, uncle, sister, whatever, that you owe them something. But let me ask you, why is that? Why must a person be loyal to the person whose blood they happen to share? Why is that the defining characteristic of loyalty?”

“I…” Words desert me. I look inside myself. It seems absurd that I’ve never asked myself this question before, but the truth is, I haven’t. Not in those words, at least. My mind played the Patrick card and that was that. “He’s my brother,” I finish lamely.

“That is not a reason. You can’t just say that he’s your brother and that’s why you stand by him. I’m asking why brotherhood is the defining characteristic of loyalty.”

“Well,” I say, spite in my voice, “I obviously don’t know, do I?”

He flinches. “You should know,” he says. “It sounds to me like loyalty to your brother has been the one constant in your life. And you don’t know the reason for it?”

I blush up to my ears. When he puts it like that, it makes me sound stupid. I turn away from him and watch the ducks for a while, tracking their ripples as they spread and multiply across the water, reaching out with watery hands.

“Perhaps it’s just instinct,” the old man goes on.

“Are you seriously telling me,” I say, gritting my teeth because this old man is casually, easily, tipping my entire worldview upside down, “that you don’t care about your family?”

“I care about my family,” the old man says. “But not my biological family. In my younger years, I made a new family for myself.”

“You got married?”

“No. I…I started a business. Now my colleagues are my family. I’ve earned their loyalty and they’ve earned mine. And that’s what it comes down to, when you get past all the blind devotion. Earning it. You have to ask yourself. Has this person earned your loyalty? What have they done, other than be born to the same parents?”

“He wasn’t always bad,” I mutter. Tears threaten to sprout in my eyes. I fight them back. This man is provoking a maelstrom of activity in my chest, a cacophony of conflicting emotions. But something strange happens the more I talk with him. Before, loyalty to Patrick dominated. It was the status quo. But now I’m thinking…thinking about whether or not this old man might have a point. Perhaps my loyalty was misplaced.

The realization hits me like a gunshot to the chest. My heart pounds in my ears and sweat slides down my forehead.

“Maybe not,” the old man says, his voice soft as he watches this change in me. “But how much bad does a person have to do before you say, enough?”

“I’ve just…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I’ve just never questioned it. Not really. Not until I met…” Not until I met Jude. Not until he showed me that there’s a different way to live. Not until he showed me that a man—even a violent man—doesn’t have to take out his anger and resentment on a woman. Not until I fell in love with Jude and he showed me a whole different side to life.

“I’m scared I won’t know who I am if I just let him go,” I admit.

I question myself for the hundredth time: Why am I sharing with this man? Why am I opening myself up to him? Why am I revealing the soft fleshly places inside of me? But the answer is simple. Just because he’s here and he’s listening and he sounds like he understands. For a long time, I’ve just wanted somebody who understood.

“Sometimes in life,” he says, “you have to make your own family. We find our own lovers, our own friends, our own way in life, but always we shackle ourselves to those we were hurled against in the birth lottery.”

“You sound like you know a lot about it,” I mutter.

“Oh, I do.” The old man smiles sadly. “I know more about it than most. My father was a cruel man. A cruel, cruel man. The sort of man to kick you in the face to wake up if you fell asleep in his favorite chair. But, oh yes, he had his good side, too. He took us on holidays. He worked hard and kept a roof over my head. But he beat the heck out of me every night until I was fourteen years old. He hated his life and he took it out on me.” A dark note enters the man’s voice. He clenches his fists. Suddenly, he doesn’t seem so old and kind anymore. There’s fire in him. “I killed my father,” he says coldly. “I killed him on my fifteenth birthday. I wouldn’t take it anymore. I had all the same doubts you have, now. I hated myself for what I did. I felt like I’d betrayed him. But the truth is, he was the one who betrayed me. All the beatings, all the hate, nothing can make up for that. It’s difficult to accept that you’re the victim, but sometimes it’s necessary.” He winces. “I haven’t talked about my past for a long time.”

“Nor have I, not really.”

“It feels good to unload, doesn’t it?”

I nod.

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

My kneejerk reaction of seeing Jude covered in Patrick’s blood has faded. In its place is something else, something new, something I never expected to feel. I find myself thinking of Moira and Jude, about how they stood by each other through the hard times and never turned on each other. I find myself comparing their brother-sister relationship with mine and Patrick’s. Patrick was nice every so often, but I don’t know if he ever really loved me, cared for me, or if he just saw me as a punching bag.

And the old man’s words make sense, I think. Loyalty has to be earned. Why did I never think of that before? But then I guess I was too busy playing the Patrick card, wasn’t I? I was too busy playing the mouse. I was too busy dancing to Patrick’s tune, just like I’ve been doing my entire life.

“You seem different now,” the old man says.

“You don’t know me. How could you possibly know if I’m different?”

“Different than when we met.”

“An hour ago?”

“Yes. Is that so strange?”

“People don’t normally transform in an hour, old man.”

“No,” he agrees. “But perhaps you’ve been transforming for a while now, and you’ve only just realized.”

I pause, reflecting, and then say: “Yeah, there might be something in that.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jude

After I help the old man up to his apartment, I return to the streets.

I walk aimlessly, just thinking. I think about Emily, about how we met, about how angelic and perfect she looked when she stepped from the crowd in that cold dark place she had no business being. I think about our sex, about the closeness. I think about how different it is with Emily, how it’s nothing like it was with Anna. I care about Emily, really care in a way that reaches into my chest and squeezes my heart. I want her to succeed, I want her to be happy; there’s so much more to us than just sex.

I wander, checking my cellphone every few seconds and taking slugs of whisky to help me along. My feet lead me to toward the city proper, skyscrapers and yellow cabs and honking horns and chaos. I want to see Emily so bad it’s an ache in my body, starting at my fingers and going all the way to my toes. My whole body yearns for her. I skirt around people and each time I see a woman, I think it’s Emily. But it never is. They’re never as attractive, never as vibrant. No other woman can pull at me like Emily can.

Without even meaning to, I wander into the bar. I didn’t even realize I was heading in this direction before I walk through the door.

The place is empty except for Tool, who sits in the back, head lolling, snoring softly. When the bell above the door rings, he snaps awake, hand going for his gun.

“Oh.” He laughs gruffly. “Thought someone had come to end me, man.”

“Not today,” I mutter. “I thought everyone had the afternoon off.” I join him at the table, legs wobbling a little from the whisky.

“Yeah, we did. But the boss called me up and asked me to sit in for a little bit. Wanted someone to watch the place whilst he went out. No idea where he went, though.”

I wince. “My fault,” I admit. I explain to him quickly about Emily mistaking Barry’s blood for Patrick’s.

“That’s rough, man. Can I have a swig of that?”

I slide the whisky across the table. He takes a long sip and then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s rough. But why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”

“I just…” I think back on it, at her distraught face, at the reaction which made me question where her allegiance for that prick comes from. It’s dang hard to look into the face of somebody you love and see that they care for a man who’s beaten them countless times. “I just couldn’t stand how she reacted. I don’t know. I got…I got angry. But almost straightaway I regretted it. But by then it was too late. She was already gone. Left her cell, too.”

“Ah.” Tool rolls a cigarette, strikes a match, and lights it. “The boss’ll find her, man. The boss could find a needle in a needle factory.”

“Yeah. But he hasn’t texted me.”

I realize I sound desperate. I hate it, and yet I understand it at once. I am desperate. Desperate to be close to Emily, desperate for her to be safe. When it comes down to it, I’m just standing on the shore, watching helplessly as my parents sink to their deaths. When I think of Emily, I’m that boy all over again, only Emily is sinking into herself, into years of abuse, into a life spent on an unquestioned leash.

“Maybe he’s just talking to her,” Tool offers. “You know how the boss is. Once you get him talking, he doesn’t tend to stop.” He pauses, squints at me. “Jude, man, do you love this girl?”

“Yes,” I say without pause.

Tool flinches; I flinch, too. In this life, you don’t admit how you feel so quickly. But with Emily there is no dang question. I love her and the thought of her wandering, somewhere unknown, is like acid in my belly.

“Good for you, man,” Tool says. There’s no judgment in his face, as I expected there to be. But then, I remind myself, Tool is married. “You should’ve told her straight-up it was Barry’s blood.”

“I know.” I lean back, sighing. “I know that. But what’re you supposed to do when the woman you love refuses to give up her abusive brother?”

“The boss’ll talk to her,” Tool says confidently. “He’ll make her see things in a different light.”

“Right,” I murmur, wanting to believe him but finding it difficult. “But you didn’t see the look on her face.”

“I can’t pretend to understand people, man. I never have, not really. Half the time it’s like I don’t even know my own wife. But that’s only ’cause people are hard to understand. Who knows what’s going on behind their eyes, you know? Not me, that’s for sure. But the boss does, and I think you do, too, a little—more than me, anyway.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask, genuinely perplexed.

“You’re a good man, Jude. In a different life you would’ve been a vet or a medic or some trash like that.”

We both laugh. Tool says: “I’m serious, man. Everyone says you’re a good man. Nobody would ever say otherwise.”

“Except my marks.”

“Well…” Tool shrugs. “Yeah, except them. But who gives a idiot if killers and rapists and jerks don’t think you’re a good man?”

“Has that whisky gone to your head, Tool?”

“Ha, ha.” He takes another swig. “Not yet, but it’s getting there.”

“I just wish it was simple,” I say.

“What was?”

“How people feel. I wish it was just one way. But with Emily it’s like there are two people inside of her. She still has black eyes from where that piece of trash beat the heck out of her, and when I come home and she thinks I’ve killed that same piece of trash—she freezes on me. How does that work?”

“People, man, I’m telling you…”

We drink in silence for a few minutes. I check my cellphone about one-hundred times, but there’s nothing. No texts, no calls. Nothing. I stuff it back into my pocket with a growl deep in my throat. My mind goes into overdrive thinking of all the things that could be happening to Emily right now. Maybe she got drunk and ended up at some dingy bar somewhere; maybe some guy is taking advantage of her. Maybe she ran into Patrick; maybe she’s dead. Why did I let her leave, dang it!

It’s not the same because I didn’t care even one-tenth as much back then, but it’s similar to when I let Anna’s parents ship her away. I just let her leave, swept away to a rehab clinic to cure her after her stint with me. See, I think bitterly, that’s what you do to people. Anna didn’t need rehab for the drugs, Jude. She needed rehab from you.

“You alright, man?” Tool asks.

I realize I’m rapping the table over and over with my knuckles.

“Fine,” I grunt. “Just my mind is making me crazy. Keep thinking of all the things that could be happening to her, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. I get like that about my kids. Make myself mad over it. That’s how you know you really give a hoot about a person.”

“It doesn’t feel great.”

“Not when you’re apart, no.” Tool laughs. “But that’s life, man. Better get used to it.”

“The bakery,” I mutter, after a pause.

“Bakery?”

I jump to my feet. “That’s where she might be. I’m going to check. See you later, Tool.”

He holds up the bottle. “Don’t you want it?”

“Nah, keep it.”

“I told you, man, you’re a blasted good person!” he calls after me as I leave the bar.

Please be there, I think as I pace down the street. Please be there. Please be safe.

Chapter Thirty

Emily

“Well, you’ve been a help, old man.”

I rise to my feet. The old man stands up almost at once. He turns to me, a concerned expression on his face, almost like the expression of a father regarding his daughter. It makes me feel weird, as though a puzzle piece has been slotted into a long-empty place inside of me. The look this old man gives me, this stranger, is a look I’ve yearned for my entire life. A look Patrick never gave me. The look a loving family member is meant to give.

As he stands, his coat clings onto his knees, tugging his neckline down. I see his tattoo, which I only half-noticed when we first met. It’s the same as Jude’s tattoos!

I take a step back, stunned.

“You’re . . .”

“Mickey O’Donnell,” he says, extending his hand. “And you’re Emily Ness. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He walks to the edge of the pond, watching the ducks. I join him, standing at his shoulder. “We’ve been talking for over an hour. Didn’t you think it would’ve been a good idea to let me know who you are?” I pause. “Wait a second…Did Jude send you?”

Mickey laughs. I try to find some hint of murder, sadism, in the laugh, but his voice is still the kind old man’s voice. Discovering that he’s Jude’s boss, the leader of one of the most dangerous crime families in America, does little to change my perception of him.

“Of course Jude sent me,” he says. “But I’m not here to take you back. I won’t even tell Jude I found you.”

“So why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He turns to me with a fatherly smile. “I’m here because Jude cares about you a whole lot, and Jude’s my family. That makes you family, too, girl.”

A tingle moves over me at the word. Family.

“I shared a lot with you,” I murmur.

“You did. And did it help?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I think so.”

“Then my work here is done.”

“How did you find me?” I ask.

“I have an intricate network of homeless people,” he says. “I put out an announcement, you were spotted entering the park, I was contacted. Don’t tell anyone, though. I’m pretty sure most of the men think I’m psychic or something.” He taps his nose in a keep-a-secret gesture.

I can’t help but laugh.

“I like you, girl,” Mickey says. “You don’t deserve all the nasty trash that’s happened to you. I’m sorry about that.”

“Were you telling the truth?” I say. “When you told me about your dad. About the girl.”

He nods somberly. “Oh, yes. I was telling the truth. I’d ask you to keep that a secret, too, if you don’t mind. Not many people know about it.”

“Of course.”

He looks deep into my eyes. “Jude’s a good man,” he says. “Jude’s the best man I know, Emily. Tool told me once he thought Jude would’ve been a vet or something like that in a different life. Maybe a nurse like his sister. I don’t know about that, but I know that boy; there’s more to him than appears at first glance.”

“Isn’t that the same with all of us?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Mickey shrugs. “You’re family now, girl, but I won’t overstep and tell you what to do. All I’ll say is this. Jude’s a good man and he cares a great deal for you. Oh, he tries to hide it, of course. But he’s like a teenager trying to hide a crush. He’s been different these past weeks, even if he himself hasn’t realized it. You can almost smell the love radiating from him. He only wants you to be happy.”

“He’s said all this to you?” My tone is disbelieving; I could never imagine Jude offering all this up to anybody else, especially a man in the life.

“No. But he doesn’t have to. It’s written on the boy’s face.”

We pause, watching ripples and ducks and leaves floating on the breeze. “You’re different than I expected you to be,” I say.

“We all are. No person in this life is evil. At least, few are. There are the Barrys of this world, of course, but they’re few and far between. Mostly we’re just men with a job to do. That’s something else I need to tell you, girl. You’re my family now. If Jude’s my son—and in many ways he is—you’re my daughter-in-law. I will never have a quarrel with you. But I have one with your brother, Patrick. You should think about distancing yourself from that brother of yours before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late.” I don’t feel the pang of confusion and grief I felt before talking with Mickey. Strange, how one conversation can change so much. “He’s dead.”

“He’s not dead.”

“What?”

He tells me; it was Barry’s blood. Barry’s the one who’s dead.

“Then why…” I reel all the way back to the bench and drop into it. I lean my forearms on my legs and let out panting breaths. “Then why didn’t Jude tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Both for the same reason, I expect. We wanted you to let him go. We wanted you to see that those black eyes of yours outweigh all the supposed good he’s done for you. Judging from our conversation, I’d say it was a successful venture.”

“It was.” I breathe heavily. “But…I thought he was dead!” I massage my temples. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.”

Mickey walks to the bench, standing over me. “There is no easy answer to that one, I’m afraid,” he says. “But I think you’ll find some kind of answer, if you really look.”

With that, he leaves me.

After around fifteen minutes, I stand up and make my way through the park.

Despite everything, I feel stronger, braver. The old man—Mickey, I correct myself—has helped me see something that was there all along. He’s helped me see my steel.

I’ll get my last paycheck from the bakery, I think, smiling despite the madness of the last couple of hours, and then I’ll return to the apartment. I need Jude. I need him badly right now.

Chapter Thirty-One

Jude

I’ve just walked into the street when my cellphone buzzes. I’m so eager to see Emily that I wrench the small mess of plastic and circuitry from my pocket with the ferocity of my drunk, killer’s hands. It flies into the air, spinning, and almost crashes into the wall. Only throwing myself against the wall and hefting it like a football prevents it from doing so. I smile at myself, thinking, stupid, and then answer the cell without checking who it is.

I’m sure it’s Emily. She’s returned to the apartment and now she’s there waiting for me. I imagine her propped up on the couch, legs folded beneath her, watching one of her documentaries with her cellphone held in her small, pale hand. I imagine her glancing at the door, curious about where I am. Most of all, I imagine I’m back there now. We don’t even idiot; we just sit together. I hold her. Dang, this is different. I feel like a alien or something.

But the voice which snaps at me down the line isn’t Emily’s; it’s Moira’s.

“It’s good to see you, too,” she says dryly. I can’t get anything past Moira. She senses my moods like a bloodhound senses blood.

“I was expecting somebody else.”

“Emily,” Moira says.

“Yes. How did you know?”

I lean against the wall of the bar, watching the almost-empty street. Resident New Yorkers know better than to walk by this bar, but every so often a tourist or somebody not in the know will wander by. As I watch, two Brits carrying rucksacks and wearing I Love New York baseball caps stroll by. They glance at the bar, at me, and then hurry along, talking loudly in Queen-like accents.

“I just got off the phone with her.”

“You did?” I lean up. The Brits twist their heads, flinch, and walk with quicker steps.

Moira laughs tightly. “Yes, I did. And I have to tell you, Jude, I don’t like talking about this side of your life, but as strange as it may seem, I’ve come to like that girl a heck of a lot. I know, I know,” and here Moira goes into overdrive speech mode, something I’ll never get used to, her words thumping into my ear like pellets, “I’ve only known her for an afternoon. But we clicked, you know? Sometimes, in life, people just click. She’s smart, though she’s never been allowed the chance to use her intelligence. More importantly, she’s enthusiastic and she actually cares. Do you know how rare that is, Jude, to find somebody who actually cares?”

“Yeah.” I pant the word. “Sure. Where is she, Moira? Where’s she heading?”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

I drop against the wall. “Then why are you calling me?” I can’t hide the old sibling snapping from my voice.

“Don’t take that tone with me!” Moira cries. For a pained moment, I’m thrown back decades to when Mom was alive. Mom could bring that same fiery note into her voice when she wanted, too, and it chilled me then as it chills me now coming from Moira. “You’re my brother and Emily is my friend. I think I have every right to do a little poking around.”

“Fine.” I sigh, massaging my forehead. The whisky pounds against the surface of my skull, a sleepless hangover on its way. “It’s just, I need to see her, is all. There was a misunderstanding and it got way out of cursed proportion.”

“I know. She thought you’d killed her brother, turns out you’d killed some rapist-slash-pervert instead.” Moira’s voice goes tight as she ventures into the life, rare territory for her. Moira never judges me, but I know she doesn’t agree with how I make my living. Heck, can’t blame her. She spends her life fixing people; I spend my life breaking them.

“Okay, fine. So the fight’s over, then.”

“Well…sort of…”

“Sis, what do you mean?”

“I get the sense that you still want to kill her brother.”

This again.

“Moira, how much do you know about her brother?”

“You know how much I know. You told me all about it, remember?”

I wince. “Ah, yeah.” I often forget how often Moira and I share with each other—excluding the bloodier portions of my life. Moira’s a constant, always just there. “Okay, so you know that he’s a piece of trash who deserves to die.” My tone goes cold, but Jude Kelly’s particular brand of icy cold won’t work on Moira Kelly. I’ve tried it before. Secretly, I’m pretty sure Moira’s the tougher sibling.

“I’m sure the man deserves punishment,” Moira says tentatively. “But can’t you understand that he’s also her brother, Jude?”

“This argument again!” I bark.

I spring away from the wall and begin pacing up and down the street. Tool pokes his head from the bar, narrowing his eyes at me. “All good, man?” I mouth fine and he retracts his head. I go to the other end of the street, clenching my fist around the cellphone so hard I’m sure it’s going to break.

“Yes, this argument again,” Moira mutters. “Look, I agree that Patrick is a bad man. You’d have to be a fool not to see that, from the outside. But remember, Jude, that Emily isn’t on the outside. Emily has been on the inside her entire life. Every day of her life, she’s lived with that man. Every day of her life—or almost every day, or at least often enough to make it routine—she’s been beaten and insulted and abused. Don’t you see, Jude? It’s violence. She’s lived with violence for as long as she can remember. So from her point of view, it’s the norm.”

“I don’t see your point,” I say. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t do much to heal her black eyes, does it?” Only Moira can bring out this little-boy tone in me. I sound petulant, I know, but I don’t care. It’s like the world is stacked against me. All I want to do—and, more importantly, what the family needs me to do—is take out an abusive mongrel and everyone seems to have a problem with that.

“My point is,” Moira says patiently, nurse-like, “that for Emily the violence is just another part of her life. The only constants in her life have been Patrick, and violence. And whilst she’s slowly coming out of her shell, coming to terms with her abuse, do you really think taking away Patrick is going to make it easier for her? Do you really think more violence is going to fix it?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do. Once the threat is removed, she’ll have the space to move on.”

“You think with your fists,” Moira says.

“That’s true. You’re two for two, sis.”

“Now you’re being a jerk.”

“I just don’t understand why the whole world has collectively decided that Patrick is a nice guy.”

“I never said he was a nice guy. I just said you need to see it from Emily’s point of view.”

“I try, I really do, but all I see is a man twice her size battering her with his fists. Maybe she is under his thumb, maybe she is twisted and manipulated, but that doesn’t mean anything Patrick does causes her any less harm. He’s a monster and that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s never all there is to it,” Moira says. “You should know that, more than anybody.”

“What does that mean?” I demand.

“Many people would see you as a monster, Jude.”

I laugh, but it sounds forced, even to my own ears. “I take out the trash; he beats women. I’m sure anyone can see the difference there.”

“Many people wouldn’t, I bet.”

I sigh for what feels like the twentieth time.

“I need to go and find her,” I say. “We can sort all this out then. I’m not in the mood to play runaround anymore. Wait a sec—you said you spoke to her?”

“Yeah.”

“How? She left her cell at the apartment.”

“She called me. Maybe from a payphone.”

“Dang. Anyway, sis, this has been enlightening and all, but I’ve got to run.”

“Jude,” she says, in that Mom-like voice again.

“What?”

“Just think about what I said.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Jude!”

“What?”

“Think about what I said!” she snaps.

“Okay,” I say. “Fine. I will.”

“Promise?”

“Dang it! I promise!”

“Good. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Bye.”

I hang up and make my way down the street, toward the bakery. I’ve walked no farther than half a dozen steps when I spot Mickey walking toward me, alone.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Emily

I remember Moira’s cellphone number by accident, just by stuffing my hands into my pockets as I walk. I finger the folded-up piece of paper as I walk down the street, not remembering what it is until I pass by a phone booth. I don’t think I’ve used a phone booth ever, in my entire life, but luckily there’s some change in my purse.

I feel lighter, somehow, as though my steps are buoyed up by some unseen force. The talk with the old man—Mickey, my family now—has helped to complete a change which was already occurring inside of me; he was right on that score. I still don’t want Patrick dead—after all, he’s still my brother—but I no longer feel that fierce allegiance to him I did before. Around two hours ago! But sometimes in life, two hours can make all the difference.

I slide change into the coin slot and dial Moira’s number. I’m not even sure why I call her, only that I think it’d be good to hear a friend’s voice. And that’s what she is, I reflect. A friend. My life has become a whirlwind of quick, meaningful encounters today. In the morning and afternoon, I made a friend; in the late afternoon, I met a father figure. My worldview shifts just like the world itself, tilting on its axis—and now I’m in daylight for perhaps the first time in my life. I’ve never felt like this before, as though life can beat me all it wants, because I have the tools to beat it back, now.

Moira answers on the third ring.

“Uh, hello?”

“It’s me,” I say. “Emily.”

“I recognized your voice. Are you calling me from a payphone?”

“Yeah, it’s retro, isn’t it?”

Moira laughs. It’s such a simple thing, to make a friend laugh, but it’s something I’ve been denied my entire life. No, I correct myself. Not been denied. Something which Patrick denied me.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Nothing, really,” I admit. “Just wanted to talk.” A thought occurs to me. “Have you talked to Jude since you left? I stormed out and I left my cellphone behind.”

“No, I haven’t. Maybe I’ll call him after this.”

“Yeah, please do. I’m afraid he might’ve gone crazy when he saw I wasn’t in the apartment.”

I explain, as quickly as I can, everything that happened since Moira left. Mistaking Barry’s blood for Patrick’s, meeting Mickey at the park, and my newfound sense of bravery and purpose. “But I don’t want him dead,” I add quickly.

“No.” Moira pauses. “No, of course not. Why would you? But you don’t want to be ruled by him anymore, either?”

“Exactly!” I almost bark the response.

“I was just thinking about you, actually,” she says.

“You were?”

“Yeah. Strange, isn’t it?”

“The day I’m having, Moira, the word strange has lost all meaning.”

She laughs again. It feels good. “I was thinking…we had a pretty good rapport, didn’t we?”

“I’d say so,” I agree.

“Well, maybe you should move in with me. I need somebody to split rent with, and I think you’re the perfect candidate.”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Yeah. Why not?”

Why not?

“That’s nice of you, Moira. Especially since we only just met.”

“Well, so what? Everyone’s only just met at one point or another. Anyway, if you’re really going to go into this nursing thing full-force, it might be good to live together. I could help you with the coursework, applying for courses—everything.”

I’m beaming, a smile so wide my mouth hurts, as though my lips are surprised to be twisted into such an unusual shape. The only downside is I wouldn’t be living with Jude anymore, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t still see him, be with him. And maybe it’d be good not to live in the middle of the twister that is Jude’s life, surrounded by blood and death every day.

“It sounds good to me,” I say. “Really good. Thank you for the offer. Let me think about it.”

“Ha, it’s not completely selfless. Like I said, I need somebody to split rent with. I swear, I don’t know how anybody can live in New York without being a millionaire.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh.

We talk for a while longer, mainly about Jude and my meeting with Mickey, the change that’s occurred in me.

“I feel like a new woman,” I say. “Does that sound stupid?”

“Not at all,” Moira says. “It’s a good thing. I don’t know you very well, Emily, but from what I do know, I think you deserve to be happy.”

“Well, I think the rest of today is going to be pretty darn good. I’m just going to pick up my last paycheck and then go back to the apartment. If Jude isn’t there, I’ll just call him. And then…”

The evening stretches in my mind like a yawn, a lazy, sleepy, content yawn. I think of Jude and I on the couch together, my head rested on his shoulder as we watch a nature documentary; and then I think of the bedroom and all the steamy, fire-hot delights it holds. I think about riding him, bouncing, taking and giving pleasure like I’ve never felt before, like I never believed a woman like me could feel. I think about the rest of my life, something I never allowed myself to do before because the prospect was too grim. But now, a light is shining on my life, pushing away the nasty darkness. Nursing, a roommate, a boyfriend…Almost like a proper person.

“Alright, I should go—”

My time on the payphone runs out. The line goes dead.

I replace the receiver and walk into the street, a spring in my step. People eye me curiously as I lope down the street like some excited animal on its way to a meal.

Finally, I make it to the bakery.

It’s quiet at this time of day and Mrs. Montgomery is the only staff member still here. A few customers sit at the tables, a couple of students on laptops, two old men in the corner with their pastries resting beside a checkers board. When I walk into the bakery, Mrs. M gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth. It takes me a moment to understand her reaction, and then I remember the black eyes.

“Don’t worry about them!” I cry cheerfully, dancing around the counter.

“My dear,” she mutters. “My sweet child.”

“The pain is gone now,” I say, thinking how that’s true not just of my eyes. “Really, Mrs. M, I’m fine. I’m just here to pick up my last paycheck.”

“At least let me get you a coffee.”

Before I can protest, she takes me by the elbow, leads me to a table in the back amidst crates of hot chocolate, coffee, and flour, and sits me down. She leaves me and returns about a minute later cradling a mug of coffee which throws smoky tendrils into the air.

She places it on the table and drops into the seat opposite me.

“Poor child,” she says. She gestures at the coffee. “Drink if up. It’ll make you feel better.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” I sip the coffee to placate her.

She reaches into the pocket of her apron and hands me an envelope. “Your paycheck,” she says.

“Thank you,” I reply, tucking it into my pocket next to Moira’s cell number.

“You seem…happy.” She sounds bemused, as though a person with two pitted black eyes shouldn’t be happy. And she’s right, I think. I shouldn’t.

“I am,” I say. “I know, it’s strange. But, Mrs. M, this has been a strange, strange day.” I realize my words must make no sense to her.

She squints at me as though searching my face. “I never like to pry into other people’s lives, sweetheart. Keep your own counsel, that’s what I say. But I have to say, Emily, I know that your brother beats you.”

“That obvious, is it?” I say, and then take another sip of coffee.

I don’t sound scared, embarrassed, ashamed, worried, or depressed as I would on any other day, in any other mood, when I make the admission. It’s like a lifelong weight has been hefted from my shoulders. Before, I was stumbling through life with Patrick’s bear-like body pressing me down into the earth. Each step was a struggle. Every breath was wheezy and pained. Every inch gained meant a tapestry of bruises and a bath of blood. Now, hitting me so hard it’s like a buckshot, I feel as though Patrick is lying on the floor behind me and I’m free to walk without his weight crushing me down. I don’t have to stand by him. I have a new family now. No matter how often I think it, it hits me anew. It is, easily, the biggest revelation of my life.

“It is,” Mrs. M says after a pause. “But, I’m not the prying sort, you know, so I kept my suspicions to myself. But today, Emily, it’s very strange. You seem like a different person. I see the black eyes, but you’re glowing, too.” She shakes her head. “Have you moved out of your brother’s apartment? Is that it?”

“That’s part of it.” I nod.

She breathes a sigh of relief, as though she’s been waiting for me to do that for a long time. I’m shocked. I knew Mrs. M was a nice woman, but I didn’t know she cared this much for me. But then, you didn’t think anyone cared for you, did you? You thought the only lifeline you had was a seven-foot-tall man who beat the garbage out of you every chance he got.

“And you’re going to press charges?”

Ah, the transformation isn’t as complete as it could be. My body seizes at the thought; my smile slips.

“Oh, no,” I murmur. “I can’t do that.”

“Oh.” Mrs. M reaches across the table and places her hand upon mine. “Forget I mentioned that, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I am. Thank you.” I swallow. I don’t want to do it, but it has to be done. “I might be leaving you in the near future, Mrs. M. I’m thinking about going into nursing.”

Mrs. M claps her hands giddily. Suddenly, she’s forty years younger. “Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re a caring person, Emily. You’d make a great nurse.”

I finish my coffee and then stand up. “Well, I better get going,” I say.

“Your man waiting for you?” She winks.

“You disgust me, old woman.”

She giggles. Together, we make our way into the front of the store.

The door opens; he walks through.

It’s a testament to the effect this long, beautiful, transformative day has had that I don’t seize up immediately. I don’t become the mouse. I don’t shrink away.

But I can’t deny there’s a burning in my chest that wasn’t there before, an aching in my limbs, and suddenly my eyes begin to pound afresh.

Patrick swaggers into the center of the store, gazing around dead-eyed at the students and the old men, and then walking up to the counter.

“Now listen here, young man,” Mrs. M says, “I know who you are and you have no business being here.”

“Shut up, hag,” Patrick spits, arms spread, giant fists clenched. “I’m here to talk to my sister.”

Before I can respond, he lurches across the counter and grabs me by the front of my shirt. He brings his face close to mine, his breath washing over me, reeking of beer and tobacco.

“I’m here to talk to this hussy.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jude

In my excitement for news of Emily, I forget that Boss is the boss.

I charge at him, legs still shaking somewhat from the whisky, and screech to a halt so close to him he takes a step back. He holds up his forefinger and immediately I remember who this man is. I take a step back.

“Jude,” he says.

“Sir.”

“Have you spoken to her yet?”

“No.” I shake my head with so much force I think my neck will snap.

“Ah. Walk with me.”

I walk at his shoulder, passing by the bar, and joining the main street. We stroll past stores, amidst pedestrians, walking aimlessly. It seems all I’ve done today is walk aimlessly. Boss doesn’t say anything for a long time and I know better than to press him, though my heart is smashing against my ribs in longing. All I want is to hold Emily in my arms. All I want is to feel her body against mine. All I want is to walk into the living room and see her on the couch, looking cute, smiling at me with those perfect lips, watching me with those huge green eyes.

After around five minutes, Boss drops onto a bench. I sit next to him and we watch the flow of pedestrians.

“She’s an amazing woman, Jude,” Mickey says, drawing his words out as though he has all the time in the world. Just once, I think, I’d like this man to be as blunt as his reputation.

“I know that.” My breath comes heavy and frantic, as though even my lungs are trying to pull Emily in. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my mind. Dang, but my mouth is dry, drier than the Sahara.

“We talked for a long time,” he says.

“About what?”

“About lots of things. I told her that she’s part of the family now. That seemed to help her. She thought we’d killed Patrick, Jude. She was in shock.”

“I know,” I murmur. “That was my fault. She assumed it and I did trash. Now I don’t know where she is. Where is she, sir?”

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t know. But I’m sure she’ll return to you at some point. She loves you, boy.”

“And I love her.” There’s no shame in admitting it now, no shame in showing this part of myself to anybody. I love her, need her, as I have never loved or needed anybody in my long brutal life. Anna is the tiniest pinprick of light compared with the all-consuming beam that is Emily, a brightness in my life I’m sure I’ll never be able to live without. “I love her a lot, sir. A whole lot. I just need to see her.”

“She’s changed,” Mickey says. “She isn’t her brother’s pet anymore.”

“It seems everybody knows everything about her apart from me,” I say, unable to hide the bitterness from my voice. “You, Moira—everybody’s seen her except her boyfriend.” Boyfriend. Did you just say boyfriend? I did, and I don’t care. It’s the truth. I won’t hide from the label anymore.

Mickey chuckles. I want to grab the man by the throat and demand that he tell me where Emily is, but that’d end only in me clawing at the lid of a coffin, slowly running out of air.

“Her love for you is fierce. I could see it. She didn’t know who I was, at first. Just some old man feeding the ducks. She told me all about her life with her brother. I think it appeared to her as though I persuaded her he was a bad man, but the truth is it was inside of her all along. It just needed somebody to bring it out.”

“You,” I say, and again there’s biting bitterness in my words. It should have been me!

Mickey chuckles again. “No, Jude. Not me. I may have been the person who was there when she came to the realization, but it wasn’t me. I can tell you that for a fact. It was you, Jude. You’ve given her strength and confidence. From what she told me, she used to be a quiet, mousey thing. She’s not a quiet, mousey thing anymore.”

He’s not going to tell me where she is, is he?

I make to stand. “I need to find her, sir.”

He nods. “I know, I know. Young love.” His tone grows wistful. “I’ve been thinking, Jude. That brother of hers still needs to be dealt with, but I’ve taken a shine to that girl. Perhaps he doesn’t need to be killed. Maybe injured, or pushed out of the city, or some other non-lethal method.”

Standing up, I look down at Mickey in disbelief. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes. I’m sure. She’s a nice girl and if it can be helped, I’d like to stop her from being hurt. But he needs to go, of course. Business is business, after all. I’ll leave the details up to you. Kill him if you like; let him live if you like. As long as he stops dealing drugs on our corners, running protection rackets on our stores, that’s fine by me. At least that pedophile Barry is dead.” He waves a hand. “Go find her, Jude. Go be young and in love. Don’t waste your time listening to the droning of an old man.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say. “I’ll think about what you said.”

“Jude,” he calls, when my back is turned.

“Yeah?” I say, without turning.

“Take good care of her. That girl deserves some happiness.”

“I know, sir. I will.”

With that, I leave him, thinking: Please, Goodness, just let me get to the bakery without another distraction!

Chapter Thirty-Four

Emily

If it happens once, it is a tragedy and it will haunt you forever.

If it happens twice, you need therapy.

If it happens three times, you will wake sweating in the night and panting for breath.

And if it happens almost every day from when you’re a girl, all of those nasty things will still happen to you, but they will be dulled by the numbing sense that this is just routine. Day in, day out, a fist, bared teeth, hate pouring like lava from you brother’s eyes.

When Patrick first grabs me, I freeze up. Some beaten, downhearted part of my mind thinks: Well, here we go again. The sense that I somehow deserve this comes over me. The bakery falls into background noise. An old man stands up, screeching his chair, but it’s like the echo of an echo, far, far away. Mrs. M screams, snaps, wails; I barely hear her. One of the students starts muttering something, trying to be brave, face turning beetroot-red, but his voice comes to me like the squeaking of a mouse. But that can’t be right. I’m the mouse, aren’t I?

This numbness lasts for around ten seconds, during which time Patrick drags me over the counter and shoves me up against the wall. I flop like a fish in his grip, completely paralyzed. All the confidence I was just feeling, all the spirit, drains out of me. I am an empty vessel.

Then Patrick brings his fist back, aiming it at my face, and for the first time in my life I think: Why? Why should he be allowed to do this? Why do I have to be his punching bag? Why do I have to take all this trash? What did I ever do to deserve it?

Nothing, I realize. Not one thing. I never did anything to deserve this other than be related to him, and as far as I can work out, that isn’t a crime.

The vessel fills up; confidence and steel pour back inside of me. I grit my teeth. My expression gives Patrick pause. He tilts his head at me, as though curious at this new behavior. Usually I’m either passive or doing what any normal person does when being attacked: screaming, begging. Now, I’m doing neither, just staring at him.

“No,” I say. I don’t speak loudly, but my voice seems to carry a long way.

“No?” Patrick repeats, as though that word, coming from my mouth, is impossible to understand.

In his surprise he loosens his grip on the front of my shirt. I don’t think. Using every small muscle in my small arm, I shove his hand away and dance to the other side of the bakery, near the counter where Mrs. M stands. The old man—a red baseball cap on his bald head, hands leathery, wearing a faded blue suit—steps into the scene.

“You shouldn’t be doing that, young man,” he says.

“Don’t,” I whisper, standing near Mrs. M. She puts her hand on my shoulder.

Patrick’s about to address the old man when one of the students begins talking. A wiry-framed teen with a knot of yellow hair. “There’s man threatening a woman in…”

Patrick lurches across the room, grabs the cell, and hurls it against the wall. “Don’t get involved,” he growls, looming over the kid. “This is between me and my sister. Who the heck do you think you are?” He shoves the kid in the chest. Not particularly hard, but Patrick’s a huge vending machine of a person and his not particularly hard is, in fact, particularly hard. The kid stumbles, trips, and lands in his chair with a thump. Nobody else makes a move. Even the old man takes a step back.

Patrick turns his face to me, a face I have feared my entire life. Part of me wants to shrink from it, or meekly submit to it, allow myself to be beaten and hated. But then I remember Jude, the old man, my new family. I remember my newfound confidence. I remember the fire in my belly. I remember that I am no longer reliant upon this man. I am my own person now.

“Emily,” he says, voice low and mean. He walks across the bakery until he is standing mere inches from me. Mrs. M clings onto my arm and tries to lead me around the counter, but Patrick extends his trunk-like arm, blocking us. “You need to come with me.”

“She doesn’t have to go anywhere with you,” Mrs. M whispers, her voice brimming with fear.

Patrick wheels on her. “This is nothing to do with you, you stupid old groin!”

A collective gasp rises into the air.

He just called Mrs. M something she does not deserve, in a million years, to be called. This man is not good. This man is evil. You owe him nothing.

He turns back to me.

“Barry is dead because of you, Emily,” he says slowly, trying badly to restrain his anger. His fists are clenched, his lips trembling, his eyes shot with blood, his cheeks bright red, sweat sliding down his forehead. “My dang friend is dead because of you. What, did you think you’d just dance away into the sunset with that Jude idiot? Is that it? You’re my sister, Emily. Did you really think I’d just let walk away after something like that?”

“Barry is dead because he was a bad man.” My voice is unusually solid; no panic enters it. “Barry is dead because he hurt children, sold drugs, beat people for no reason. Barry is dead because he’s the type of man to stick his hand up my skirt and think nothing of it. Barry is dead because of Barry, nothing more.”

“You shut your mouth!”

He springs forward.

I drag Mrs. M behind the counter just in time for Patrick’s fists to smash into the wall beside which we were standing. The red-cap old man stands halfway between the door and us, rocking back and forth. His eyes are hard, as though they’re the eyes of who he was as a younger man. I can see him imagining what he would do were he strong and young, but as it is he just stands there, unsure. The students are rooted to their seats, seemingly unable to move for fear. The other old man just stares down at the checkers game, as if he can pretend none of this is happening.

I stand in front of Mrs. M, guiding her behind me with my hand.

“Barry made his own grave with the mob,” I say, my voice the same, solid tone. “Barry chose to make enemies. Barry chose to be a bad man. Barry chose to act the way he did. How is that my fault? Why does everything have to be my fault?” I take a step forward, gripping the edge of the counter. For a moment, Patrick is stunned by my words. He looks at me as though I have just sprouted wings; for him, me speaking to him in this way is exactly the same. “And, what’s more, big brother, you’ll be next if you don’t get out of town. Do you really think you can make moves on the mob and get away with it? I see you now for what you really are. A scared little boy.”

Spit slides down my chin, my black eyes pulse in pain and rage, and for a mad second I consider flinging myself over the counter and raining fists down on him. I fight the urge. I may be stronger—inside—but I’m not about to go toe to toe with this bear of a man.

“I’m your brother.” He states this as though it is the solution to every disagreement we could possibly have and, until very recently, I would’ve shared that notion. He is my brother. Surely I have to do what he says? But Jude, Mickey, Moira…they’ve made me see the truth, and the truth is that I never have to do what this man says again.

“I have a new family now,” I say. “And it’s not you.”

Patrick actually looks upset for a moment. He brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes, as though fighting tears, and then makes a snort sound as though fighting back sobs. Then he shakes his head rapidly. An atmosphere of before-violence falls over the bakery. The old man looks up from his checkers games; the red-cap old man makes for the door. The students lean back as far as they can in their chairs. Mrs. M creeps into the backroom, finally succumbing to the desire to save herself rather than protect me. Which I can’t blame her for.

It’s as though this is a stage and the other actors have exited, leaving only me and Patrick.

His face hardens. “I guess I should’ve expected as much from a mob whore, shouldn’t I? I think you’re forgetting who the heck you are, Emily, and who the heck I am. Who was it who protected you at the orphanage? Who kept a roof over our heads? Who dealt with the apartments? Who stopped boys from trying to rape you?” He rants on, getting more nonsensical with each word. “You know all those boys at school wanted to gang rape you. You saw how the other girls dressed, slutty skirts, belly on display. Who made you dress right so they didn’t rape you, too?”

“You’re deluded,” I growl, voice as low and mean as his was. He’s trying to twist me, using logic that worked on me when I was younger and more naïve. The worst part is, there’s a deeply imbedded part of my mind that believes him. I would succumb to that part of my mind usually, but now I fight it, beat it back. “I know the truth now, Patrick. I’ve changed.”

“The truth?” he roars, throwing himself across the bakery and standing over me, the only thing between us the counter which suddenly seems thin and small and useless.

“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to stay where I am. “The truth is that you’ve always made the world seem worse than it is. You’ve always made other people seem scarier than they are. And why? Let me tell you why, big brother. It’s because you wanted me to think that, no matter how bad things were with you, they’d be worse without you. Well, I know now that that’s garbage. Do you hear me? Garbage. You are worse than the outside world; you are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Uncertainty flickers across his face, but then he remembers. Remembers who I used to be and who he used to be. Remembers that I’m supposed to be a quiet, meek woman. Remembers that he’s supposed to be in charge.

“I am not,” he says slowly, as though explaining something simple to a slow child, “going to have my sister disgracing the last of my bloodline.”

I almost laugh. He’s really grasping now. “Bloodline?” I spit. “Since when did you care about bloodline?”

“You’re my property!” he screams, pounding his fists on the counter. It cracks, and then snaps completely, falling away and leaving an open space between us.

“That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?” I sneer, scared but standing my ground. “You want to own me. You want to feel like the big man. But guess what, Patrick? I know some men a heck of a lot bigger than you.”

“Whore,” he mutters. “Hussy. Jerk. Whore.”

“Throw your words at me!” I cry. “I don’t care anymore! You. Do. Not. Own. Me.”

“You’re a disgrace,” he says, spreading his arms. “And I won’t let you get away with it anymore.”

He steps forward, murder in his eyes.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jude

The first thing I see when I walk into the bakery is Patrick’s back, facing away from me. He looks huge, like a man other men ought to be scared of. Luckily, I’m not other men. I take in the rest only briefly. The scared kids, the old man, Emily’s boss backed away at the opposite end of the store, peeking around from the backroom. I see the shattered counter and I see Emily. Emily most of all.

I can see what Mickey meant when he said she’s different. She looks different, though the change is difficult to pinpoint exactly. It’s like there’s a new confidence in her which has infused her bones. She stands straighter and less fear touches her features. Her eyes, though still set within two black bits, are once again saucer-like, big and green. Her gaze flits past Patrick, sees me, and then returns to Patrick.

“I’m not the disgrace,” she says, drawing her words out.

Smart, I think, as I creep across the bakery. Patrick may be a big mongrel, but he’s also a poorly-trained mongrel with little experience of real fighting, real murder. Any trained hitman would hear me as I creep across the bakery, but this vending-machine idiot is too concerned with bullying his sister.

“You’ve always been the disgrace,” Emily goes on, and the steel in her voice fills me with pride. She really has changed. Dang, I love this woman. I loved who she was and I love who she’s become, and I reckon I’ll love her for the rest of my life. “You talk a lot about how I need you, you’re a good brother, you’re a good man. But the truth is you’ve never been any of those things. You’ve always just been a man who hit his little sister. That’s it, Patrick. That’s all you ever were.”

“No,” he mutters in disbelief.

I take another step, another, until I am almost close enough to lunge.

“Yes,” Emily spits. “You never considered my feelings. You never even treated me like a person. My whole life, you’ve treated me like less than a person. You’ve treated me like I’m just some inconvenience that has to be dealt with. When did you ever think about my feelings? When did you ever stop to consider how I felt? The truth is, Patrick, that you’re the biggest disgrace I’ve ever met. And I hate you.” She pauses, letting out a long breath as though her words are a shock even to her. “I. Hate. You.”

Patrick raises his fist, pulling it back, right into the path of my hand.

I grab his fist, wrench it back, and hurl him across the room. He lets out a yelp and goes flying into a table, landing on his rear. I see red, rushing at him, my fists clenched so hard my palms punish me for it. He struggles to his feet just in time for my fist to smash into his jaw.

“Ah!” he grunts, stumbling again.

I hit him, again, again, but I lose my cool and losing your cool is never a good idea. Whilst I unleash madly on him, he rolls aside and kicks me in the back of the leg. I stumble, clutching onto the wall, and he jumps to his feet. “No!” Emily cries, as Patrick brings his fist around in a wide, powerful swing. I throw myself to the ground, just in time to miss the main bulk of the punch, but his knuckles graze my chin, sending my head back with such force that the back of my head almost hits my shoulder blades. Pain lances from my neck down my body.

I roll over, struggling to my feet. I’m half-standing when Patrick kicks him swiftly in the gut. I keel over, coughing. He makes to kick me again. I leap back, out of the way, and jab him twice in the nose. He takes the punches easily, as though being slapped by a child. I remind myself that he’s a huge brick trashhouse of a man. Have to hit harder.

I throw myself at him, trying like mad to keep my killer’s calm, but it’s dang hard when I know this is the man who gave Emily those black eyes. It’s dang hard when I know this is the mongrel who’s been beating on his sister his entire life. He dances back, moving quick for such a big bag of piss, out of range of my punches. I uppercut left; he steps right. I uppercut right; he steps left.

He retaliates with a barrage of powerful but clumsy swings, roaring like a madman. I dodge them easily, thinking all the while that I have to beat this man more than I’ve ever had to beat anybody before. If he wins, he’ll hurt Emily. He backs me all the way to the broken counter. Wind touches my face as I narrowly dodge a strike that would’ve 1eveled me out, maybe killed me. But his chest is heaving, I see. With killer’s eyes I evaluate his movements, just as I did back in the fighting pit before all this madness started. It seems like a lifetime ago, a voice mutters in the back of my mind.

He bows his head and charges at me. Behind me, Emily gasps.

I force myself to remain calm. All the jobs I’ve done, all the men I’ve killed, all the fights I’ve been in suddenly accumulate their weight upon me. Anger leaves me. In its place comes a hard-earned calm, the kind of calm few men can muster whilst being attacked.

He charges—and I step aside and hook him so hard across the face that he flies across the room, face smashing into the wall.

Blood smears down the wallpaper, turning it red, and he crumples onto the floor.

I watch him for a few seconds, waiting to see if he’ll stand up, but he’s out cold.

I turn to Emily.

She walks up to me, glancing at Patrick, and then throws her arms around me. I pull her close, hugging her tightly to me, desperate for the feel of her. She grips my shoulders, kissing me over and over on the neck, the cheek, the chin—wherever her kisses land. She leans back in the embrace, a smile on her lips. I can’t help myself. I lean forward and kiss her perfect lips. Despite it all, we moan, pushing into each other. Her body feels tight against mine, tight and strong. Perfect.

“I love you,” she breathes, breaking off the kiss. “Have I told you that yet, Jude? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I say, the words sounding natural, like I’ve been waiting a long time to speak them. “I love you so much.”

We watch each other for a long time, hands roaming over each other’s bodies.

“Now what?” she asks, with a cheeky smile. I read it in her face, my girlfriend’s face. She wants me; I want her.

“Now we go home,” I say, smoothing my hand through her hair. “You’re changed, Emily. You seem different.”

“Different good?” she says, with a cock of the head that’s sexy.

“Different good,” I confirm. “Different dang good.”

“But we should probably call someone first, right?” she asks. “Like the police or something.”

The police, I think, with a chill. The police, for obvious reasons, have never been a friend of mine. But she’s right. Something needs to be done with Patrick, and judging by the way Emily glances at him—an old vestige of concern in her eyes—I’m guessing she doesn’t want him dead.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”

We let go of each other and I reach into my pocket for my cell. I’ve dialed 91 when Emily lets out a shriek. I spin. Emily’s backed against the wall.

Patrick’s on his feet.

With a gun.

Pointed at her.

He wipes blood from his face with his free hand and swivels the gun between us, now aiming it at me, now at Emily.

“You stupid idiots,” he snarls. “You stupid dang idiots. Did you really think you could get away with this? Are you really that stupid? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who I am?”

“A smalltime, wannabe hard man,” I say, stepping forward. My only mission is to make him point the gun at me, and not Emily. That’s all that matters now. “You’re a nobody, Patrick. A waste of breath. A piece of trash.”

“I’m warning you,” Patrick says, eyes glassy and red. “I’m warning you, man.”

I walk right up to him, so close that the barrel of the gun presses cold and hard against my forehead. I hear Emily let out a gasp, but that seems faraway. The only thing that’s real is the icy barrel pressed against my skin, promising death, but as long as it’s death for me and not for Emily, I can handle that.

“Emily, get out,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“No,” she says. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Get out,” I repeat. “Just get the heck out of here. Go and be happy somewhere far away.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Patrick grunts. His finger strokes the trigger longingly. His lips twist into a sick grin. “I’m in charge now. Do you understand? Me. Emily’s had a nice few weeks, sure. She’s had her chance to play at being the big girl. But do you want to know the truth, you mob idiot? She’ll always be mine. Even if she did somehow get away from me, do you really think she’d stop being mine? She’s my property, jerk. She’s my property!”

“If you shoot me,” I say, my voice oddly calm, “you’ll go to prison.”

“I don’t see any cameras in this place,” Patrick retorts. “What if I shoot every mongrel in this place? What then, eh?”

“Patrick.” Emily’s voice is soft, kind. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her step forward. “Patrick, you’re right,” she goes on, in that same syrupy tone. It’s obvious to me she’s acting, but it doesn’t seem so obvious to Patrick, whose eyes flicker to her with fresh emotion.

“Yes?”

“You’re right. Of course you’re right. You’re in charge. You’re the boss. Everybody knows that. We’re just being silly, thinking we can get around you. Ha!” The laugh is so forced I can hardly believe my eyes when Patrick’s lips twitch and real, genuine relief enters his expression. And then it hits me. Patrick has never seen Emily as a person, not really; men like him never do. He has never stopped to consider that what she shows him might not be the complete truth. He has never stopped to consider that her face and her heart might be singing different tunes.

“You don’t hate me?” he asks in a soft voice.

“Hate you?” Emily sounds shocked. “I could never hate you. You’re my big brother.”

This is the moment, I think, watching his grip on the gun like a wolf watches a deer’s step, checking for a weakness, when their lives collide. Patrick has spent his life assuming that whatever Emily showed him was the truth about how she actually felt. Emily has spent her life hiding her true feelings and showing him only what he wanted to see. Maybe it made him feel dang good; now it’s going to be the idiot’s downfall.

“Thank you,” he says, and the sincere gratitude in his voice causes sick to rise in my throat. “That’s all I wanted to—”

His grip loosens. I jump.

Everything happens fast, events whirring ahead at treble speed.

I grab the barrel of the gun, trying to wrench it from his grip. His distraction lasts just long enough for me to aim it away from my face. A gunshot goes off, smashing into the wall. Everybody screams, the ignored patrons, Emily, even Patrick. But I keep my calm. I keep the barrel of the gun pointed away. He fires again, again. Plaster crumbles from the ceiling like snowflakes.

Then he shoves me. I stumble. Grab the gun.

Another gunshot goes off.

Patrick lets out a grunt and falls as though boneless to the ground, clutching his leg.

Blood seeps between his fingers.

Emily steps forward, holding onto my arm and looking down at her brother. His eyelids flutter, but I’ve seen countless men shot and I know he’s going to live.

I kneel down and take the gun from his hand, press it against his head just as he pressed it against mine. Anger burns in me.

“No,” Emily says, touching my shoulder. “It’s done, Jude. It’s over.”

For a second, I think about blowing his brains out anyway. But then I remember Moira’s words, I remember Mickey telling me he didn’t need to die, and most of all I remember that, whilst Emily is overcoming her abuse, killing Patrick may not make it any easier. Maybe it’ll make it worse; maybe she’ll feel guilty. She’s stronger, different—that’s obvious—but that doesn’t mean she’s one-hundred percent new. After everything, she’s still Emily. With a sigh, I take the clip out of the gun, eject the round in the chamber, and lay the empty piece of metal on the floor next to him.

“Let’s go,” I say, rising to my feet.

Emily touches my face, leans in, kisses me. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Emily

I find out about Patrick’s fate through the police officer assigned to my case. She’s a kind-faced, motherly lady who explains to me in kind and clinical words that Patrick’s wounds are not fatal, but he has been detained and charged with drug dealing, assault, blackmail, and intimidation. He’s sentenced to ten years in prison and is moved to an out-of-state facility.

“I’ll never see him again,” I mutter under my breath.

I’m sitting in the living room, two weeks after the scene in the bakery, watching a nature documentary. Jude is picking Moira up; today is moving day.

“I’ll never see him again,” I repeat, and a smile spreads across my face. I’ve said the same words to Jude about a million times. He doesn’t seem to be tiring of them yet. I see it when he looks at me, the respect he feels at my newfound confidence. He called me a flower the other night and we both laughed at how silly it sounded, but later I started thinking. A flower, blossoming despite the pain. Cheesy, sure, but there’s something in it.

Boxes are piled all over the apartment containing my things, moved from my old apartment to here, and to be moved again from this apartment to Moira’s. I’m in two minds about moving in with Moira. On the one hand, it’ll give me a chance to experience what it’s like living with a friend; on the other, it means I have to leave Jude.

I’m still not entirely sure about Jude’s life. The killing, the violence. He never brings it home to me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what he does when he leaves the apartment and returns covered in cuts and bruises.

And yet, do I really want to leave him?

I groan, unsure. I still haven’t made my mind up, not properly, even when Moira and Jude enter the apartment.

“Okay,” Moira says, pacing to the nearest box and dispensing with the pleasantries. “Shall we get to it?”

I nod and rise to my feet, take a box of my own and go to the door, but secretly I’m glad when Jude follows me into the hallway and takes the box from me. He places it on the floor beside us and looks long and hard into my eyes. Moira lingers close by for a few moments, and then clears her throat. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” she says, and backs down the hallway.

His words echo in my mind, spoken when we found out Patrick’s fate: You’ll never see him again, and if by some miracle he does return, your new family will be here to protect you. You never have to be scared again, Emily.

“I know you don’t agree with my life,” he says, smoothing his fingers through my hair. “But we’re close, dang close. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody, and that’s the truth. I don’t want you to move out. I have no plans of quitting, but…” He trails off, and then grins. Seeing him smile fills me with warmth. “But it’ll give you plenty of opportunities to practice your nursing, won’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, but I’m getting swayed. The idea of sleeping anywhere but in Jude’s arms doesn’t appeal to me at all. “I told Moira I’d—”

He leans in and presses his lips against mine. The kiss is all-consuming. The warmth which was already in my chest explodes into an inferno, filling up every single part of me, reaching through my body like wildfire. I moan and he responds. And then he presses even closer, a kiss of utter devotion, a kiss which makes me feel like the only woman in the world. He grips my hair, pressing me closer to him, and when our bodies touch sparks dance over my skin.

I lean back in his embrace, gasping and stunned.

“That was…” I breathe.

“Yeah?” he says, a hot, cocky smile on his lips.

“That was a Judas Kiss, that’s what that was.”

His grin gets wider.

“So you’ll stay?” he asks.

“I love you,” I reply, running my hands over his rock-hard shoulder muscles. “Of course I’ll stay.”

“Looks like I’m going to have to find somebody else to split rent with,” Moira remarks with a smile, appearing at the end of the hallway.

“Moira, I—”

She holds her hands up, smiling just as widely as me and Jude. “Be in love, be happy.” With that, she leaves.

“What do you think?” I ask, looking into my man’s eyes. “Do we have a chance?”

“More than a chance,” he says. He kisses me on the forehead. My body responds like the eruption of a volcano.

Suddenly, lust takes us both.

He lifts me off my feet, holding me bridal-style like he did all those weeks ago, and carries me into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.

“Did you really think you were going to get away that easily?” he says, lust thick in his voice.

Just that, his voice rising in heat, is enough to provoke a mad response in my body. I feel my lips get tingly, my clit begging to be stroked, and that deep, tender place inside of me is pulsing in desire. He’s so strong, I think, as he strides across the apartment and into the bedroom. Oh, he’s so strong. Now that I’m back in the apartment, I find it strange that I ever even thought about leaving. The heat between us is too great, the passion too strong, the sparking electricity like a magnetic force. He doesn’t place me on the bed; he throws me. I bounce up and down, letting out a little scream, but it’s a scream of delight, anticipation. It’s all over now. Patrick is gone. Barry is gone. I have a new family. I am safe. And Jude is my man!

“I’ll never get used to how sexy you are, Emily,” he moans. “Never. Dang. You’re a real—”

I climb onto my knees and bring my forefinger to his lips, hushing him. He looks deep into my eyes. In those eyes I see an eagle, a wolf, and a dozen other dangerous animals. I know he’ll be cut and bruised most nights when he comes home, I know it will be up to me to heal him, I know it’ll never be simple or easy. But I don’t care about that right now. We’re happy. I’m happy! I stroke my finger along his lips, savoring the sensation. His cock is so hard it presses like a gearstick against his pants.

“Enough talk,” I say. Then I do something I never would’ve done before all this madness started. I reach down and grab his cock. I grab it hard, at the shaft, and then smooth my hand along his massive length until I reach the tip, and then I go back down, and up, and down, until his mouth is twisted in lust.

“If you say so,” he whispers, his breath tingling along my forehead as he leans down and cups my breasts.

He cups one in each hand and it’s like there’s some unseen force running down the length of his arm, buzzing on his fingertips. My nipples go hard, harder than hard. I’ve heard the phrase they could cut ice before but I never knew what it meant until now. I let out a gasp and it’s like that’s a trigger. Jude grabs my shirt and yanks it over my head, reaches around and unclips my bra with one quick movement. My breasts spill free and for a moment Jude just watches them. Then he wraps one arm around my torso, squashing my breasts against my chest, and lifts me off my feet. He tears at my pants, my underwear, and drops me back onto the bed.

His eyes are wide and filled with lust just begging to be released. I feel sexy and playful, like I never thought I could feel, carefree. Without even thinking about it, I crawl on my hands and knees to the opposite end of the bed, teasing him. I arch my back and push out my rear, spreading my pussy, letting him see what’s his. His, I remind myself. Yes, I’m his and he’s mine. That tall, tattooed, dangerous man is mine!

“You’re driving me crazy,” he moans. “You’re going to make me mad.”

“Good,” I reply, and my voice is somebody else’s. Like when Patrick beat me, a detached part of my mind whispers. And it’s right. It is like that. But only insofar as then I became someone else and now I become someone else, too. But now, it’s my choice. I choose to become this playful nymph; I’m not forced into it.

“Is this what you want to see, baby?”

I reach between my legs and stroke my clit, rubbing it softly, all the while staring into his face. Jude reaches down and rubs his cock, his eyes fixated on me like I’m the only thing in the entire world he wants to be looking at. It feels good to be looked at like that by your man, good in a way I never thought I’d be familiar with. One-hundred percent attention; if an earthquake were to hit New York right now, Jude wouldn’t even notice. He rubs his cock awhile longer and I rub my clit, clawing fingertips of pleasure moving through my body with immense warmth.

I rub, rub, rub, and soon I feel an orgasm tingling against my clit. I begin to moan without even meaning to, just open my mouth and let my pleasure roll off my tongue like a song. I twitch my hips, and the sensations grow stronger, massive pressure in my pussy as though at any moment it could implode and send me tumbling off the bed. More than the physical pleasure of my fingers, it’s Jude’s eyes that spur me on. He wants me so bad, I think. So, so, so bad! When he begins to strip, I’m lost, utterly, completely lost. My fingers move quicker like they have a mind of their own. That deep place in my pussy—that sweet, itching place—screams out for his cock. Jude strips, revealing his muscled, scarred body, his cock which is so big that every time I see it I’m sure I won’t be able to take it.

“Come for me, Emily.” His voice is solid, a hitman’s voice. “Come.”

I rub, and then my pussy does implode. I collapse onto the bed, my arm pressed firmly against my belly and the mattress, my fingers going crazy on my clit, my entire body pulsing. I twitch my hips as I feel the orgasm spread from my pussy deep into my belly, all the way to my breasts. I twitch again and the orgasm lashes inside of me, whip-like. The heat consumes me and I hover atop the euphoria for what feels like a long, long time. When I feel it coming to an end, I press my fingertips hard against my clit, compressing it against my pussy, and another boiling wave rolls over me, my body jerking around the bed. My legs tremble and my fingers are shaking so much now I don’t even have to rub; they do the rubbing themselves. More, more, more, until it’s in my head, making me foggy, causing me to clamp my eyes closed. I scream loud, filling the room, thinking: Idiot, idiot, idiot, he’s watching me, I’m making him hard, his cock is covered in pre-come and he wants me more than he’s ever wanted another woman. He’s desperate for me. I’m making him so hard! The orgasm covers me like a heated blanket, I twitch, wince, flinch, and press down on my clit like it’s a red burning button in an effort to make it last longer. One last wind—and there’s a little creature inside of me, under my skin, touching here and there and finally plunging deep within my pussy and gripping its hands around my sweet spot so hard I’m sure it’ll burst.

When the orgasm passes, I open my eyes and look up. Jude is standing over me, cock near my face. His body is covered in a fine layer of sweat and his chest rises and falls like a bellows.

“You are incredible.” He lets out a long shaky sigh. “Frigging. Incredible.”

“Do you want it?” I moan, climbing onto my knees and bringing my mouth near his cock. “Do you want it, baby?”

Is this me? Is this really quiet, submissive Emily? He’s woken up something inside of me. That’s for sure. Woken it up and now here I am, transformed.

He doesn’t reply with words, just reaches down and softly takes the back of my head. He pushes my mouth toward the tip of his cock. I open my mouth wide, but still, he fills me entirely. I press my mouth down as far as I can, gagging and choking, until my nose is pressed against his abs. I press even harder, his groans of abandon pushing me on. I grab his waist, corded with thick well-honed muscle, and use it as a lever to pull myself even closer. Closer, closer, and now his cock is tickling the back of my throat. My pussy is an angry mistress now, demanding to know why she isn’t getting more attention; one orgasm isn’t enough for her.

I need his cock. Don’t just want it, but need it; that’s how it feels. My pussy is so wet I can feel it against the sheets.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Jude moans, over the sound of my slurping and gagging. When I move my tongue around, I can feel the bulging veins of his cock.

“I need your pussy,” he sighs. “I need it bad.”

He takes his cock from my mouth, pre-come and spit spilling out, and then reaches down and touches my face with surprising gentleness.

“Can you take it hard?” he says, with a playful, cocky smile, a smile that says, All the hard stuff is over and done with, this is playtime now.

“As hard as you can give it,” I tell him, and I mean it. Something in me has changed; my days of fearing pleasure, of misunderstanding it, are over. I’m a sexual being and nothing in this world can change that now.

He pushes me firmly in the chest, onto my back. I lift my legs and bend my knees, a pose that frames my pussy, every muscle in my body strained and tensed with one sole objective: to have him inside of me.

He studies me for a few moments, his head tilted. That look again—that look of complete abandon. It drives me crazy, makes me pant with anticipation. My entire body is a tingling, writhing mass of nerves and aching. My pussy is begging, pleading, my entire world honed down to this one crucial moment.

He leans down and I reach up and grab his shoulders, feeling the huge bulk of them, the power. His body is as rock-hard as his cock, like he’s literally carved from stone.

His moves his hips and his cock rubs teasingly up my lips, prodding my clit.

“I need it,” I pant. “I need it, Jude. Idiot, give it to me.”

Looking deep into my eyes with a hitman’s intensity, he reaches down and guides his cock to my pussy. First, the tip, opening me up, spreading me, and then the rest of him, in and in until I’m sure my pussy can’t take anymore—and then in again, until his cock is pushed right up against my soft place. He holds it there for a long time and I hook my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, desperate for this long, thick, perfect cock. He holds it for what feels like minutes, but must only be seconds, and then, slowly, achingly, pulls it out. I feel every tiny movement, even my pussy lips shifting subtly over the engorged veins of his cock.

“You said you could take it hard,” he says, with the tone of a warning.

“I can,” I assure him, speaking difficult when all I can think about is the deep pleasure and my hands on his muscles.

“Good.”

One word, like the shot of a starting pistol, and we’re off.

I feel as though a vehicle has just crashed into me, the power of Jude is so astonishing. I’m thrown back on the bed, head crashing into the sheets, mouth hanging open as a continuous stream of moans and cries escapes my lips. I squeeze my hands, trying to clench my fists, and pierce his skin instead. Jude doesn’t notice, doesn’t care; all he notices or cares about is the lust in which both of us are lost, like a whirlwind of pleasure and neither of us wants to break free.

I bounce up and down, up and down, driving my hips with all my power, burying his cock deep inside of me. It doesn’t take long for us to find our rhythm. I drive down; he thrusts up. I bounce up; he pulls out. Over and over, we bounce and thrust and idiot like neither of us has ever messed before. His angles his cock perfectly, beautifully, hitting that bright sensitive spot inside of me, driving me crazy. I angle my hips here, there, always with the aim of getting that thick cock into that spot. Jude senses this, I can tell, because over and over he shifts the angle to hit right up inside of me, as though aiming at the spot on purpose.

The sound of slapping flesh, grunting, moaning, fills the room, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

It comes slowly this time, sneaking up on me, and then when I register it, it approaches with more speed. Flecks of sweat fly from Jude and land on me, the beads coating my skin, dripping down me. I savor each drop because it’s a sign of the complete abandon which has taken us both. Jude runs his hands all over my body, hot and close and warm, and all at once the slowly-building orgasm grows in size, becoming a behemoth inside of me. His pounding cock, my bouncing hips, his hands tweaking my nipples and his breath tingling my neck—all of it takes a backseat as the orgasm builds and builds and builds and—

“Idiot! Jude! Just like that! Keep doing it like that! Idiot! Idiot! Harder! Yes! Idiot! Harder! Yes!”

His cock is a jackhammer, pounding into me relentlessly. That spot of temptation, that spot of euphoria, becomes an orb of burning heat which only gets larger the harder he pounds me. Pounds me like I’m his woman. Pounds me like he’s been waiting all his life for it. Pounds me like he can’t hold himself back. drills into me and I’m so wet I can hear it. My wetness drips all over his huge cock and I slam my eyes closed, wanting to sink into the absolute oblivion of it.

Clamping my eyes shut, I moan: “It’s . . . I’m going to . . . Idiot!”

A jackhammer, a smashing pendulum, a battering ram—none of it compares to the way his cock demolishes me.

The orgasm is helpless against the power and the speed of his thrusts; it can’t stop.

I close my eyes shut so tightly my eyes ache. My eyelids blaze crimson as though lying shut-eyed in the sun. And then—

I fall. That’s what it feels like, falling. When I land, I’m in a world of pleasure.

He aims his mess up at an angle, pounding nonstop against the spot, and the orgasm makes my pussy lips go super-tight around his cock, so tight that he has to strain to push all the way in, so tight that he grunts and breathes as he thrusts inside of me. I feel myself squirt, a huge release all over his cock, soaking it, absolutely drenching it in my come. When the squirting has passed, the orgasm continues. Absolute bliss captures me as Jude bites down on my nipples, nibbling, as the orgasm roils through me. He aims even higher, cock brushing the wall of my pussy, and the orgasm moves inside of me, spreading down the length of his cock and setting my hole ablaze. I’ve never felt pleasure like it, a complete release of everything, everything just spilling out, nothing held back. I tear down his back, digging my fingernails in, tear all the way to his rear. I think it’s over, and I’m panting, when another orgasm rises as though from nowhere and slams into me. Heat like I don’t believe fills me, my chest, my belly, my pussy, everything right down to my fingertips. His cock slams, slams, slams, and when I open my mouth, a deafening scream escapes:

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Idiot, yes!”

I pant, let out a long sigh, and then energy deserts me. My body flops. I open my eyes slowly and look up at Jude. Jude tilts his head at me, lips twisted, a force of pleasure behind his face just waiting to be released.

When he sees I’m done, he sighs, “Thank goodness.”

I lean up and press my lips against his as he comes, long and hard, inside of me.

Then, he rolls aside, panting, and I lay my cheek against his chest, not caring one bit that both of us reek of sex and sweat.

“Was it worth it?” I ask after a few minutes, kissing his chest, salty on my lips. “Was it all worth it, Jude?”

He looks down at me with a sleepy smile. “Worth it?” He laughs. “Worth it?” He waves a hand down the length of our naked, entwined bodies. “I’d do it all again just to forget you, Emily. Of course it was worth it.”

I giggle, feeling as though I’m standing on top of the world, and after a couple of seconds, Jude starts laughing, too.

We laugh like that for a long time, caught in a bubble of lust and love.

After a while, Jude’s hand trails down my chest, tickling my nipples between thumb and forefinger.

“Maybe I don’t want you this time,” I say, pretending to pout, but my pussy is already heating up like a furnace and my mind is already doing backflips thinking about him inside of me all over again.

“I love you so much,” he says. “I just want you to know that before I bother your brains out for a second time.”

“Come here and get me,” I say, and his mouth covers mine, so sweetly.

THE END

Want to stay up to date with my latest releases? Subscribe to my Newsletter for exclusive content, release date announcement, and MORE!

Subscribe TODAY and get a FREE EXCLUSIVE title!

http://dl.bookfunnel.com/96l98crlif

More Books by Paula Cox

THIS JOB DIDN’T ASK ME TO TAKE HIS DAUGHTER, BUT THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I’LL DO.

I was supposed to kill the Don of our oldest rival crime family.

But that was before I got a glimpse of his daughter.

An untamable spitfire hiding under an innocent spoiled princess.

Once I saw her, I had a different plan in mind.

I plan to put her under me—night after night, again and again

Her father thought I was here to negotiate a truce between our crime families.

He had no idea I was sent to destroy them from the inside.

His innocent daughter was the only one who suspected me.

A princess who’s been sheltered from the world her father built.

One look at her, and the last thing I wanted was to keep her quiet.

I’ll finish this job, and then I’m taking her as a bonus.

She may try to uncover me for who I really am.

But not before I take her.

Strip her.

And leave her throat raw from screaming.

He left me broken and shattered.

I never thought he’d be back in my life.

I swore I wouldn’t give him a second look much less a second chance.

But that was before he came back like a whirlwind.

Not to sweep me off my feet, but to put me on my knees

JESSIE

It’s not every day that a ghost walks back into your life.

I did everything I could to put that horrible day out of my memory.

But with a single word, he brought it all back.

Brought it back and forced me to remember.

He tells me he’s back to right the wrongs of the past.

A second chance. A new start.

I should know better than to trust him.

After all… he broke my heart once already.

How can I be sure that he won’t do it again?

TEX

There was absolutely no way she should want me.

Heck, I wasn’t even sure if she still remembered me.

But I remember her.

There was no forgetting a girl like her.

She haunted my dreams for twenty years.

Left me hard more times than I can count.

I won’t pretend that I’ll fix the past and mend our wounds.

I won’t pretend that things won’t be worse before they get better.

But I nearly lost her once.

And now that she’s back in my life…

There was no way I’ll lose her again.

No way I’m ever letting her go.

Why bargain when I can buy her outright.

I’m a professional killer. Rescuing helpless women isn’t what I do. But when the daughter of my next target gets kidnapped and auctioned off, it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

I’ll buy her and make her talk.

That was before I saw her. One look and I can’t tear my eyes away—can’t stop imagining her body pinned underneath mine.

One look and I know it’ll be impossible to keep my hands off her.

She thinks I’m here to save her.

She could not be more wrong.

I’m going to break my code. Then I’ll break her.

And show her what it means to be owned.

***

I was supposed to save his daughter, not keep her for myself.

When you kill for money, you know that your story probably doesn’t have a happy ending. But when I met Stella, I knew I might have a shot.

She’s everything I’m not… pure, innocent, and without a glimpse of how evil the world can be.

Her ex wanted her dead, her father wanted her safe.

Me?

I want her legs wrapped around me while she screams my name.

I want to save her so I can keep her for myself.

But all I did was put her in more danger.

Now I’m doing everything to keep her alive.

And when the dust settles, I’m going to make her mine…or die trying.

***

She was marked for someone else, but I’m taking her for myself.

I need a relationship like I need a bullet in the head—especially with a high-maintenance brat like Ana. The kind who’s got their head in the clouds instead of down here with the rest of us in the real world.

She thinks she can tell me what to do. She thinks she’s in charge.

I’ll tame her body, her mouth, her mind—and make her beg me for more.

One problem--her ex is a crazy mongrel who thinks he can get her back by taking me out.

He thinks that I’ll give up what’s mine.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

***

I had every reason not to trust him

I should’ve known better than to let a brute like him into my life.

He turned my life upside down in the worst way possible: spread me open and took what he wanted—what I needed.

He wasn’t supposed to stay.

I wasn’t supposed to scream for more.

But when he holds me down and grinds his hard body into mine.

Makes me his possession and obsession.

Makes me forget who I am and what he is.

I can’t tell if this is all a dream come true.

Or if I’m trapped in living nightmare.

But as long as he’s by my side, I don’t ever want to wake up.

***

I SHOULD KNOW THAT I WAS PLAYING WITH FIRE

HOPE

Killian O’Connor was the chance that I never had. The glimmer of hope that I thought was gone. He makes me believe that everything will be okay.

He doesn’t hide what he is, and I should know better than to get close to him.

I should know that I was playing with fire.

We belong together, I know it and I’m sure he knows it too.

But then why is he holding back?

KILLIAN

This club is my life, my blood, my family.

I didn’t expect to drag Hope into it. But now that she’s here, I can’t get her out of my mind. The first taste of her lit a fire, and the second nearly burned my world down.

I can’t let her get too close. I can’t put her so close to the danger.

But when the same people who almost destroyed my life came after her, that’s when the gloves are coming off.

Because the safest place she can be is next to me, and this time, I won’t ever let her go.