The intruders’ cuts advertise one percenter patches, and when the last burly man turns around to shut the door, I make out ‘South Carolina’ on his bottom rocker. He swings back before I get a chance to see exactly which club they’re from. The fronts of their cuts have each of their road names, the percenter patch and various other warnings sewn on, but no club name.
Damn. I need one of them to turn again; their name could mean so much.
My mother had also taught me about the types of patches that they sew on their cuts and what all they imply. I can tell you right now, these guys are at least into guns and drugs, possibly prostitution as well. It looks like they’ve all killed before, every one of them. A few have knife patches, and others have stripes marking their kills.
The two cuts with the tally mark patches most likely mean that those men are the club’s Enforcers. Paired up with everything else they have on display, they’re probably very mean bikers, taking care of the unwanted stuff thrown at their club. One approaches me, hardened features, glaring coldly like he wants to stab my eyes out.
His expression has me throwing on my resting bitch face. I’m pretty good at coming off to guys that I’m not interested or that I don’t care about anything they may say. My gaze shoots to his title, reading ‘Death Dealer.’Definitely a damn Enforcer. Shit, fuck.Whatever the reason is that they’re here, it probably isn’t good news.
With a road name like Torch, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of his anger. Thankfully, he keeps walking, heading toward the bathrooms.
The oldest guy with them spots me right away, and his eyes sparkle in triumph as he saunters toward me, wearing a malicious smile.
Just great.My stomach churns, knowing inside that this isn’t going to end well.Why can’t these assholes just read the sign on the door and leave?
“Well, well, well, looky here, Widows!” he announces as he comes to stand in front of me.
I’m not going to lie; I kind of want to shit my pants right now. This man is damn near as big as Viking; only he’s scary as fuck. When I look at Vike, I see a man that worships me. This guy seems more like he wants to peel my skin off and wear it. Most men I come across are overly sweet, trying to get into my pants; but clearly, these guys don’t use those tactics.
A skinny cracked out looking guy with greasy black hair snickers as he swaggers closer. “Nice. Her tits are bigger than the picture.”
Any other time, I’d flip him off and tell him to lick shit off a toilet, but one thing stands out in my mind. He said ‘the picture’ as if he’s seen me before and already knows who I am. It’s like setting off a shrill siren or lighting a blazing fire directly in front of me—the warning written in his words.
My gut was right to feel uneasy; it was cautioning me that these men will hurt me.
Swallowing down my fear, my thoughts race to find a way out of this situation. I could try to make it out the side door, but most likely they won’t let me back there alone, and if they did, then it most likely means that they have someone waiting outside.
Shit fuck. Could this be my father’s fault? Did his damn club get mixed up in something bad enough that people would come for me?It’s not a farfetched thought; it wouldn’t be the first time.
Back when I was seventeen, I was leaving the movie theater and was left alone out front. My friend’s boyfriend gave her a ride home, and she had taken off before my brother showed up. A rival club member of my dad’s happened to be there, taking his Ol’ Lady to a movie as well. They saw me waiting to leave and tried stuffing me into their old beat-up pickup truck.
Thank God my brother showed up just in time with a few of his college buddies or who knows what could have happened to me. My mom flipped out, scared for me to go anywhere alone and ripped my dad a new one. Come to find out, the other club had been threatening my dad for some time because one of his old members kept stealing the other club’s drugs. The member got kicked out of the club and my dad made as much peace with the rivals as fifty thousand dollars would buy.
Then the Twisted Snakes came after Brently awhile back and nearly killed him, so why should I think that I’m exempt from such repercussions?
There’s no way I can ask my mom for help with this. I have to figure out a way to call Viking. I don’t want him to get hurt, but I think the Nomads are most likely the only ones who would be able to get me out of this situation right now.
If I don’t do something fairly quick, I’ll probably end up raped multiple times and then killed when they’re all finished with me.
Viking’s on my speed dial, but if I reach into my back pocket right away, I think the monstrous guy hovering over me will know exactly what I’m doing and take my cell from me. That’s the last thing I want right now if I have any hope of making it out of this with minimal damage.
Clicking his tongue, the man looks me up and down. “Snatch got your tongue, baby?” He chuckles, and I clench my teeth together. I’m going to barf all over this jack off if he keeps talking to me like that.
Remaining silent, I mentally start slowly counting to ten, so that I don’t come back with a retort that I’ll end up regretting.
It takes no time at all for his weathered features to contort in anger at my silent defiance. His hand shoots out toward my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks as he pulls me in closer. Coppery flavor consumes my taste buds as my teeth sink into the soft flesh, carving out painful cuts inside my mouth.
Momentarily, I forget to breathe, in shock and in pain.
At his commanding voice, I draw in a few gulps of air, doing my best to concentrate on his words. “I asked you a motherfuckin’ question. You don’t open that cum guzzler real fast; I’ll beat you ‘til you feel chatty. You get me?”
Blinking a few times, I nod quickly, causing my teeth to slice in deeper where his fingers continue to hold my skin captive.
He sighs, and the anger melts away, almost like he just took off a mask and is a completely different person suddenly. His hand releases its fierce grip and falls away as a small grin appears. “Good, glad we understand one another.”
Another man strides over, coming to stand beside my tormentor. He resembles the older man slightly. This new guy’s thinner but still muscular and young. I’d guess he’s eighteen, if that. I wonder what could’ve been horrible enough in his life to make him want to be around someone so mean and just plain evil?
My gaze flutters over the man’s cut in front of me; he wears the President patch on one side and his road name on the other. Jekyll. Taking in each material decorating his cut, one, in particular, scares me the most. It’s actually more than one; there’s an entire row of tiny red flowers sewn under his arm, all in a line.