Chapter 32
Hannah
Here, I am a pawn.
Well, at least I didn’t die in the parking lot. But this isn’t looking great either. Outnumbered in the back of an SUV, bound and blindfolded.
“Sorry for the blindfolding, but I can’t have you knowing where you’re going.” The same smug voice drawls.
This time, I recognize it.
“Diesel.” I spit his name out like the filth he is.
“Ah,” he says, amused. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
“Why are you doing this? Was drugging me not enough for you? You need to kidnap me?” My voice breaks on a shriek.
None of this makes any sense. I don’t have enemies. Hell, I barely have friends.
I can smell the leather in the vehicle, mixed with cologne and what I assume is motor oil.
Whatever they tied around my wrists burns like fire. So taut my fingers feel like overinflated balloons. I lean, trying to ease the pressure, but it only slices deeper. The fabric binding pressing against my eyelids is itchy and tight, building pressure behind my eyes.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, now.” Diesel says, voice smooth as honey. “You should’ve been more careful of who you surround yourself with.”
I try to rub the blindfold against my shoulder to move it, loosen it. Something.
“Boys, why don’t you help our guest out? She looks... uncomfortable.” His words drip with mock sympathy.
Hands seize me—rough, impatient. My body jerks, twisted sideways on the bench seat until pain explodes through my wrists. I cry out as I’m slammed onto my back.
Laughter answers.
“Fuck you!” I scream, trying to right myself.
My body trembles as adrenaline burns through me until I’m shaking uncontrollably.
“Did you hear that, boys?” Diesel croons to his helpers. “It sounds like she wants to be fucked. It would be rude not to indulge.”
In a flash, my sweatpants are ripped from waist to ankles, and my underwear is torn—actually torn—off my body.
“No! No! Stop, please. Please, don’t do this.” I’m screaming and pleading, but I know my words are falling on deaf ears.
One man, the one reeking of oil, holds my shoulders down while the other holds my legs. “Help! Help! Please!” I try to kick, but my pants are binding my ankles, the elastic cuff at the end not allowing them to slip over my shoes.
My legs are lifted up and over a body, circling him inside them. I try to kick him, to roll, to get away.
Panic claws up my throat. I thrash, continuing to scream for help, but a hand slams over my mouth. The pressure of it forces bile to rise. The more I fight, the rougher they get—they want me to learn what defiance costs.
“Can someone shut her up?” Diesel sounds bored, as if I’m nothing more than noise. “We’re going to attract attention I don’t want.”
Fingers pinch my nose, and I immediately open my mouth, hoping to find air, when something foul is shoved between my teeth. I choke, gag, tears stinging under the blindfold.
How can he just sit and watch as two men restrain and assault someone?
A woman.
A woman who is unarmed and has no idea why any of this is happening.
I twist and continue to fight, trying to bring my knees together and close the space giving him access to me. But a body in between them isn’t allowing for that.
“That’s better,” Diesel says smugly, “Now, this is what you have to look forward to, over and over, if your Ol’ Man doesn’t make the right choice.”
His words cut through the ringing in my ears.
Ol’ man. Sarge.
The handsome, bearded biker who foolishly promised me I wouldn’t get hurt. That he would protect me.
My thoughts are ripped from me when the sensitive area between my legs feels as though it’s being split in half as the man between them plunges in. His filthy fucking fingers are digging into my hips like they’re his to touch.
“You’re not going anywhere for a long time,” Diesel adds, voice colder now. “Might as well start learning what that means.”
I stop screaming. I stop fighting.
Not because I’m instantly calm, but because I understand. This isn’t some random attack, and I doubt the drugging was either.
What a sick time to think of my mother, but I know what she would say if she knew where I was. Knew what was happening. I can almost hear it: if you didn’t take your clothes off for money, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen to you. Like being taken, bound, and raped is somehow my fault.
I stare into the darkness behind the blindfold, heart hammering deep in my ears. I focus on something, anything I can that might help me. Keep me alive.
I feel the roughness of callouses against my hips as he drags me closer. My mind latches onto the scent of his cologne. It’s not masculine—not to me. When I think of masculine smells, I think of cedar, pine and sandalwood. This isn’t that. It resembles more of a cheap body-spray-type scent.
Thank God, I tell myself, that it doesn’t smell like Gavin.
I don’t think I could face him if his scent dragged me back to this moment.
No, this one is different. Citrus-tinged and musky. I press it into my memory, searing it there.
I think of the girls at the club, the laughter, the music. Fifteen minutes ago, I was safe.
Fifteen minutes ago, I made a choice.
Look what that decision cost me.
I don’t know if I’ll make it out of this alive.
I feel fire between my legs, and I suspect I’m bleeding.
I don’t react because that’s what they want. Sick men like these live for the pain of others.
My body is not needy, not ready. No part of this is consensual, and I feel every ounce of what is being taken. No matter how bad it gets, I won’t give them the show they want.
I try not to think of Gavin. I don’t ever want my memories with him tied to this moment. To these monsters.
Instead, I think back to Murder, Mystery, and Makeup. There have been worse cases covered than what I’m enduring right now, maybe even worse than what lies ahead of me.
How would my story be told? Would she even cover it? Shit, I hope not, because that would likely mean I didn’t survive.
I already know how people would judge me for walking to my car alone. For making the wrong choice. For being the kind of victim they think earns what she gets.
“Hey man, what the fuck? I was told I would get a turn, too”. The voice comes from the oil-smelling coward who’s still painfully holding my shoulders. I’m not even a person to them. I’m a hole to fill, a means to feed their urges.
“You’ll get your chance.” There’s a finality to Diesel’s voice, making me believe him. “Look at how she just lies there. She doesn’t even bother to fight you. I knew she was a whore. Look how she pays her bills.”
“Rot in hell,” I mumble past my gag.
Diesel lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, one day, I’m sure. But not before we finish the job we’ve been paid to do.”
I feel the body between my legs jerk a few times as he releases into me with a grunt. He lifts my feet over his head, drops them on the seat, and he’s gone.
I take that opportunity to clamp my knees shut. Now lying there. Exposed.
I can’t even cover myself with my hands, as they are still bound and now numb behind me.
“Boys, remove her gag.” Diesel instructs, “We’re deep enough into the desert that no one can hear her pathetic cries.”
The disgusting ball of fabric is removed. I spit onto the floor, trying to clear the taste from my mouth.
“That was the worst thirty seconds of my life,” I hiss out, forcing a tone of false toughness. “I can see why you have to rape women to get laid. No woman wants that.”
A sharp, sudden pain explodes across my face, snapping my head into the leather seat. Stars burst behind my eyelids.
“You’ll learn to watch your mouth, bitch. Learn your place.”
Maybe he’s right, but I have to hold onto whatever I have left to fight with. They’ve already shown me I have no control here.
No, here I am a pawn.
“Sarge will kill you for this.” I say with false assurance.
My body aches, but I force myself to move. I try to sit up, only to realize how impossible that is with my wrists bound behind me and my ankles still trapped in my pants.
“No blood needs to be shed if he does as he’s told.” He says passively.
My persistent struggle pulls at my shoulders until they burn. My wrists are still numb, and I log that in my mind as probably not good.
I grit my teeth and push back into the seat instead, curling into it as far as I can to keep some barrier between them and me. A defensive position, if you could really call it that, while being bound and blindfolded.
“I think you’ll like your new home,” Diesel says with smug amusement.
The blindfold scratches against my skin.
I tilt my head and rub my cheek against the leather, trying to budge the fabric just enough to see something, anything.
A sliver of light. A shadow. Any clue. But the effort is useless because the fabric holds firm.
Cutting me off from the world beyond the dark.
The vehicle moves at an easy, unhurried pace. Each bump and every vibration is a reminder that I’m still alive, still trapped, still theirs. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts, but I keep counting them. In. Out. Don’t lose control.
“Your time with us all depends on your Ol’ Man’s cooperation,” Diesel says, his voice smooth and detached, like he’s discussing a business deal instead of my life.
I can hear the faint hum of satisfaction beneath it; he’s enjoying this.
“You took me to what, send some message?” I manage, my voice rough but steady. “You’ve got a lot of confidence in his loyalty to me.”
Diesel lets out an amused breath. “Don’t much care what the Saints do, but yes, we were hired to encourage them to make a change.
” He continues, his voice dripping with annoyance.
“Their president lives by his pathetic laws and morals, thinking he’s doing some great service for the world. He’ll have to save you. Be the hero.”
His voice carries more confidence than I feel.
I swallow hard, forcing myself not to react, not to give him the satisfaction. Gavin may live by laws and morals, but I worry that if he finds out how I make my money, he’ll see me as just another club girl. Body available for entertainment and a good time to anyone.
Disposable.
And maybe he’d be right. Right now, I feel pretty fucking disposable.
“The night we drugged you, the way he reacted tells us everything we need to know.” His words trail off like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.
My throat narrows with anxiety. Every instinct is willing me to fight, to plead, to scream, but I can’t let him see it. If he senses fear, he’ll feed on it, savor it.
“Once we tell him we’ve got you, he’ll come,” Diesel adds, matter-of-fact, like it’s a lecture instead of a threat. “But if he thinks he can show up like some savior without first cooperating with us, we’ll kill him—and you. You have little use to us without the President of the Saints of Hell.”
I want to tell myself I know Gavin well enough to believe he’d come for me. But I also know what that would mean for him. For the club. For the people who trust him.
They’d all be putting their lives on the line for me. Not to mention what it would mean for those who need the club to quite literally stay alive.
The hum of the engine drones on, steady and cruel, like it has nowhere better to be.
I strain to track the turns and dips in the road, anything that might be useful later.
But it’s useless. My sense of direction is gone.
Left feels like right. Right feels like left.
Every sound blends: tires over asphalt, Diesel’s quiet breathing, my own pulse pounding in my ears.
I try to orient myself, but the room—or whatever passes for one inside this moving cage—tilts with each subtle motion.
I hate not knowing where I’m going or what lies ahead.
Diesel hums along to the radio, low and off-key, like this is another drive for him. Just another job. The casualness of it makes my stomach turn.
I shift, testing the ropes at my wrists again. Not sure why I bother, because they’re still as tight as before.
“You’ll want to rest while you can,” he says finally. There’s a smile in his voice, the kind that carries more threat than comfort.
I don’t want to know what that might mean. Pressing my head back against the seat, I try to hide my panic. But the harder I fight it, the faster my breathing gets.
Maybe if he thinks I’m broken, if he thinks I’m scared, he’ll lower his guard.
Outside, the smooth hum of the tires changes to a steady crackle and crunch. Gravel. Maybe dirt. The drop in speed makes me think we must be off the main road.
We travel over this bumpy terrain for what feels like forever, but it’s probably closer to ten minutes. No one speaks for a long time; only the sound of the unpaved road fills the car. We’re no longer swaying with turns as often, and the speed has dropped.
My pulse spikes. This is it. Wherever it is.
Diesel chuckles softly, almost to himself. “Home sweet home.”
The car slows to a stop. The world goes silent, except for the purr of the engine and the sound of my own breathing.
I tell myself not to cry, not to beg. Not yet. Not if I don’t have to.
Because if this is where it starts, then I need to make damn sure it’s not where it ends.