Chapter 11
“What the fuck is going on out here?”
Cash’s roar seeped into my panicked brain. At first, I thought I was imagining that Texas drawl that had dripped over my senses as he pitched a jealous fit over his woman. Then, he sauntered into view. The patches on his cut blurred, my eyes too filled with tears to read the words.
“Daria?” Ophelia rushed toward me and grabbed my arms. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Let’s move it out of the hallway,” Stretch advised from a doorway several doors from the room I shared with Effie.
Effie. My baby. I stumbled.
“Death Dwellers MC,” Slice said as if he was reading. “Fuck. You aren’t here by any chance because of a call from Goose?”
“Are you shitting me?” Cash snarled. “You’re Slice ?”
“Get the fuck in this goddamn room, assholes,” Stretch ordered in frustration, closer to us. “I can’t fucking intercept the cameras of a major hotel chain.”
Ophelia placed her arm around me. “Come on, Daria. Let’s go to your room and let Cash and Stretch talk to, er—”
“No!” I wailed. “No! They’ve taken my Effie. I can’t…”
If she hadn’t held me up, I would’ve collapsed.
“We can’t leave them alone,” Cash said, and I wasn’t sure who he meant. “If they took her daughter, they can take her for ransom, too.”
“Come on,” Ophelia said, her voice calm and soothing, when I only wanted to rage against the world. She’d never faced such a scenario. It was easy for her to remain so cool and collected.
I couldn’t find words of protest, so I allowed her to lead me to the room where the men were waiting. The moment Stretch used his keycard on the door and held it open, I staggered into the suite.
Another time I would’ve enjoyed the spacious living area, but not without Effie.
Ophelia guided me to a sofa, piled with books she’d purchased at the signing as well as shopping bags filled with clothes from the local mall.
Slice, Cash, and Stretch were speaking, but their words went over my head. Even when Ophelia brought a cold washcloth to me and insisted that I lie back on the cleared sofa, I couldn’t relax or focus.
“It’s fine. I promise. They’ll get her back.”
Ophelia’s constant reassurance grated on my nerves.
“It isn’t!” My snarl surprised me. Life was to be enjoyed and problems solved. I looked for the positives as much as possible, considering my life of heartache and betrayal. “My baby is gone.” I jumped to my feet and pointed at Slice. “Because of him .”
If they’d sent him that horrendous photo and those awful messages, it was his fault.
“Who are you?” I screamed, unhinged. “Who, goddamn it!”
“Lady, sit the fuck down,” Cash ordered. “In the fucking future, I suggest you background check the men you hire.”
“He’s a model. I checked his portfolio.”
“Joke’s on you,” Cash spat. “Slice is a fucking biker. An outlaw biker with a bounty on his head.”
I staggered back and my stomach heaved. Words formed in my brain but refused to come out of my mouth. It seemed as if my house of cards collapsed in one fell swoop.
“Why take her and not me?” I pushed out. But then I remembered. She and Slice had a situation that someone found out about. I raised my hands. “Never mind. I already know. They think she’s your old lady.”
“Something that has you green with jealousy,” Slice sniped.
Narrowing my eyes, I stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“I read your fucking book, Daria. The one about Darcy and Moose of the Red Reapers. The question is did Effie read that? Does she know you’re a jealous bitch? Did Lennon read it? I still can’t imagine what you hoped to gain by setting me up with your older daughter. A mother-daughter threesome?”
His words twisted my guilt a little deeper, but that last shot took the cake.
“You’re a disgusting asshole. Effie’s mine , Slice. She has a bright future ahead of her. I don’t want her with a model who’s too pretty for words and has women falling all over themselves.” I sat heavily on the sofa. “I don’t want to sleep with you, by the way. It happened on paper. That’s my agreement with Lennon. Affairs with my book boyfriends.”
“You’re sick,” Slice said, disgusted. “Affairs with book boyfriends? Claiming your daughter all for yourself? Lennon’s more pathetic and long-suffering than I thought.”
My nostrils flared. “Long-suffering? I beg to differ. In the early years of our marriage, he cheated on me more times than I care to remember. I had nowhere to go and two young children to think about. My mother didn’t want me. I only had a high school diploma. Nothing and no one else. Until I met Ezekial. He rented the house next door.”
I tried my best not to think about him. Many times I succeeded. Even when I looked at our daughter, I saw myself and not him. When my children were born, I swore I’d be a much better mother to them than mine was to me.
“When I turned up pregnant, Lennon knew the baby wasn’t his. He hadn’t touched me. He hadn’t wanted me…” However I phrased it, the memory was painful. “It had been months. Ezekial was killed before I told him about our baby. I expected Lennon to throw me out and sue for full custody. Instead, he asked me to give him another chance and we went into marriage counseling. Once I started writing, Lenny told me he preferred me having affairs with my book boyfriends than giving myself to another man.” I shrugged, defeated and devastated. “He said until he realized another man wanted me, he didn’t think he’d ever lose me.”
I tipped my head back and blinked, though my tears continued falling. The truth was spilling out of me, a momentary distraction as images of my sweet baby flashed through my mind. I couldn’t imagine what my Effie was suffering. I couldn’t imagine losing her in the aftermath of our bitter last exchange. As I listened to my story, spoken beyond the walls of a professional’s office, I realized I’d morphed into the woman I’d been determined not to become—my mean, bitter, controlling, hateful mother.
I swallowed and stared at a wall, but saw nothing. I weaved tales of passion, love, and happiness because I’d found it in my husband after traveling a long, painful path filled with heartache and mistakes.
“I’m so sorry, Slice. Find Effie for me. Please. I just want her safe and happy and if you make her happy, I don’t care.”
“She doesn’t know Lennon isn’t her father, does she?” Slice asked, his tone unreadable.
I shook my head. “Please don’t tell her. Lennon adopted her. His name is on her birth certificate.”
“She has a right to know. This isn’t one of your goddamn books where you can write happily ever afters. This is real fucking life!”
My guilt worsened. Not only had my last words to her—my actions—been so cruel, but I had never admitted the truth to her. I told myself it was to protect her, but it was only to protect my flawed marriage.
Stretch walked back into the room from what I assumed was the bedroom. I hadn’t realized he’d left. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth and he carried an iPad.
He held the tablet out to me. “Give me details. Effie’s cell phone number and the carrier. Slice’s club isn’t equipped with the technology I need, so I have to get to a Dweller chapter in Houston. I’m sending this to our private investigator. Hopefully, by the time I arrive at my destination, I’ll have a location.”
I felt like a limp dishrag. Accusation burned in Slice’s eyes. He’d never look at me the same way again. Lennon blamed himself for my transgressions. If he discovered I’d admitted the truth, I didn’t know what would happen.
“I’m so sorry, Ophelia,” I said quietly. “I guess you’ve never been subjected to anything so sordid.”
Ophelia held my gaze and offered me an understanding smile. “You’d be surprised.”
I’m not sure how long I was unconscious, but I awoke to a massive headache, surrounded by darkness and cold. Grogginess dulled my brain. Even so, I knew I remained in danger. Though I couldn’t remember if I’d dreamed, somewhere inside of me I thought I’d been in the midst of a nightmare and when I opened my eyes, I would be in the hotel room. A part of me prayed every waking moment from the time I asked Slice if we were in a relationship to now was a nightmare.
Unfortunately, it was real. A nightmare, yes, but live and in person. I was tied to a chair with my mouth gagged and my hands and feet bound.
I tested how secure I was. My movement caused the chair to scrape against the floor. The sound echoed and I cringed.
“She awakens,” a voice murmured, too close for my comfort.
Disorientation removed my spatial awareness. I didn’t know if my kidnapper stood in front of me or behind me.
“How’s the head and the nose?” He snickered. “You’ve been out for hours. I thought we overdosed you.”
Even if I didn’t have something stuffed in my mouth, I wouldn’t have spoken.
Footsteps clipped toward me and terror surged into me. I tried to draw in a deep breath, but instead, I felt as if I lost all my air. I imagined the material gagging me and blocking my airway.
A hand landed on my shoulder. I shook, demanding myself to calm down. Panicking wouldn’t help. It might do the exact opposite and hasten my death. Overhead light flared to life and I blinked against the intrusion. Once my eyes adjusted, a cavernous room greeted me. I was in a warehouse. The idea chilled me. Before my mom began writing romances, I loved horror novels and crime fiction. Mom and I watched more than our fair share of true crime.
Empty warehouses, bad dudes, and tied up women rarely ended well. Death didn’t necessarily frighten me. It was the occurrence that would lead to my death that chilled me. I was young and in good health as were my parents and siblings. I expected us to live long lives. Other than a nightmare here and there, I didn’t think about dying.
One more thing to add to my na?veté belt.
A burly man with shoulder-length red hair walked into my line of vision. A long scar ran along his cheek, disappearing into his ginger beard. His eyes reminded me of a tropical ocean—azure; without the warmth, though. He studied me. His gaze landed on my breasts and he licked his lips.
Another dose of panic roared into me. They hadn’t blindfolded me. Not good. If they released me, I could identify them. Tears lurking in my eyes slid down my cheeks. Twenty-one should be too young for regrets, but they filled me.
Mom would receive news of my disappearance and remember our last encounter where I’d been so horrible to her. Slice would hear about me and…? I didn’t know. I only wished I’d handled the aftermath of our lovemaking better. Our seduction had been equal opportunity. Not one of us bore the blame more than the other. But he was right. I’d wanted him. From the moment I discovered he’d attend, I schemed to be in his company.
I should’ve listened to what he had to say. I should’ve been honest about how much I liked him. Before we spent time together, I’d had a crush on him. Afterward, I fell a little in love with him, and nothing could stop me from having sex with him.
My captor crouched in front of me, snatched the gag away, and swiped at my wet cheeks. He held a finger up. Red tears? My brows snapped together. Then, I remembered. Someone hitting me. Blood running down my face. Falling unconscious.
“I’m Dutch, Effie.”
My eyes flared in surprise that he knew my name. I still refused to speak.
He smirked, leaned forward, and pressed his lips against mine. I turned my head. Struggling in protest wasn’t an option. I was bound too tightly. Rough fingers sank into my cheeks and forced my head toward him.
“Kiss me like you kissed Pretty Boy outside the club,” he snarled.
My mind whirled. Before I unpacked those words, Dutch slammed his mouth against mine. The kiss was harsh, but at least he didn’t have bad breath. His grip on my face tightened.
“Respond to me.”
I couldn’t imagine that. Nor could I imagine a sexual assault or a brutal death. But I wasn’t stupid. I needed to give to get. If I humanized him, perhaps he’d see me as a person rather than an object to be used, abused, and discarded.
His mouth on mine was just as brutal as the first time. Pretending he was Slice helped me endure. I even ignored the pain.
Dutch tore his lips away and stood. His erection pressed against his pants. For the first time, I noticed his cut. The denim had a bunch of patches and emblems. Until he turned, I couldn’t know his club affiliation.
My stomach growled. Suddenly, my bladder felt overwhelmingly full.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
I glowered at him.
His hand struck out, as fast as a cobra’s strike, and landed on my jaw. My head snapped back, and blood leaked from my injured nose, sliding over my lips.
He leaned in. “Let’s try this again. Why are you here, Effie?”
I hated my sniffle. My fresh tears left me feeling like a scared little girl. I was terrified, but this asshole didn’t have to know it.
He struck me again. This time, stars danced behind my eyelids.
“You don’t want to talk?” His fingers went to his belt. “I have another use for your fucking mouth.”
Dutch had asked me about my kiss with Slice, so I knew why I was there. “This has something to do with Slice,” I croaked. “Pr-pretty Boy.”
Not answering, he finished unbuckling his belt and opening his fly. He shoved his hand into his underwear and—
“Yo, Dutch!”
He gave me an ugly look and stepped back, his hands falling to his side. “In here, Rusty.”
Metal scraped against metal, then a door opened, and four guys swaggered in, all in denim cuts. One carried filled cup holders, and another had two pastry boxes.
My stomach growled again.
“Took long enough,” Dutch sneered to the two men who carried the grub. “I’m fucking starving.”
“Sorry, Dutch,” a massive man with brown hair and a thick beard said. “We got a glimpse of a Death Dweller and had to lay low. Don’t want beef with those motherfuckers.”
Dutch grunted. Opening a box, he grabbed two donuts and tore into both at the same time. He chewed loudly, his smacking lips echoing around me and increasing my hunger. Once he finished, he grabbed two more and looked at the guy with the cupholders. “Got my cappuccino?”
“Got two for you, Dutch.” He shifted his weight and squirmed like a school kid facing a reprimand. “Seeing as how we took so long and all.”
One of the men whose hands were free rushed forward and picked up a cup, then held it out to Dutch. He scarfed the two donuts in his hand, grabbed the cup, and gulped, then grabbed two more donuts and polished them off.
Unfortunately, he remembered me. He crouched in front of me again, leaned in, and belched in my fucking face. I remained stoic.
“Did Pretty Boy make you come?”
How was I supposed to answer that? If I didn’t respond, I had no doubt he’d shove his dick in my mouth.
“We’re nothing to each other, Dutch,” I said quietly.
“Bullshit, bitch,” he responded. “Every time you posted pictures of that so-called event, that motherfucker was staring at you.”
That explained how he knew my name and my location.
“Why don’t we tag-team her?” Brown Beard said. “We’ll see if he fucked her. Pretty Boy would’ve busted that pussy wide open.”
My hunger and need to pee couldn’t compare to my mortification. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Slice,” I said, too tired to care that my voice trembled. “But we just had a fling. He won’t care that you took me. I’m innocent.” I searched my brain for the right word. “A c-civilian. I’m not part of his world. I wanted a night with a biker, and he gave it to me.”
Dutch stared at me.
“If anything happens to me, won’t that bring more heat down on you because I don’t belong to your world? Let me go and I swear I’ll never mention this to anyone. Even law enforcement.”
Fifty-fifty I spoke the truth. But I needed safety to think clearly. If my kidnapping was because of Slice, and, if the cops got involved, he’d be implicated, too. Whether I was his or not, I was taken because of him, an egregious affront in the biker world. Dead or alive, I would be avenged. No matter what I claimed.
Brown Beard turned. Satan’s Sinners MC caught my attention. Dutch. Satan’s Sinners. Striker and Slice discussed them the other night. I’d seen his photo and called him a scrotum.
I was in deep shit.
My stomach growled again. If I didn’t use a bathroom soon, I’d wet myself.
“I need a bathroom,” I said in a small voice. My mouth felt dry and cottony. I licked my cracked lips. “And some water.” My stomach growled again. “And a donut.”
Brown Beard shoved a whole donut in his mouth. “You have a lot of demands, slut,” he said once he swallowed enough food to be understood.
“She sure does, Rusty,” Dutch said, unamused. He began pacing. “Here’s the thing, Effie. I’m not a man who does anything without payment. Quid pro quo. I’m especially not a motherfucker who’ll be swayed by the pretty face on a bitch who fucked an asshole who stole my club’s goddamn drugs. Riker brought his ass to Jackson with Goose and Drifter, then fucking refused to pay us and hand over Pretty Boy.”
“We wasn’t taking one without the other,” Rusty volunteered, not caring if I knew any of those people. “Riker brought a thousand bands of hundreds, offered us a small cut of the profits, and flatly refused our terms. If he ain’t wanted us to kill Pretty Boy, he could’ve just sent us his head and we would’ve called it even.”
At the images the words provoked, I dry heaved.
Dutch circled me, a shark ready to pounce. “Here’s the fucking deal, Effie. Red Rum has one chance for an exchange. You for Pretty Boy. We’re making a video, you and me, and I’m going to send it to them with my terms. If it’s one minute past the time and the terms haven’t been met, I’m fucking you and sending your head to him.”
He kneeled in front of me, ignoring my trembles. It didn’t occur to me what he was doing until he lifted one of my boots and threw it aside, then did the same with the other. He snatched off my socks and flung them over his shoulder.
“Rusty?”
“What up, Dutch?”
“Bring as many cases as those empty bottles from the storeroom and break them. Strewn the path between here and the bathroom.”
Rusty scratched his beard. “Should I make a glass path between here and the entrance, too?”
Dutch nodded.
“I have to go really bad,” I whined, all my pride out the window. “I promise I’ll behave.”
Scowling, Dutch cut the ties around my ankles. The sudden rush of blood after the restricted flow burned my veins. He slid a finger underneath the rope tied around my body and brushed my breast, then shoved the knife into the tiny tunnel he created. I remained frozen, fearing the blade would sink into me. It didn’t. Instead, the rope loosened. A couple more cuts and he stood, then yanked it away. Behind me, he made quick work of the rope around my wrists. Finally unbound, my entire body sagged, overcome with sensations zipping through me. My head whirled.
Sinking his hands into my hair, he dragged me to my feet, stared into my eyes, and cut away my shirt and bra. Automatically, my arms flew up to cover my exposed breasts. He forced them to my sides.
“Listen, you little bitch,” he snarled, wrapping a big hand around my breast and squeezing painfully. “Any funny business and I will strip you to your bare ass, then discover firsthand how tight it is. You get a sip of water, but no food. When you come back, I tie you up again.”
“Please don’t tie me up again. My breasts are out. I have no shoes. My head is spinning and I don’t know my location. I won’t do anything.”
He glared at me, then shoved me toward Rusty. “We’ll make the video when you return. Pray Pretty Boy values you enough to bring his ass here because the clock starts ticking the moment I press send.”