Vandal (Steel Demons MC #15)

Prologue

Macy

“I’m heading out, Lewis. See you in the morning.

” It was almost nine in the evening, and we were finally quitting after a long day as the bookkeeper and executive assistant to a certified public accountant.

There was always one more reconciliation, one more vendor invoice to double check, and quarterly tax estimates, of course.

My boss, Lewis Hall, looked every bit the accountant with permanently mussed silver hair and kind eyes that always seemed to be smiling even when he was in a rush.

His paunch showed evidence of his penchant for big, fat deli subs for lunch and dinner, and beer with every dinner.

But he was a nice man and a good boss. The best I’d had since I entered the workforce.

Lewis closed his laptop with a sigh and a smile that showed off the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “Let me call you an Uber,” he offered. “I’m the reason you’re still here.”

I shook my head, packing up my low heels and purse into my backpack. It was easier to navigate the city with my hands free. “I’ll walk,” I answered. “I could use the fresh air, plus I need groceries.”

His face twisted into a scowl, his brows dipped low and his lips pursed into a thin line. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea, Macy. It’s late.”

I let out a slightly amused laugh. It was a novelty, a good man who genuinely cared about my well-being, but it was also funny because compared to most places I’ve lived, this area was a cakewalk.

“It’s not even nine yet, but yeah, I’m sure.

I’ll stop for groceries and then hop on the bus if I need to. Promise.”

He didn’t like that answer any better, but he nodded as he packed away his laptop. “Text me when you get home just to be safe. I’ll finish up in a few minutes. See you in the morning.”

My shoulders relaxed. It was hard to remember that he cared and wasn’t trying to control me, but after eight months of working together, it was getting easier. “Don’t work too late. There’s always tomorrow,” I said, echoing the words he’d said to me too many times.

He gave a good-natured chuckle and waved me off. “Thanks for your hard work today. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“Liar,” I laughed. “But thanks.” I stepped onto the too small elevator that looked like it still had the original buttons from the Twenties and ignored the creaks as it took me down to the lobby.

It was the same trip I’d taken hundreds of times over the past eight months and the familiarity was comforting.

I wasn’t much used to routines in my life and this past almost year had been nice.

Lewis was a good boss, but the same couldn’t be said for his clients.

He wasn’t the type of person you’d expect to work for criminals, like the man who strolled into the office several times a week with slicked back hair, a greasy smile, and an air of danger about him.

I couldn’t say exactly what it was about him that screamed ‘criminal’ but he definitely gave off that vibe.

But I didn’t judge Lewis, because I assumed he had his reasons for working with men like that.

Besides, life—and foster care—had taught me that most people wore a mask they let the world see.

My parents, biological and foster, had pretended to be good, kind people when social workers showed up, but the minute they left, the violent belt-wielding monsters were unleashed.

He had his reasons and kept them to himself, and I didn’t ask questions because the job paid well enough that I didn’t have to suffer through roommates from hell, and it also came with health insurance that allowed me regular visits with a therapist as well as meds to help cope with the PTSD from a hard as fuck life.

The job gave me the security I craved, but I knew my time there was limited.

All because of Diego Ruiz, the aforementioned criminal with a greasy smile.

I didn’t know who he was exactly, but I had an idea, which made his increasing visits to the office, his smiles that lingered a little too long, and his passing touches, a huge fucking problem for me.

He showed up regularly and chatted, which turned into flirting and asking me out.

A lot.

The more I rejected him the more he asked, and the angrier he got when he realized I wasn’t playing hard to get, I just wasn’t interested. On the fifth rejection, his smile left completely and the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

That was the moment I knew I had to leave, so I’d been saving up to do just that, disappear.

Again. This wasn’t the first time I’d done it and it wouldn’t be the last. I thought about where I would go as I crossed the street and stepped inside the small grocery store, grabbing a few things to hold me over for the next few days.

I arranged the items inside my backpack, and headed back out.

I decided to enjoy the fresh air for a few blocks before hopping on the bus.

The van rolled up beside me without a sound.

The only indication of danger was the goosebumps that appeared just as the sliding door opened.

A moment later, a hand closed around my arm.

Another hand, a gloved one, clamped across my mouth to muffle my instinctive screams. I kicked.

Bit. Threw myself backward to knock my assailant on his ass, but he was too tall and only stumbled back.

I caught a shin with my heel and tried to aim for the balls next.

“Quiet,” a voice said in my ear, breath sour and calm. “Or we make it worse.”

I knew well what worse meant. I learned it at home and then in foster homes.

I knew what it meant and I knew how to act, how to make myself heavy so I was harder to move, how to use my sharp edges against the soft parts for maximum damage.

I did everything, but I was outnumbered and too soon I was in the back of a dark van.

The door slid shut behind me, an omen of bad shit to come.

I screamed until my lungs burned the moment my mouth was uncovered. My limbs flailed, kicking out in every direction because I knew the moment I stopped, worse would happen.

“Shut the fuck up,” a man with a thick Spanish accent ordered and a second later something heavy and metal struck me over the head.

My world went black.

When I came to later, I was hit hard with the scent of bleach and gasoline, an ominous combination I didn’t want to think too hard about.

I was on a hard surface, but it wasn’t the van, it felt like hard wood beneath my body.

The urge to panic was strong and I felt all the signs of an imminent panic attack encroaching.

My breathing grew sharp and shallow, my vision blurred to a narrow tunnel, and my body temperature increased a few degrees.

Deep breathing—thank you Dr. Powell—in and out for a count of four each helped, but I knew I was in deep shit.

Get the fuck up right now.

Slowly I got to my feet, feeling along the wall until I found a corner.

The place was pitch black, but I walked along one wall, counting my steps as I searched for doors and windows.

Eight steps by seven steps with a small metal-framed bed in the middle, a window on the left and a door on the right. A locked door.

I was trapped inside a bedroom. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what my kidnapper had in mind, and it was worse because I had a feeling exactly who was behind it. Panic bubbled up to the surface once again and I dropped onto the too soft mattress and focused on my breathing.

Inhale two, three, four. Exhale two, three, four.

Over and over.

The handle turned and the door swung open to reveal my captor, Diego Ruiz.

“Querida,” he said in that slow, affectionate way manipulative men used like it was believable. His gaze swept over me, admiring his newest acquisition.

I hated that sound and that look but I kept my expression blank. Another lesson I learned at the school of hard knocks was if you gave them nothing they got bored. But men like Diego? They didn’t get bored. They got mad.

He stepped inside and shut the door. The lock clicked loudly, almost echoing in the tense air. He reached out, and his knuckles brushed my jaw gently, like a lover.

“No!” I protested and jerked away from his touch.

He smiled tightly. “We’ll fix that word first.”

What happened next wasn’t about sex or violence.

It was about power. About making sure I understood that he had all of it and I had none.

His eyes were dull and lifeless as he ripped my work clothes to shreds and took his time memorizing my body.

“Exactly what I wanted,” he said like I was an object he added to his collection.

Ice ran through my veins as his hands brushed over my skin and his lips touched me where I didn’t want it.

Diego’s lips pulled into something that looked like a smile as he climbed on top of me and that was the last thing I noticed about him because I fixated on a water stain on the ceiling and thought about the sketchbook I kept on my nightstand. I drew that stain in my head until it became a door.

I left my body on that rickety bed and walked right through it.

When he was done, he smoothed his clothes as if we’d finished a business meeting.

“Macy,” he whispered. “I like you better feisty,” he murmured. “But not too feisty.” He smiled and walked out. The lock clicked, metal against metal, loud and obnoxious.

Just like Diego.

***

The first full day in captivity felt a lot like what I imagined prison would feel like. Endlessly boring without a routine, so I built one in counts of sixty. Thirty seconds of pushups and a thirty-second break. Thirty seconds of sit ups. Stretches. Jumping jacks. Thirty on and thirty off.

I paced the room making sure it was still eight by seven. Checked the window just in case, and then the door. I guzzled water from the small sink and pissed in that same sink when it became clear nobody was coming for me.