Chapter Four
Lunatic’s motorcycle rolls through the gate of a fancy house. Not as big as the Juarez compound, but it’s still rich. He pulls up at a garage and puts it in park.
“Go ahead and hop off,” he tells me after cutting the engine.
My legs wobble and my ass is still vibrating as I try to stretch. My thighs ache from clenching them so tightly for the past six hours or so.
I stand off to the side as some of the other bikers head inside the house. Lunatic is speaking with Big Daddy and Hero. Their glances shooting my way every couple of seconds. I guess they are debating what to do with me.
Big Daddy takes off and Hero goes around the back, leaving me on my own with this Lunatic guy.
He’s handsome. Darkish curly hair. Blue-gray eyes that remind me of a storm cloud before lightning cracks the sky.
A goatee and mustache trimmed short but rough enough to tickle you in all the right places.
Tattooed, tan, tall, and muscular. The kind of guy you know is trouble because he knows he’s hot.
Throw in the badass motorcycle and the fact that he’s in a motorcycle club and he’s every girl's dream.
The bad boy you want to tame, but will likely never settle down. He probably has a girlfriend and a side piece. He’s the perfect target. He won’t become attached to me. I made the mistake of caring for someone once when I was younger and a helluva lot dumber. I won’t make that mistake again.
“Come on. I’ll show you to your room. I’m sure you’re exhausted and in need of a shower.” He grabs my stuff from his saddlebag, and I follow him across the driveway to the big house.
The first thing I notice is the sleek motorcycle parked just inside the entryway and the crazy amount of black and white pictures framed on the walls.
“Upstairs,” Lunatic’s voice comes out deep and rough, exposing his own exhaustion.
Up the stairs and two hallways later, he takes me to a bedroom that’s nicer than anywhere I’ve ever stayed in my life outside of the times I was taken to Hector and Jose’s rooms at the compound.
A bed I could swim in, the bedding of it’s so wide and deep.
Lunatic closes the door behind us and places my plastic bag on the dresser.
“There’s a bathroom through there if you want to wash up.
If you need something to eat or drink, or whatever.
Let me know. I’m your guy.” He rolls his lips inward, his tongue darting out to wet the top one.
The motion is swift but sexy. Effective if he wanted my mind to wander to thoughts of all the things he could do with that tongue. Those lips.
“A shower would be great.”
He goes to a dresser and tags a tee from the top drawer. “You can sleep in this.” He slings the soft black cotton my way. A whiff of laundry detergent that smells like cologne hits my senses.
“Is this your room?”
“When I get too shitfaced to drive home. If you need anything, let me know.” He kicks off his boots and shrugs off his leather cut.
I watch, unable to look away as he crosses his arms over his stomach and lifts his tee up in what feels like slow motion.
The fabric creeps up his sides, revealing a patch of hair under his navel that narrows into a trail that dips beneath his jeans.
My gaze travels along the grooves of his abs and slides up his chest as the fabric tugs up over his shoulders and head.
The man is built.
His lips curve into a devilish smirk as he stands before me shirtless with the button of his blue jeans undone. The sight steals my breath. I’ve never seen anything more perfect than him. An inked god in denim.
I blink and remind myself I’m here for a reason.
“I’m going to take that shower.” I spin quickly, hoping he doesn’t see the flush creeping along my chest and spreading up my neck and across the apples of my cheeks.
I’m not a girl who blushes, and yet I am.The bathroom is painted a relaxing pale green.
The shower is a rainfall shower head, glass doors, and even a bench, like I’m at some spa.
I strip and catch my reflection in the large mirror.
The haunting image is like a sad song about heartache.
Skinny limbs, a patchwork of needle bruises hiding in the crook of each arm, among other places like between my fingers and toes.
My ribs poke out beneath the screen print of an old sports bra that I should have discarded long ago.
I don’t bother to comb my fingers through my tangled locks.
Hollowed out and bloodshot, the color of my eyes is dull.
My skin is lifeless. I look like a photo negative of my old self.
The little girl Momma used to say had ‘hopeful eyes.’ Before she left me behind.
I can’t remember the last time I looked in a mirror on purpose.
I’ve never been what most would call pretty.
It takes a few tries to puzzle out how to make the hot water work, but when I slip behind the glass and let the scalding water pour over me. I let out a sob and find myself clutching the white tile as tears blur my vision.
Steam fills the room, and I can’t bring myself to move as dirt and grime swirls down the drain. I did it. I got out. I’m really out.
I smile for the first time in forever.
A true smile.
Not one that’s been forced.
I squirt some of Lunatic’s shampoo that smells all musky like a man into the palm of my hand and work it into a lather in my hair.
I scrub and scrub, wishing I could shed my skin like a snake.
The water is hotter than anything I’ve felt in ages, and I soak it up, letting it scald away the leftover feeling of Hector’s touch, the dust from the road, and the sick rot left over from this morning’s dope.
I squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself I got out as if the reminder will work some strange magic on my busted-up soul.
It won’t.
But I’m used to faking it till I make it.
When I finally get out, steam ghosts from my skin and the mirror’s all fogged up.
I wipe a circle with my palm and stare at the washed-out girl staring back at me.
My cheeks are red from the heat, my hair wild and darker when wet, eyes a little less hollow.
Still not what you’d call ‘pretty,’ but less like I crawled out from some dump.
I dry off and slip on Lunatic’s tee. It falls to my mid-thighs.
There’s a faded-out logo for some bar or restaurant on the left side that is missing some letters from the name.
When I exit the bathroom, he’s lying on a pallet of blankets on the floor, and the blanket on the bed is turned down. He’s shirtless with a sheet pulled up to his naked waist. The lights are off save a lamp.
“Bathroom is all yours,” I tell him.
He doesn’t say anything but darts inside and closes the door.
I glance around the room, wondering how often he stays here and if he’s got a woman waiting for him at home. There’s no evidence to suggest one sleeps here.
There weren’t any girly products in the bathroom. But I did find a new toothbrush in one of the drawers.
I flop down on his big bed and listen. There’s the dull sound of a movie or show playing somewhere in the distance, but it’s mostly quiet. A little too quiet.
My body goes tense, half expecting armed men to show up and drag me out by my hair to question me. I’ll never forget my first day waking up in Mexico.
Angry men were shouting at me in Spanish.
They stripped me down to my underwear and checked over my body, making note of every bump or scar.
Then they put a tattoo on the back of my neck.
A brand. I run my finger over the base of my skull and feel the raised skin.
I know exactly what it looks like, even without a mirror.
The Juarez brothers’ own little hallmark. Their fucking property stamp.
The needle blazed across my skin like a hot poker, spelling the letters that make up their name, Juarez. No matter where life takes me, I’ll always wear their mark on my skin.
Lunatic comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that hang low on his hips.
Water beads on his tan shoulders, and tattoos crawl up his arms and across his chest. The ink is so black it seems to suck the light from the room.
I try to keep my eyes on his face, but my gaze runs along the line of his neck and the defined V of his hipbones.
I swallow, my mouth and throat feeling oddly dry at the sight of this biker I hardly know. I should be afraid of the unknowns but I don’t think he plans to hurt me.
He stalks toward me but goes to the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. He fishes in the drawer and brings out a small knife. “Where’s your tracker? Don’t try to lie and tell me there’s not one.”
He’s right. I do have one implanted in my hand.
“It’s here,” I say. “Left hand. Between the bones where the thumb meets the index finger, just under the meat.” I hold it out, palm up, not shaking even though my heart is pounding out a tap dance in my ear.
I’ve done worse things to myself than cut out a tracker.
I’m not scared. I just don’t want to scream.
I don’t want to appear weak or be vulnerable.
He stares at my hand for a long moment. “You sure?” His voice is softer, almost gentle.
And though his soothing tone should be comforting, it cuts deeper than if he were to be cruel.
I hate gentleness. It makes me want to cry.
Makes me want to believe in things that are just fairytales for little girls who believe in happy endings.
I know different.
“It’s going to hurt. Will probably need stitches.”
“If you destroy it, they’ll come for me.”
“Let me worry about that.” He goes to the bathroom and comes back with a first-aid kit. He rubs an alcohol-soaked pad over my hand, then wipes the tip of his knife with it.
He kneels in front of me and studies the area with his head tilted, so up close I can smell a trace of his soap and cologne, but not the cheap kind you buy at any store.
He smells expensive, but not like Hector or Jose.
I breathe him in, nearly forgetting where I am and what he’s about to do.
“Ready?”
Not really, but I suck in a breath and nod.
“Hold still,” he warns.
He presses his thumb into the spot I showed him.
The cool blade kisses my skin. His metal parts my skin.
My whole body tenses up fighting it. I’ve had worse.
Hector loves to inflict pain, but not Lunatic.
The way he goes about it is so gentle. Like he’s slicing the sticker off a ripe peach so he doesn’t bruise the fruit.
He stares at me with tenderness, and it fucks with my head.
The tip of the blade goes in deep enough to make me tear up, but not so much that I want to pull away.
He’s careful, efficient, sweeping the knife along until it clicks on something hard.
“There,” I say through my teeth. “You’ve got it.” I want to scream because the force it takes to dig under it and pop it out is excruciating. Blood trickles down my wrists and drips onto his blanket, but he doesn’t notice or appear to mind.
Sweat beads along my spine, and I fear I may throw up.
“There.” He places the small chip on the nightstand. “I don’t think you’ll need a stitch.” My skin burns as he cleans the wound. His face softens as he swipes away a stray tear from my cheek. “You’re tough, Babygirl.” The way he says it is laced with a hint of pride that has my belly going warm.
Lunatic is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t know what to think about him.
“You know what you need now?”
“No.”
His face hovers in front of mine, so close I can practically taste his toothpaste. “Ice cream.” He grins. “C’mon.”