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I didn’t hesitate to leave the room, my thoughts a chaotic mess. Biff’s screams echoed in the hall as I trudged upstairs. Most of the brothers and cookies were already busy in their rooms. A few were passed out on the leather couches spread around the perimeter. No one was behind the bar. I poured a shot of Jack and tossed it back, letting the burn tickle my throat. After another, I set the bottle down and exited the clubhouse. Shadow, Toad, and another new prospect were posted at their usual positions.
I needed a ride and a smoke.
Even though that interrogation was over, I still felt restless, like my skin was crawling with unruly veins beneath the taut layers
and an itch I couldn’t quite scratch tormented my every waking moment. The need to claw at the walls of my body until they were neat, slithering little ribbons of perfectly torn flesh pulsed underneath my skin. It wasn’t the first time I had daydreams or visions of blood, horror, or carnage.
The Reaper was a crude and vicious bastard. He always received what he wanted.
In this life, you reap what you sow. A lesson I learned all too well. Time was a brutal teacher as much as experience. Blind vengeance had ruled my actions and decisions for so long I wasn’t sure how much was my own desires or how much belonged to the Reaper. We were too integrated now. Too woven together to know where I ended, and he began. It was what it was.
A choice made out of desperation. Binding for eternity.
Not everyone wanted to run from their past. Some souls embraced the chance to hunt their prey and seek vengeance. To inflict suffering and bring death, and to wield the power of the Reaper until vengeance had been served. I was one of the ruthless Bastards that liked the carnage just a little too much. Victory drew closer with every breath I took.
But the past never left me, never completely diminished, and constantly haunted my dreams as much as my reality. Every minute of the day brought my vengeance closer to completion. A bitter and resolute countdown that began six years ago. The day I lost it all. And it wasn’t just me. My best friend Jameson’s suffering was as great as my own . . .
It was time to exact justice. I was going to find that Russian fucker Solonik. And my Reaper would make him pay.
Chapter 2 – Trixie
It was quiet tonight.
Slow, too slow. I didn’t want to think about how Alexi was going to react when I didn’t bring enough money home. He’d kick my ass for the dwindling profits, but this part of town hadn’t been as busy lately. I was pretty sure he made me work this section on purpose just so he could shove his dick down my throat after he beat my ass to the point of passing out. He got off on choking me, made it his cruel and unrelenting punishment before he spun me around and savagely took my ass from behind.
He was a sadistic and narcissistic prick.
Sighing, I dug out the pack of cigarettes buried down in the bottom of my purse and pulled one of the Virginia Slims free, placing it between my lips. The lighter sparked as I lit the end and inhaled the cool, refreshing hint of menthol. A few deep drags later and I began to relax. My shoulders lost some of their tension as I smoked, puffing repeatedly to get my fix. Nicotine flooded my bloodstream and I felt less shaky. Holding the cig in one hand, I pulled out a piece of gum and popped it in my mouth. That should help if anyone drove up and decided they wanted my company.
Not that it mattered.
The type of men who sought my companionship didn’t give two shits if I smelled a little like smoke. Not as long as I gave them what they wanted. Hell, I’d become so adept at acting I should win an Oscar or some shit. Snickering, I flicked ash on the ground and inhaled again, closing my eyes briefly.
My gaze landed on the road ahead as they opened, roaming over the street sign that read Cherry Bottom Rd. Right off the corner of Main St. This intersection was notorious, not the best area of town at 3 a.m. Nicknamed Cherry Hollow for its heavy crime and crimson streets that often glistened with scarlet on the blacktop, it wasn’t a place frequented by those who weren’t poor, desperate, or addicted.
I was one of those fools that fell into addiction. Pills and booze began my journey, but it was meth that became my tragic best friend. Skin itching slightly, I resisted the urge to scratch until I bled.
I wasn’t always this jaded or lost in sin. My life had been a good one. Proud parents, a sweet sister, decent upbringing. That was the problem with drugs. They didn’t care who you were, where you came from, or what life you had. Just sank their greedy little claws under your skin and burrowed deep. It was nearly impossible to pull their barbs free.
Trust me, I’d tried. I lost count of the years and broken promises, of the regret and lies. None of it mattered anymore. I’d fallen so deep into the abyss that I’d never break away from this life. There was no way to claw myself back out.
Alexi knew this. He took advantage, pushed the drugs and booze, the parties and the sex until I wasn’t sober long enough to figure out his plans. I’d been caught in his trap. Before long, I was passed around and shoved into any open bedroom, forced to endure humiliating and degrading acts until they became the norm and I didn’t fight them anymore. I ceased to be surprised or horrified. Nothing more than a performer, a money maker with gold between her silken thighs.
That was the thing about this life I now led. I no longer understood freedom or choice of any kind. It had all been ripped away. When survival was your biggest concern, the revolving door of men who took advantage was as easy to accept as the air that passed through your lungs and extended life. Each second, every inhalation was precious. I existed from one moment to the next.
There was something permeable and interchangeable about rape, forced consent, and survival. The three merged together in my life seamlessly until I wasn’t sure if it was the money or the familiarity of fear and routine or the vicious cycle of addiction that brought me back to this spot each and every night. Perhaps I didn’t feel worthy of escape. Maybe I started to believe all the insulting and cruel observations Alexi beat into my head.
I was beyond caring.
Puffing another drag, I inhaled smoke and shivered slightly. The desert was cool at night, a direct contradiction to the blazing temperatures of day. The skirt I wore barely covered the apex of my thighs as the breeze drifted across my exposed skin and I attempted to tug the material back over my ass. The rounded bottom of my cheeks constantly kept peeking out from underneath the fake red leather. Spiked heels dug into the soft earth as I paced, trying to chase away the chill as I took another long pull from my cigarette. The nicotine sent a soothing jolt of energy through my bloodstream as I moaned lightly with the craving. It was the only true enjoyment I still received and the only thing I could still control.
Snorting with mild humor, I knew it was a hard pill to swallow when your personal hell was your own idiotic conception. A breeze picked up and swirled through the air as I shivered. I envied the freedom of the wind. How easy and carefree it blew, so untethered to the whims of this bitter and greedy world.
My phone vibrated in my purse a few minutes later. I dug it out and nearly rolled my eyes.
“Yes, Alexi?”
“Blad,” he began, his familiar insult was so common I no longer reacted. He always called me whore. “I have men coming. Yes? You wait. Give good fucking.” His snicker was entirely too self-indulgent.
