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“Anytime, sugar.”
I take a couple of minutes to finish up my coffee, then pay my tab, leaving a healthy tip for Linda. After that, I hit the head before getting back on the road. As I walk out to the parking lot, I notice the family from inside climbing into a minivan. Just as I thought, there’s a little family of stick figures on the back of the window, which makes me laugh.
“Of course,” I mutter to myself.
The sun is well past its peak and is sliding toward the horizon. Still enough daylight for me to get to Phoenix long before dark, though. I climb aboard my Fat Boy, point it south, and let my engine roar.
CHAPTERTHREE
“Get this shit cleaned up!” he screams. “Don’t make me tell you again!”
I try to stand strong—I’m tired of him seeing and feeding on my fear—but I can’t stop myself from flinching as if he’d slapped me anyway. He knows he scares me and uses that to keep me in line.
I wish I was stronger. I wish I had the backbone to stand up to him. But having seen him murder one person and beat a bunch of others near to death, I’ve learned to be terrified of him. As much as I hate it, my natural reaction is to do as he says.
I’ve been cleaning for the last two hours and I’ve barely made a dent in the mess. The members of the Howlers MC are fucking pigs. Every night they get wasted and start fighting and breaking shit. And every morning, Hammerhead yells at me to pick it all up so they can trash the place again that night.
I fight back the tears of frustration welling in my eyes as I walk through the clubhouse picking up the empty bottles, cans, and other pieces of random crap everywhere. I drop them into the trash can I’m dragging behind me, then empty the ashtrays into the can as well. I use a rag to wipe out the ashtray because Hammerhead likes to see clean ashtrays on the tables.
The can is getting heavy as hell though. I don’t know how I’m going to get this thing outside and down the steps. I look over at Hammerhead and clench my teeth. He’s parked his fat ass on the ratty old sofa in the back of the clubhouse. He’s alternating hitting his bong and swilling tequila straight out of the bottle as he watches some game show on TV. I would love nothing more than to grab that bottle and smash him over the head with it.
But I know I won’t. As much as I wish it was otherwise, the only acts of violence I’ll commit against him are in my mind. Hammerhead is a large man who, once upon a time, had been a solid mass of muscle. But he’s let himself go. These days, he’s become little more than a lot of flab and a horrible attitude. But he’s still strong, unpredictable, and has a quicksilver temper that’s become more pronounced the more he downs his booze and weed. Most of the time, I just try to keep my head down and hope he doesn’t notice me.
I’ve hated the man from the start. I was abducted shortly after I graduated from high school. The men who kidnapped me were disgusting. I always tried to fight back, but soon learned that I’d only be beaten for my trouble. I was passed around for a while before I was finally given to Hammerhead as a peace offering from a rival MC—the Desert Deviants. I was forced to be with him and have essentially been his prisoner for… years. He never lets me leave the clubhouse and forces me to clean it. Forces me to cook his meals, wash his clothes, and oh yeah, fuck him whenever he wants it. Though to be honest, over the last year or so, the drugs and booze have prevented him from getting it up all that often, so his addictions have been something of a blessing.
He rarely bathes anymore and usually smells really bad. He never smelled like a rose to begin, with but lately, he’s gotten so much worse. It’s all I can do to keep from throwing up when I’m near him. And on those occasions when his prick is actually working and he wants to fuck me, I always make him take me from behind so I can actually breathe a little clean air and not gag on his stench. It usually only lasts a few minutes though, thankfully, so I just close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. It’s the only way I can get through it.
“Molly, bring me a beer!”
I jump to obey and run to the bar at the far end of the clubhouse to grab his beer. He usually times me. Anything over thirty seconds earns me a slap in the face. I learned early on to be quick and efficient when fetching him a drink. The one time I mustered up the courage to suggest he might get it faster if he did it himself, I woke up on the clubhouse floor about an hour later to find him and the rest of the Howlers, partying and carrying on as if there wasn’t a woman lying unconscious on the floor at their feet.
“About damn time,” he growls as he snatches the bottle from my hand. “Now finish cleaning up. We have a VIP coming later.”
That news piques my curiosity. It’s been a long time since we’ve had any outsiders roll through here. As membership has declined and the club sits on the verge of extinction, the Howlers have stopped being a major player in Arizona. The truth is that Hammerhead is usually too drunk and strung out to properly run the club, but everybody is still afraid of him, so they won’t challenge him and try to take his patch.
He’s the President and will remain so until somebody works up the balls to do something about it. Which, given the number of defections, I don’t think will be anytime soon. Which also means I’m stuck. Unless somebody deposes him, Hammerhead is going to keep me here with his boot on my neck. I’m just too afraid of him to do it myself. To try and free myself or do something to him. I’m just not that ruthless. Not that strong. And definitely not that brave.
Besides, even if I were to escape, where would I go? What would I do? Nowhere and nothing are the answers to those questions. I have nothing. Not a cent to my name. Nor do I have any idea where to go. The one time I did escape—this was early on—I called home, called my parents to beg them to rescue me, only to find the line had been disconnected. One night after Hammerhead got drunk and passed out, I used his computer to do some searching and I couldn’t find them. All I could find was that somebody else owns my childhood home now. It was like my parents just… moved on. Without me.
So, even if I do manage to escape, I have nowhere to escape to. Nobody is waiting for me. Nobody is out there looking for me. I guess as far as my family is concerned, I’m long dead and gone. It’s a thought that still tears my heart into tiny pieces.
“Who’s the VIP?” I ask just to deflect from my melancholy thoughts.
“None of your fuckin’ business, that’s who. Get back to cleaning,” he snarls. “And stock the bar, too. We’re gonna have a party to welcome this prick.”
I turn away and start to do as he said. I don’t want to get him angry with me for a couple of reasons. First, I don’t want the obvious and obligatory beating that comes with upsetting him. And second, once the guys start to arrive for the welcome party, Hammerhead will forget about me, and I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of who this mysterious VIP is. If I have to guess though, I would assume it’s somebody from the Deviants, the club who used to own me. They’ve been hanging around a lot lately
Or maybe it could be somebody from the Ruthless Kings out in Vegas. They come by every once in a while with deliveries. I don’t know much about club business, but I do know the Kings and the Deviants are enemies. The Kings pay Hammerhead to keep this turf open. If they ever found out Hammerhead has been doing a little business on the side with the Deviants, all hell will break loose. That would not make the Kings happy.
More than a few times, I’ve thought of sending an anonymous note to the Kings letting them know of Hammerhead’s double-dealing. But I’ve played it out in my head over and over and I’m sure it wouldn’t go the way I want it to. When he’s sober, Hammerhead is smooth and charming. He can talk his way out of most anything and he would probably be able to smooth things over with the Kings. Once he’s able to unruffle any feathers and prove his loyalty to them, I have a feeling Hammerhead would know it was me who tipped them off. And that would be very, very bad for me. That might be something I don’t come back from.
“You done yet?” Hammerhead yells.
“Not yet,” I reply softly.
“Hurry the hell up then,” he shouts. “I ain’t got all night. He’s gonna be here soon. Jesus Christ, woman.”
I grab hold of the trash can and try to pull it toward the back door but it’s too heavy and only moves a few inches. I grunt and try again. Another couple of inches. My frustration is building and I’m doing my best to keep from crying. Hammerhead doesn’t like it when I cry and slaps me when I do, thinking it’ll get me to stop. Yeah, he’s really that stupid.
