Baby with the Savage_The Motor Saints MC Read online

  I drop my cell into my pocket and head downstairs. I need to check with the prospect who’s guarding the apartment building. He’ll know what time Selena left. And anyway, I need to check in with the boys and see where we stand with the Chosen Wraiths.

  I open the apartment door. I kneel down next to the prospect’s corpse, study it for a moment, and then jump to my feet and run up the stairs.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper.

  I take out my cell as I run and dial Selena, putting it on loudspeaker as I rush around the apartment getting my gun and my keys. I need to ride out to the club. I need to rally the boys. One of ours is dead right outside my goddamn apartment building! The phone rings endlessly. I keep waiting for Selena’s sweet voice. My heart is stampeding like a stallion’s hooves, drumdrumdrumdrum in my chest. I met her yesterday and yet the thought that somebody’s hurt her, or is about to hurt her … I’m scared, I realize. I haven’t been scared since … But I won’t think about it.

  “Fuck!” I snap when Selena’s voicemail picks up.

  I secure my holster and tuck my revolver into it, and then run downstairs and climb onto my bike. I’m about to start the engine when my cell rings. It’s Selena.

  “Please tell me you’re—”

  “Ha, ha!” An East Coast voice titters. He sounds like a university professor, not the leader of a biker gang. “She keeps saying you won’t care but it seems she’s wrong, isn’t she? You sound very much like a man who cares to me.”

  “Brose,” I growl. For a second, I squeeze the cell so hard it almost breaks. I force myself to release it, but that doesn’t release my rage any. “You killed my man.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Why aren’t the police here? I don’t live in that building alone. I bet a few people’ve seen it.”

  “The station has had five calls about it, yes.” I hear the bastard smiling. “You’re not as smooth as you think. Sun Town isn’t a fortress. It’s a dingy little Texan town living in the city’s shadow.”

  “What do you want—money, what?”

  “I want many things, Dante. I want world peace, and I wish this country could switch from oil to wind or solar or even nuclear, but—”

  “Get to the fuckin’ point!” I snarl.

  “Easy now, doggie.” Alex Brose laughs. “Don’t forget that I have your sexy little whore here, and I can do any sexy little thing I please to her. She really is a fine piece of ass, as you louts like to say. Isn’t she? If I was a meaner man, I might take her for myself.

  “If … You’re the meanest bastard I know, Brose. I’ll ask you again, what do you want?”

  “Where’ve your lauded Texan manners gone, Dante? Where’s your respect?”

  “A man like you don’t deserve respect.”

  “Even so,” Brose says. I hate how calm he is. It’s like he’s sitting by the pool on a sunny day and nothing can disturb him. “If you’ll call me sir, I’ll tell you what we want. If you won’t, I’m going to cut off her pinkie finger. You have five seconds.”

  I don’t know her, I tell myself. I just met her last night, I tell myself. I don’t owe her anything, I tell myself.

  But I don’t believe any of that. I want her, and if she gets hurt because of me I’ll hate myself forever.

  “Sir,” I whisper, bitter and ashamed.

  “There you go!” Brose squeals. “Just so you know, you were on loudspeaker for that.”

  “Just tell me, dammit!”

  “Fine, fine. It’s not very complicated. I want you to give up everything the Motor Saints own. I want your bikes and weapons and property, and any cash you have lying around, and I want you all to leave Texas within the fortnight. If you comply with these demands, I’ll let her go. If you don’t, I’ll kill her.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I whisper, rage tearing my voice.

  “I am.”

  He hangs up. I stare down at my phone for a moment, disbelieving. He’s a madman. He can’t truly believe that we’ll give over everything. He can’t truly believe that an MC President would agree to such a ridiculous proposition.

  I kick my bike to life and ride to the clubhouse. Lion is the first one to greet me when I push through into the bar area. “Boss?” he says, standing up from his poker game. Lion always knows when I’m angry. That’s what makes him such a good VP.

  “Get me Slug!” I roar, barging my office door open. “And bring the officers!”

  I sit in my desk chair and wait for the men to assemble. Timmy and Lion, as well as Sebastian and Johnny and Kris K all crowd in my office. All of them are officers leading eight or so men each. I give them a quick rundown of the phone call and the circumstances. When I get to the part about giving everything over, they all laugh.

  “They can’t mean it,” Lion says. “Boss, I know the Gentleman is—”

  “His name is Brose, or Prick, or Bastard, or Fucking Asshole. Don’t call him the Gentleman in my hearing again.”

  Lion takes a step back, and then nods shortly. “Boss.”

  “Listen.” I stand up. “I’m done with these Chosen Wraiths bastards. They killed Markus and now they’re going to kill—” Kill who? Kill a woman I just met last night? Kill a woman who none of these men even know? I cut short, changing tactics. “They’re disrespecting me, fellas. They think they can kill one of our prospects outside my apartment building and then take one of my women.” The men nod at this. This is a language they understand. “I’ve wanted revenge on these fuckers for a while, and this is the best time. Only if … where is Slug?”

  “We called him,” Johnny says. “He should be here soon.”

  Slug is a spy we have working within the Chosen Wraiths as a prospect. So far he’s been pretty good at feeding us information in exchange for cash, but a prospect only has access to so much. There’s nothing to do but wait for him to arrive. My rage is almost overwhelming. My head hurts with it, like something is pressing against the inside of my skull. A pressure, waiting to be unleashed. I keep thinking about the shy look Selena got when I asked her to tell me something about herself. Maybe it’s that look which has enthralled me. I want to learn more about her, to be with her again, but I ain’t gonna be able to do that if these Wraith bastards kill her.

  “Boss,” Lion says, checking his phone. “Slug is here.”

  “Good. Bring him through.”

  Slug is a tall, reedy man with a bleached blond Mohawk and an eyebrow piercing. He wears a sleeveless leather jacket without a patch and two silver chains around his skinny neck. He has a rodent-like face, dusty whiskers, and wet lips. He looks around at the assembled men nervously and then comes to the desk. “Boss,” he says.

  “How goes it with the Wraiths, Slug?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “It goes fine, boss,” Slug says. “I … I’m here to help.”

  “Good.” I lean forward. “I need to know where they’d take a prisoner.”

  “Their clubhouse, I guess?” Slug shrugs.

  “But somewhere that isn’t their clubhouse. Their clubhouse is basically in the middle of Austin, right?”

  Slug nods.

  “Well, when I was on the phone with Brose he put me on loudspeaker and I heard a whole lot of nothing and a little bit of wind. They ain’t in the city, which means they’re in the middle of nowhere. West, north, south? Fuckin’ Mexico, what? Where are they? I don’t know what time my girl left my apartment, so I don’t know how long they’ve had her. So where would they take her, Slug? Think now. You might’ve overheard something. You might remember something. Come on.”

  Slug tugs at his leather vest and takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking, boss,” he says quietly. He rocks back on his heels. “I’m trying to think. I … They mentioned a warehouse once. They called it the Lonely Warehouse, and when I asked why, they said it was on account of how there was nothing around it.”

  “The Lonely Warehouse?” Lion laughs. “What are these, bikers or poets?” The men laugh with him.

&n
bsp; I ignore them. “Where is this warehouse, Slug?”

  “I’ve been there.” He smiles vaguely. It’s always difficult to read what Slug is thinking. Sometimes I have my doubts about sending him in as a spy, but that ship’s sailed now. He’s in there, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. Anyway, he’s Lion’s girlfriend’s uncle’s high school friend or some shit. But even Lion doesn’t seem to like him all that much. “I can give you directions and draw a map of what it’s like inside—or what I remember, anyway.”

  “Do it. Somebody get him a pen and paper.”

  “Uh, boss,” Slug says. “There’s one right there.” He nods to the desk. He’s right; there’s a pen and paper right in front of my face.

  “Okay.” I push them across. “Get to work.”

  We wait in silence as Slug starts writing. He’s sweating like crazy. I’m guessing it’s as much from the nerves as it is from the heat. Having an office full of men eager to get on their bikes and go to war waiting on you can’t feel too comfortable. When he’s finally done, I snatch the paper away from him. On one side he’s written out directions that lead west on I-10 and then turns onto a dirt road, and on the other he’s drawn a crude layout.

  “Okay,” I say. “You can go—”

  “Boss.” It’s Lion.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “All right.” I wave a hand. The room clears immediately. “What is it?”

  “I think Slug should come with us,” he says. “I’ve got a feeling. I ain’t got any evidence or nothing but the way he’s looking, all shifty. I don’t know. It’s an instinct, is all.”

  “What about his connection to you?” I ask. “Your girl’s uncle, or your girl’s uncle’s friend or some shit?”

  “She ain’t my girl anymore,” Lion says. “Broke it off randomly. No warning. No sign things were heading that way.”

  “So maybe …”

  We meet eyes. We both have the same thought.

  “Then bring him along,” I say, standing up. “We lose nothing by bringing him anyway.”

  “That’s my thinking exactly,” Lion says. I’m at the door when he says, “One more thing.”

  “What is it?” I ask, half turning.

  Lion paces across the room to me. His mane of blond hair falls across his eyes. “You’re all keyed up, boss,” he says, looking at me solidly. “I’ve only ever seen you like this once before, when Markus was …” He stops when he sees my expression. “I’ve only ever seen you like this then. I know you must care about this girl if you’re lookin’ like this, but what gets is me we’ve never heard of her.”

  “Why should you?” I say, voice harsher than I intend. “She’s my girl.”

  “All right.” Lion holds his hands up. “Then as your VP I need to tell you to keep your head in the game. This is a big operation we’re going on here. We’re basically starting a war. The men need their president now more than ever. So if you really wanna save this girl, you need to calm down.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right. And yet all I can think about is Selena tied up someplace, bleeding and crying with Brose standing over her, standing there like he owns her just like he owns everything else, standing there like he can do any damn thing he wants and never get a reckoning. Standing there like I’m not a man with fire in his heart for what he did to me.

  “Don’t ever give me an order again,” I say, voice ice cold. “We’re moving out.”

  Chapter Seven

  Selena

  “I wouldn’t mind bouncing those around,” one of the men says, handling me roughly as he secures me to the dripping rusty pipe.

  “You can always tell the whores from the way they moan,” the second man replies. “Listen to the way she moans here.” He tugs on the rope harshly, making me moan in pain. Then he ties me securely to the pipe, linking cuffs with the other man so that my arms are completely secured. “See,” he goes on. “She fuckin’ loves it. Don’t you, sweetheart?” He brings his face close to mine. He reeks of marijuana and whisky, his teeth stained yellow and most of them missing anyhow. “I asked you a question, little lamb.”

  “Please,” I whisper. “I just want to go home—”

  “It’s a shame we can’t play with you none,” the man says, smiling. “I can think of a hundred things I’d like to do to you right this second. Are you a real whore? You look like a real whore.”

  On impulse, I spit. I spit hard, and forcefully, right into the man’s sneering face.

  He leaps back and wipes at his face with his sleeve, and then jumps at me and grabs my neck. He hocks, and then makes as if to spit back at me.

  “Wait a second,” I say, voice rasping. “Didn’t you say you’re not allowed to play with me?”

  “She’s right,” the other man whispers. “If we hurt her, the boss’ll freak.”

  He digs his fingernails into my throat, staring at me with eyes which want to do damage, and then sighs and stands up. “She’ll get what’s coming to her,” he says. “These whores always do.”

  They leave me, slamming the door behind them. I let out a pent-up breath once the men are gone. I don’t know what got into me there. My rebellious spirit, the one ignited with Clint, I suppose. But it was dangerous and stupid, a pointless risk. What if he didn’t care about his boss’s instructions? What if he hurt me anyway? I let my head rest against the wall, closing my eyes. Fear assails me every second, my heartbeat showing no sign of slowing down, tears constantly threatening to pour down my cheeks.

  I open my eyes and look around the room. It’s lit with a naked bulb which hangs from a wire. The room was once a bathroom but all the fixtures have been violently removed, along with some of the wall tiles so that I can see the pipes and the in-between space. I try and pull on the pipe but I’m too weak. I feel tired from last night and my belly’s growling urgently for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner … I realize I have no idea what time it is.

  I decide to try and calm down. If I can’t get free, then at least I can try and approach this coldly. The last thing I need to do in this situation is let my emotions run away with me. I know all too well how crippling emotions can be. I know all too well how they can turn a person into less than a person, into a sniveling wreck without the semblance of a backbone. I need to be strong, I tell myself. But telling myself doesn’t work. I’m still on the brink of tears and my heartbeat is still hurting my ribs.

  I close my eyes and envision a scene. I see me and Dante sitting on a porch in sunlight which could never exist in real life, because this sunlight is brighter than any earth-bound light. It’s heavenly sunlight, the sort which exists only in fantasies. We’re sitting in rocking chairs—yes, the steady rhythm soothing us—and in my arms I’m holding a bundle of life. Boy or girl? Girl, I decide on instinct. The baby is a girl, and for miles and miles around there’s nothing. All is peaceful. We’re alone and safe and warm and happy. I kiss the girl on the forehead and whisper, “Hello, Jasmin. How’d’you do?”

  Dante leans over and gives her a kiss of his own. It’s difficult to visualize every detail of Dante because I’ve known him for such a short amount of time, but I can visualize most of him, and I find that he’s the most peaceful part of the fantasy. I watch this man I don’t truly know and my heartbeat slows and the tears recede. I lose myself in the dream, smiling and taking slow, measured breaths. Once I’ve calmed down, I open my eyes.

  The room hasn’t changed, but I’m able to look at it with fresh eyes. The door is thin, flimsy, and doesn’t look like it’s meant for that frame. It’s wooden and jammed in at an unnatural angle. I think a few good kicks could take it off its hinges. I’m glad I’m not a skinny girl; my legs could do some work on that door. Then I look at the pipe again. The pipe itself is solid, but the screws which hold the pipe to the wall are exposed and brown with rust.

  I stretch across, ignoring the way the handcuffs bite into my wrists, and try to bring my mouth to the screws. The thought of putting t
hem in my mouth sickens me, but the thought of being killed or raped sickens me more. And though I want to be with Dante again—I know that without even having to think about it—I can’t trust that he’ll ride in and save me. I’ve lived too long with violence and pain to believe in fairytales.

  I stretch for a few minutes, chafing my wrists raw, before finding the right angle. When I bite down on the rusty screw I want to be sick. I fight the urge and grip it with my teeth, and then twist my neck around to turn the screw. Any other screw and my teeth would slide off, but here I find grip in the rust. Flakes of rust scrape away and land in my mouth, the taste of metal filling me. But I keep on, twisting, twisting. Slowly the screw starts to loosen.

  I go at it for five minutes and then footsteps pound down the hallway outside my door. Leaning back quickly, I spit on the floor to get rid of the rust taste, and then resume my previous position. The screw isn’t loose yet, only nearly. If they notice … But I can’t look shifty or suspicious. I have to appear as what they expect to see: a terrified woman.