CHAPTER FOUR

“He walked into hell and brought me into the light. There is a God…” - Zara Freeze.

 

 

 

      Coincidences were for people who refused to believe miracles didn’t happen in this world, who couldn’t trust magic happened at the right time when you least expected it.

      Zara blinked, not trusting in anything anymore, not even her own sight, waiting to wake from this dream.

      It had all felt so real. Of course, it had.

      She’d dreamed that same rescue many times, not the same as tonight, even some with Rider as starring role.

      He would pull her onto his bike, tell her he was taking her away from all this, then they’d kiss and live happily blissfully ever after like a filthier version of Cinderella with Prince Charming liking blowjobs a lot more than the cartoon version of him. Just a dream.

      She was buying into her own delusions finally, sucking from the Kool-Aid through a swirly straw.

      Her old psyche class professor had once said madness came in many forms, you didn’t always have to be crazy.

      Wake up. Wake up. The nightmare was so much worse when she was asleep and pretending her normality had returned in stark beautiful peaceful color. That place where she could reach out and touch hope, feel it as a living breathing entity just waiting to be plucked like a deadly flower.

      She’d cried many mornings when she’d realized it was all a big fat lie, her own brain weaving tales to pacify, to grind her down even further if it was possible.

      She was looking at her dream full in the face as he stared back at her unblinking. The jolt of it traveled to her toes.

      Her dream Rider had never scowled at her; he’d always been too busy shoving his tongue in her mouth.

     Angela whimpered and Zara blinked rapidly, grasping the little girl automatically as motherly as she could to reassure her that everything was going to be okay even if she herself didn’t believe that. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. Breathe.

      What a way to be faced with a one-night stand.

      The walk of shame had just intensified and tripled by ten.

      And here she stood, shivering with eyes on her from all angles yet only one set of blue eyes had her attention, and she was abstractly aware of just how she looked.

      Her blonde hair needed combing, washing. Forget about styling, it hadn’t seen the better end of a curling wand in longer than she cared to remember.

      She was dirty and she felt it, as if every piece of filth clung too deep into her pores.

      The caked grease making her hair hang in heavy limp strands around her face.

      Clothes in desperate need of washing and mending, she held Angela in one arm as the girl burrowed deep into her ribs and went on with her quiet crying, the other hand tugged self-consciously at her off-white tank top drawing it away from the shape of her bare breasts.

      She tried hard to stay clean, not permitted to shower often, another cruel way to control her, she’d used her daily ration of bottled water to keep her clothes tended to, and to have one of those stand-up washes as best as she could. But even after a while that too had decreased.

      What did she have to be clean for, who was she wanting to look nice for?

      The dirtier she was she had hoped she’d be left alone for a prettier cleaner woman who came back the club looking for fun.

      Now, though, as she watched Rider’s eyes roll down her frame, she felt nothing but utter shame at her current state.

      So different to the last time they were in the same room together.

     “Rider…” she tested his name and got no further.

      Her tongue didn’t want to work, glued to the roof of her mouth, paralyzed with silence.

      Luck would have it. And that was a joke... Angela began to cry louder, she saw the guy with the shaved head stood off to the side of Rider scowl, his brows so dark pull down over his eyes studying them both closely, she felt her spine go rigid expecting him to pounce, but he neither moved nor spoke, only stared at Angela with the kind of stare you’d expect from a serial killer.

     “Shhh, sweet girl, everything is okay now, it’s all over, we’re fine, sweetheart, I promise. Didn’t I tell you everything would be alright? There now, stop crying...shhh...shhh...” turning her body away from Rider, she cradled the girl, unsure who was shaking more.

     Angela was a slender bit of a kid, ink black hair that reached down to her backside, and a tan so natural in any other circumstances Zara would have been envious.

      She was fresh to being fourteen years old, just turned it two weeks ago, she’d told Zara. On a late vacation to the Rocky Mountains with her parents from New Mexico, the summer season had only just finished and her parents worked the tourist spots selling their homemade jewelry, home-grown organic veggies and needed to wait out the season to make as much money as they could.

      What a belated gift for the girl, to arrive in the North of Colorado, for what they thought ten days of idyllic quiet family time in a cabin, not far actually, and instead of swimming in the lake, the cruel reality had given Angela the nightmare of watching her parents robbed at gunpoint, and killed when her father tried to put up a fight.

      As far as Zara could work out that had only been several days ago, when Angela was brought to the Rebel’s base of operation.

      Hades growling at Zara to ‘keep that fucking brat quiet, or else’ she knew his or else and moved by the tiny girl so obviously traumatised Zara had cared for her.

      Hades moved women through the compound fast, like grocery deliveries, brought against their will, to use, abuse and sell on to the highest bidder.

      The guy was from the fucking revolting stone age.

      Zara had taken one look at the traumatized young girl covered in her parent's blood, saw her nubile body in her plain T-shirt and jeans, knew exactly what the Rebel’s would do and vowed to keep her out of harm’s way no matter what she had to do.

      That had proven easier than she’d thought when masked men had come through the club, stealth, deadly. God sent.

      The raid had terrified her, assuming she was next, she’d grabbed Angela, crawled under the table and held her hand over the crying girl’s mouth, telling her it would be fine.

      She hadn’t known the reason for the raid only that Hades’ must have enemies a mile long. Fucking evil bastard.

      She hadn’t known in those paralyzing moments of hearing scuffed feet, muffled deep voices that salvation was coming.

      From Rider. Jesus. Did that happen? She really wasn’t sure.

      It's said no one looks good in their darkest hour; when despair, terror, unmitigated rock bottom has swallowed you whole, who could put their best face present for that.

      Zara tried to stand strong, to lift her chin and display herself in a way that wouldn't have any of those tall intimidating men look down on her with less than complimentary thoughts in their eyes.

      She couldn't focus on the periphery, not when a set of the bluest eyes she'd ever seen held her steady. Unblinking.

      Twin points of accusation.

     Shivering under such abstract scrutiny, there was no way to emerge victorious in anything about tonight.

      Sure, she was out of that hellhole. God. She was out of there.

      She was dizzy with it and even swayed.

     Suddenly he'd moved like lightening for someone so huge, and was in front of her.

     "Steady, babe. Come on, we gotta get ... fuck, I got no idea. Jesus. What a clusterfuck. What were you doing there?"

      His arm slipped around her waist holding her up.

      She stiffened with the contact

     "Tiny, bring some blankets to the common room, and coffee, a lot of fucking hot coffee. Hawk, you wanna get hold of Grinder, see how he's getting on locating that bastard. Easy there, Zara, easy girl. No one is going to hurt you here, but we gotta sit your ass down before you fall and the kid ain't looking any better. You can tell me what the fuck you were doing over at Westbank with the Raging Rebels while you eat something."

      Her heart started beating faster, all irregular as if protecting itself from this new environment, knowing the panic she was feeling it thumped and rolled, and her skin began to tingle irritably.

      The air around her grew thick, stuffy, making it hard to breathe, why weren't her lungs working properly, she pulled in more air feeling the panic settle in. Lightheaded, her stomach clenched painfully.

     Before she did something stupid like faint to the floor, she plonked herself to the nearest chair, a soft cushioned hardback with raised arms on either side. She wanted to ask for everyone not to look at her, she could feel all those eyes, what must they be thinking... she knew already, they saw the dirt and the filth and not much else.

      Such accusations she was imagining; it tore at her mind.

      That wasn’t who she was. Not really.

      She wasn’t a whore or a biker bitch, she wasn’t bad or evil.

      She heard more than once ‘Hades’ bitch’ it made her gag, the swell of bile rushed up from her belly and the only way to quell being sick was to breath.

      Breathing she could do. She’d been in worse situations... Ha... joking in times of crisis.

      She breathed and waited…turning a wavering smile up at Angela who had plastered herself to the arm of the chair.

      Such a little girl going through something so unthinkable.

      This fucking world sucked.

      No child should ever see their parents brutally killed, no child should ever be used.              

      Thank god it had only been a few days since Angel had been brought to that hellhole, no one had touched her, of course not, those bastards had to get the merchandise ready before the bidding began.

      Selling girls…this fucking world sucked, she thought again.

      She patted the girl’s leg, told her it was okay again though Zara didn’t believe a word of it.

      Her eye was hurting, throbbing actually, feeling the pulse of it tormenting her to its existence, the swelling making it puffy and raw, she fingered around the delicate tissue, not her first black eye, this one was earned when she'd told Slim to go fuck his mom in the ass with his shriveled up dick.

      Some men are so touchy, he'd taken offense and walloped his fist straight to the side of her face, the pain had exploded. Hours later it still ached.

      She closed her one good eye, ignoring everyone coming and going, ignoring the ugly memories that lived in her brain. Too much ugliness.

      First things first, she had to think rationally. She had to think like a normal person again. Easier said than done, she was what, an hour free.

      Her mind was a whirl of thoughts.

      Rider continued to speak issuing his quiet orders to his men who all shuffled off to do his bidding without question.

      She listened despite the hard beat of her heart.

      One growl stood out of the crowd. Hawk…she remembered him, he'd looked like an intimidating Jesus… still did, gave her the hairy eyeball before bending his head to talk in a hushed whisper to Rider, who nodded in return, the other man strode off, but not before she'd felt the full hit of his gaze.

      And the same to you, buddy.

      Zara frowned tipping her head down, shivering as adrenaline leached out of her leaving her lethargic, her undernourished muscles like heavy string, limp at her side. In out. In out. She just continued to breathe and it felt like the hardest thing she’d ever done.

     “Zara? Wh-what’s happening? I want to go home. We’re not going---not going back there, are we? I can’t…I c-c-can’t go back there.”

      A growl so menacing Zara’s head came up, Lawless, the bald one, growling, otherwise he said nothing.

      Bile continued to slosh around her belly reminding her it had been just over two days since she’d eaten anything, the cheese sandwich she’d been given earlier she let Angela eat, the poor thing was so hungry in between sobs she’d gulped in down in three bites.

     Catching Rider’s gaze before turning to the girl. “No, we are not going back. Never going back. The police will deal with it, I promise.”

      It was a promise she couldn’t keep, but what other choice did she have but to placate the girl. Zara had no answers, no solutions and outlaws were not likely to involve the law.

      Hades needed stopping. Needed punishing. Needed a bullet in his fucking head.

      She was good with all three options.

      It didn't matter how good looking the outer package was if the insides were a rotting ugly mess. And the man she'd left behind was ugly in every pore until it bled out through his vicious fists.

      Hate. Hate. Hate.

      It boiled through her veins even as shudders racked her bones. She couldn't get warm, knew it was the crash of adrenaline. Much had happened in such a short amount of time. One moment she was there, now she was here, and she was no clearer of what or why, or even what came next.

      Had she been taken from one prison to replace a new one?

      It seemed unlikely… but fear whispered. Please, god. No.

      She couldn't say she knew the president of this MC… knocking hips with her virginity forever ago in another lifetime didn't amount to much other than she knew he was skilled in giving pleasure until she thought she'd die from it.

      As for his character... she was unmindful to that.

      And therefore, wise to continue to feel fear.

      Zara had known nicer feral dogs than Hades was.

      For three years, she'd assumed Hades was the biggest terrifying man on the planet after all his monster reputation preceded him.

      Whispers and rumors from within her cage had said as much.

      People feared him.

      That was until Rider had rescued her. She still couldn't shake that look piercing from his eyes when he'd realized who it had been cowering on the floor freshly beating looking like a Goodfellas reject.

      He’d been a snarling monster behind the bandana, scaring her further. His fists had been clenched, bloodied, hatred in his dark eyes, every line on his face highlighted by his perfect tanned skin and when he reached down for her, his hand outstretched, Zara had known she was looking up at a bigger danger than Hades had ever been, could ever wish to be.

      Because Rider was formidable.

      He'd achieved something no one else had. He had freed her from the MC shackles.

      Even now he watched her.

      She'd been scared putting her hand into his, yet he’d been the lesser of two evils, letting him pull her into the fresh air, place her on his bike.

      Until the foreboding wave hit her that she might have walked right from the fat and triple jumped into the fire.

      Every reaction she was having to him was visceral.

      He was speaking low to a tall guy, their heads bent together, voices hushed.

      The guy shrugged, rubbed his thick dark beard. Rider called him Preacher.

      He was dressed all in black as all of the men were, a good color for a nighttime raid.

      At last, she broke the silence, stood too fast and felt the floor shift under her, her belly growling loudly.

     "Listen...Rider. Thank you for getting us out of there, truly, thank you, but we should leave before..." before Hades found me.

      Her empty belly tightened.

      Where would she go, how would she get there? her mind fired off a barrage of logical questions, stripped of possessions, she had nothing and could go nowhere.

     Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Despair.

     "I should go. Angela needs taking care of somehow..." Perhaps it was the stark reality of the situation finally sinking in, her terror was over, or her body had reached its limits, but the next thing Zara was aware of the floor rushed up to meet her, she was acutely aware of Rider cursing, his form seemingly appearing out of her nowhere as her vision checked out into a blur.

      What was happening to her… she blinked into darkness and knew no more.

 

******

      There was no grace as Rider lunged forward to stop Zara's head cracking against the floor. One minute she was stood, the next she went down like a tower block under a control explosion, her voice tapering off until it was a harsh inhale.

      He jumped the coffee table, caught a palm roughly under her nape, unable to grab onto her body it landed in an awkward misshapen heap, but he stopped her head from bouncing.

     "Fuckin' hell! Preach, move all that crap from the couch, why the fuck are groupies leaving their shit here. And where's the Butcher at?"

      He had her up into his arms, she weighed next to fucking nothing, five strides he laid her on the couch.

      His road captain Preacher, a tall serious man, Despite the awesome mental image of him, his body full of ink and incredible muscle, his bearded face was grim as a funeral as he stepped forward, arms full of coats, shirts, and pairs of panties, he whistled over the beat of the sound system, Rider saw him slash a finger to his throat and within seconds the music came to a silence.

      It dropped the club into a hush and then voices raised. "Get them all the fuck out of my club. Now!" Rider issued, his gaze never moving from the unconscious woman.             

      Hangaround's and groupies began to move fast, smart people.

      All that was left were his boys, those he trusted.

      His own heart was in overdrive with worry as he searched out her pulse and found it steadily pumping away. Thank christ. She was alive.

      Zara.

      It was fucking Zara.

      What in the good fuck was she doing at the Rebel's club? Of all the scenarios, he'd played through, talked through until his teeth hurt, he'd weighed in casualties, it was a war, it was expected, he would have been fine taking out whatever groupies of theirs had been hanging around, chaos and noise caused mistakes and Rider hadn't been willing to set any fucker free tonight.

      But last on his list of eventualities, top being Hades dead as a fucking corpse bloodied at his boots, was seeing Zara there.

      He'd thought of this girl over the years, too many fucking times to count, hadn't she told him she was going to a big fancy lawyer school far from here? What happened, baby?

Looking down at her, his brows folding in on themselves, he saw fatigue merging with her bruises, not just fresh marks either, and when her tank top rode halfway up her belly he saw purple and yellow bruises there, as well.

     Fucking hell…his brain was already joining the dots…he knew what kind of man Hades was and Zara despite her appearance now was a beautiful girl.

      His gut joined the parade of logic by tightening.

      She'd been kept there.

      Had to be.

      She was too beaten up to be a Rebel's groupie.

      That motherfucker was shipping in girls from across the border as fast as Rider could stop him.

      It still didn't explain what the fuck Zara was doing there. She wasn't the usual tits and ass piece that got off on hanging around dangerous men.

      No, she was class. He’d sullied her for one night, show her the filth and the dirt of what great sex could be, wanted more, honestly, he’d craved her for a long fucking time afterward, thought about her more than he should have, but he’d recognized class when he saw it, she’d been destined for better things that a dirty biker could give her.

     Staring down at her, hearing the footsteps of their medical man, Butcher would be carrying his familiar black bag. The man had no medical training that counted, he’d done many first aid courses, saved countless lives, he knew how to patch up a wound like no one else.

      But for Zara, his hand shook as he scraped her hair back gently to better see her pale face, he prayed to god she didn’t need an actual doctor, hospital even, if he were any way decent he would have taken her and the crying kid there already, but then it would have brought too many questions that broke his and his club’s alibi’s clean open.

      “What we got here, Prez? She looks sick as a dead dog. Mighty pretty though.  She got any injuries I should know about?”

      Rider’s jaw tightened, reluctant to move, but he did it anyway.

      “Not sure, we took ‘em both from the Rebels compound, she’s in a bad way, might be in shock, she just collapsed, didn’t show signs of internal bleeding.”

      Butcher, a huge lanky man in his thirties, efficient with precise movements, crouched by the sofa using his stethoscope to listen to Zara’s heart. Rider waited for any result, silent and deadly stood close by, his eyes trained on the woman as another man put hands all over her checking vitals.

      He couldn’t help it, his lip peeled back with a snarl.

      Butcher turned a curious glance but didn’t question it, instead went back to checking Zara over.

      The kid, who Rider hadn’t taken a bit of notice of was hiccupping so bad with her sobs.

      Jesus Christ. This was fucked up.

      “Does someone wanna shut her up for fuck's sake so Butcher can work.” He growled.

      All his boys stood statue still, unwilling to volunteer.

       His inhale was fast, he didn’t want to leave Zara’s side, but the kid’s caterwauling was grating on his last nerve, as if he didn’t have enough to worry about with cops who could turn up at any second to see him with a hysterical kid who was more than likely kidnapped and a beaten unconscious female who was also likely to be have been taken by the Rebels.

      “Hey kid. Listen…you’re called Angela, aren’t you? I’m Rider.“ He didn’t move, but he switched his focus a few yards away, she was a tiny thing, swamped in a hoodie far too big for her, eyes terrified and wide leaking tears by the second. “You gotta stop the noise, get me? Zara is going to be fine, she’s just tired.“

       The young girl’s eyes filled more, tears pouring down her dirt face leaving dirt track marks, she seemed to shudder, those same eyes wildly searching the common room before hitting on. He turned his head to see Lawless in the doorway. Before Rider could say anything, the kid had taken off at a dead run almost plowing down his enforcer, her slim arms banded tightly around his waist.

      “Holy fuck!”

      “What in the world…”

      “Kid done lost her mind.”

      Rider agreed with all those who chimed in. His eyes narrowed. Of all the men to choose for protection, the kid had turned to Lawless.

      “Law got himself a fan!” snickered one.

      “She looks like a little woolly limpet.” laughed another.

      Meanwhile Lawless had gone deathly still inside his ankle length leather duster, his arms automatically coming up and out to hold them away from the girl.

      “Fucking HELL! What’s happening right now? Get it off me, Prez! Someone get it off me fucking now, it’s watering all over me!” His voice strangled.

      Lawless wasn’t known or hired for his social graces if anything the tall shaved head outlaw was one of those dangerous men your mama warned you about.

      And as strange as it was seeing a little kid wrapped around his enforcer, the deadliest man to draw breath within the borders of Colorado, Rider admitted it had got the kid to shut up. Not a peep out of her now, though he saw her body was still shaking.

      “Are you all fucking deaf? Come and get her off me!” arms waving in the air waist height giving no contact to the girl whatsoever apart from her death cling, he glared hard and Rider shrugged.

     “She’s not so different to a cat, Law. She’s quiet. Keep her that way.”

      Rider dismissed his brother by giving him his back, turned towards Zara again right as Butcher was pulling down her shirt, he caught the swell of her breasts before they were covered again.

      His brain slid straight to his cock.

      Jesus. This was Zara.

      “Well?” His voice was less than steady.

      “Looks to be exhaustion to me, far as I can tell. She’s painfully skinny, you can see her fucking hip bones poking out, so you gotta weigh in malnourished.  The wounds are superficial; the eye probably looks worse than it is. She might need some antibiotics; I can get those. You wanna tell me what happened tonight, Prez? We didn’t order two girls and I forgot, did we?”

      His joke went unanswered as Rider scrubbed a hand through his hair.

      All his plans were crashing down around his boots, weeks of thought and planning to destroy those cocksuckers for good, all because he had the unnatural urge to take care of that girl. Her pain called out to him, made him feel like shit to know she had suffered at the hands of someone like Hades and his animal crew.

      That shithead was going to die so much slower.

      His chest was tight.

      His gut was tighter.

      He wanted to hurt someone badly for every bruise on her body.

      And while he stood in his own inner fucking turmoil statue tall in the middle of his common room with most of his outlaw brothers looking on, sending their unsure, confused, wary gazes from him to Zara, all he could think about was; he’d thrown this fucking girl away without a second thought a handful of years ago.

      For a while afterward, he’d regretted what he’d done, wished he’d gone about it differently, hell, maybe they could have been fuck buddies if she ever passed through town while she was bettering her brain and future.

      He'd thought about her too often, even just recently with his latest hook up. A boring fuck so forgettable he couldn’t even remember if he came.

      No one measured up.

      Sure, he’d had good climaxes, fast and hard, dirty wet climaxes, but none had felt the same as that night.

      And over the years he’d self-condemned getting rid of her, tossing her away like she hadn’t meant something.

      Funny shit was, for those few hours together she’d meant a lot to Rider. But the club had come first, as always, and he’d had too much to do at that time to worry about making a relationship with a sweet girl who was better than him.

      And now, here was that sweet girl, back in his life through a means he wished she’d never endured. No woman should ever feel the brute force of a man through his fists.

      Fucking asshole was a coward beating a woman.

      All his old contained feelings released, his monster thoughts dark and unfettered.

      He wanted to hurt someone badly for hurting his sweet girl.

      His sweet girl.

      She wasn’t his, he told himself, even as his body flooded with a proprietary sense of ownership.

      She was mine first.