Farrah

 

I hadn’t been on a bike since my father and mother died, but I was not surprised to find that it immediately came back to me. That sense of sliding rhythm, of moving with the turns, all of it was just as familiar as if I had been doing it for years. I think some of it probably could have been attributed to that fact that Connor was an excellent rider. A natural. He made all of it seem simple and easy. Soon, we were speeding along at what felt like ninety miles an hour, and I had plenty of time to be left alone with my thoughts.

 

Connor fascinated me. Half the time, he seemed aggressive, vindictive, and cruel, and then the other half he seemed like he genuinely wanted to connect with me, if only he could allow himself to do so. He was certainly brave. Helping me out when he didn’t know a thing about me or who was after me had taken guts. I also trusted his instincts. I could tell, simply by the way he’d acted when the cops arrived, that he was well used to violence.

 

He could be a valuable ally, I told myself. Better than Honi, anyway.

 

Honi. I was terribly worried about her. Who knew where she had fled to, and who she might be using for help? I wasn’t too concerned about the envelope. Not yet. I was sure she’d return it to me when we met up again. We were friends, right?

 

Of course we were. As close as a whore an her owner’s heir could be.

 

Now that was a chilling thought. I shook it aside. I had no reason to distrust Honi.

 

Yet.

 

We sped on through the night. Fortunately, we were not far from the Devil’s Wings headquarters, and I quickly found that familiar yet alien building looming into sight. My father had only taken me there once as a child.

 

“This is no place for little girls,” he said. Got that right, Pops.

 

Just looking at the place, you would not have found it impressive. It was an old, dingy brick building, like you could find on the outskirts of any city. You’d have thought it was just another relic of the dying industrial age … that was, until you felt a chill of menace creeping up your spine.

 

Cameras, hidden in dark alleyways, defended when they appeared to have nothing to defend. The bright eyes of a watchman peered through the night window. He might look like some old security guard relaxing his way through the night shift, but the handle of his gun was well worn and his gaze was cunning and alert.

 

Connor road a wide circle around the place three times before finally slipping down the driveway. He wanted to make sure that no one had followed us. At last, we pulled in, and he turned the bike off. Leaping nimbly off the bike, he then turned to help me avoid its red-hot engine.

 

A man opened the door and stepped out into the gloom. His stride was wide and cocky, and he placed a lazy hand on his hip, where a gun was holstered.

 

“Connor!” he exclaimed. “You’re back! And with another chick! We weren’t sure we’d be seeing you anytime soon after this morning’s fiasco!”

 

Connor scowled, and the man chuckled under his breath. I knew better than to ask what they were talking about.

 

“I bring something important to the club,” he said, a steady pride in his voice.

 

I found myself liking him much more than this other asshole here.

 

“Oh, really?” replied the man skeptically. “That’s good, then. This has been a good night for the Devil’s Wings.”

 

At his words, the back of my neck erupted in goosebumps, but I could not have said why at that moment.

 

There was a small scuffle at the door as a number of new men, caught by our conversation, emerged. All of them lounged with that cocky arrogance I’d found men had when they thought they’d stacked the deck. They gazed at Connor curiously, a number of them chuckling and scratching their bellies.

 

“Yes,” Connor persisted. “A good night. You see, I have brought the daughter of Sam Michael’s. She is here to save the club, and the club is here to save her.”

 

Save the club? I thought. What the hell did he mean by that? Oh, this Connor was a tricky one. He must have had something up his sleeve.

 

The men, like me, stared openmouthed. Then, one by one, they did the last thing I had expected:

 

They burst out in laughter.

 

“Sam Michaels’ daughter?” They crowed. “Ha! That’s a good one! Goddamn, Connor, you’ll be taken in by anything!”

 

I looked frantically from the jeering crowd to Connor and back again, riddled with confusion. Connor chin was lowered into a terrible frown, and a deep, ugly blush was creeping over his features.

 

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice a menacing growl.

 

The lead man, the one who had begun the conversation, opened his mouth to speak, but he silenced himself suddenly with a smile. For behind him, outlined in the warm light streaming from the MC, came a pair of figures.

 

One, I did not recognize. He was older than Connor by about ten years, clad in the leather armor of a high ranking Devil’s Wing. His face had all the casual confidence of a leader, but none of the cunning. He was smiling broadly and nodding to each of the men in turn.

 

And in his arms, he held a woman.

 

“Honi!” I cried, making a dart forward, but the ring of Devil’s Wings suddenly bristled, a few raising their weapons.

 

She grinned and kissed the man on the cheek.

 

“President Montengo,” she said, swishing her ankles through the air like a stage dancer. “Thank you so much for the protection you’ve offered me.”

 

“Of course, Devil’s Daughter,” he replied, staring openly at her cleavage.

 

Honi continued,

 

“As a gesture of goodwill for the club from my aunt, I present to you this gift: a whore, worthy of yout, uh … special attention.”

 

She nodded in my direction, and I whirled around, looking for whom she meant. Then, with a slow, tingling clarity, like the rising of a terrible sun across a dead and barren landscape, I realized whom she was talking about.

 

Me.

 

“Honi, no!” I cried, trying again to take a step forward. This time, one of the Devil’s Wings blocked my path, grabbing me by the arm so hard that it brought a gasp of pain.

 

Honi’s gaze leveled with mine, and her eyes bored directly into me. “Remember,” she said. “The Michaels women always keep their promises.”

 

I gasped. I remembered my words to her. No more whoring, Honi. I promise. But then I thought about the price I’d have to pay to keep that promise … what those words would mean …

 

“The envelope!” I burst suddenly. “My aunt gave me the envelope! That’s how … that’s how you would know you can trust me …”

 

I petered out, already aware of how pointless my words were even as a spoke them. Honi. Honi had stolen the envelope. It was her ID, her passport into the motorcycle club, and into safety.

 

And me? I was stranded.

 

It had never occurred to me until that moment just how dangerous motorcycle clubs could be.

 

‘This is no place for little girls.’

 

In that moment, I really, really wished that my father was alive.

 

Honi laughed, a grand, show-girl laugh that started deep in her bosom and echoed all the way up her long, luxurious neck. The other Devil’s Wings joined her. It was like the cackling of crows among a trumpeting swan.

 

The sound terrified me.

 

When she was finished, Honi turned, nuzzled her nose against President Montengo, and together they strode off. Distantly, I heard Connor mutter, “There goes another grand on a hotel room.”

 

But I had bigger problems to worry about.

 

The ring of Devil’s Wings closed in. They leered and cackled and lunged at me with greasy fingers.

 

“No!” I cried, looking around for someone, anyone, who would help me.

 

Honi was long gone, deposited carefully into a limo by Montengo.

 

My eyes fell onto Connor. I expected pity, confusion, even aid. Instead, I saw a deep and burning hatred. I recoiled as if I had touched hot coal.

 

The Devil’s Wing who had grabbed me yanked on my arm, hard. I stumbled as he half-dragged, half-pulled me towards the door.

 

Suddenly, my fear vanished. A rage surged through me, fueled by a sense of profound, aristocratic injustice. “Get your stinking hands off me!” I shrieked, wrestling myself away from him with all the muscles my classes at Stanford had given me.

 

The group went silent. Connor, I noticed, had faded into the background.

 

“What, you think you’re too good for us, you whore?” one said, his voice low and menacing.

 

“Yeah,” another laughed cruelly, reaching out to pinch my breast. “Look at the way she’s dressed! I bet she thinks she’s a fucking princess or something.”

 

“Princess, princess,” they mocked, catching onto the word like a chant. “Princess, princess.” They shoved me around, so that I toppled into each of them.

 

“Hey, princess,” one said, grabbing hold. “In this biker’s club, the princess bows to us.”

 

He pushed me down, right onto my knees. My skin cried out in pain as the rough payment bit into it, but that was the least of my problems. In a flash, I was on my feet again. My stockings were torn and bloody, but I stood firm, ready for another one to come at me.

 

The mob glowered. They did not like me being strong. They wanted me to give in. To surrender.

 

One of them—the first man, who had mocked Connor at the start—drew a knife.

 

My heart leapt to my throat, as if it could hide there. The tip of the blade glistened like death in the moonlight.

 

Could this be where I am going to die? I thought.

 

And then,

 

“Stop!” a voice interrupted, strong but young. I whirled, pulse thundering, and saw Connor cutting his way through the group.

 

“You heard Montengo and Michaels!” He said. “This whore is now our property! And do you break and shit on your own property? No. Because that’s fucking stupid. It’s a waste of good Devil’s Wing property. Now, she’ll be a good whore. She’ll do what she’s told. But not if you fucking kill her.”

 

The mob hesitated. The man with the knife lowered it, slowly, to his side. I sensed some of that raging violence ebb, like a pot of boiling water removed from the heat. They all stared at Connor.

 

“I thinks maybe he like this whore,” growled one, and Connor instantly bristled.

 

“It’s not the whore I care about. It’s this fucking club. You’ve seen the books, huh? You know the trouble we're in! And now a perfectly good whore comes along—who’s not only got a great piece of ass, but could serve as a stronger alliance to Venus Michaels. And you want to fuck it all up just to have a little fun?”

 

They wilted. Connor’s argument had unsteadied them.

 

“Now,” he continued, his voice quieter but just as sure. “If you, Leo, could escort the new whore to her chambers, then we can get a move on. I believe we had a meeting planned for this morning? And since you’re all already awake …”

 

There was some grumbling, but there was no rebellion in it.

 

“Good, now let’s get going.”

 

The man called Leo—the same one who had drawn the knife—strode forward and grasped me by my arm. His grip was not painful, but it was sure as hell firm.

 

“Come on, Princess,” he said.

 

Princess. I knew, then and there, that that was to be my new name. My whore’s name.

 

In silence, he led me to my room.