Wheels is one of two bars in Painted Rock. It’s where the bikers of Bleeding Angels tend to hang out by day and by night. It’s not just a bar—it’s part of their compound. Where they do their business, where they eat, rest, play, and even sleep.
I’ve never been inside, but I’ve heard stories from the few people that I know who have seen the place. They’re either people who have gone to the bar to score the drug of their choice, or they’re girls that like the lifestyle—girls that like to be close to power, that like to know that they’re going to be taken care of, even if that sometimes means getting hit or being passed around from one biker to another like they don’t even matter. It isn’t something that I could ever hope to understand, but to each their own.
I’m still wearing my buttercup yellow diner uniform and it makes me remember the lie that I had told Jake. I’m sure Sally spoke to him straight away to say that I’d come to see her. God only knows what he’ll be thinking. I feel a stab of guilt in my gut, but I can’t focus on that now. I’ve come here to do something, so I better just get on and do it.
The parking lot outside the bar is packed with bikes of all different sizes, shapes, and colors. It isn’t hard to figure out that I’ve come to the right place. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and I walk inside. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to how dark it is in the bar. The windows have been covered by black cloth and the lighting is low enough to be almost nonexistent. I’m suddenly very aware of how alone I am and that I’m not among friends.
It’s a little like that moment in those old Western movies, where the gunslinger walks into a saloon and all the customers go quiet and stare at him. That’s pretty much exactly what happens. I try to keep my back as straight as I can as the catcalls and whistles start.
“Hey baby, you lost?”
“Let me show you a good time.”
“I’ve got something to show you, beautiful.”
I pretend that I can’t hear them and that only seems to make the bikers angrier and more intent on getting my attention.
“Prissy bitch don’t wanna talk.”
“You can’t talk, but can you suck?”
“She wants it, she wants it bad.”
That’s when I start getting crowded, from behind me, from the side. Eager hands start reaching out to touch me wherever they can reach. My stomach rolls as one guy squeezes my ass. I’m in way over my head—way, way over. I’m too far from the door to leave, and even if I could, then what would I do? I remind myself that I’m here for Jake and I try to keep that in my mind as I slap away the hands that are getting more and more curious.
“Aimee Winters.”
I squint in the darkness, trying to make out who has spoken my name and it takes a few moments for me to recognize the man. It’s Elvis, the guy that had treated me like a piece of meat at The Hideaway, the guy that had targeted my friend and got her addicted to whatever was the flavor of the month. He’s a real piece of work and I have to resist the urge to walk up to him and slap him as hard as I possibly can.
“Hands off, boys. She’s Ryan’s. For now, at least. Maybe you’ll get a taste later,” he hisses, and there’s a rumble of appreciation from the men around me. The men start to disperse and Elvis walks around me, looking me up and down. “Beats me what all the fuss is about,” he says loudly, to the laughter of the men around. “So you came here to suck Ryan’s cock?” He’s enjoying my humiliation. I don’t reply, I don’t say anything. In fact, I try not to even think anything in case it comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Say it bitch. Say you came here to suck Ryan’s cock,” he repeats, getting in my face.
Don’t do it, Aimee. Don’t do it, I tell myself. Too late. I do exactly what he’s told me. “You came here to suck Ryan’s cock,” I say, loud enough for all the men at the tables to hear me, and they laugh hard at Elvis’ expense. “Now are we going to play who has the bigger dick, or are you going to tell me where Ryan is?” I ask, sounding a hell of a lot ballsier than I feel.
Elvis looks like he would enjoy nothing better than to pay me back for making him looking like an idiot in front of his buddies. But I’ve gambled on the fact that he won’t want to run the risk of making Ryan angry. Pissing off the son of the leader of the Angels wouldn’t be worth his while. The gamble pays off and Elvis stalks off towards the back of the bar, motioning that I should follow him.
I take my time to walk through the bar. Not because I’m trying to make a point, but because I’m trying to commit as much of it as I can to memory. The more details I can give the Feds when they decide to eventually get back in touch, the better. I make a mental note of the entrances and exits, how many men there are here right now, the location of the windows. I scan the place, trying to put the smarts that people keep telling me I have to the test.
“Ryan, your bitch is here,” Elvis announces unceremoniously, almost pushing me out of the way as he heads back into the bar.
The room that I’m in looks like an office, almost like something you would expect to see at an accountancy firm. Only at an accountancy firm, everything wouldn’t be black and there wouldn’t be a sociopath sitting behind the desk.
“Sorry about Elvis,” Ryan says, lounging lazily in his oversized chair with his foot up on the desk. “He doesn’t have a lot of people skills.”
“Whereas you’re just brimming with them?” I ask before I have time to bite my tongue. Remember what you’re here for, Aimee, I remind myself.
“There’s that smart mouth of yours again, getting you into trouble.” Ryan smiles at me, but there’s no warmth in it. “So, Aimee,” he says, getting up slowly and deliberately. “What are you doing here? You’re kind of a long way from home, aren’t you?” he asks, looking at me meaningfully as he walks around the desk so we’re only a few feet apart. I have to resist the urge to take a step back.
“You know why I’m here, Ryan,” I say. I can’t say anything else. I need to leave it there.
“Why don’t you tell me anyway?” he asks, looking at me like I’m something he’d like to eat.
I take a deep breath. I should have been better prepared for this. The humiliation that Ryan was going to make me endure. It was, after all, part of what he wanted. This isn’t just about the sex for him—it’s about him asserting his power over me, demonstrating that I am nothing and that he is in control.
“I came for Jake,” I say, unable to keep the challenge out of my voice.
In a split-second Ryan’s entire expression changes. All the amusement has been sapped out of his face and it’s been replaced by anger. Burning anger.
“That was strike one, Aimee,” he tells me, closing the distance between us, his face so close to mine that I can feel the spit flying as he talks. “You only get three strikes, so try to be a little less… well, you.” He shrugs and laughs at his little joke. “So tell me again,” he says, whispering in my ear, and I have to concentrate on digging my heels into the floor so that I don’t recoil. “Tell me why you’re here.”
I have to force the words out, but I know it’s the only way. “I’m here to be with you,” I tell him. The sudden sense of betrayal is overwhelming.
“Good, good.” He nods in approval. “That’s much better,” he tells me patronizingly. “Go through there and take your clothes off,” he says, pointing towards a red curtain in the corner of the room.
I’m thrown by the suddenness of his request—or rather, his order. But I suppose I really shouldn’t have been. This is something that Ryan has been wanting for a long time. It makes sense he wants to get down to it. What were we going to do if we didn’t, anyway? I don’t get the impression that he’s the pillow talk type and, the less time I have to spend with him, the better for me.
“What, you’re getting all shy now? Like a delicate flower?” he taunts me. “You weren’t shy that other night in the field with Jakey-boy.”
I feel like he’s just slapped me and it takes me a moment to come to terms with what he’s said to me. “You were watching us?” I ask, horrified both at the thought of Ryan there, tainting the night that Jake and I spent together, and also at the fact that he clearly doesn’t feel any shame in his spying. “What is wrong with you?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“Go through there, Aimee, and take your clothes off,” he repeats, this time through clenched teeth. “Oh and, by the way: that was strike two.” He picks up his cell phone and I bite down on my bottom lip, knowing that I don’t want to get to strike three. So I do as I’m told, moving behind the curtain to a bedroom—or at least a room with a bed in it. I overhear Ryan speaking on the phone, reeling off a few orders that don’t make any sense to me.
The room behind the curtain has been painted a deep red and one of the walls is filled with sex toys. The nervousness and repulsion that has been building since this morning, when I had decided what I was going to do, is telling me to turn around and run out of that place as quickly as I can. But what about Jake? If I run away as fast as my legs will carry me, then the deal is off.
But can I really do this? Can I sleep with Ryan? Sleep with a man that I hate and let him do whatever he wants to me? Can I do that? It’s not like you have a choice, the little voice in my head tells me. I know, for once, she’s not just trying to make me feel bad. She’s telling the truth.
I look down at my yellow uniform and take a deep breath as I start to undo the buttons, one by one. I’m on the last button when the curtain is opened without any warning and Ryan stalks in. He eyes me hungrily, but he manages to look irritated even though the blood is clearly not rushing to his head at this precise moment.
“Take it off,” he orders me, gesturing towards the dress. He stands in front of me, eyes fixed on my body.
I try not to think how different this is from getting undressed in front of Jake. With Jake it feels erotic and I’m full of confidence as he looks at me with something close to adoration. But I can’t think about Jake right now—if I do, then I don’t think I’ll be able to go through with this.
“Before I do,” I say, pausing at the last button. “How do I know that you’ll keep up your end of the bargain?” The thought has been playing on my mind since Ryan made the offer.
“You have my word,” Ryan tells me, sighing. “I swear on my father’s life that Jake won’t become an Angel at the end of the month or any time after that. Is that enough for you?” he asks, taking hold of both sides of my dress and pulling it down, ripping off the last button.
I focus on the promise that he has just made me. That they won’t take Jake. I try to keep my mind anywhere but in this room—anywhere but here. In the distance I hear the roar of motorcycle engines, which isn’t that strange considering where I am. For a moment a thought flits through my head: nobody knows where I am. If anything were to happen to me, no one would know to come and look for me here. The idea fills me with panic but it’s too late to back out now. Way too late. I stand in my underwear, automatically trying to cover myself with my hands as Ryan walks around me, taking me in from every angle.
“Get on the bed,” he orders, moving over to a low armchair that faces the bed.
I walk over, sitting on the edge of the huge mattress, wishing that I could transport my mind to somewhere else. I wish that I could leave my body behind and have no memory or awareness of what’s going to happen in this room. I try to concentrate on small details, the feel of the floor underneath my feet. It’s sticky and I have to move my thoughts on so that I don’t dwell on what it could be.
“Take your bra off,” he tells me, unzipping his pants and starting to feel himself.
I want to cry, to cry out, to do anything but what he’s asking me to do. I feel more humiliated than I thought was possible.
I hesitate and Ryan barks at me, “Take your bra off.”
I reach behind me, to the catch, unfastening it. After a deep breath, I let the straps fall down over my arms until my breasts are exposed. I feel so vulnerable in front of this man that I hate. Without my clothes and my barriers I am completely at his mercy. I’ve given him this power over me and now I can’t take it back. I close my eyes and it helps a little to pretend that he’s not even here, that I’m alone in my room at the home that doesn’t exist anymore.
But Ryan’s breathing starts to become more labored as he touches himself, getting excited as he watches me. I already feel like I’ve been invaded, soiled, and he hasn’t even touched me yet. I remind myself that this is just about giving him my body. He doesn’t get my heart. He doesn’t get my soul.
“Take your panties off and turn around,” he tells me, his breath coming in short, sharp breaths.
I do as I’m told, dropping my panties to the floor and turning over so I’m lying face down on the bed. I hear Ryan’s footsteps as he walks over and I feel myself trembling uncontrollably.
“I bet he hasn’t had you here,” Ryan says, dragging his fingers over my ass. “I bet you’re like a virgin there.” His voice trembles like he’s about to come right there in his pants.
“No, I’ve never,” I say, starting to panic. “Please,” I plead. I don’t want him take me this way.
“Please?” He cackles like the hyena that he is. “You’re begging me for it. You’re just a slut, aren’t you, Aimee? Just a dirty little whore, like all the rest,” he says, breathing hard, as I feel him bend over me.
I don’t hear the telltale crinkle of a condom packet and my panic rises. “Are you wearing protection?” I ask, my voice strangled.
“Jakey-boy didn’t wear a rubber the other night, did he?” Ryan asks, his breath rancid as it reaches my nose. “If he doesn’t wear one, I don’t need to either.”
“But he’s been tested, he’s clean,” I tell him, struggling to get out from underneath him. God only knows what Ryan might have.
“That’s strike three,” I hear him mutter under his breath, and as I manage to turn myself over, Ryan’s hand comes up and hits me across my face, making my eye feel like it’s about to explode.
I’ve never been hit before and I think I’m a little bit in shock. I whimper quietly, holding my hand to my cheek. “Oh, why did you make me do that? I didn’t want to hurt you, but now look what you’ve made me do,” he whines at me, as if it were my fault.
Suddenly, he gets off of the bed and seems to be talking to himself. “Come on, come on,” he mumbles as he walks up and down. I catch sight of him rubbing himself and from the sound of his curses I start to get the impression that he’s having performance issues. My cheek is still vibrating from the force of the slap, but it doesn’t take much attention for me to figure out what’s going on. I keep my mouth closed, knowing that anything I say will just make him even angrier with me.
But my silence seems to irk him as much as any words that I can say might. “Don’t you fucking look at me,” he yells. “Don’t fucking look at me, bitch. You did this. This is your fault!” He’s shouting and his eyes are filled with a terrifying madness.
For one of the few times in my life, I manage to get my brain and my mouth talking to each other and not out loud. I cower on the bed, hoping and praying that Ryan doesn’t manage to rouse himself enough to have sex with me.
Time goes by and Ryan moves from raging at me like he wants to kill me to sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room, looking morosely at his flaccid member. He opens a bottle of vodka and starts taking greedy gulps. I keep my expression as neutral as I can and I try to keep as still as possible, as if by doing those things, he wouldn’t be able to see me.
He orders me to lie down again, but I can hear his curses from the corner of the room and I know that he’s not able to get it up. I thank whoever up there is looking out for me for saving me from being with Ryan, from having him inside of me, from letting him do every sadistic thing that he’s imagined to me.
“Put your clothes on and get the fuck out,” he says eventually, his words slurred from all the drink he’s consumed.
I can’t quite believe my ears, but I don’t stop to ask him to repeat what he’s said. I don’t waste any time slipping on my panties and fastening my bra as quickly as I can. I pull up the uniform, all thumbs as I try to button myself up.
“Fucking bitch, you’re a fucking waste of time,” he says, taking another swig of his bottle. “Well, my little chikadee,” he giggles to himself. “Neither of us got what we wanted today.” He lifts up the almost empty bottle and pours the remnants of the vodka into his mouth before throwing the bottle against the wall, where it smashes with a loud crack.
I pull the dress around myself tightly, replaying the words that he’s just said in my mind. “What are you saying?” I ask. “I did everything that you wanted.”
“Yeah, you did everything, except the one thing I wanted you to do. You couldn’t even make me hard. You think you’re so fucking superior, and you can’t even get a man’s dick hard. Fucking slut,” he spits out in disgust.
“What do you mean that neither of us got what we wanted today?” I repeat, feeling the cold fingers of panic stretch over me. “What do you mean?” I demand. “Tell me!” I say, my voice refusing to give in to the emotions whirling around inside of me.
“You’re a smart girl, Aimee. I’m sure you can figure it out,” Ryan says, smiling like the weasel that he is.
“You lied to me,” I say, shaking with rage. “You tricked me!” I shout at him, making him take a step back.
“You lied to me, you tricked me,” Ryan imitates with a whiny voice. “You’re pathetic, do you know that?”
“But you said— You told me that you wouldn’t take Jake once the month was up or any other time,” I say, already realizing the mistake that I had made.
“But I didn’t say anything about not getting him patched before,” he notes, chuckling at his own intelligence. “Everyone always said you were so smart.” The mad, wide-eyed look takes over his expression again. “Everyone said you were so smart, but you’re really a stupid little slut. I’m smarter than you. I’m better than you!” he shrieks at me.
I know that Ryan is hanging by a thread and that anything could potentially push him into doing something that there was no going back from. But I can’t help myself. He’s proven himself to be even more sadistic and crazy than even I had thought he was.
“You’re a sad excuse for a human being, Ryan. You’re a disgusting little worm!” I yell at him, unable to stop the spiteful words from spilling out of my mouth. “You need help. You need serious help,” I tell him, not caring what he might do to me, only concerned with doing him as much damage as possible while I still can.
“You’re a pathetic little whore. Now shut up and get out of here before I give you to one of the boys,” he threatens, turning his back to me.
“Why are you letting me just walk out of here?” I challenge him, pulling my dress as tightly around me as I can with the missing buttons. “Or are you afraid that if you let me hang around I’m going to tell your boys that you couldn’t get it up?”
I should have known better, but I didn’t. Ryan whirls around, moving faster than I had thought he was capable in his drunken state, and he lands a punch square on my jaw. I fall to the ground, an explosion of pain ricocheting around my head. I can taste the metallic blood as it fills my mouth.
“Hitting a girl, yeah, you’re such a man, Ryan,” I say, loudly enough for him to hear me.
“Get out of here, Winters, before I change my mind. I’ll fucking kill you if you say anything to anyone about this, you can believe that,” he rages at me.
I push myself up from the ground, spitting a mouthful of blood out at Ryan’s feet as I walk past him. I expect the bar to be full of bikers as I walk through it, but there’s no one around. I think back to all the engines that I’d heard leaving the bar and the call that Ryan had made when he sent me into the red bedroom. The pieces start to slot together in my head and I realize how easily Ryan had played me. I know where they’ve all gone, and I know that I’m going to get there too late to stop them from doing what they’ve been planning this whole time.
The body shop is a good five miles away from Wheels, and I’m on foot. I stick my thumb out as soon as I get to the road, but I already know how unlikely it is that anyone is going to pick me up looking the way I do now. I must seem like some crazed homeless person, between the dirt all over my dress and the blood on my face and swelling jaw. I keep trying, but I’m close to tears of frustration, as time keeps ticking by and no one stops. I start running, as quickly as I can—which, in my current condition, isn’t all that fast. I’m breathing hard and I recognize the symptoms of one of my panic attacks. But I push the thought away, not allowing myself to fail now, not when I’ve already failed so spectacularly.
“Please be alright, please be alright, please be alright,” I keep repeating to myself over and over, like a mantra.