It’s been a few days since I received the text from Viking letting me know that he was going out of town, so imagine my surprise when my phone rings and of all people, it’s Scot calling me.
Immediately, I spaz out, jumping to conclusions that Viking was dead, and Scot, being the one semi in charge, was calling to tell me about it. Talk about overreacting. Bethany’s baby news has had me on pins and needles, automatically jumping to wild conclusions on everything, even the small stuff.
The poor man barely got three words in before I was peppering him with questions about why and how it happened. Chuckling loudly, he’d ignored my craziness and told me that it would be a cold day in hell when someone was able to kill that rotten bastard.
I’m not one hundred percent sure what Scot meant by that exactly, but it did indicate that Viking was okay. Bethany’s words sunk in a smidge more, suggesting that I do love him. It’s the first time as his Ol’ Lady I guess you’d say, that he’s on a run, so I can’t help the nervousness bubbling up inside.
Scot was nice enough to let me know that they’d all be returning from their trip this evening, and he was hoping Bethany and I would go to the bar early and help the bartender prepare. Of course, I agreed, eager at the chance of possibly seeing Viking early. Plus, I’d get to do something nice for him and his brothers. They’ve been kind to me each time we’ve seen one another, so hopefully, the culinary skills I’ve learned from my mom will further win them over.
It’s much easier for me to keep Viking at some distance if people are around versus being with him alone. I want to be with him a little too much, and that feeling scares me. I refuse to be left home all the time just because I’m an Ol’ Lady. I won’t let him treat me like my dad did with my mother and with how strongly I feel about him already, he could end up doing that if he wanted.
Per Scot’s request, the majority of my day was spent preparing my mom’s potato salad recipe and chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting. I tried to bribe Bethany to come with me, but she had to work and wouldn’t call in sick. I can’t blame her. I’m proud of her for turning me down; she has a kid to think about now.
After the food was finished and I’d taken a shower, I found a cute outfit consisting of a thin tank and jean shorts, then I loaded my car up and headed straight to the bar.
1 Hour later…
Dutifully, I’ve been getting everything set up and ready with the bartender ever since I crossed the threshold. This woman is a workhorse; I’d never guess she could pull this much off with so little notice. I’d think she’d be exhausted from closing the bar down each night and would sleep all day long too. At least that’s what I would do.
That’s probably why she’s been quiet. I hate not knowing her name, but she didn’t mention it earlier, and I don’t want to guess and fuck it up. She hasn’t been rude or anything, but besides asking me to set stuff in certain places or help her move the long table, she hasn’t really spoken to me. I’m too used to having Bethany chatting my ears off when we’re together that being around quiet females gives me too much time to think.
Hopefully, these bikers are starving; otherwise, I don’t know who’s going to eat all this food. So far we’ve got a buffet style table set up full of fried chicken, corn on the cob, potato salad, cupcakes, rolls, grilled chicken and pineapple kabob’s, chips, dip, and banana bread. She had some serious help cooking, or else I need to step up my game when it comes to the kitchen.
“Will you hand me that bucket? I need to fill the ice bins back here.” She points to a gray bucket beside the table. She used it to fill a few large bowls with ice to set under the salads so they’d stay cool.
“Sure.” I place the plastic forks down and grab the bucket.
Handing it over the bar, she smiles friendly and uses both hands to take it from me. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I respond just as the bar door swings open, letting in a burst of late afternoon sunlight. Normally the place would’ve opened hours ago and been busy with the regulars, but she posted a sign earlier saying the bar’s closed for a private party. The guys have no idea about it either. Scot’s supposed to be calling them later on, once we’re all ready and let them know to come on over. I hope it’s a surprise they’ll be happy about with tons of food and alcohol.
My gaze is instantly glued to the entrance, waiting for him to cross the threshold because I know when I see him again I won’t be able to breathe. That’s what Viking does to me; he steals my breath away easily with his crazy demands and no-holds-barred way of living. He orders me around like he’s lost his fucking mind and doesn’t think twice about me standing up to him. He doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinions; he does whatever he wants, and it’s fucking liberating.
A rough group of bikers enters the empty bar, and my stomach instantly tenses. I’ve never seen them around here before. My mother made sure I was pretty familiar with the clubs in the Austin area. She wanted to be certain I knew which ones were friendly with the Oath Keepers if there ever came a time that I needed someone else’s help.
Pretty sure that time is now.
The intruders’ cuts advertise one percenter patches, and when the last burly man turns around to shut the door, I make out ‘South Carolina’ on his bottom rocker. He swings back before I get a chance to see exactly which club they’re from. The fronts of their cuts have each of their road names, the percenter patch and various other warnings sewn on, but no club name.
Damn. I need one of them to turn again; their name could mean so much.
My mother had also taught me about the types of patches that they sew on their cuts and what all they imply. I can tell you right now, these guys are at least into guns and drugs, possibly prostitution as well. It looks like they’ve all killed before, every one of them. A few have knife patches, and others have stripes marking their kills.
The two cuts with the tally mark patches most likely mean that those men are the club’s Enforcers. Paired up with everything else they have on display, they’re probably very mean bikers, taking care of the unwanted stuff thrown at their club. One approaches me, hardened features, glaring coldly like he wants to stab my eyes out.
His expression has me throwing on my resting bitch face. I’m pretty good at coming off to guys that I’m not interested or that I don’t care about anything they may say. My gaze shoots to his title, reading ‘Death Dealer.’ Definitely a damn Enforcer. Shit, fuck. Whatever the reason is that they’re here, it probably isn’t good news.
With a road name like Torch, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of his anger. Thankfully, he keeps walking, heading toward the bathrooms.
The oldest guy with them spots me right away, and his eyes sparkle in triumph as he saunters toward me, wearing a malicious smile.
Just great. My stomach churns, knowing inside that this isn’t going to end well. Why can’t these assholes just read the sign on the door and leave?
“Well, well, well, looky here, Widows!” he announces as he comes to stand in front of me.
I’m not going to lie; I kind of want to shit my pants right now. This man is damn near as big as Viking; only he’s scary as fuck. When I look at Vike, I see a man that worships me. This guy seems more like he wants to peel my skin off and wear it. Most men I come across are overly sweet, trying to get into my pants; but clearly, these guys don’t use those tactics.
A skinny cracked out looking guy with greasy black hair snickers as he swaggers closer. “Nice. Her tits are bigger than the picture.”
Any other time, I’d flip him off and tell him to lick shit off a toilet, but one thing stands out in my mind. He said ‘the picture’ as if he’s seen me before and already knows who I am. It’s like setting off a shrill siren or lighting a blazing fire directly in front of me—the warning written in his words.
My gut was right to feel uneasy; it was cautioning me that these men will hurt me.
Swallowing down my fear, my thoughts race to find a way out of this situation. I could try to make it out the side door, but most likely they won’t let me back there alone, and if they did, then it most likely means that they have someone waiting outside.
Shit fuck. Could this be my father’s fault? Did his damn club get mixed up in something bad enough that people would come for me? It’s not a farfetched thought; it wouldn’t be the first time.
Back when I was seventeen, I was leaving the movie theater and was left alone out front. My friend’s boyfriend gave her a ride home, and she had taken off before my brother showed up. A rival club member of my dad’s happened to be there, taking his Ol’ Lady to a movie as well. They saw me waiting to leave and tried stuffing me into their old beat-up pickup truck.
Thank God my brother showed up just in time with a few of his college buddies or who knows what could have happened to me. My mom flipped out, scared for me to go anywhere alone and ripped my dad a new one. Come to find out, the other club had been threatening my dad for some time because one of his old members kept stealing the other club’s drugs. The member got kicked out of the club and my dad made as much peace with the rivals as fifty thousand dollars would buy.
Then the Twisted Snakes came after Brently awhile back and nearly killed him, so why should I think that I’m exempt from such repercussions?
There’s no way I can ask my mom for help with this. I have to figure out a way to call Viking. I don’t want him to get hurt, but I think the Nomads are most likely the only ones who would be able to get me out of this situation right now.
If I don’t do something fairly quick, I’ll probably end up raped multiple times and then killed when they’re all finished with me.
Viking’s on my speed dial, but if I reach into my back pocket right away, I think the monstrous guy hovering over me will know exactly what I’m doing and take my cell from me. That’s the last thing I want right now if I have any hope of making it out of this with minimal damage.
Clicking his tongue, the man looks me up and down. “Snatch got your tongue, baby?” He chuckles, and I clench my teeth together. I’m going to barf all over this jack off if he keeps talking to me like that.
Remaining silent, I mentally start slowly counting to ten, so that I don’t come back with a retort that I’ll end up regretting.
It takes no time at all for his weathered features to contort in anger at my silent defiance. His hand shoots out toward my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks as he pulls me in closer. Coppery flavor consumes my taste buds as my teeth sink into the soft flesh, carving out painful cuts inside my mouth.
Momentarily, I forget to breathe, in shock and in pain.
At his commanding voice, I draw in a few gulps of air, doing my best to concentrate on his words. “I asked you a motherfuckin’ question. You don’t open that cum guzzler real fast; I’ll beat you ‘til you feel chatty. You get me?”
Blinking a few times, I nod quickly, causing my teeth to slice in deeper where his fingers continue to hold my skin captive.
He sighs, and the anger melts away, almost like he just took off a mask and is a completely different person suddenly. His hand releases its fierce grip and falls away as a small grin appears. “Good, glad we understand one another.”
Another man strides over, coming to stand beside my tormentor. He resembles the older man slightly. This new guy’s thinner but still muscular and young. I’d guess he’s eighteen, if that. I wonder what could’ve been horrible enough in his life to make him want to be around someone so mean and just plain evil?
My gaze flutters over the man’s cut in front of me; he wears the President patch on one side and his road name on the other. Jekyll. Taking in each material decorating his cut, one, in particular, scares me the most. It’s actually more than one; there’s an entire row of tiny red flowers sewn under his arm, all in a line.
Rape.
Those patches show me how many ‘flowers’ he’s taken. I’m guessing he raped every single one of those virgins, as it looks like he’s collected quite a few.
“You like those flowers?” he murmurs nastily, adjusting a little so I can get a better look.
Twenty-nine.
I’m able to get to number twenty-nine before he returns to his original position. That wasn’t all of them either; that was just how fast I was able to count them. Shrugging, I pretend to be oblivious. Fake it till you make it, right? “I don’t care for them.”
Stepping closer, he places his finger in the ‘v’ where my thighs meet. “You sure?” He rubs my pussy through my shorts. “I could show you what they mean; then you could have your own. “He points to the last spot under the crimson line. “Right here.”
“I’m not really a red person, more like pink.”
He pushes against me hard enough to send an entirely new zing of sickness to my stomach. “I’ll bet you are. Did my son get a flower patch from you?”
“Huh?” I’m confused. I have no clue who the hell this guy’s son is unless he thinks I’ve met him before.
“Take off your shorts,” he orders, causing me to panic. If I take them off, I lose access to my phone. Fucking shit.
“Not happening. I’m not some bar slut that you may be used to.”
He snaps his fingers and instantly greasy hair guy along with another guy grab my arms, spreading them out. I can twist and turn, but they’re strong enough, making it so that I can’t go anywhere even if I do try to fight them.
Jekyll pulls the same long knife from his belt that Viking owns, wearing a cruel smile as he grabs my shirt, slicing up the thin tank top material. Once he has most of it cut away, he pulls the scraps off, tossing it to the floor.
I’m left in my bra, panting, my anxiety making me feel as if I’m about to have a heart attack. “You seriously need to stop; you don’t know what you’re doing!”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want to. You see this patch here.” He points to the one percenter sign, and I nod, well aware of what it is. “Means, I make my own rules, and some snatch isn’t gonna tell me what the fuck to do.” He grabs my bra between my breasts; I try to wrench away, but they’re too strong. I don’t get back far enough, and when he slides the blade underneath to cut the bra, he draws my blood.
The sting to my sensitive skin is enough to have me spewing threats. “Do you have any clue who the hell my father is, you fuckwad?” I scream furiously. “He’ll kill you! You’re all fucking dead!”
Jekyll bursts out in a deep belly laugh, only pausing to send a quick punch to my stomach for my outburst. He hits me hard enough to make the air escape me, but not to break a rib. Watching me, he continues to chuckle for a moment while I gasp in discomfort.
The younger guy remains solemn, standing beside him and looking miserable like he’s being forced to watch this.
“Blaze, come shut this mouthy whore up,” Jekyll hollers at a stocky guy that has flames tattooed all over his arms.
Before he reaches me, I shout, “My father’s the President of the Oath Keepers MC you fool! Let me go!” That’s all that I can get out before Blaze is standing behind me with his huge hand, covering my mouth and muffling my shrieks of outrage.
“You think I don’t know who the fuck you are, Princess?” He says it snidely, running the tip of the blade ever so lightly against the flesh of my exposed chest. I can’t answer, just stand here helplessly and listen while my cheeks burn with anger and my gaze bristles with my newfound hatred for him.
“You’re wrong. I know everything about you, where you live, your job, how long you’ve been sucking my son’s cock, oh, and my favorite—the pictures from him fucking you right in this room on that pool table.” He gestures to the old wooden billiards table with faded green felt.
He has no right to cheapen what happened on that table between Viking and me. He didn’t just fuck me that night; Viking made me his. It wasn’t some shitty show put on for the patrons like Jekyll’s making it sound, what happened was carnal and raw. It was us.
Being a biker himself, Jekyll should know exactly what that entails. By the biker code, it means that if my Ol’ Man shows up and witnesses what they’re doing to me right now, he has every right to slaughter them without any repercussions coming to bite him in the ass. At this point, Viking could request the entire club to help him snuff out each one of the Widow Makers members in this room. Prez may be a shitty father, but he’s always been one hell of a biker, and he’d be ballistic right now beside my man over this.
A shotgun loads in the background somewhere and then the bartender starts shouting, “Let her go and get the hell out, dickhead!”
Jekyll’s head flies up with murder coating his irises toward her. He remains eerily silent, even as a shot rings out, followed by her pained scream.
Tearing up, I attempt to suppress the wetness from falling, but it’s no use. I’m too irate at this point to not start crying. I’d use my anger by punching and screaming, fighting them, but they’ve stripped it away from me along with my modesty.
That woman was only trying to help me, and they shot her for it. These sick fucks are absolutely crazy. The only piece of comfort I find, out of everything, is that I can hear her crying. I can’t stand it that she was injured because of me, but at least with her upset, I know she’s not dead.
I’d give anything to be free right now and holding that knife in Jekyll’s hand.
“Your father means nothing to me, same as you. I’ll still fuck you and kill you when I’m finished, because let’s face it, my son can’t have an Oath Keepers dirty slut as his Ol’ Lady.”
My mind soaks up every word he speaks like a sponge, but my heart pleads with me not to listen. I don’t want to believe anything Jekyll says, but he knows too much. I would be stupid to think he was lying and that there isn’t a bit of truth to everything.
But how could Viking betray me like this? I was falling in love with him and now…Shit, fuck. Who am I kidding? I am so fucking in love with him, but there’s no way I can be with him if he’s going to be a part of this hateful club. The Oath Keepers will probably kill him for this anyhow.
Jekyll uses his free hand to twist my nipples painfully and sadly all I can do is whimper. I want to cry out, cursing him to hell, but I can’t. At the strangled noise leaving me, he smirks, running his digits down my chest and stomach, pausing at the button on my shorts.
He leans in beside my ear, close enough that I can feel his short hot pants and pushes his fingers inside my bottoms, far enough to go under the elastic of my panties. “Let me fill you in, as I’m sure he didn’t share the news with you,” Jekyll mumbles quietly, “He’s due to be patched as the President of the Widow Makers MC soon, and there’s no way I’m letting you fuck it up. I’m ready to pass the gavel down and watch my oldest take my place.”
No. Please be lying. I don’t want him taken from my life. He’s mine; he belongs to me. We haven’t had enough time yet.
His calloused fingers rub back and forth over the smooth skin above my pubic hair, continuing, “He can have the gavel, and I’ll have your snatch as my parting gift. You’re one lucky little girl; in our club we share. Think of the fun you’ll have being passed around until we dispose of your body.”
Sickness whirls through me, my gaze blurring as my head becomes fuzzy and makes me want to wretch at the bitter flavor that’s abruptly overtaken my taste buds. I’m confident and strongheaded, not letting people get me down in everyday life, but I’ve also been diagnosed with panic attacks. It was a wake-up call and also my doctor’s way of telling me that I was trying to be too perfect for my father when I was younger. I wanted him to stay, so I tried everything I could think of, then he’d leave, and my mom would be a mess. I couldn’t help but panic, and over the years, I’ve learned how to keep the attacks at bay by staying mad inside.
My anger’s faded with Jekyll’s torments, morphing into a sense of loss, fear, and sadness. His latest taunt has me conjuring up images filled with the room of filthy men sexually assaulting me and then killing me. Even with the air conditioner blasting cold air throughout the bar, beads of sweat trail down my back, catching on Blaze’s shirt.
At the feeling of Blaze thickening and resting his cock against my back, shakes start to set in, racking my body with nervousness and fear. I can’t stop the thoughts running through my mind that Blaze could easily rip my shorts down and force his hardness inside. Viking won’t want me. More tears fall, and I gag into his palm, ready to empty the contents of my stomach.
Blaze’s hand flies from my mouth like it’s on fire, then sharp pricks of pain explode from my scalp as he grasps onto the back of my hair. Yanking the platinum strands harshly, he wrenches my head back in outrage. “You better not throw up on me, you dumb bitch.” Growling, he shoves my head forward with such force, my neck pops, protesting the movement as he releases my hair.
Jekyll chuckles, amused at the display and steps back. “You can still have your turn whether she pukes or not.” He’s loving the fact that he’s tormenting me enough to make me physically ill and that it’s grossing Blaze out.
Blaze scoffs, “I’m not touching that twat if she’s gonna fucking wretch. Maybe we should dope her up first. Besides, she looks like she’s gonna pass the fuck out anyhow.” He nods at me, and all the guys start to really stare at me.
“Well, I’ll be damned, looks like Viking chose a weak-ass bitch,” Jekyll chortles and the men all laugh in agreement. “Just throw the whore down, she can sit up against the bar. I don’t want this one drugged up at first; I want to see if she’ll try fighting me.” They all chuckle again, and it takes everything in me not to toss my stomach contents.
The two bikers holding onto my arms drag me backward a few paces then propel me to the stained concrete floor.
My ass smarts as I land harshly on the solid ground, a smell yelp of “Shit!” escaping. Thankfully, no one pays me any mind because my cell phone digs into my butt cheek, reminding me of its presence.
A speck of hope rises, feeling the small square still in my possession.
Greasy guy crouches down, stopping about four inches in front of my face. Even with him this close to my nakedness, I can’t help but pray silently that my screen isn’t cracked, and I can get ahold of someone.
Smirking, he glances at my chest. “I’m fuckin’ those titties when it’s my turn.” Flicking my nipple, he stands, staring at my breasts while adjusting what looks to be a tiny dick pressing against his dark wash jeans and turns around to face Jekyll.
Bastard.
He can think whatever he likes. As soon as I know that they’re all distracted enough, and I get a chance, I’m calling for help. It’s times like this that I’m my father’s daughter, because when the anger comes, so does my clarity and I’m hoping that I get the opportunity to shoot this nasty monkey in his dick.