Sin & Suffer

Questions danced on my tongue. What plan? Why had Rubix penned that letter to get me back after all these years?

“Goddamn, I can’t wait.” Cobra drank from his beer bottle.

Sycamore leaned forward, his nasty eyes never looking past my breasts. “Payback’s a bitch, little Price. And it’s been a long time coming.”

My palm itched to slap every self-righteous asshole before me. “You’re right. And you’ll get what’s coming to you for what you’ve done.”

The men frowned, hurling insults and profanities in a chaos of voices.

Rubix grinned, basking in the temper of his men. “This little bitch was stolen right from beneath that cocksucking son of mine. He thinks he’s better than me. He thinks he can start up a Club and not fucking beg for my approval. Well … I have news for him.”

The men nodded, their hatred for Arthur thickening the air until the large space became stiflingly claustrophobic.

Rubix grabbed my breasts, squeezing painfully.

I bit my lip, fighting against the urge to struggle. If I fought now, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I had to come across as scared, docile. Arthur was too late.

I have to get myself out of this mess.

“Time for the fun part,” Rubix muttered, pinching my nipples. “Time to send a warning.” Grabbing my hair, he tugged hard. “Time to steal something that’s fucking precious to him.”

Oh, God.

Suddenly, he shoved me forward. I crashed against the table. My arms sprawled sideways only to be captured by the two men closest. Cobra and Sycamore pinned me down, their breath reeking of beer and tobacco, their eyes glowing unnaturally bright from substance abuse.

“Good plan, boss.” Cobra laughed.

Sycamore asked, “So … she’s ours?”

Rubix pressed against me, grabbing my hips. “She’s all ours.”

Chapter Four

Kill

She was trying to kill me.

That was the only reason I could come up with. One moment she was the sweet, funny, terribly bad at mathematics little girl I loved more than anyone; the next, she was a little vixen, looking at me with something foreign in her green eyes, watching my lips, gasping whenever I touched her. The real Cleo—the girl—I could handle. I could love in the way I was permitted. But this new Cleo—this woman—I couldn’t. She terrified me because she made me want. I wanted her so fucking much. But I wasn’t allowed. —Arthur, age sixteen

The wind in my face and salt on my tongue never failed to grant me freedom.

Riding alone or with others; day, night, summer, winter—it didn’t make a difference as long as I had a stretch of road before me and no commitments. It was the only way I could find some resemblance of peace.

But not today.

Not this fucking ride.

My hand curled around the accelerator, feeding more and more gas to the snarling engine. I was already way over the speed limit but I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

If I could strap wings to my bike and fly to Dagger Rose, I would.

Come on. Faster.

I’d been raised on a motorbike, and tonight was the first time that I didn’t find that freedom—that peace. The loss of Cleo ate at my soul. The pain of failing her all over again threatened to crumble me into destruction.

I rode fast.

I rode hard.

But I felt as if I treaded water. Fought against demons. Got fucking nowhere.

The hum of tires and growl of engines only worsened my emotional torture. Peace? What was that? I’d never find peace again if I failed her a second time.

Fuck!

The speedometer needle climbed higher, teasing the boundaries of red danger.

Hurry up, for Christ’s sake!

The journey from Pure Corruption to Dagger Rose was an endless fucking marathon.

Every stop sign was a mortal enemy, every traffic light my ultimate nemesis.

An hour we’d been driving and we hadn’t even passed the halfway point.

My teeth clenched harder as I hunched farther over the bike.

We were late.

We were late and I was fucking pissed.

I was livid at my weakness.

I was furious at my condition.

And I was incandescent with rage at Mo and Grasshopper for not finding some way to fix this clusterfuck.

The nurse at the hospital had filed charges against me and called the police. She’d done everything in her power to detain me, all because I couldn’t leash my temper. She’d refused to give me the forms to sign out. She’d held my fucking clothes hostage. She’d deliberately antagonized me to the point where I would’ve probably killed her if Grasshopper hadn’t taken me into a janitor’s closet, stolen some fat man’s clothes, and thrown them at me.

I growled under my breath, anxiety and anger circulating hot in my blood. I needed to fly. I needed this journey to fucking end.

I need her.

I shivered as hurtling wind sliced through the horrific Hawaiian print shirt encasing my broad torso. The sleeves were too short, the chest too tight, and I couldn’t look at the god-awful track pants clinging to my legs.

I missed my leathers.

Shit, I missed my own damn bike.

Grasshopper’s custom Triumph was all wrong. The acceleration sluggish compared to my beast. The Pure Corruption logo of skulls and all-important abacas was drawn freehand with glowing flames on the frame.

The flames seared my heart.

Cleo.

My mind whooshed with burning houses, smoking remains, and charred dreams of ever growing old with the girl I loved.