Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(20)

Nothing.

It’s just me, the homeless and a few other drunks who pay me no attention. Soon I’m at the revolving doors of my hotel. In one final desperate effort, I scream my room number to the streets—cupping my hand around my mouth. Pathetic? Yes. Do I care? No.

No matter the crazy events that transpired tonight, I’m still not embarrassed, ashamed or regretful. I’ve come to terms with accepting that my life can sometimes suck. I mean, everyone can’t have it all. At least not all the time. But right now, I just feel like I have nothing. It’s a first in a long time for me. Good thing I’m a look-at-the-glass-half-full kinda girl.

I guess the upside to having nothing is having nothing to lose.





I don’t know where the hell Linda is. But she can take care of herself. I hope. Meanwhile, I’m gonna take advantage of having this nice room all to myself. I’m gonna shower, not brush my hair and sleep naked. I may even try to find some cartoons to watch until I pass out from exhaustion. Or alcohol overload.

I did those things—all of them. I’m lying in bed, naked, freshly showered, with unbrushed hair watching cartoons. Linda still hasn’t showed up, and I’m starting to worry just a little. Chances are she’s having awesome sex with some not-so-awesome dude. I envy her…

Shit…I have my phone. Kicking at the covers excitedly, I scramble out of bed in search of the bastard I dropped somewhere on the floor along with my room key. I feel guilty saying this, but I’m gonna say it anyway. I’m more amped about collecting my free money for my pretend slot game app on my phone than I am about having a way to contact Linda.

I find my phone on the bathroom floor, with the LED indicator rapidly flashing. Fourteen new text messages, three calls and the face of George Washington telling me my bonus is ready to collect. The messages are all from Linda, basically asking where I am. The missed calls on my call log are all from her too. But there’s an outgoing call to Linda that I couldn’t have possibly made.

That bastard.

That’s how he found me. He got to Linda.

That bitch.

She ratted me out. To hell with her…

Reckon what the chances are that Bryce put his number in my phone? I go to my contacts, scroll to the Bs and hold my breath. And there he is.

Bryce 867-5309

Do I call? Do I not call? Too late. I’m already dialing. It rings twice before I hear his deep, throaty voice.

“Delilah.” OMG. Love those letters…

“Was it stupid for me to hope you’d be waiting for me in an alley when I left the club?” I ask, not fully knowing why.

“No.”

“Was it stupid for me to attempt to look scared in hopes you were watching?”

“No.”

“Was it stupid for me to shout my room number to the heavens in hopes you’d hear me and pay me a visit?”

“Yes.” I frown.

“Don’t call me stupid,” I huff. I get like this. After a good drunk, when I’m alone, I act like a petulant child. Add it to your growing list of “Weird shit about Delilah.”

“I didn’t call you stupid, Love. I said you acted stupid.” Love. He called me Love.

“Why did you come tonight?” It’s the million-dollar question—one he should take time to prepare the right answer for. But he doesn’t. His response is immediate.

“Because I can.”

“Well, what if I didn’t want you to come?” Seconds tick by and I hear nothing. Hell, maybe this is the million-dollar question.

“Tell me what you really wanted tonight.” His voice is confident, dark and low. Even through the phone, I can’t deny him of the truth. He’s just so…demanding.

“I wanted to have a great time. I wanted to party. I wanted someone to feed me alcohol, drown me with their undivided attention, then fuck me into oblivion.” My tone is angry. My face is hot and my breathing ragged. Not only did this man spoil my night, he denied me of the only thing that could have made it better—him. Him kissing me…eating me…fucking me…

“Delilah…” It’s a warning. One I should heed. But I want to push his buttons. I want to make him mad at me. I want to know his limits, then I want to push them too. I’m sexually frustrated. I’m angry with him. I’m angry with myself. I hate myself for being angry at him. I hate myself for being angry at me. Why am I so stupid? I’m damaged. I’m fucked up. I’m…

“Lay down, Delilah.” His tone is harsh, demanding and powerful enough to cut through my thoughts.

“I don’t want to lie down.” There’s not a lot of fight in my voice, as I curl my toes into the carpet and force myself to defy him.

“I didn’t ask.” My feet are moving. I didn’t tell the damn things to, but they are. When I’m under the covers, I feel safer—like he’s here somehow, tucking me in.

Two minutes ago, I was on the verge of losing it. I felt the anxiety growing just like it does at the end of every week. It’s still there, but I feel much better. It’s not the same rejuvenating feeling I get after enduring the pain on Sunday, but it’s enough to stop me from falling off the edge.

“How did you…”

“That’s the difference between me and you, Love.” His soothing voice dips almost to a whisper. “You may know what you want, but I know what you need.”





CHAPTER 13



Linda came crawling into the room just after the sun rose the next morning. After the cleaning lady banged on our door for over an hour, we finally got up and checked out. The ride home was silent—Linda too hungover to speak and me too deep in my own thoughts.

Bryce’s dominant nature and demands were what I needed to get through that night. I don’t know how he did it, but he did. I hadn’t heard from him in two days. My heart seemed to grow heavier with each passing hour that he didn’t call…didn’t text…didn’t show. Now it’s Friday, and my confused feelings about him mixed with his absence and the anticipation of Sunday has my mind racing and my monster roaring.

What I’m feeling is like a toothache. You can’t do a damn thing for it. If cat shit were numbing cream, you’d coat your mouth in it if you thought it would ease the pain just a fraction.

Then you find that if you apply pressure, you get a painful relief. It hurts so good. So you keep doing that—inflicting pain on yourself until the day finally comes for extraction. Now there’s no pain. Only a hole in your mouth to serve as a reminder.

That’s my life in a nutshell. My temporary relief is sex. My extraction is Sundays with my brother. And that hole isn’t in my mouth, it’s in my soul. I guess it’s a good thing I have more soul than I do teeth. Because my need for extraction happens every week.

The later in the week, the worse I become. My emotions seem to fade away—all but one that is a constant trigger.

Anger.

I have forty-eight hours until I visit the family, and I don’t think I’m gonna make it. I’ve tried everything. I’ve fucked Scratch and Crash nearly to death. I’ve gotten shit-faced drunk every night, and most days. I’m becoming detached—even from myself.

“Hey, you okay?” Linda asks, resting her hand on my shoulder.

“I’m good. Just got a lot on my mind.” I try a reassuring smile, but she’s not buying it. “I think I’m gonna take a walk.”

I don’t wait for her response as I walk quickly to my room, locking the door behind me. I’ve never been a hardcore cutter. The few times I’ve tried it, I bled like a stuck pig and still felt the ache. But I’m desperate. I’m willing to pull my fucking toenails off at this point.

Sitting on the toilet, blade in hand, I try to find the best location to slice through my skin. I need it to be somewhere that’s not very noticeable, but that’ll still deliver a significant amount of pain. I’m not educated enough about my body to know where the worse places to cut are. So I opt for the last place I used that didn’t kill me. Obviously.

“Knock, knock!” No. This cannot be happening. “Delilah, you in here?”

“I’m busy, Red.” I’m fighting to stay calm, keeping my focus on the door handle. I’ve decided if she turns it, I’m going to kill her. Even if I don’t really want to, I’m afraid I might.

“I need…”

She trails off and I hear a door closing just as the handle begins to turn. I locked the door. She had to have used the window. Did she let someone else in? Am I gonna be forced to kill Dallas too? Luke’s not gonna be very happy about that…

The door opens and instinctively I clutch the blade in my palm. My brow furrows when I feel my skin split from fisting it too hard. It hurts like a bitch, but it doesn’t hurt good. Just like I figured it wouldn’t.

I watch in the mirror for Red’s face to appear. I want to read her reaction before I kill her. If she didn’t see anything and leaves as quickly as she appeared, then maybe I can spare her life. Why the hell am I so obsessed with killing?

The pain in my hand becomes unbearable and I loosen my grip as Bryce’s face comes into view. Red is gone. It’s only him. For some reason, I whimper. Pushing the door open further, he takes in the scene. At first he doesn’t notice anything. But I know the moment he does. If his eyes on my hand aren’t a dead giveaway, the flare of his nostrils and the shock on his face is.