Reign slammed down the last of his drink, smacking his lips and sliding the glass back to Honey, who caught it one-handed.
"Refuel?" she asked, grabbing the bottle of vodka. Reign seemed to think for a moment, his blue eyes toying with the day's possibilities. His head hurt from being up all night. The thing he liked most about his life in the club was that he could sleep in and stay up all night.
Reign loved sleeping more than almost anything else in the world; he never got heavy into uppers like some of the other guys because he loved the feeling of a pillow under his head. He kind of wanted to skip the next drink and head back to bed. He wished he could head back to Gabriella's bed, her head nestled into the crook of his arm, but his own bed would do.
But, what the hell, it wasn't every morning that he felt as good as he did that morning. Another drink wouldn't kill him. There was plenty of day left to sleep away.
"Line ‘em up, and one for the most beautiful bar protector this side of the wild West," he said, thumping his fist against the bar. Honey favored him with a smile and refilled both their glasses just as the door to the bar swung open and a gigantic, booming groan filled the room.
"GOTTA HANGOVER TO PUT W.C. FIELDS TO SHAME," Cotton yelled as the bar doors swung shut behind him. Reign and Honey turned to look at him, amused. He swayed slightly as he staggered up to the bar.
"You ain't hungover, stupid, you're still drunk," Honey said, grabbing a third glass and filling it to the brim with vodka and orange juice. She went to the small window that separated the bar from the kitchen area. "Hey Endo, we're gonna need some eggs and bacon, stat. Triple servings for starters. And some hash browns, huh?"
"Comin' up," Endo, the club's resident chef, called back. As the smell of cooking food filled the bar, and the morning began to grow late, the bar slowly filled with the same men who'd been there the night before, each and every one of them demanding eye-openers and plates of food.
It was another day for the Black Smoke Motorcycle Club, and, like every day, it was as chaotic as you'd want to imagine. Outside, bikes revved and stalled as hungover men parked them willy-nilly around the bar.
God damn, but I love this life, Reign thought as he listened to Cotton wail along to a Hank Williams song on the jukebox. His planned early morning nap kept getting postponed. It was just past noon. With no plans for the day, the whole club was just enjoying each other's company, like a family, the family Reign had never had. A family where you didn't get beat on unless you really deserved it. A family that laughed when you laughed and cried when you cried.
Across the bar, Honey was sitting on Endo's lap as he enjoyed a break from cooking, sipping a beer, sharing his cigarette with her so that the butt ended up smudged with lipstick. She caught Reign's eye and winked. He smiled back, but wished he could sit like that with Gabriella.
The thought did more than surprise him.
It scared him.
He'd need to sleep soon. He wished he could slide into bed beside that girl … clutch her hips to him, press himself against her ass, fall asleep in the fragrant sea of her hair …
Meanwhile, she was dreaming. Of nothing and everything at once. All her future and all her past, swimming together in a confused ocean of pain and pleasure. The money throbbed in the safe. The sun rose and rose and then began to fall. It was her first day of freedom, and she was sleeping, safe as she'd ever be, safer than she'd been in the five years under Jeremy's spell.
He would make sure she was safe, no matter where she went, he would make sure she could sleep. As he left the crowd behind, stumbling to his quarters on the far end of the property, he thought that over and over again.
I'll make her safe. She'll sleep safe. She'll always sleep safe and sound.
He didn't know how. He didn't even know why. But that was all he could think of. And he meant to make it come true.
Part II
9
Her lips were parted, welcoming him, his mouth like sweet water flowing over hers, down her throat. She drank him like wine, the fullest, richest merlot. His fingers, roughed and calloused but dripping with the promise of boundless pleasures, fell between her thighs, pulling them apart. They weren't anywhere, at least nowhere on earth. They were somewhere still and soft, and he pressed hard against her, his manhood throbbing against her, slipping up and down her parted sex, drenched already as the head of his cock stroked up and down, up and down, again and again, until she was panting and pained with need.
She found his body, her arms heavy and unresponsive, and grabbed him towards her, their mouths engulfed with each other, the distance between them sealed and dissolved as he burst into her, filling her up to her chest, where her heart beat quickly, brimming with pleasure, skin almost liquid as they came together in a perfect circle …
… you ain't goin' nowhere …
The music started suddenly, from a distance, but soon seemed to swoop down on them, crashing them into reality. She opened her eyes and saw herself, alone, in her kitchen, under the table, the sound of things breaking echoing through the house, the chorus of the song playing over and over again as heavy footfalls approached her. She felt fear, tasted it, her ears burning as the lyrics repeated,
… you ain't goin' nowhere …
… you ain't goin' nowhere …
… you ain't goin' nowhere …
like a taunting chant. She knew the song. She knew it well, liked it, but not now. Now it was like an invitation to her own demise.
She closed her eyes and when she reopened them she was holding the duffel bag. She knew she had to hide it. She knew what he would do if he found it. The questions he'd ask. And Reign was gone. He wasn't there to protect her. She tried to open the fridge but the door stuck hard. The cabinets were packed. She was exposed, and the song was playing louder, the crashes growing nearer, the footfalls approaching faster. She tried under the sink, but it was all full of water that poured out around her feet, filling the kitchen quickly, rising to her ankles.
She'd drown. She'd drown or he'd find her.
She tried the kitchen door. It opened, but she couldn't leave.
"You ain't goin' nowhere," the song played again, and now she turned, and he was in the doorway, in his uniform, his face a monstrous mask, his hands in fists. He saw her. His eyes were wide pupils, deepest black, bloodshot and violent. His voice became the song, and he repeated the chorus, "you ain't goin' nowhere."
"Please, let me explain, I need to explain," she said, panicking now, sweating, the water still rising, now inching up towards her calves. He walked to her, impossibly wide strides, growing taller and taller with each step, until he stood before her, gigantic and radiating heat, his hands coming to her biceps.
The duffel bag fell to the water with a splash.
The water was at her knees.
He was shaking her, screaming, his words impossible to understand. The song had stopped. There was just his voice piercing her ears, rubbing against her mind like sandpaper as he shook her and shook her, and the water was at her hips. And then she was on her knees, the water at her neck, his cock hard against her cheek, his hands around her neck. The water rose. She tried to breath and swallowed water, choking as he shoved himself into her, water going up her nose, the money from the bag now floating around her, some sort of cruel irony as she choked and tried to breathe …
Gabriella woke up in a pool of sweat. The room was dark, she was gasping, desperate to breathe. The song rang in her ears. But she only awoke for a moment, one moment of shining reality, the fear and pain taking a hold of her entire self.
And then sleep rushed back in, quickly, a sleep that could only come from the direst need for rest. Like an animal making itself small to hide from a prowling jaguar, her mind curled up into itself and turned off. She wouldn't remember that dream. She couldn't. If she remembered it, remembered the utter despair and desperation, she would never have been able to sleep again.
Her head rolled to the side as her eyes closed once more. Her body cooled down, the sweat beginning to dry. The sun crept upwards in the sky outside, illuminating the distant mountains in a haze of dust and heat. The curtains kept the sun at bay. The duffel bag sat, anonymous and unfeeling, inanimate, in the safe. Nothing stirred in the room except the sheets on her chest, gently rising and falling with her breath, now steady and deep.
She didn't have any more dreams.
10
I've never liked hotel rooms. That started even before it became my job to clean them up. And one of the things I hate most about hotel rooms is how dim they are, always, when the curtains are closed. Now, I know it's because they use special light-blocking curtains for jet-lagged folks who want to sleep during the day, but it gets to me. I guess it probably gets to everyone, to some degree.