Outlaw's Promise(7)

More voices, right outside the office door: Hay, my step-dad and three or four others. “C—Carrick?” I stammered. “I don’t know if you’ll get this. It’s Annabelle. I’m in trouble. I’m at a place outside Teston, a bar. There are bikers: Blood Spiders. They’re going to—”—my voice choked up as I tried to say the words—”S—Sell me—”

The door burst open and the light went on. Heavy boots thumped across the room and then a biker with dirty blond stubble was looming over the desk. “Got her!” he yelled.

I scrambled back across the room away from him. I was still clutching the handset so the phone fell off the desk and crashed on the floor. The line went dead.

“Shit!” the biker said. He grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. I tried to twist away and he slapped me hard across the face with a meaty hand. I cried out, seeing stars.

More men burst in behind him: Hay, my step-dad, a few others. “She was on the phone!” the blond biker told them.

“Who did you call?” Hay snarled. He grabbed me by the throat and lifted me right off my feet, his thumb digging into my windpipe. “Who did you call, girl? The cops?”

I clawed at the hand holding me but his grip was like iron. I couldn’t breathe, my airway narrowed down to the width of a drinking straw.

“911,” I croaked. “But...they didn’t...answer.”

He gazed into my eyes a second longer then tossed me: a piece of rubbish he was finished with. My legs buckled and I went down on my ass, only for the blond-haired biker to wind his fist into my hair and use it to haul me to my feet. “Auction’s starting,” he told me. “Let’s go.”#p#分页标题#e#

They marched me out of the office and down the hallway to the main room. As we approached, the noise of the crowd rose up like a wall to meet me. They opened the double doors—

And I entered hell.





3





Carrick





I kicked down my bike’s kickstand, switched off the engine and stretched, wincing as my shoulders complained. They’d been doing that a lot, recently, after a long ride. Felt like someone had been beating me with an iron bar.

But it didn’t matter: I was home.

The clubhouse was lit up in front of me, amber light flooding out of the mesh-covered windows, flames licking out of the oil drum barbecue out front. It was ugly as hell but to me it was as comforting a sight as any picture-postcard mansion. Inside, there’d be women, cold beer and sticky slow-cooked ribs from the barbecue.

I needed it. I needed to lose myself for a few hours to forget what I’d just done.

I swung my leg over my bike and marched across the compound. The party was already spilling out into the warm California night: I saw members, swigging beer and talking business; prospects scurrying around bringing them fresh bottles; a couple of hangers on and, yep, some girls. The girls all looked the same: blonde, short denim shorts, tight t-shirts and big eyes. They gasped and nudged each other as they listened to the men tell them about shit they’d done. Can you believe this, their expressions said. Real bikers!

But when they saw me, they swallowed and backed away. That’s the thing about being the club’s enforcer, their scary fucker: you don’t get to choose who’s scared of you.

But there are always one or two girls who hear what I do and get excited, not scared. Right on cue, one of them slid her arm around my waist as I walked past. “You want to get me a beer?” she asked, all white teeth and lip gloss.

I could feel my cock swelling as I looked down her body from her fake tits to the jewel that glittered in her navel. But I knew it wasn’t me she was after. She just wanted a taste of bad, wanted a lights-on, no limits, gasping, panting fuck they’d never forget. And who better to let between her thighs than the club’s big Irishman, the angel of vengeance they unleash on their enemies? I’d be the ultimate act of rebellion.

“Get your own fuckin’ beer,” I spat, and walked on.

I was doing her a favor. Oh, sure, I’d be happy to toss her on a bed and pound her. It would help me put tonight’s job out of my mind. But then, in the morning, she’d realize what she’d done and run a mile.

I’m the guy the outlaws call on when they need to teach someone a lesson. I’m the last resort of the fringes of society. Who’d want to be involved with me?

Better that people are scared. Better that they stay away. It keeps things simple.

As soon as I got inside, a hand grabbed my shoulder. I turned to see Mac, our President. “It’s done,” I grunted.