I believe him and while I understand his wants, there is a part of me that wants to kill Kenneth myself for everything he’s ever done to me.
The moment is interrupted when Princess barges through the door, a stranger in his grasp. Princess has a cut above his eye, and he tosses the man onto the floor. “Found this asshole lurking while making rounds,” he says.
Whistler pulls me behind him, and Mercy pushes by us and kicks the guy to his back, then wraps a hand around his throat. “Who are you?” he asks. “What’s this?” He turns the guy’s arm over and there’s a fresh tattoo of the Scapegoat logo. “One of his grunts?” Mercy throws his head back and the sound is boisterous and anything but funny. It’s ironic― a forced, sardonic laughter. “Oh, you’re a stupid son of a bitch, aren’t you? You realize he sent you here to kill you, right?”
The guy keeps his mouth shut and Whistler grabs his bat from the table, the nails protruding from it digging grooves into the wood. He uses it as a walking stick until he is by the intruder and places the end of the bat against the man’s chin. He applies enough pressure for the nails to draw blood, red drops dribbling down his chin.
“Did you really not think this through? Coming to a biker’s clubhouse in the middle of the day? Kenneth must not have told you what happens when the enemy graces our doorsteps. Let’s give you a proper introduction.” Mercy pulls the man’s arm back and twists it until there is a sick crunch. “You’re going to tell us everything you know, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you,” the guy glowers, spit spraying from his mouth as he speaks.
Mercy stands, lifts his leg, and stomps on the man’s arm, a clear and crisp snap resonating in the room. The stranger screams from the agony and I have to look away. I hide my face against Whistler’s back because the sight of the Scapegoat’s arm bent in two is more than I can handle.
I’ve felt broken bones like that before. I don’t need to see them again.
“How about I break every bone in your body until you tell me what you know? And then if you don’t, I’ll start taking fingers and toes.” Mercy kicks the man in the stomach and flips him to his back, pressing his boot against his chest. “And then I’ll start dropping your body parts in the desert.”
“Actually, Prez. Don’t we have a friend in NOLA that needs to feed his gator? We could always send him the extra parts,” Whistler offers.
“Well, now that you mention it, Whistler, Happy does need some fresh food.” Mercy snaps his fingers at One. “Take him to the room in the middle upstairs. Whistler? Bring your bat. Like you said, we aren’t sacrificing anyone. Not today.”
One and I.E.D drag the Scapegoat up the stairs and Whistler tries to leave. I hold him back. “What are you going to do?” I ask him.
“I’m going to prove a point and send this fucker FedEx to all the flyover states.” Whistler drops his bat onto his shoulder and gives me a grin. “Don’t worry, Cupcake. We’ll talk more, but everything will be okay. I’ll be okay. This isn’t my first rodeo dealing with the enemy and it won’t be the last.”
“I want it to be the last.” I hold onto the side of his neck with my hand and brush my thumb along the faint hickey I left on him when we were at the beach.
I blush at the memory.
“In this life, there is no such thing as ‘the last’ time, Cupcake.” He gives me a peck and begins walking toward the steps. “Go update you dad. He needs to know. He needs protection too and so does the rest of the crew. It’s best if everyone stays here. Strength in numbers.”
I watch him run up the steps until I can’t see him anymore and sigh as I look around. Socks and Anvil are down here, along with Bookie, Birdie, and Tutu.
Everyone acts as if this is another day at the office, but no one knows Kenneth like I do. He won’t rest until he has me in his sights.
And if I’m good at anything, it’s giving Kenneth what he wants.
“Bring Bolt in here,” Whistler says as he secures the Scapegoat.
We aren’t in a room I would call ‘a torture chamber’ like the Kings have. They call theirs the playroom, but this room is an actual playroom with whips and chains and ropes. Right now, Mercy is improvising since we don’t have the room we want built yet. It’s going to be a part of the clubhouse.
So, we have this fucker bound in rope.
BDSM style.
And I’m doing my best not to laugh. His limbs are spread out like a starfish as he hangs from the ceiling. Mercy can turn him and the rope will spin so that the stranger is in front of someone else and they can have a turn.
A violent turn, not a sexual one. Clarification is important to me since we are in a fucking sex room.
Jesus, if the Kings found out about this…
Princess leaves the door open, and I can hear him clomping down the steps.
The Scapegoat doesn’t say anything. He glares at Mercy while Prez smiles. I’m studying the room and the longer I stay in here with a half−naked guy strung up like a deer ready to be skinned, the more awkward I feel.
There’s a bed behind him.
It's draped in silk sheets and the walls are a dark emerald velvet material.
“Prez, you sure you want to do this in here? It’s a nice room,” I mumble out of the corner of my mouth so no one can hear me.
“I know it isn’t conventional, but this room is soundproof,” Prez informs, slamming the door shut when Bolt and Princess come back. “And we need to make sure there isn’t a soul nearby that can hear his screams. That’s why it’s the only room I didn’t have renovated up here.” Prez spins our guest until the rope is tight and then lets go.
The Scapegoat turns into a blur as he quickly spins in a circle as the rope loosens. I fix my stance and practice swinging my bat while our captive slows. When he finally comes to a stop, his head sways and his face turns pale before he vomits. The white, chunky foam slides down his chin and chest.
Mercy sighs in annoyance. “You realize I’m going to have to clean that up when it gets on the floor? You can’t handle a little dizziness? No wonder Kenneth sent you here.”
“Kenneth?” the man asks in confusion, slurring his words as his normalcy returns. “He didn’t send me. His father did. He wanted to let you know we are always watching, and when you least expect it, we will take her,” he grins.
“He sent you here to die.” Bolt charges forward and slams two metal rods into the Scapegoat’s thighs. Blood begins to trickle from the wounds and down his legs.
He screams and Bolt’s dark laughter has my fingers curling around the handle of my bat. The fucker is twisted in the head. He grips the back of the Scapegoat’s head by the thick of his hair and attaches a red clip to one rod and a black to the other, similar to when someone charges a battery. “I like my prisoners well done,” he lunges forward and bites at the air.
He steps back and flips a switch on his machine. A low buzz causes the lights to flicker and sparks fly across the wires before our prisoner begins to tremble from the electricity coursing through his body.
Mercy flips the switch again and the electricity comes to a stop.
“Prez, I was just getting started,” Bolt pouts.