I try not to think about how exposed I am, but doing so only puts my focus on what’s going on in front of me.
Spider remains true to his word. No one has come near me. But then, neither has he.
I have no idea how many of the bikers call Casper’s home, but probably most of the club members are out here, and the party is in full swing.
Amidst a circle of what must be more than fifty men and half as many women, Spider cheers on Striker and another man in one of those knockdown, drag-out fights.
Striker punches another man with a shaved head in the face. The bald one counters with another punch, but misses.
“Come on, Striker. Kick his ass!” Spider’s deep voice carries easily above most of the others.
Since the tree stands atop the hill, its elevation allows me to see everything with an almost bird’s-eye view. Standing with Dragon, Reaper and Diesel, all three of whom cheer on Striker’s opponent, the delight Spider takes in watching the men pummel each other is unsettling. Not that the other men—or women—aren’t just as enthusiastic.
Snake and Dee are among the spectators, Snake with his arm around Dee, both cheering Striker on.
Loud, thrashy rock tunes—what Pastor Seth would have called Satan’s music—was playing earlier, from speakers installed on the wall of the clubhouse, but it isn’t playing now. Most of the partiers have their attention on the match, but the fight is not the most shocking thing going on here.
Near the rear wall of the clubhouse, Tequila sits back in a lawn chair with one of the bikers’ heads between her legs. She has her eyes closed, an expression of utter rapture on her beautiful face. Neither of them seem the least bit self-conscious that everyone out here can see them.
Whistler, the guy who called me Spider’s toy last night, lays sprawled a few feet from them on his back. Earlier, I saw him sitting in the same chair Tequila is in now, jabbing a needle into his arm. He’s laughing his head off, clearly high as a kite. He’s cradling his wrist, the one I saw Spider break when he tried to touch me. It doesn’t look like anyone’s treated the injury, and no one’s paying him any mind.
Monica and Pip are making out in a corner. She’s sliding off his lap and undoing his pants. Pip looks like he’s having the time of his life.
One of the guys sits with a woman straddling his lap. Her shirt is off, and he has his hand up her nearly non-existent skirt. Nearly everyone looks half drunk. Several other men are passed out on the ground like Whistler.
I put my head back against the tree. This is crazy. The party is supposed to be for Diesel, but the entire purpose of it seems to be to allow the men to indulge in as much sin as possible. I feel like I’ve been trapped in the middle of some hedonistic ritual gathering, the naked woman tied up and on display while the savages partake in every manner of debauchery they can think of.
This is part of the punishment, isn’t it? Spider’s upped my humiliation by not only stripping me nude and putting me on display but forcing me to watch his friends perform acts no woman should see.
Striker knocks his opponent flat, then helps him up. Money exchanges hands in the crowd and Dragon hands Spider a wad of bills, which Spider pockets with a smug smile.
“Fucker,” Dragon says.
Spider shakes his shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with you, Prez.”
“Go fuck yourself.” But he’s grinning. “You cheated. You knew Eightball was off his game tonight.”
“Did not. Striker’s just that good.”
Dragon wanders over to Tequila, shoves the guy who’s just stood up from between her legs away and pulls her up from the chair. He swings her over his shoulder and carries her off while she giggles in delight.
Spider takes a beer off a tray that Sassy is carrying and pops it open. He tosses the cap on the ground and takes a swig. His eyes catch mine, and when he lowers the bottle, his lips twitch. His gaze sparkles with satisfaction.
I want to scream at him, but with the whistle in my mouth, I can’t. If it falls to my chest, he might not come over to replace it just to be a jerk, and then I’ll have no way to sound the alarm if any critters decide to pay me a visit.
I huff through my nose and glare at him. He makes a mocking kissing motion with his lips.
I swear, I’ll kill him.
Spider turns his back and disappears into the crowd as if I’m not even there now. I should be glad that he’s not paying attention to me. If he’s ignoring me, I don’t have to deal with him. Yet the minute he turns away, loneliness wraps its cold arms around me.
Worse, when I think about him watching me—no, worse than that—when I think that he’s allowing every one of those men down there to get an eyeful of me whenever they please—my sex burns as if his fingers are there, teasing me to insanity.
Here in this moment, his power over me is absolute. The only one who can end this is him, and he knows it.
And the awareness of that is making me want to get off.
How does that even make sense?
Left alone with nothing to do but dream up ways to make him suffer, none of which I could ever hope to pull off, I try to shut the world out. Everything about this place feels wrong, but tied to this cursed tree, there’s no getting away from it.
If my parents saw me now…
My stomach knots. I feel as if I’ve betrayed them somehow, dishonored them. I’m a pastor’s daughter for pity’s sake. And I’ve not only lain with a man who embodies everything they’d despise, a man who isn’t my husband and whom I hate. I’ve allowed myself to end up here…like this. Trussed up and stripped, being eyeballed by dozens of horny bikers.
My parents would disown me. No amount of penance would absolve me of this.
I look away or close my eyes, but doing so doesn’t provide much of an escape when I can hear a woman crying out in pleasure, or Pip groaning for Monica to suck him harder.
No one is coming near me, but that doesn’t mean no one looks.
At any given time, one guy or other has their eyes on me. They feast on my nakedness, headless of my shame. I’m starting to see what Spider meant when he said I was going to provide a little extra distraction. While some of the couples make out, they watch me as if the sight of my nakedness serves to fuel their libidinous appetites.
Spider flops into a chair beside a tired and bruised, but thrilled looking Striker and the two touch the tips of their beer bottles together in a salute. Nodding to something Striker says, Spider doesn’t even look my way. I hate that his inattention stings.
Now and again, he sends Monica or Pip to check on me, but they say nothing, only looking me over, checking the ropes, and then going back to the party, ignoring my angry, muffled yells.
It would be easy to think that Spider is being irresponsible with my life, putting me in danger, not only from the men here but from any wild animals nearby. But no one is touching me, someone is always close enough to hear the whistle, there are plenty of eyes on me, and there’re no animals in sight. Well, not the four-legged kind, anyway. He might be leaving me alone, but I’m not alone.
I’m never alone.
What must be at least another hour crawls slowly by, and then another.
My eyes are starting to droop. Sleep tries to pull me under, my head falling forward, but I shake it off, unwilling to let my guard down.
Laughter from Snake and Dee catches my attention and I lift my head. They’re stumbling away from the crowd toward me. Nervousness has me shifting against the tree until they fall to the ground a few feet away, laughing. I’m sure they’re laughing at me.