Chapter 1
BRUISER
'Your next little plaything is here.' Garret's low growl breaks through my reverie. I drain my beer in one long swallow, before tossing it into the trashcan next to me; my eyes still fixed on the scantily clad groupie feeling herself up as she sways on top of the bar table, giving all the boys a good show. Blowing out my breath in a quick exhale, I turn and eye off Garret – or Killer – as the club usually refers to him. A play on his last name, Killen, apparently. Plus, you know, all the bodies… I refer to him as Cocksucker. But as a fellow officer of the club, I keep that nickname to myself. Can't be going around disrespecting the sergeant-at-arms if I don't want to start a shit-show. Raising a brow at Killer, I cross my arms in front of my chest.
'We've put her in your little house of horrors,' he smirks, before moving away from me to grab a bourbon from Tammy-Lynn at the bar.
Shit. I can see Aric, the club VP, nodding towards me from where he is lounging near one of the pool tables, his old lady in his lap. She's dressed like she's about to go to a fucking tea party. All southern belle and shit. We all know she has him wrapped around her perfectly manicured little finger, but he's such a scary fucking dude that no one would ever question it. I sigh and make my way out to the parking lot, pretending I don't notice how the crowd parts for me like the fucking red sea and I'm Moses or some shit. It parts for Aric too, but that's because he's the damn VP, it's a respect thing. For me, I know it's a fear thing.
Pretty sure everyone here, including Aric and Killer, is fucking terrified of me. I know it's not my looks; I've been on the butt end of numerous jokes about my apparent beach boy "modellesque" good looks. It's my blue eyes. No one likes making eye contact with me. Aric once joked that if you looked in my eyes for too long that you could see the psychopath staring back at you. Whatever. I do what they ask in my role as club enforcer, and yeah, maybe I do enjoy making grown men hurt and cry. I'm fucked up and broken, what can I say?
Pausing for a moment on the clubhouse porch, I admire the shining rows of motorcycles lined up like fucking gorgeous stallions. Making my way to mine, I swing my leg over the Harley and feel the power between my legs as the machine rumbles to life and I turn out the gates.
My "little house of horrors", as Killer called it, is just out of town, off the highway. It was my grandmother's house, which I could just never seem to bring myself to live in after she passed. So yeah, I've made it over into a torture chamber; so sue me. I’ve made better memories fucking cunts up inside it than I ever did when the old bat lived there; so what does that say about my fucking formative years?
Truth be told, this is one interrogation that I'm really not looking forward to. Got nothing against fucking up men. Bad men, men who deserve it. But even psychopathic me has to draw the line somewhere; and apparently that line is young women whose only crime is who their father is. I cut the idling engine and stare up at the darkened house with narrowed eyes. They will have put her in the attic. She's probably up there right now, strapped to a bloodstained chair with a gag in her mouth. The gag is really just for intimidation purposes, since the whole attic is properly soundproofed.
Getting off my rig, I let myself into the little cottage and lock the door behind me. I stomp my way down the hallway and up the stairs, letting my anger at everything rage through every step. I really don't want to have to do this. But when I patched into the Wild Hawks Motorcycle Club ten years ago, I finally felt like I had a fucking family. That I belonged somewhere, and that someone had my fucking back. All that they asked of me in return was that I fuck up whoever they asked. And that I be the scariest motherfucker in the Continental United States. Fucking easy as. Until now.
My hand is on the door handle and I punch in the code to unlock it. Swinging it open, I step into the well-lit room that usually either smells like bleach or blood; depending on the state of the occupant. But right now, I couldn’t even tell you what it smells like in here. Because all I can focus on is long, silky, brown hair and big, wide golden eyes, full of fucking fear. I swallow down the bile in my throat as I move slowly towards her; intent on releasing her mouth from the dirty gag Killer no doubt enjoyed placing there. Looking down at her, my stomach turns, though I don't let my face show it. I don't hurt women. Not my thing. Didn't think it was a Wild Hawks thing either, before tonight. She doesn't speak when I release her mouth, and I take a moment to peruse her slowly.
The long, straight hair is a light to medium brown, and I have the sudden urge to run my fingers through it. I can actually feel them twitching at my side, so I clench my fists to stop myself doing something stupid. Her oval shaped face is flawless, dark brows slashing across the pale skin, framing those gorgeous golden eyes that shine like the sun. Like a fucking terrified sun. She has a snub nose and fucking plump, pink lips that I just want to nibble on. What. The. Fuck? Where did that thought come from? She's really slender, clad in tight denim jeans that look painted on and a tight cream, long sleeved tee with a deep V-neck that exposes just a hint of cleavage. She's wearing red converse and looks about sixteen, for fuck's sake. She’s about the same age as Nan Shaw. Now I’m clenching my fist for a completely different reason. Aric’s not here because he wouldn’t have the stomach for this shit. But he expects me to, the fucking dick.
Turning my attention back to the young woman before me, I notice the beginnings of a bruise darkening around her left eye. It only enhances the terrified look on her face and I grit my teeth. Guess someone from the club already laid their hands on her. Not sure why, but I suddenly feel murderous. If it was Killer, I'll fucking throttle him.
Her name is Florence Herschel. Our club has been tracking her for weeks, and now we've finally got her in our grasp. Yeah, Herschel, like the fucking State Senator. His daughter, in fact. Yep, this is that big. The bastard has been on the take for years. Everyone the wrong side of the law knows exactly what his price for doing business is. Now the Wild Hawks are going to find out just what his weaknesses regarding his family are. He always seems such a family man on camera, but then again, if anyone should know how much bullshit optics like that are, it's me.
She's at least stopped cowering now, sitting up taller. Well, as tall as the uncomfortable wooden chair will allow when she's strapped to it. Her ankles are bound to the front two legs, her knees spread wide, and her arms and wrists are tied along the tops of the wooden arms.
'What are you going to do to me, Monster?' she spits at me, and I rock back onto my heels, raising a brow. Monster, huh? Seems that really is what everyone sees when they look at me. Never phased me before; but for whatever reason, hearing it come out of that sweet mouth needles in under my skin.
Chapter 2
WREN
I didn't even notice that they were following me. That's what I get for being such an obnoxious princess my whole life, I suppose. Always so sure that because of who my father is no one in their right mind would dare touch me. Turns out, some people really wanted to touch me because of who my father is. That mean looking tattooed biker certainly didn't seem too fazed about who my father was when his fist came slamming into my face, causing me to see stars. I'm pretty sure I even blacked out for a moment. Great way to show weakness Wren, I think to myself wryly.