Devil's Girl: Dust Bowl Devils MC (11 page)

“Shithead,” I mumbled. I knew I didn’t mean it. With him gone, there was nothing to do but get dressed and face the day.
Epic hangovers all around, I’ll bet. I’m going home and going back to sleep.

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Theo's rejection didn't put me off this time - it only made me more determined.
What do you think can ever come of this? He's going to leave no matter what.
Well, that was a problem for later.

I found Dawn on my way out. She was asleep behind the bar, her skirt askew and baring her ass for the world to see.
They all just fucking left her there?
I realized her head was lying on a pair of legs. Irish. Still fully clothed, thank goodness, his head rested on a massive bag of pretzels.
At least he didn't leave her by herself here.

I felt bad for a moment. It was sort of my fault she'd gotten completely trashed and slept on the floor of the bar. There was something sad and pathetic about the sight.
Maybe it's time to stop fighting. Focus on Theo. She can have the rest.

I kicked her foot and she stirred with a light snore. "Dawn."

"Mmf."

"Come on. I'll take you home." With a little more coaxing, she slowly rose to her feet and linked elbows with me as we walked out the door.

"Thanks for being nice to me," she said as she yawned. “That was actually pretty fun. What I remember, at least.”

"Oh, God, girl, you have to brush your teeth," I laughed.

She squeezed me in a quick hug before climbing into my truck. Hopefully this meant the worst of our rivalry had passed.
Maybe now we'll just sink into friendly competition territory
, I thought.

But part of me didn't even want that. All I wanted was Theo.

I stayed away for two days. I couldn't bear the thought of seeing Theo so soon after everything - despite my resolve, I was still afraid to face him, afraid to be rejected again.
But dammit, I want to fuck him again. I want to kiss him again. He can reject me all he likes if he just keeps taking me back later.

I was getting a manicure when Dawn texted me, so I didn't see it right away. It was a beautiful day to be out and about - actually a few degrees below sweltering for once. The owner of the little salon congratulated me on winning the drinking contest and asked me how bad the aftermath was.

"I guess those gunshots must have sobered you up some," she said.

"God and all his angels couldn't have sobered me up," I laughed, "They made me sleep in a bathtub half the night in case I got sick."

"I never saw someone move so fast," she said, shaking her head.

"What do you mean?"

"The out-of-towner. The big guy. He was already red in the face and about to go after you out the door, but when we heard the gunshots he launched out like a rocket." My heart stuttered. He was watching me that night even before the guns came out.

Then when I checked Dawn's text, I wondered if maybe the stars were aligning in my favor for once. "Party tonight. Theo got one of his guys. Nella demands your presence." I was too excited to be miffed that Nella had gone through Dawn instead of contacting me herself.

I rushed home to get dressed. I was running low on cash, too, so I could use the tips.
Wait, did I even collect any cash after the contest?
That should have been a big fat wad of cash. I'd have to talk to her about it.

Dressed in tight leather shorts and a flowy white blouse, I hopped into my truck and took off for the clubhouse, nervous and excited and anxious all at once.
Gonna grab a drink as soon as I get there.

But I never got there. A little ways down the woodsy road just a couple miles from my destination, two motorcycles roared around my truck to either side. They pulled to a stop in front of me, forcing me to brake in the middle of the street.

The first thing I saw was a pair of unfamiliar beards.

The second thing was the guns. My blood ran cold as they opened my door and led me out onto the asphalt.

"Leave the purse." I dropped in from my shaking hands. It landed with a dusty thud next to my front tire.

They frisked me quickly and found nothing. I did own a gun, but it was in a lockbox under the passenger seat. I hated the thing; I'd never learned to properly use it. It scared me too much.
See how well that worked out?

I didn't fight. Didn't scream. I froze like a terrified animal. My hands and feet felt numb as they led me to their bikes. They tied a blindfold around my eyes and snapped a helmet on my head -
I guess they need me to live for a while
- instructed me to hold on, and took me back the way I came, up the road, away from the clubhouse.
They're leaving my car. Is this another warning? Another "fuck you?"

It wasn't important. I needed to pay attention to where we were going. Even if I couldn't see, maybe I could sense it.
Sun sets in the west.
It was almost down but I could still see a sliver of light through the fabric. I quickly lost track of the twists and turns we took, but then we were picking up speed and heading straight ahead.
A highway. Heading west.
Hopefully knowing that information would help me. Maybe I could get my hands on a phone.

I clung to that hope as we rode for hours. I clutched the stranger in front of me as the wind and night air numbed my hands. The roar of the bike - a sound that I normally loved - was low and sinister. The vibrations that were usually pleasurable only rattled my nerves.
When will this end?

I lost track of time. It must have been a good few hours before we finally stopped. As their bikes quieted down, I strained my ears, praying that someone had given chase. The road was silent.

They helped me from the bike and removed the helmet and blindfold. My legs were weak after the long ride, and I tottered as I got my bearings. We were in the parking lot of what looked like a strip club. Bright red neon lights glowed, “XXX, Eagle’s Starlets.” Not a totally unfamiliar name - it was owned by none other than the Northern Eagles.
Who else would it be?

I shivered. "What are you going to do with me?" I asked.

"Don't worry about it." They led me inside.

The place reeked of old sweat and stale cigarettes. I didn't get a good look at the club area, with the bar and the stage. Some sort of show was going on but they led me right down a dark set of stairs and pushed me into a tiny concrete room. A man sat at a card table counting stacks of cash.

He looked me up and down with dark, beady eyes.
Dead eyes. Like a shark
. I felt his gaze like oil - leaving a residue behind everything they touched. My stomach clenched but I fought to keep my cool.

"Name?"

"Ivy."

"She's with the Devil's," one of the men behind me said. "Right from the inner circle. Clubhouse bitch."

The shark grinned. "Excellent. Your club, missy, has crossed us just a few too many times."

"You all used to get along," I whispered.

"Until they started confiscating our merchandise." He pointed at me and squinted. "You, sugar, are a replacement. Understand? I had a nice girl lined up for this job. Pretty. Better tits."

"What's the job?" I felt so small. My voice was softer than a mouse's squeak.

He just laughed. The mirthless, cruel sound echoed through the tiny room and lodged in my brain, and I knew I'd never be able to erase it.

Too late. Why am I always realizing these things too late?
God, I’d been so lucky and I never knew it. I’d been oblivious, naive, careless, and now I was paying for it.

Shivering in the bathroom, I pulled on the skimpy sequined costume. The florescent lights flickered as I checked myself out in the mirror. Pale. Ill.
Why are they doing this? Why couldn't they just fuck me?

The drugs would keep me from trying to escape, they said. They barely needed to keep an eye on me anymore.

Four days had passed, or at least, that was my best estimate. I had nightmares every night. Not about shark eyes. Not about the men I serviced. Only about the needle. That very first one.

That day in that tiny concrete room when I arrived, I thought they'd be bending me over the card table and taking turns; I steeled myself for it. But they didn't - they barely touched me. Instead, they pulled out a syringe.

"Loyalty juice," he said with a grin that never touched his eyes. He called himself Viper, and as I would find out later, he was Theo's second quarry.

"Please," I said, my stomach turning, "I'll do whatever you want, I swear. I won't fight."

"Seems a shame to waste the good stuff on you," he said, ignoring my pleas. One of the men grabbed and held me and extended my arm for Viper. I tried to twist away but it was a useless struggle.

"Go on, keep wriggling about and get your arm torn up," he said, kneading the inside of my elbow and positioning the needle.

I screamed. I held still, afraid to cause myself more pain than necessary, but I screamed as he injected what felt like fire into my vein.

I clutched my arm when the man let me go. “You marked?” he asked.

“Huh?”

He casually backhanded my face. I yelped; but it felt numb almost right away. “Turn her around. Show me her ass.” I held my breath and prepared to scream again, but the will and the fight left me as the drugs began to take effect. They manhandled me, pressing my chest against the cold wall and yanking my pants down , revealing the tattoo on my lower back. “Property of the Dust Bowl Devils,” it read. There was no way they were going to tolerate that.

"Get that shit covered and get her backstage," Viper said with a dismissive wave, his attention already back on the money.

Heroin, I found out, when my escorts finally stopped laughing at my panicked questions long enough to get the word out. That first rush was incredible. I felt like I was floating; like I was wrapped up in a warm and happy dream. The feelings brought me right back in time to when I was young; when I rode with my father in his brand new pickup truck, changing cassette tapes every five minutes to find his favorite songs. They became my favorite songs. Loud, jarring techno music blasted through the club, but I only played the tunes of my childhood in my head.

Four nights of the same. They kept me very high, very drug-addled those first four days. I spent them in a brown haze. I didn’t even feel it when they filled in my tattoo, covering the words and the devil’s face with black ink, leaving nothing but a shapeless blob. I tried to explain to the backstage manager that I was a terrible dancer, but the big-nosed bitch didn't care. "Just flash them some pink and they won't give a shit if you're doing the goddamn chicken dance."

So I slinked and sashayed up and down the stage that jutted out through the middle of the huge, warehouse-like room. There were three poles spaced out in a row, but even my drugged brain knew I'd only hurt myself using them to perform.

I did what I was told. When the managers pushed me at the stage, I danced. When they directed me into private corners with their customers, I went. When they pointed at a cock, I embraced it with my lips and legs. What did it matter? The drug took me somewhere far away inside my head. I didn't feel like myself. I was someone else entirely.