Ruthless (Dark MC Romance) (7 page)

“No.” I said it so softly that I doubt he heard me.

What was the point? If I was really going to give myself to him, I might as well abandon all hope for myself. My veins burned with the need to have that powder snorted up my nose, filling me with confidence. I moaned as he leaned over with a paper straw in his hand and snorted a line. He sat up and smiled at me, any resistance I had extinguished in his eyes. The battle was almost over.

He pressed it into my hands, leaving me staring at it. It was more deadly than any gun in my hands could ever be.

“No,” I said to him. “It took me years to get clean.”

“Who gives a fuck about being clean? Do you have somewhere to be?” Cain's pupils were already dilated. “Go on, sweetheart. Life’s too short to live it straight-edged.”

His hand rubbing my back told me that he was going to fuck me after I did a line. Violent feelings surged in my stomach.

I can’t handle this.

My head bowed to the inevitable, straw inside my nose, seeking that beautiful, crystalline powder. I inhaled, sliding the straw up. A small bump of energy lifted me immediately. I smiled as I felt it running through my system, an overall feeling of well-being. Then energy surged through my veins and I felt confident—on top of the world.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his lips on my ear.

All of the pain dropped away and I felt no fear. Wavering as I sat up, I looked at him and felt like I was falling. I relapsed. The bastard made me relapse.

“Are you going to fuck me now?”

His eyes narrowed. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

Good question. I thought about all the times Ace took me against my will. Hell, even Bryan. He knew damn well that I didn’t love him, but he used my body anyways. All of them were the same. What could he possibly do to me that hadn’t been done already?

I shrugged at him.

“You’ve given up.” He exhaled suddenly, looking disappointed. “Fine. I’ll tie you back up.”

“No!” I exploded, leaning forward to grasp his hands. “Please, don’t! Don’t do that to me again!”

My screams bounced in the room as he dragged me back towards the bed, tying me back in his torture device. I thrashed within his grasp and a satisfied smile stretched on his face. My stomach turned when I realized that he liked it when I struggled.

I promised him everything—that I would be good, I would listen to what he said. When that had no effect on him, I promised him money, millions of dollars. I knew it was useless, but I tried anyway. He laughed, his horrible voice boiling my blood.

After I was tied up and blinded, he uttered another phrase before slipping the headphones back on, “Sweet dreams.”

* * *

It was even worse this time because cocaine raged through my veins, giving me boundless energy that I couldn’t use.

I won’t take it again.

Still, I thought obsessively of the little bag that Cain left on the floor. It was ironic. Wasn’t I waxing in nostalgia about my days in the club, when cocaine sat in small heaps on Ace’s desk, and when sin and lust dominated my life? I yearned for it.

Well, now I was here. Tied up so that I had no choice but to obsess over how my life had gone so wrong.

Mom was a prostitute. Dad? Who the fuck knew. My grandmother tried to raise me the best way she knew how; unable to see how the streets grew seedier with each year.

Down St. Catherine Street in an old part of Victoria, the billboards lit up graphic displays of wanton sin. Prostitutes prowled the sidewalk, leaning into car windows. On St. Catherine Street, seductive wails of saxophones drifted from the casinos and clubs whose doors (when opened) poured out colored smoke and bubbly laughter.

Between the clubs were darkened alleys with broken green glass and dreams. Children lurked there, puffing earnestly on cigarettes, red-faced.

I used to gaze into the rectangular posters of famous women who wore little red dresses and rouge with pursed lips. I stared at the posters for hours, as if memorizing each detail would make me turn into the women when I lined up my makeup like toy soldiers on the sink at home and practiced.

Sometimes, I caught glimpses of these fierce women (they all blended in together) climbing out of yellow cars, their glittering heels swinging out of the seat. During the summer, the doors would be propped open to abate the heat and I heard their sad, low voices. I closed my eyes and listened. And imagined.

When I was home alone, at night, I’d turn the dials on the television and look at the distorted shapes on the forbidden channels. Warbled, disjointed sounds of pleasure boomed from the garbled speakers.
One day, I’ll have a boy like that.
He would wear black suits—or perhaps a leather jacket, his pockets full of fifty-dollar bills. I saw them slipping the notes into the women’s waiting hands.

It was years later before I understood what it meant. All of the glamor and mystery surrounded the motorcycle clubs. They were so generous. They held charities for children and I remembered how they let me hop on their bikes. They bought all the kids on my street ice cream every Thursday.

I found a boy hanging around my school near the back where the junkies would hang out. He was eighteen. I was thirteen. He had large, dark eyes and an expressive mouth that was always fixed into a scowl, but he looked beautiful to me. I went to his house and remembered how cluttered it was: there was a maze erected from the pile of clothes, papers, books, and garbage. Surrounded by the piles of memorabilia were his parents, zonked out on a couch. A trail of smoke was rising from their fingertips.

“Come,” he said, tugging on my fingertips.

His room was littered with clothing; wet rags that were starting to smell, and dusty bottles of beer covered the coffee table. Some weren’t empty. He picked one of them at random and swigged the last dregs into his mouth.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

He sunk into the couch, dragging something metallic towards him.

Once inside the equally filthy bathroom, I rummaged through my purse, peering at myself through my compact mirror (the bathroom mirror was dusty). I applied another layer of lipstick, brushed my hair, and grinned at myself.

I was shaking.

He called for me and I obeyed, re-entering the bedroom. He was cutting up something and waited for me to sit beside him. I obliged and took the proffered straw.

The white powder was neatly separated into two lines. I flushed, having never done coke before, but I couldn’t show him that.
Be cool. Just do it.

He rubbed my neck as I bent over and aimed my straw at the start line. I inhaled sharply and it burned. Exhilaration rushed through my veins. My dreams were not only possible—but laughably simple. I rattled off a list of my dreams to the boy, who no longer intimidated me. He bent his head while listening and snorted the coke, wiping the fine dust of powder under his nose and brushing his teeth with it.

Then he leaned over her with a coked out, deadened look that I recognized and his rank breath billowed across my nose. I cringed as he grabbed my breast, and suddenly I realized that I wasn’t ready for this at all. It was too late.

Just leave!
I screamed.
Go!

Too late. His thickness split me open, leaving me crying out in pain. It wasn’t pleasant—it wasn’t glamorous. It just felt dirty. Afterwards, he kissed me and I left his house with that unpleasant, wet feeling lining my panties. Still, I convinced myself that I enjoyed it. I was grown up now, and the girls at school would be impressed.

My eyes burned in the dark. It didn’t bother me anymore, what upset me the most was that I still had no idea what I wanted in life. What little was left of it.

I want excitement…I want another line of coke.

I couldn’t think beyond the fucking present. Everything was immediate. Most disturbing was my lack of feelings for Bryan.

Shouldn’t I be crying over my dead husband?

My eyes were dry. It disturbed me to admit that I felt
relieved
when he died. All the pressure was gone. I wouldn’t be expected to bear his children or force myself into believing that playing house was what I wanted. It wasn’t. Then what was?

My mind was as blank as the darkness in front of my eyes. Thoughts ran after each other in a circle. All except that little bag of white powder. It was branded into my mind. 
I want more.

Despite my obsession, the high faded and boredom suffocated me. Once again I didn’t even have a body. I just floated through the dark, trying to guide the current. I saw myself strapped on a steel table and I thought I heard a squeak.

No, I can’t have.

Strange scurrying sounds were underneath me and a cold bead of sweat rolled down my face. The apartment I used to live in with my grandmother was infested with rats. They ran across my feet while I slept. A headless pigeon trapped in a cage flashed across my vision—the pigeons I caught on the street to keep as pets were devoured by rats. I was stupid to think I could have anything for myself. I never forgot how their bodies looked. All of those beautiful, headless bodies slumped in too small cages. Blood spattered everywhere, their little footprints etched all over the garage like a crime scene. My fault.

A warm, shivering body scurried across my legs and I opened my mouth. Vibrations shook my throat and I heard my blood-curdling scream inside my own head.

Get it off me!

I shook my body to dislodge the rat, but its little feet grasped my leg firmly. Its little wet nose sniffed my knee and then it walked up my thigh. My foot jerked as something clawed over it. I could almost see the long, bald tail curled around my foot.
Another one?

My chest rose and fell rapidly, my heart hammering against my chest, as steady as a metronome. I couldn’t voice my panic. They crept closer to me until they sat on my stomach and I imagined their red, little evil eyes staring at me, as if to decide which part was the most edible. They would eat me like those helpless pigeons. Cain somehow knew my worst fear; he locked me in with rats. I could roll around in terror or just give in.
Accept it.

A shrill squeak somehow made it through the headphones as I thrashed. A sudden, sharp pain made me jostle violently. One of the rats retaliated and sank their razor-sharp teeth in my right breast.

GET OFF, GET OFF!

He wouldn’t let go and the pain was searing—it was sharp and deep like a knife. I thought of all the bacteria in a rat’s mouth and I saw myself deathly ill from the bite.

Disgusting, rat bodies clustered around my head, nibbling my hair, biting my earlobes because the soft flesh appealed to them. Light exploded in front of my eyes and things brushed over my ears and the sound of terrified screaming stabbed my ears.

Inexplicably, my hands and feet were already freed and I lashed out, connecting with something much larger than a rat. I ran to the only corner where I didn’t see anything hiding. I could defend myself from the corner. I could smell them around me.
Rats.

“GET AWAY! GET THEM AWAY FROM ME!”

Even though my eyes teared up, I forced them open to watch the ground where they would appear. Instead, I saw a pair of leather boots. I looked up and up, following his jeans to the leather jacket torso up to his fair skinned, impassive face.

My confusion sharpened into rage. “You,” I said heavily. “You put me in a room with those fucking things.”

He crouched down, but I shrank away from him and his awful, emotionless eyes. “Yes, I did. And if you keep talking to me like that, I’ll leave you in here for a few more hours.”

Vomit surged up my throat but I swallowed it down. “No, please! I’m sorry, I just don’t understand how you knew…” My voice drifted as Cain's face transformed into amusement.

A surge of hatred for him made my heart pound as he smirked at me, followed by despair when he stood up suddenly. “Wait, where are you going? Don’t leave me in here.”

Before I realized what was happening, I stood up and grabbed his jacketed arm. I expected him to hit me again, but he threw his head back and laughed. A slight pang hit me then, because I knew how pathetic I was. I burrowed into his chest and wrapped my arms around him. Breathing in the smell of tobacco and alcohol made me feel calmer. Safe.

His hands smoothed my head. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

Cain's face was smooth, devoid of emotion.
It’s a trick.
“Upstairs?” I said doubtfully.

He peeled me from his chest before I could answer, and yanked on the doorknob. His fingers dug into my wrist even though I was cooperating, glad to leave the dungeon behind. The club above us sounded like it was in full swing. The rock music pounded the floor and I trudged up the steps. Cain banged on the ceiling and it opened up.

Crash was waiting for us. They’re going to kill me right now.

Cain grabbed my shoulders as I tried to twist out of his grip and I looked at the bikers surrounding me. Crash crossed his arms and smiled in grim satisfaction.

“It’s time, Julia.”

“NO!”

I didn’t think Cain realized how badly I would struggle. I aimed a sharp elbow behind me and I heard a deep, male grunt. My legs gave out when he kicked behind my knees. They connected with the wooden floor painfully. I looked up and stared at all the gruff, unkind faces, searching for at least one who would show me mercy.

A tall, lanky, dark-haired man looked at me, his mouth slightly parted in surprise. He looked—

Crash stepped in front of me and grabbed my jaw with his gloved hand. A pistol dug into my head as Cain forced me stay on my knees.

I always knew this was coming, but I was not prepared for it. A swift bullet would explode from that gun any moment. Would I even hear it? What would be my last thought? I dredged up images in my mind of people I loved. They slid past one another, too fast to hold on to.

“Please,” I screamed in a shrill voice, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t want to die! I’ll do anything—I can make you money. I’m good at pool.”