Where Souls Spoil (30 page)

“Do what you gotta do,” I say. “I get it. I’m just the club whore. I get no say. Cut me, beat me up—go for it,” I hiss in his face. My eyes well with unshed tears. Whether they’re from anger or fear, I don’t know. “But this is the last time you touch me.”

The fabric presses against my pussy, and a second later it’s gone. He clips the knife back in its holder and skims his hand down my side and to my hip. “You are one stupid bitch,” he says. Gripping my hip with enough force to leave a bruise, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead atop my head. His warm breath washes down over my face. Every minute or so, he gives both my hip and my wrists a squeeze. When he loosens his grip he finally lifts his head and opens his eyes. His free hand travels from my hip down the line of my jeans, tracing the star tattoos on my lower belly. With his index, middle, and ring finger, he slides into my jeans, curves up, and slams himself into me. Shock from the movement causes me to tighten around him and freeze up.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says with a gravelly voice. “But remember who I am. I am Forsaken. I’ve killed men for less—tortured them because I can.” My lungs stop for a moment and, when they resume, all I can force out are breathy pants. I don’t want to enjoy this—any of this—but I do.

“Pushing me is not wise, Nicole. If I have to scare you to shut you up, I will. But I won’t ever hurt you,” he says, his voice falling to a whisper. “Don’t complicate shit, chill out, and understand this—I want you as my woman. That means you represent me and I’m responsible for you. I let you pull that shit again, and my brothers will start questioning whether or not I can handle the shit I gotta do for this club if I can’t even handle my woman. Do you understand that?”

“Two months,” I say very slowly so he can understand, because obviously he’s really fucking slow.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” he says, pulling his fingers out and shoving them back in again. He hits a sweet spot, and my mouth hangs open, my eyes drift to the back of my head, and I clamp down on him tight.

“Two months,” I repeat trying to sound like a hard ass, but it comes out as a whimper. “Do you understand
that
?”

“You my woman?” he asks as his thumb finds my clit. I let out a loud moan and let my head fall back against the brick. I don’t respond. He doesn’t deserve a response. He’s a childish prick who always has to have the last word. Now that he’s put the knife away, I can breathe a little easier, knowing that he isn’t going to hurt me. My dad can’t ride, so he can’t vote, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t family. Carving up a member’s kid is bad news, and I don’t think Duke would bring that on himself. But then, I also didn’t think he’d push me into a wall and pull a knife on me, either.

“You pulled a knife on me,” I hiss, but it’s cut off by the pressure that’s building in my muscles, screaming its way through my bones and heating my bloodstream.

“I won’t hurt you, I told you that,” he grits out as he continues his ministrations. “I won’t ever hurt you.” Leaning down, my smashes his lips to mine. I don’t even attempt to fight it. Greedily, I suck his bottom lip in between mine and give it a quick bite. His eyes blaze when he pulls back, and then he’s on me again. Our tongues slide against one another in a fight of dominance. When we pull apart, neither of us can breathe.

“Let me go,” I say. He shakes his head and curls his fingers inside my pussy. Everything blurs and disappears for half a second before I can stop myself from splintering in a million little pieces.

“You’ll run,” he says hoarsely. I shake my head and buck my hips into his hand.

“No, I just want your cock,” I say. I clamp down on his hand and let my body slip toward the floor. After a beat, he lets go of my wrists and wraps his arm around my waist as we sink to the floor together. He doesn’t remove his fingers as he slowly guides me to my back. My wrists ache where he’d held me in place, but I can barely feel it. Lying down beside me, he continues to pump in and out of my pussy. I’m so slick and needy that I worry I’ll lose control before I get him inside me.

His eyes travel up to the table above my head, and his fingers still. It’s but a few seconds before I start to lose the high he’s been building in my gut. Impatiently, I yank my jeans down and kick them off then get to work on his belt. His eyes are still focused elsewhere, but I’m not having it. He can be in control everywhere else, but right now, he’s mine and this is my show.

Grabbing his face, I pull him down to my lips and drag my tongue against them. Instantly, his legs are shimmying out of his jeans, with a little help from me as I reach up with my feet and drag them to his ankles. A mass of frenzied flesh, and I’m clamping my legs together to keep the sweet pounding from dissipating. He pulls back to say something, but I pull him in again and wrap my legs around his waist. With one hand, he shoves his boxers down and guides himself hard and fast into my core. My back arches, and goose flesh breaks out all over my body. He hooks his hands over my shoulders from behind and drives into me again and again until I drift off into a sea of nothingness where my body pounds and aches and then fractures—not once, and not even twice, but three times—until he’s curled into me and his lips are at my neck. With a satisfied grunt, he kisses my neck and sucks at the flesh, marking me for everybody to see who I belong to.

“Now,” he says. “I don’t ever want to hear those fucking words come out of your mouth again. Don’t forget whose woman you are. Next time there will be consequences.”

And just like that, my blissful mood is shattered. Wiggling out from underneath him and scrambling across the room, I slide into my jeans and my flats. Turning to look at Duke, I find him standing; his broad shoulders block the light from streaming in from the window and cast a shadow over my frame. Consequences, that’s what it always comes back to. This is all way too fucked up. I shake my head slowly and fold my arms over my chest.

“No, I meant what I said. That was the last time you touch me,” I say and walk out, slamming the door behind me. In the hallway, I pause for a brief moment to see if he follows.

He doesn’t.

Chapter 4

I LEAVE THE clubhouse tucked into Chief’s side. He’s giving me a whole caveman speech about respect and the club and relationships. As much as I like Chief, I want to scream at him to shut up. He’s one of the biggest fucking hypocrites I’ve ever met. But doing
that
definitely has consequences. I say absolutely nothing that would allude to cooperation on my part and make up some bullshit excuse about having to pick Jeremy up at summer school. I don’t think he buys it, but he doesn’t argue with me, and he lets me leave quickly.

Pulling up to the small yellow ranch house, I cut the engine of the Corolla and take a moment to collect my thoughts. I never got an answer about who Princess is and what the hell is going on with her and Duke, nor do I think I’m going to get a straight answer from him. He said she isn’t who I think she is, but I don’t know who I think she is other than one of his good little whores. Pulling my cell out of my purse, I look up Chel’s number and send her a text saying, WHO IS PRINCESS?

It’s a little on the petty side, but oh well. If Duke is going to pull this crap with me, I want to know who the hell else he’s spending time with. My phone rings in in my hand. I check the caller I.D. to see Chel’s picture on the screen. Swiping the screen to unlock it, I bring the phone to my ear. “Hey,” I say.

“Are you and Duke a thing?” Chel asks in a whisper. Immediately, I’m on the defensive.

“That’s a hell to the no,” I say and lean my head back against the head rest. “Who’s Princess?” Maybe if I keep asking, she’ll actually tell me something. Chel and I are pretty tight. I’ve watched her kid so many times she should probably put me on payroll, and last year when she had nowhere to go, I let her stay in our extra bedroom. I could probably use that for leverage if she’s reluctant to give up the goods.

“Why do you want to know?” she asks.

“So you
do
know something,” I say. “Just spit it the fuck out, will you?”

“I’m not supposed to know this shit,” she says warily.

“Chel, I got shit to do today.”

“Fine,” she says. She draws in a deep breath and then slowly blows it out. It sounds like she’s smoking. I thought she quit?

“She’s Ruby’s niece or kid or something. Ryan says the girl doesn’t have a clue who her mom is.”

“That’s fucked up,” I say, unable to find anything else to respond with.

“You think?”

“So that’s why Duke calls her Princess? Because she’s Ruby’s kid? How fucking old is she?” I have a million questions flying around in my brain as I try to process it all.

“I don’t know,” Chel whisper-shouts. “Ryan says she’s legal. Do you know the last name Mancuso?”

“Should I?” I ask. A quiet chuckle sounds on the other end.

“Look it up. You’ll see. I gotta go. Chief’s coming.” The line goes dead, and I toss my phone back into my purse and climb out of the car. On my way into the house, the phone rings. It’s the clubhouse. I slide the bar to answer the call, but when I hear Duke’s voice, I hang up. He tries to call twice more from both the clubhouse and his cell, but I ignore those calls. Fuck him and fuck his bullshit.

Walking into the house, I find the front door unlocked and the faint sounds of feminine giggles and masculine laughter coming from down the hall. I don’t even have to go look to know Jeremy’s door is closed. Pausing in the entry, I consider my options. I could storm down the hall and stop whatever’s going on, but it’s not really my job. I mean, I guess it is in a way. He’s almost eighteen, though, and he doesn’t really listen to a thing I say anyway. It wouldn’t do any good.

Frustration builds, and I decide to just give up on the idea of being a parental figure for the evening. Walking into the kitchen, which is coincidentally the room farthest away from Jeremy’s room, I set my purse down and take a look around. Years back, before my mother left and then Dad got locked up, this used to be my favorite room in the house. It’s not all that big, but the large window over the sink lets in a lot of natural light. The countertop forms an L-shape and curves around the outside corner of the house with the sink, range, and refrigerator forming a triangle. It wasn’t like this when Dad bought the house. I was barely five then, but I can remember clearly when my mother said that the placement was all wrong.

Back in those days, I idolized the men who came by on Harleys. They were always around, and they were funny and nice. Every once in a while they’d babysit me and Jeremy, and sometimes we would hang out with their families. I remember Barbara, Chief’s wife, the most. She was always there. That was long before I realized what those cuts really mean and what happens when things go sideways and not everybody comes out whole.

My mother, Sheryl, had just hooked up with the man who became my dad a few years prior and had Jeremy. We left Oakland for this place. Our first few months in town were spent in the trailer park right off of Highway 20, but then Dad bought the house because the little lady insisted if they were going to be a proper family, they needed a proper home, and a trailer park couldn’t possibly be a proper home—that stupid bitch wouldn’t know a proper home if it hit her on her ass.

The once trendy bright blue laminate countertop is so worn and faded in spots that its color is almost unrecognizable. She used to spend hours cooking in it while Jeremy would rock out with a wooden spoon on an upside down pot on the floor. He was such a noisy kid. It never seemed to matter how messy the house got or how loud we were, Dad would come home—often with a few of his brothers in tow—and he’d sit down on the kitchen floor—usually drunk off his ass—and show Jeremy how to really play the bottom of a pot. It used to drive mom nuts. My mother loved this kitchen once; then again, she loved us once, too.

“It’s probably why she left,” I mutter and kick off the door frame. Memories are annoying as fuck. As much as you want to hold onto the good ones, the trade-off is that you have to hold onto the bad ones as well. On the far wall is a small desk that’s overcrowded with an aging desktop computer and countless bills that have been tossed on the keyboard to be looked at later. I sit down at the desk and boot the computer up while casually looking through the bills. The water and garbage bills are past due, so those will be the first to be paid. The mortgage is—surprisingly—less than a month behind, so that can wait. My car insurance is up for renewal again next month, so here’s hoping I can make enough in tips to cover at least half of that bill. I’d probably make more sucking dick for a living than I do at Universal Grounds, but I have to maintain some self-respect. It’s one of the few things I have left.

Once the computer boots up, I open the web browser from hell. Unfortunately, something’s wrong with the computer, so I can’t download another browser to use. I locate the search bar on screen and type in MANCUSO. Doubtful that anything is going to come up, I sort the bills according to what’s most important. The bill for the newspaper that the little wilderness scout talked me into a few months back goes on the bottom. The Gazette can just cut off the service. It’s not like we read the fucking thing anyway.

Looking up from the stack of bills, I scan the screen. Instead of finding the results I expect—which is nothing—I find myself faced with links to news reports, all of them very recent. I click on the first search result, which is from a newspaper in Brooklyn, New York City. The article is fairly extensive and way longer than I’m comfortable reading, but I catch the highlights. Carlo Mancuso, alleged Italian mob boss to the Mancuso Crime Family, was arrested back in May for the creation, sale, and distribution of meth around the five boroughs. It takes me a few paragraphs before I realize why I should give a shit about this guy.

“Mancuso’s son, Michael (19) was hospitalized for a gunshot wound. Mancuso’s daughter, Alexandra (19) is said to be recovering from the events with family out west,” I say, reading the article aloud. On a hunch, I do a web search for Alexandra Mancuso. A few links pop up: Our Lady of the Immaculate College Preparatory School; a Facebook page; three different blogs that appear to be fan pages for criminal organizations; and several news articles that relate to her father’s arrest. I click on one of the blog links, and sure enough, the page is filled with information about suspected mobsters, and the Mancuso family takes center stage. With Carlo’s arrest being so recent, it seems he’s become something of a sensation. Three posts down, I find a few pictures of Mancuso’s daughter, Alexandra. She looks to be of average height for a woman, her outfit doesn’t do much to show off her figure, and her long, dark brown hair is very well maintained. What catches my eye is the caption: ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS TO THE MANCUSO CRIME FAMILY, OUT FOR LUNCH WITH HER AUNT GLORIA.

Princess.

My mood suddenly dissolves completely as I’m left with zero doubt that this Alexandra is Duke’s Princess. And she’s beautiful in a classy way that no Lost Girl ever will be. Her makeup is subtle, her clothes are clearly expensive, and the way she carries herself in the photos shows she was brought up with manners. No wonder Duke’s got a thing for her—or spends time with her—whatever it is, she matters in some way. Looks like the bastard biker’s taking a shot above his station. Well, if he can try to raise his standards, so can I. Taking a peek of the clock, I see that it’s nearly seven. I’m supposed to meet Darren at eight. I would rather hide out than see him, but the drama that would ensue from me standing him up isn’t worth it. I close out the browser, turn off the computer, retreat to my bedroom while doing my best to ignore the hushed whispers coming from behind Jeremy’s closed door. I have to get out of this house.