Death Layer (The Depraved Club)

  By Celia Loren

  & Colleen Masters

  A Hearts Collective Production

  Copyright © 2014 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

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  Also From Hearts Collective:

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  Devil’s Kiss (Widowmakers Motorcycle Club) by Celia Loren

  Satan’s Property (A Satan’s Sons MC Novel) by Celia Loren

  Blood Of Cupids (Blood of Cupids MC) by Sophia Kenzie

  Prologue

  Jack snaps his fingers and the giant bouncers lift me to my feet and toss me on Bane’s bed. I land with a whimper and instinctively curl up into a ball, trembling violently. The sheets still smell of sex and booze—and man.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bane explodes, his voice dripping with venom. “What, you want me to rape her in front of you? Is that your new definition of brotherhood?”

  I feel a dip on the mattress and hands on my hair as my head is jerked up. Both my hands clutch at the arm that’s lifting me, scratching with my nails. I throw my weight in every direction I can think of.

  “No!” I cry, sobbing. “Please!”

  “Knock it off.” Bane hisses. He gives me a harsh shake, jarring my aching head. “Fuck, now I’m bleeding. Great.”

  Bane is kneeling beside me, displaying my face to the room. His hands are rough in my hair and the sinews of his forearms are achingly close. My body goes cold, then hot, as I realize that I am inches away from probably two hundred pounds of naked, powerful, seething testosterone.

  And there’s no possible escape.

  As he looks at me, his mouth flattens into a thin line. He doesn’t look at all pleased.

  “She’s just a kid,” Bane grunts. “Terrified. This make you hard, Jack, you sick son of a bitch? Huh?”

  Inevitably, my eyes flit back to his naked groin and I swallow, reddening. Taking a deep breath, I look up and meet his eyes. There’s a flash of something that passes between us, though I can’t say what. But neither of us looks away and he cocks his head to the side, studying me.

  Something lights in his eyes, a question? His mouth opens. He pulls me imperceptibly closer and frowns down at me, as if reconsidering, and I shudder to my very core.

  My body responds to his proximity in spite of my terror and fear, an explosion of heat radiating between my legs against my will. I can’t understand it—I am so turned on. More frightened than I have ever been, yes, but somehow aroused. I can feel his breath on the side of my face. He’s all muscle, cut and wiry. Instinct tells me he knows how to use every inch of that body of his. My heart is pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears.

  Bane must be able to hear it too.

  Chapter One

  “The store is closed,” bellows a gruff-voiced woman. She sounds like she’s speaking through a megaphone or something, but its probably just years of cigarettes and exhaustion.

  An older Spanish lady I don't know is standing really too close to me. We’ve been taking turns reaching for slightly wilted pairs of shoes on the same clearance rack. She pulls out a pair, raising her eyebrows at me conspiratorially.

  “These?” She says, turning her feet to show off the white espadrilles.

  I step back into the pair of lop-sided flip-flops that I wore into the store and nod at her. “Yeah, they’re cute,” I say.

  “Si?” She shuffles over to a mirror to inspect for herself.

  As I stare after her, my conscience berates me. “You’re wasting time,” it chides. “You can’t afford new shoes, Ava. You got fired today for crying out loud. You can’t even afford TJ Maxx clearance shoes. It’s Thursday night and you’re alone, trying on shoes you can’t buy. You’re a mess. Go home.”

  I don't know how long I've been standing here. They must do this on purpose in these stores, lure you in to the black hole and make you forget the world outside. Eventually you might forget you’re poor and convince yourself to toss $25 at a shoes or something.

  Only, I can’t forget because I literally don’t have $25.

  I watch as the Spanish lady wanders off toward the cash registers with a final wave. I smile back and feel a hot prickle of water in my eyes. With an angry hand, I dash away a self-pitying tear.

  “Fuck,” I whisper to myself. “Get a grip.”

  I march myself through the dress aisle, my fingers running idly along the racks of fabric the way I used to run them along fences in my hometown as a kid. I've got to do something constructive. I could call Blake and invite myself along to whatever he’s doing, or just follow my pathetic mood to it’s logical conclusion and go get drunk somewhere by myself.

  I’m trying to think of any dive-bars in the area, but the loudspeaker lady is back and drowns out my thoughts.

  “Ladies and gentlemen if you’re making a purchase please proceed to the checkout area. If you are not making a purchase, please use the escalator to the exit. The store is closed.”

  I join the rest of the lemmings as we are all ushered out by smiling security guards and squeezed out onto 125th street. It’s dark now, and I glance behind me to squint at the sign of store hours. It says they close at 9.

  That’s the only way to guess the time, because my phone is dead. Of course.

  Tuning out the smell of humanity and the food truck on the street corner, I jostle through people as they race in and out of the subway entrance. When the light changes I trip off of the curb and am almost run over by some asshole on a Harley.

  “Watch it!” he yells over the roar of his engine.

  “Fuck,” I squeal, dodging, my hand reflexively clutching my chest.

  He flips me off and disappears up 5th Avenue.

  It’s been one of those days.

  It’s only a five-minute walk to my apartment, if I can survive it, and now that it’s dark it feels pleasanter than the harsh summer afternoon. People pass me or wave to each other from stoops, shouting greetings and carrying out loud conversations in the friendly Harlem fashion.

  Thank god, I'm finally at my stoop. I muster a smile and nod at Mrs. Johnson, our landlady, who is sitting on the steps talking to a neighbor in deep, loud tones.

  “Hello Miss Ava,” she says.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Johnson.”

  The front door clicks closed behind me. I open our mailbox and pull out a stack of bills with my name on them: rent, electricity, student loans. Shit. Trying not to think about how I'm going to pay them, I stomp up our five flights of stairs and put on my poker face.

  I turn the key in my apartment door and push it open quietly, breathing a sigh of relief when I see that it's dark and no one's home.

  “Surprise!”

  There’s a burst of light and a shot of confetti and people pop up from behind our tiny couch and out from under our dining table.

  "Oh my god!" Shocked, I jump about nine feet in the air and out of my skin before landing with a self-conscious, nervous laugh. My cheeks are a blaze of flushed, hot sweaty embarrassment. I vainly look for a hole to crawl into an
d hide, but our apartment is too small for holes.

  “What on earth is this for?” I manage, confusedly looking through the applauding people for an explanation. My eyes bounce from my beaming sister Rachel to Blake and a couple of my girlfriends—Dara, Kristi. “Hey,” I say, recovering. “What are you doing here? Good to see you.” We hug in rapid succession, and I nod politely at the half dozen others I don’t really know. They must be Rachel’s friends. “What’s the occasion? It’s not my birthday.”

  Rachel bounces up through the ranks and crushes me in an overly enthusiastic hug that almost knocks the wind out of me. “Happy Anniversary sis!” she squeals. “We’re all proud of you. Where the hell have you been? You took FOREVER to get home, god! We drank half of the beer already.”

  “Anniversary?”

  She pulls back and laughs at me, shaking her head. “You don’t think I’d forget your two year anniversary of living in New York, do you?”

  “Oh.” Whelp, I sure as hell forgot. Certain things tend to slip your mind when you’re having an existential crisis in the shoe aisle. “Right.”

  Rachel scrunches her nose at me and rumples my hair. “Gotcha good, huh?”

  “You sure did.”

  “Score Rachel, 1, Ava, 0.”

  The familiar voice makes me turn around. I summon a smile and turn to slug Blake in the arm. “You could have warned me,” I say. “J’accuse! You know I hate surprises.”

  Blake shrugs and laughs at me, scooping me into a brotherly hug. “Get used to it. Word on the street is that life is full of them, surprises. I thought you could use the pick-me-up after today’s lunch shift debacle. By the way, where the hell did you go? I’ve been calling you. We were all worried.”

  I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling and shake my head.

  Blake throws an authoritative hand in the air to prevent my response. “Forget it. You are forbidden to mention or think about the restaurant or the low level pond scum that run it,” he says. “There will be no talk of being fired for stupid crap that stupid George made up because he can’t get in your pants.”

  “I have to tell Rachel,” I groan. “I have to find a new job so fast.”

  “Don't worry about it I already told her. Just relax and let her throw a party for you. It makes her so happy to make you uncomfortable. Besides, all creative geniuses get fired from at least one serving job. Maybe this is your big break.”

  I fan my shirt away from my body, mentally cursing myself for not caving in and letting my parents buy me that air conditioner. “I needed that job, Blake, what am I gonna—”

  “Zip!” He pulls an imaginary zipper across my mouth, his face hilariously intense. I can tell he’s had a couple beers. “There are plenty of employer fish in the sea. Tonight you will repress your feelings, drink alcohol and pretend to enjoy yourself.”

  I smirk. “So, just a typical Thursday?”

  “Yup.” Blake grins back and holds up his beer to toast. “Happy two years, Ava. Keep it up and you’ll be a jaded shell of a human being like the rest of us native New Yorkers in no time.”

  I glare playfully at him as he chucks me under the chin and swigs his beer. “One jaded shell of a human being, coming right up. Where’s the beer? Just point me.”

  Rachel has rematerialized and grabs my hand. “Come on!” she urges, tugging me towards the kitchen. “There’s a cake!”

  As Rachel leads me away I turn to Blake and mouth with false enthusiasm, “There’s a cake!”

  “Oh boy,” he mouths back.

  Rachel pulls me close, giggles, and turns her sparkling eyes over her shoulder at me. “So, you and Blake?” She whispers. “Tonight the night?”

  “No!” I hiss back, rolling my eyes. “Oh my god, will you stop it? Blake is gay. I keep telling you he’s gay. You’ve seen him pick up guys at bars. You know he’s gay.”

  “He’s bisexual maybe.”

  “He’s gay.”

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  “You brat!” Realizing she is goading me for the hell of it, I pinch her behind. “You know, you don't have to be a brat 100% of the time. You can take breaks.”

  She pulls a face of mock surprise. “Wow, really? I didn't know that!”

  Rachel gives me a playful shove and brings me face to face with a large cake box from Billy’s Bakery. Peeling back the lid, I see that it’s carrot cake.

  “Oh my god Rach,” I say, touched. “My favorite! You went through a lot of trouble, and it’s a work night for you. You’re so sweet, thank you.”

  “Anything for my big sister.” She throws her arms around me from behind, pinning my arms the same way she always has, and we both giggle. “But it wasn’t just me. Mom ordered the cake from Ann Arbor. She’s the one who reminded me it was your anniversary. Love you, Bean.”

  For some reason Rachel has always called me Bean, not Ava. That’s little sister logic for you: the same kind of thinking that decides to throw surprise anniversary parties for introverted, stressed out big sisters who just want to be alone and cry into their iced tea.

  I twist around to look into Rachel’s eyes and soften, brushing her disarrayed brown curls from her face. She’s the extrovert, the socialite. She’s throwing me this party because she would love it, because it’s her love language. It’s her way of following the golden rule the way Mom and Dad taught us to: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The thought makes me smile ruefully.

  “I love you too, Rach. New York is already a million times better since you moved in and are constantly forcing me to be less grumpy. Thanks.”

  The mushy feelings are welling up, but I stuff them down and busy myself with looking for a plate and utensils big enough for the cake.

  “Let me do it,” Rachel says, using her hips to box me away from the sink.

  “I can,” I say, pushing back. "It’s fine."

  “No I’m the host, you’re the guest of honor.”

  “This was my apartment first, so just try and stop me.”

  “Well my butt is bigger.” To prove her point she wiggles into me, and our joking instantly becomes wrestling. My only defense is to hop on her back and spin us around, laughing, using my height advantage to dominate her.

  “What are you crazies doing?” Dara laughs from the hallway.

  As Rachel and I spin, I see Blake’s face peek around the corner.

  “Girl fight!” He shouts, drawing the crowd into the kitchen. He whips out his iPhone and starts to film us, snickering.

  My foot slips and somehow we topple over, arms flailing, and accidentally swipe the cake box off the counter. Rachel, the cake and I veer sideways, losing to gravity and landing in a heap.

  “Shit!”

  We’re a mess on the floor, covered in frosting. I reach out a finger and swipe some frosting from Rachel’s face, plopping it in my mouth.

  “Mmmm,” I nod, approvingly. “Bon appetite.”

  Rachel can’t handle it. We burst into hysterical laughter until we snort. Blake is shaking his head into his phone. “And…post. You are now immortalized on Facebook as the Carrot Cake Face Sisters. You’re welcome.”

  It’s the best I’ve felt all day.

  Chapter Two

  After everyone has cleared out for the night I am folded over my laptop with a beer. I have three tabs open: my email for distraction, my bank account for motivation, and craigslist for hope. Rachel appears, leaning her chin on my shoulder.

  “It’s late,” she rasps.

  I take a swig of beer. “Just looking at jobs.”

  “Don’t you think this site is a little sketch?”

  “Meh,” I sigh, shrugging. “I’ve found lots of stuff this way. Your bed, for example.”

  “Gross. I didn’t need to know that.” Rachel pulls a face and I laugh at her.

  I scroll down the endless list of postings. “I just need to find something good. And fast.”

  “Mom and Dad could probably help if—”

  �
��No.” I cut my sister off. It’s a sore point, and we’ve had this conversation before. “I have to do this myself. Besides, I won’t always have Mom and Dad to catch me. Might as well figure it out now.”

  “Alright, alright. Have it your way, artsy pants.” Rachel nods, her chin digging into my shoulder like a pointy masseuse. Suddenly she pounces at the screen, pointing. “Ooh, look at that one: ‘Personal and executive assistant—80k’? Eighty thousand dollars is a pretty good salary, no?”

  “No, yeah, that’s really good. Crazy good. Maybe too good.” I click the link and speed-read the description. “‘80k plus full benefits, potential bonuses. Personal and executive assistant for CEO of major Multi-national Corporation. Flexibility, discretion, confidentiality, professionalism and creativity required, must have current passport and be willing to travel. Serious applications only.’”

  Rachel and I glance at each other. Her mouth quirks into a grin.

  “Well shoot,” she says, “You’re a serious, they want serious—match made in heaven.”

  “It sounds too good to be true. I wonder why the pay’s so high?”

  Rachel yawns and gives me a hug. “Some of the exec assistants at Stanley make 70, 75 grand. It’s not that weird for finance, depending on which multinational this guy runs.”

  “Seems sketchy.”

  “Does everything have to be shitty pay and shitty conditions?” Rachel yawns. “God, you don’t have to suffer to be an artist you know. I don’t know why you always have to make things so hard on yourself. You might actually like having a real person salary.”

  “You have a point,” I groan. What would it be like to make real money, be a real person? All my time in New York City has been spent waiting tables, scrapping together gigs, and living the struggling artist cliché. I’m not going to lie; it’s getting old. “Ok, I’ll apply.”

  I click the reply button on the job posting, attach my resume, press send, and exhale.