Satan's Property Read online

  My adrenaline flies through the roof. I want to slug him and tear ass away from him all at once. Fight or flight at its best.

  “Rooster,” I say slowly, my fists clenched and trembling, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “See, they were going to blow through town and take over, disband the Army, but I’ve got these connections with cartels in Mexico that they want,” Rooster says nonchalantly, “These cartels, they like to deal with people they know. So me and the Sons made a deal that I keep my club and give them a cut of my cartel business. But they wanted some collateral to make sure I stay honest, stay in line, and don’t cheat them. I’m not flush with cash right now because of a few little deals that went bad, but I do have one asset left. You. I assured them that you would make the perfect little house mouse for them, and they like having someone from the Avery clan under their thumb. You’re like a purebred horse.”

  My blood runs cold as ice. “You’re just going to give me to them?” I whisper, “Don’t you care about me at all?”

  He throws his head back and laughs meanly.

  “Fuck, Violet. I didn’t think you were that fucking stupid. I’ve never cared about you, you dumb bitch. I only married you so I’d get ahead in the club faster. Holy shit. Did you think I loved you or something? That’s so fucking sad.”

  I feel bile rising up in my throat. I throw myself at Rooster, trying to punch him in the face. He laughs and brings his half-shell up to protect himself. I land one across his cheek, and he grabs my arms and twists them painfully behind me.

  “You’re almost as dumb as your father,” he spits in my ear. I tug against his strong hands, trying to make a break for it. But it’s no use. He’s nothing if not brutishly strong, my husband.

  “Remember,” he growls, “The only reason these guys have to keep you alive is that they think you’re valuable to me. So while you’re there, you have to play the part of the aggrieved wife, just doing her part for the club. If they find out that I don’t give a shit about you, then you’re worthless, and they’ll just kill you. Maybe they’ll play with you for a little first. You understand me?”

  I hear the low rumble of a fleet of bikes in the distance, and feel my knees start to go weak.

  “What are they going to do to me, Rooster?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” he shrugs, “Maybe pass you around so everyone gets a taste of some Avery pussy,” he says, releasing my hands roughly. I wheel around and slap him before he can put his hands up. His head jerks to the side, and he grins, then spits on the ground. “Feel better now?” he sneers.

  “I want Scout. He can stay with me,” I say, trying to put force behind my shaky words. The rumbling of the bikes draws closer.

  “Nah, I’m gonna keep the mutt. Just a little more incentive for you to behave yourself,” he says with a sick smile. “Besides, I need something around the house I can kick once in a while. With you gone, I’ll need a stand in.”

  I hear bikes roaring into the parking lot. Rooster grabs my cut and pulls me toward him.

  “Remember, play the loving wife,” he growls, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me hard. I bite down hard on his lip and he releases me, an angry glint in his eyes. He pulls my cut off roughly, taking it in his clenched hands.

  As the pack of bikes rolls to a stop, I turn around to face my captors. Six guys on Harleys stare back at me through their visors.

  “Boys! Right on time,” Rooster crows from behind me. “This is quite a motorcade you’ve got here.”

  “We wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna to try anything,” says the biker leading the pack.

  “Come on, in a public place like this?” Rooster says innocently, “My old lady here understands the situation. You don’t have to worry about her.”

  “That so?” The leader turns to me and holds out his hand. “Cell phone, then.” I take it out of my purse, fumbling with the latch, and pass it to him. He tucks it his front pocket and pats the back seat. “Well, hop on, sweetie, it’s a long drive back to Vegas.”

  My body stiff and mechanical as I walk to the bike and strap on my helmet. Vegas. So that’s where I’m going.

  I wrap my arms around the biker’s stomach, my skin prickling where it touches him. He’s got quite a gut—my hands are just able to touch each other around front. I watch Rooster as the bikers pull a small u-turn around the parking lot. They didn’t even cut their engines. They must not have anticipated a struggle. Rooster pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up, not even bothering to feign remorse.

  Glaring at Rooster, I bid him a silent goodbye and “fuck you” as we turn back onto the street. But my anger cools to hopelessness as we leave the lights of Clarksville behind us. This town is the only home I’ve ever known. Now I’m being torn away by a bunch of men I’ve never met, and one who I guess I never really knew.

  Chapter Three

  The wind on the highway is intense, and I’m soon shivering in just my romper and cardigan. It occurs to me that I don’t even know the name of the guy I’ve got my arms wrapped around. We’ve been on the road maybe an hour and a half, and I’m guessing that’s about halfway to Vegas. We’ll see if I’m not frozen solid by the time we get there.

  But what are they going to do to me once we do arrive? I don’t know if I can trust Rooster’s account of this club, but what if they do pass me around like some sweet butt whore? I’d rather die. Maybe I can just run away? But Rooster has Scout. Fuck. The thought of him hurting my dog causes the tightness in my throat to break into a muffled sob. The noise of the wind is crazy loud, so I doubt the biker can hear me. I don’t want him to think I’m a weak little girl.

  How could I have been so blind about Rooster? I thought he was just a garden variety asshole husband, but turns out he’s more for an insane sociopath. I should have taken Scout and run when I had the chance. I let myself feel helpless the last few years and now I’m really fucked.

  I honestly thought the first couple years with Rooster were good ones, that he only turned bad when the pressures of being president got to him or something. There’s no telling what kind of violence he’d seen by then. But he’d been playing me from the start. Even back when we were kids, I bet. What a fucking idiot I am. Though it wasn’t just me he had fooled. There was my dad, Grill, other older members of the club...not that any of them are still around to help me now.

  This crazy bullshit would never have happened when my dad was around. There were rules back then, a code, and all the guys stuck to it or there would be consequences. Serious ones. From what I’ve heard from Rooster, and what’s happening to me right now, I know that the code is gone. The Devil’s Army is no longer the club my dad created all those years ago.

  I close my eyes, wishing there was anything besides the monotonous howling of the wind that would drown out the thoughts in my head. I eventually feel the Harley slowing down, and open my eyes to see the phalanx of bikes taking an off-ramp from the highway. I look around as we drive down a dusty road surrounded by dry brush. The landscape is the same here as it is in Arizona. Rooster said the Sons were based in Vegas—we must be somewhere outside the city.

  We pass a couple old houses and truck stops, a greasy spoon or two, then start turning down smaller roads. We swerve onto a two-lane road and I see a stone wall up ahead with wrought iron gates in front. The gates look old, and they’re sitting open for us. I see that someone has spray-painted a crude devil in black paint over a sign that reads “St. Michael’s Home for the Criminally Insane.” So Rooster was telling the truth about that much. The Satan’s Sons really do have a clubhouse in an old insane asylum.

  We drive up the road toward the clubhouse, which is perched up on a hill. In the dark, it looks incredibly spooky, just a large cement box rising up out of the earth, blocking out the stars in the night sky behind it. I hear the sounds of music and loud voices. I start violently shivering, from cold and fear.

  The bikes pull alongside the front of the bui
lding and the voices get louder. I can see the light of a fire spilling out from the other side of the building, the flames flickering onto the dirt. The bikers pull along the right wall of the building and park next to several other Harleys that are already there.

  A figure appears from the direction of the fire. I can’t see his face because he’s backlit, but I hear him yell, “They’re back!”

  Hoots and yells follow his announcement, and I swallow hard around a knot of fear that’s lodged in my throat.

  “Let’s go,” the big biker grunts. I swing mys leg off his bike and unhook my helmet. He takes my arm firmly above the elbow and leads me away with the other bikers following him.

  I can see a fire pit set up ahead surrounded by crushed beer cans and cigarette butts. There are maybe a dozen bikers milling around, and several scantily clad women lounging all over them. Several whistles greet my arrival and I flush, aware that all attention has shifted toward me. I feel dozens of eyes poring over my body. I stare straight down at the ground, willing myself not to cry. Everything goes eerily quiet.

  “So, this is our new house mouse,” a voice says, and I look up warily. A hot muscular guy with a shaved head is walking toward me, biting his lip. “Not bad at all. And I hear you have quite the pedigree. Daughter of the famous Ox Avery.”

  He runs the back of his hand across my cheek and I flinch.

  “Uh-oh, boys, I think she’s shy!” he yells out, and a laugh runs through the small crowd. “Maybe she needs to be broken in a little...”

  I gasp, and I can’t stop a tear that runs down my cheek.

  “Oh, Jesus-fucking-Christ, would you back off, Hollywood?” my escort retorts. He looks at me with something that almost looks like sympathy. “He’s just trying to scare you because he can’t find a lady who’ll suck his dick willingly.”

  Hollywood clutches his chest, pretending to be wounded by my escort’s words. He turns back to the group.

  “My heart’s breaking! Which one of you sweet butts wants to give me a little comfort?” The ladies sitting around the fire titter. “How ‘bout you Cherish?” he asks, approaching a stunning platinum blonde. “One more time before Drifter comes home?” he asks, running his hand through her hair.

  “Well, since you put it like that,” Cherish says smiling, though in the light of the fire I think that she looks to be grimacing slightly.

  Hollywood extends his hand to her in an overly gallant manner. She rolls her eyes but still takes his proffered hand. I watch them walk off into the clubhouse together, feeling thankful for my escort’s intervention.

  The big biker nudges me and says, “Come on.” I feel lewd stares following me as I walk behind him through the door that Hollywood and Cherish just passed through. We enter what looks to be a lounge area that sports a bar and a pool table. On the far side is a seating area with a couple sofas and chairs, and a big-screen TV. Everything smells pretty musty, and there’s pizza crusts and empty beer cans lying around.

  We pass through the middle of the room and open a heavy metal door that leads to a stairwell. We go up one flight and pass through another door that leads into a hallway. The walls have been painted black, but the old fluorescent lights and the cinderblock walls still emit the feel of an old mental institution. The doors have small windows with bars over them at eye height, and we pass several before the biker opens one and waves me in.

  “I’m Tag, by the way,” he says gruffly. I get the sense that making small talk would be his idea of hell. In the light, I can tell that he’s around 55 or 60, with longish hair and a few days worth of scruff on his face. He’s tall, maybe 6’2’’, and has quite the beer belly.

  “Violet,” I murmur back with a nod.

  “This is your room. Some of the old ladies donated some clothes for you. They’re in the dresser.”

  “So, what’s...what’s my role here, exactly?” I ask nervously.

  “Flint will fill you in on everything tomorrow. Flint’s our president,” he responds to my questioning look. “I’m going to have to lock the door. Sorry—just a precaution.”

  “I guess there’s probably not a lock on the inside?” I ask, eyeing the door.

  “Nah, but you don’t have to worry about most of these guys. Probably,” he says with a little smile, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He pauses awkwardly. “Do you, uh, need the bathroom?”

  “Yes, please,” I answer. The beers I had at dinner have been weighing heavily on my bladder all night. It feels like a lifetime ago that I was sitting in a restaurant with my husband, just sleepwalking through my mundane life. I can’t tell if this is an upgrade or a downgrade, actually.

  Tag walks down along a couple more doors and I follow him to a large communal bathroom with a few showers and urinals. There’s one stall with a door on it, and I head over to it while he waits for me in the doorway. I pee quickly and wash my hands. I glance at myself in the mirror above the sink. I look pale and messy, my hair is crazy from the helmet and wind. I turn and follow Tag back to my bedroom, and notice that he looks a little embarrassed to be saddled with this chaperone role that requires listening to me use the bathroom.

  Tag closes the bedroom door behind me, and I hear him bolt it from the outside. I turn and look around the bare room. The floors are linoleum, and there’s a small threadbare rug next to the bed. The bed itself is a twin with metal bars as the headboard. Across the room is a chair and small wooden dresser. No closet. Directly opposite the door is a window covered with iron bars.

  The window on the door allows anyone to look inside, so I still don’t feel like I’m really alone. I drag the chair to the door and prop it under the handle. It wouldn’t stop someone who’s really determined to get in, but at least I’d wake up and know someone was coming. Tag said there were clothes for me, so I open the dresser drawer and find some shirts, a sweatshirt, pajama bottoms, and a few pairs of jeans in different sizes. They must not have had any idea what I was going to look like.

  I pull out a tank top and pajama bottoms and cross to the wall beside the door. I kick off my sandals, figuring if I smush myself up against the wall, no one from the hallway can look in and see me changing. I hurriedly pull off my romper and cardigan, and pull on my new clothes. Everything fits surprisingly well.

  I cross to the bed and crawl under the sheets. The mattress is thin, but the sheets are soft and well-worn. I turn the bedside light off so no one can see me, though a little light spills in from the hall. The walls must be pretty thick, because I can’t hear anything from the party outside or anyone in the other rooms. Just eerie silence all around me.

  As I stare up at the white ceiling, the quiet overwhelms me. Tears slide down my face and my body trembles with swallowed sobs. Loneliness seeps through my body like never before—it’s a palpable, tactile sensation. I know I didn’t have much of a life before, but at least it was my life. I miss my house, and my bed, and especially my dog. I hope Scout’s not scared. I hope Rooster is taking care of him, and remembering to feed him. I wonder if he’s already got some sweet butt in my place, keeping the bed warm.

  If he does, I at least hope she’s a dog person.

  I cry until my body feels empty and light. Exhausted, I breathe deeply to calm myself. I hear a pair of footsteps coming down the hallway and tense up. Thankfully, they pass by my door without a pause. I relax a little and roll into the fetal position. I think of Scout’s warm body on my legs and will myself to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  I wake up with the sunlight shining through the window, the metal bars casting shadowy lines across the blanket. At first I’m disoriented, and reach down to pet Scout at the bottom of the bed. My hand only grasps at the air, and I remember where I am. I lie back down in bed, then think that I would rather be fully dressed when someone comes to get me.

  Hopping up, I fish through the clothes in the dresser. I choose a shapeless t-shirt and the largest pair of jeans. I don’t want to give the guys any ideas and have them think I’m fair game
. Better to look as plain as possible. I stand near the wall with the door and pull on the clothes. The t-shirt is gray and boxy, and the jeans are a light blue with paint splotches on them. I don’t think the old ladies donated anything close to their best outfits, which works perfectly for my purposes.

  Replacing my pajamas in the dresser, I quickly make the bed, mostly just to have something to do, and lie back down on top of it. Fuck. This waiting is the worst. After what feels like hours I finally hear footsteps coming down the hallway. I spring up to move the chair and turn just as the door opens. The biker standing in the doorway looks surprised to see me standing in the middle of the room. He looks me over with a slight grimace of dismay at my grubby clothes. What did he expect, a French maid’s outfit?

  “I’m Bean,” he says with a nod. He’s taller than probably any biker I’ve seen, maybe 6’6”, and thin but wiry. “Come with me.”

  I glance around the room, and realize that I’ll have to wear my sandals from last night or go barefoot. I quickly strap them on and follow him down to the first floor. We make our way into an office area, painted in that most favorite of biker hues, pitch black. We bypass a few cubicles and come to the corner office.

  A stocky man in his sixties with a scraggly grey beard sits behind a desk with his legs up, talking on a cell phone. He glances up and sees us approaching.

  “I’ll call you back. Keep me updated on the shipment.” He places the cell phone on the desk as Bean ushers me into the spacious office. He waits expectantly at the door until the man behind the desk gives him a nod, then he turns and walks out. “Take a seat,” says the man, gesturing to a chair sitting across from the desk. This must be Flint, the president of the MC.

  I sit down and try to make my face look impassive. I know how important being on the club president’s good side is.