Art rolled his eyes, stalking toward me with moonlight as his ally. “It’s ours as much as theirs. I want to explore. I’m sick of the forest. I’m sure there’s plenty of juicy things to read in those locked filing cabinets.” Reaching out, he touched my hand.
Instantly, the same electricity that only strengthened year after year crackled between us.
He froze.
I froze.
The moon froze.
We were too young to have these feelings. Too young to have found our soul mates.
But that was exactly what’d happened.
Rubix let me go, shoving me away from him and into the cavernous room.
I skidded with inertia as the late afternoon sun became gloomy interior.
“See, Cleo?” Rubix stomped his boot. “Tiled floor. You don’t need shoes. And the air is warm, so you don’t need clothes.” His eyes stole liberties, slithering over my body. “In fact, I rather like what you’re wearing. You sure don’t look like a fucking child anymore.”
Ignoring him, I drank in the meeting hall where Art and I had explored, stolen kisses, and ultimately planned our leadership when we came of age. So many memories inscribed the walls. So many laughs faded with time.
Pain crippled me thinking of him hurt or dead. I couldn’t stomach the thought of finding him only to lose him all over again.
Please be alive.
My agony morphed into blackened hate, reinforcing my desire to slaughter Rubix and ultimately cure the world of his evil insanity.
I expected darkness and quiet, the hazy world I remembered of swirling cigarette smoke and the anticipation of new conquests. Instead, I was interrogated by blinding overhead lights and thirsted after by a hall of vile men.
Every pair of eyes trained on me.
And every atom inside me sprang to a feverish fear.
“Well, fuck me. There she is.”
“Our own little queen back from the fucking dead.”
“Fuck, her hair looks like the fire she burned in.”
“Show us your scars, pretty princess.”
The voices all crashed around me, eddying in my ears, decomposing with their intentions.
Keeping my face haughty and void, I glanced at the men sitting around the huge wooden table. Empty booze bottles and odor-spewing bongs rested by filthy hands of at least thirty brothers. Unlike Pure Corruption, Dagger Rose’s Club room was messy and untended. Empty beer cans littered the floor and condom wrappers stuck to the stained couches shoved in the corner to make space for the huge table. The walls were covered in graffiti and cracked out Club bunnies lay haphazardly in chairs and on the floor.
There was something to be said for cleanliness washing the wickedness out of one’s soul. Dagger Rose needed a compound-wide disinfection.
A man with a bald head and a tattoo in the shape of a striking cobra licked his lips, wolf-whistling in my direction.
Cobra.
I remember him.
He’d whacked Arthur across the back of the head whenever he caught us doing homework. He said we wasted our time on education when Arthur was destined to always be a bitch.
Another man with long, greasy black hair slurped a wad of tobacco and probed me with his gaze.
I remember him, too.
Sycamore.
Named after his love for making shanks and weapons from the sycamore tree.
He smiled, teeth stained sepia from his nasty habit. “Hello, little Cleo. Fancy seeing you alive, after all these years.”
Snickers and chuckles echoed around the space.
“Fancy seeing you alive and still chewing cud like a cow.”
Sycamore’s fingers dug into the table. He spat the brown mess into an overflowing ashtray. “Your father should’ve used the strap to shut that fucking mouth of yours.”
I cocked my chin. “My father should’ve done a great many things.”
Like murder you all in your sleep before you murdered him.
Rubix sidled closer, his fists balled by his side. “You’re right, Cleo. Thorn failed on so many accounts. Pity my hell-bound son put him out of his misery like a fucking dog.”
My heart free-fell as Arthur consumed my soul.
Arthur never wanted violence. He’d been content with love and numbers, only to be smothered by a life he didn’t choose.
Arthur … I’m stalling. I’m doing everything I can to drag this out. But I need you to get here now. Where are you?
The fear I’d been keeping in check crested again.
My time was swiftly running out.
Sighing, as if I’d grown bored of my tiresome subjects, I placed my hand on my hip, hoping no one noticed my tremble. My eyes fell on another biker at the end of the table.
Him.
The one who’d burned me in the Dancing Dolphin motel.
Alligator.
My skin crawled and the acrid scent of my own skin burning haunted my nostrils.
Traitor!
His beady eyes pinned me to the spot. He no longer wore a tan Pure Corruption cut but downgraded to a black Dagger Rose.
I struggled to stay in place. I wanted to launch myself across the room and see how he liked being held down and set alight.
Hiding the flush of rage and fear, I demanded, “What is this all about? You write me a fake letter. You burn me when I follow your breadcrumbs, then steal me from Arthur all over again. If you wanted to kill me—why not just kill me when I didn’t remember? Why not shoot me when I was alone in England?”
Rubix came up behind me, poking my lower back with a gun to march me forward. I recoiled but had no choice. I moved closer and stopped at the head of the table.
“Because this isn’t cut and dry, Buttercup. This isn’t about murdering you to hurt him.”
The wooden table barricaded my way as Rubix jammed me hard against the edge. His hand lashed up, encasing my nape.
“I don’t understand.” I winced as his fingers turned to pincers.
“No, you wouldn’t. How can I put this?” Nudging my ear with his nose, he breathed, “This isn’t about you. No matter what we do to you, remember that you aren’t the target—he is. If I wanted you dead, you’d be two fucking feet under and the beetles would’ve already enjoyed your taste. After all, you are a fucking delicacy.” His tongue slimed over my cheek. “But that isn’t my plan. My plan is to show him that all this time he thought he was better than me. Better than his own flesh and fucking blood. Well, he isn’t and it’s time he learned that the hard way.”
Shoving my head against the table with a vicious push, he glowered at the cracked out whores who’d traded their souls to pleasure devils on earth. “Get out, bitches. All of you.”
Cobra, who sat in the vice president’s seat, glared at the scantily dressed girls. “You heard the fucking prez. Move!”
Slowly, the rustling of cheap fabric and abused bodies shuffled from comatose into movement. The bikers smirked and occasionally swatted a woman on her behind as the girls traveled the gauntlet to the main exit.
My heart charged thickly, my body growing frigid from pressing hard against the table. Everything inside me wanted to follow them and leave this godforsaken place.
Take me with you!
The men stayed silent until the last girl disappeared in a flash of nakedness and cheap polyester. The anticipation hummed with an electrical charge—all eyes pinned on me.
With a curt nod, Rubix ordered a man I didn’t recognize to shut and lock the door.
The nucleus of fear grew larger until it opened its jaws like a consuming black hole. It sucked and swirled, urging me to jump into its terror and give in.
With every attention zeroed in on me, my skin goose bumped and prickled. Their interest cramped my stomach. Their lack of empathy and blatant disregard for right and wrong ratcheted my heartbeat until my palms sweated and legs begged to bolt.
Arthur … hurry.
Pausing just long enough to make a dramatic beginning, Rubix shouted, “We hav
e her boys. Sarah fucking Jones.”
Some of the men frowned. “That ain’t a bitch called Sarah … that’s—”
“Hey, wait … what?”
“Thought this bitch was—”
Rubix rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, you’re a bunch of twats.” Pulling my face off the table, he choked me with his savage hold around my throat. His body singed mine, pressing hard like a living coffin behind me.
Even as terror suffocated me, I still scoffed at how stupid these men were. Before them stood a woman their president had waged a vendetta against for years. Yet they didn’t know my state-given name.
They should all die just for being half-wits.
“I know her name isn’t Sarah Jones, you dumb fuckers. That was the name witness protection gave her. Ain’t that right, Cleo Price?”
My mind filled with memories of the tender FBI agent who swooped me away and gave me a new life. What would become of me now that I’d walked from protection and into bloodshed?
I know what will happen. Arthur will come for me and we’ll end this nightmare together.
A collective grumble of excitement worked around the table. An elderly biker with white hair growing from his ears said, “Well, shit.”
Rubix nodded. “It’s time to fucking celebrate. The plan’s in action, boys, and there ain’t jack shit that my son can do about it.”
Questions danced on my tongue. What plan? Why had Rubix penned that letter to get me back after all these years?
“Goddamn, I can’t wait.” Cobra drank from his beer bottle.
Sycamore leaned forward, his nasty eyes never looking past my breasts. “Payback’s a bitch, little Price. And it’s been a long time coming.”
My palm itched to slap every self-righteous asshole before me. “You’re right. And you’ll get what’s coming to you for what you’ve done.”
The men frowned, hurling insults and profanities in a chaos of voices.
Rubix grinned, basking in the temper of his men. “This little bitch was stolen right from beneath that cocksucking son of mine. He thinks he’s better than me. He thinks he can start up a Club and not fucking beg for my approval. Well … I have news for him.”
The men nodded, their hatred for Arthur thickening the air until the large space became stiflingly claustrophobic.
Rubix grabbed my breasts, squeezing painfully.
I bit my lip, fighting against the urge to struggle. If I fought now, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I had to come across as scared, docile. Arthur was too late.
I have to get myself out of this mess.
“Time for the fun part,” Rubix muttered, pinching my nipples. “Time to send a warning.” Grabbing my hair, he tugged hard. “Time to steal something that’s fucking precious to him.”
Oh, God.
Suddenly, he shoved me forward. I crashed against the table. My arms sprawled sideways only to be captured by the two men closest. Cobra and Sycamore pinned me down, their breath reeking of beer and tobacco, their eyes glowing unnaturally bright from substance abuse.
“Good plan, boss.” Cobra laughed.
Sycamore asked, “So … she’s ours?”
Rubix pressed against me, grabbing my hips. “She’s all ours.”
Chapter Four
Kill
She was trying to kill me.
That was the only reason I could come up with. One moment she was the sweet, funny, terribly bad at mathematics little girl I loved more than anyone; the next, she was a little vixen, looking at me with something foreign in her green eyes, watching my lips, gasping whenever I touched her. The real Cleo—the girl—I could handle. I could love in the way I was permitted. But this new Cleo—this woman—I couldn’t. She terrified me because she made me want. I wanted her so fucking much. But I wasn’t allowed. —Arthur, age sixteen
The wind in my face and salt on my tongue never failed to grant me freedom.
Riding alone or with others; day, night, summer, winter—it didn’t make a difference as long as I had a stretch of road before me and no commitments. It was the only way I could find some resemblance of peace.
But not today.
Not this fucking ride.
My hand curled around the accelerator, feeding more and more gas to the snarling engine. I was already way over the speed limit but I didn’t give a rat’s ass.
If I could strap wings to my bike and fly to Dagger Rose, I would.
Come on. Faster.
I’d been raised on a motorbike, and tonight was the first time that I didn’t find that freedom—that peace. The loss of Cleo ate at my soul. The pain of failing her all over again threatened to crumble me into destruction.
I rode fast.
I rode hard.
But I felt as if I treaded water. Fought against demons. Got fucking nowhere.
The hum of tires and growl of engines only worsened my emotional torture. Peace? What was that? I’d never find peace again if I failed her a second time.
Fuck!
The speedometer needle climbed higher, teasing the boundaries of red danger.
Hurry up, for Christ’s sake!
The journey from Pure Corruption to Dagger Rose was an endless fucking marathon.
Every stop sign was a mortal enemy, every traffic light my ultimate nemesis.
An hour we’d been driving and we hadn’t even passed the halfway point.
My teeth clenched harder as I hunched farther over the bike.
We were late.
We were late and I was fucking pissed.
I was livid at my weakness.
I was furious at my condition.
And I was incandescent with rage at Mo and Grasshopper for not finding some way to fix this clusterfuck.
The nurse at the hospital had filed charges against me and called the police. She’d done everything in her power to detain me, all because I couldn’t leash my temper. She’d refused to give me the forms to sign out. She’d held my fucking clothes hostage. She’d deliberately antagonized me to the point where I would’ve probably killed her if Grasshopper hadn’t taken me into a janitor’s closet, stolen some fat man’s clothes, and thrown them at me.
I growled under my breath, anxiety and anger circulating hot in my blood. I needed to fly. I needed this journey to fucking end.
I need her.
I shivered as hurtling wind sliced through the horrific Hawaiian print shirt encasing my broad torso. The sleeves were too short, the chest too tight, and I couldn’t look at the god-awful track pants clinging to my legs.
I missed my leathers.
Shit, I missed my own damn bike.
Grasshopper’s custom Triumph was all wrong. The acceleration sluggish compared to my beast. The Pure Corruption logo of skulls and all-important abacas was drawn freehand with glowing flames on the frame.
The flames seared my heart.
Cleo.
My mind whooshed with burning houses, smoking remains, and charred dreams of ever growing old with the girl I loved.
She’d witnessed her parents’ double homicide.
She’d almost burned to death.
All because I wasn’t strong enough to save her.
And I’m not strong enough to save her now.
The agony of the never-ceasing headache hollered in agreement.
I’m a liability. I don’t deserve her.
Every mile we charged, my injuries and shortcomings became more apparent.
My head hurt like a motherfucker.
My vision was frighteningly narrowed.
My mind slothfully slow.
The joy of thinking in algorithms, the speed of dealing with figures and equations was … damaged.
I was fuzzy.
I was lost.
I hated to admit it, but the doctor was right.
There’s something wrong with me.
Everything raged inside. I couldn’t find that calm—that control. I was on the cusp of wreaking my revenge—on the precipice of having everything I’
d been working toward coming true.
I couldn’t afford to be broken now.
I can’t bear to be ruined when she needs me.
The roar of another Triumph coasted beside me.
I looked to the side.
Mo matched my speed, still managing to look badass even with Grasshopper riding bitch on the back.
I felt empty, vulnerable at not having my usual weapons. But I’d refused to waste more time by returning home. Instead, I’d commandeered Grasshopper’s knife and his unregistered pistol and straddled his machine without asking.
What was his was mine. He’d get over it.
He worked for me. Not the other way around.
I’d been dead for too long believing Cleo was lost. I wouldn’t live in such hell again.
Yes, I had a shit-stirring headache. Yes, something was seriously fucking wrong with me.
But none of that mattered.
Cleo.
I have to get to Cleo.
Then, I could worry about myself.
Then, I could die happy knowing I’d finally avenged and saved her.
Fifty-four hours they’ve had her.
My mathematically tuned brain clunked and wheezed, no longer the streamlined super machine but a rusty fucking cog.
Fifty-four hours they’ll have to pay back in blood.
Hunkering over the bike, I fed another twist of petrol to the roaring engine. I didn’t need to look at the speedometer to know this speed would kill me three times over if I buckled beneath the pain in my head.
My patience snapped.
My hatred overflowed.
Nothing else fucking mattered.
Only her.
I’m coming, Cleo.
Don’t you dare leave me … not again.
Chapter Five
Cleo
He was still being a dick.
Last week, he’d wanted to hang out with me. Now he wanted nothing to do with me. I’d tried everything. I’d baked him his favorite white-chocolate-chip cookies. I’d worn my hair in pigtails like he loved. I’d even stuffed my bra so he could see that a woman existed inside this stubborn flat-chested thirteen-year-old body. But no matter how he treated me, he couldn’t hide the truth. He did care for me. I knew he would always come for me. Always protect me. I knew because he was mine. He was my guardian angel. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen