I couldn’t help it. I launched myself at his leather-jacketed frame and hugged him. “Thank you.”
He stiffened. A hard hand wedged between us and drove me backward. He refused to make eye contact. “I’m not as fucked up as Kill is, but I still don’t like bitches hugging me.” Opening the door wider, he motioned me through. “Shower. Then you can break the news to my Prez.”
Thirty minutes later, I entered the same room where Kill had made us strip and told us of our purpose. The floor had been washed of his blood and the button leather couches were pristine.
The shower had been heaven, even though the soap had been an overpowering masculine body wash with no conditioner for my hair. Grasshopper had given me an outfit of a gold bikini with diamantés and a wraparound bronze dress. It would’ve been perfect for a day out at the beach or pool party, but I was mildly weirded out to be wearing something so… fantastical in a biker compound.
“You sure I have to wear this?” I plucked at the material for the twentieth time. My damp red hair hung down my back, no doubt springing into humidity-induced curls.
“Yep. Prez’s orders,” Grasshopper said, striding across the large space and past the blown-up magazine covers on the wall. “This way.”
I stopped short as I noticed Kill on one with crimson writing and the slogan, Biker billionaire helps expose corruption in local council.
My mouth hung open, my heart rushed hard, and my core melted at the dashing debonair appearance of Arthur Killian in a crisp sexy suit. He wore an emerald tie to bring out his eyes and they glowed like kryptonite from the glossy oversize cover.
Why is he on magazines?
I drifted to the next one.
Kill sat behind a wooden desk, his elbow resting on its surface, his pinky finger pressed against his bottom lip. The intensity in his gaze spoke of intelligence and ferocity. In the background rested his Triumph, painted a matte black, looking roguish and evil.
Goose bumps spread over my arms as I read the article description: Arthur “Kill” Killian lives up to his name by slaughtering the foreign currency market and showing Wall Street how it’s done.
“What are you looking at?” Grasshopper stomped back toward me, impatience etching his face.
I pointed at another cover, this one with a mug shot of Kill holding a plaque with his birth date and messy long hair and a look in his eyes that said one thing—he was a boy whose soul had died and only vengeance remained. He simmered in the picture. He looked as if he would reach from the page and murder those who wronged him.
From betrayal to billions—the story of the kid and the benefactor who turned a life of crime into the purest of community service.
I swallowed hard.
“That’s when they took him?” I leaned forward, drinking in the image of Kill when he was younger. His jaw was just as wide, his nose just as sharp, but there wasn’t the brutal edge about him or the veneer of tolerance he used now. The mug shot was raw and visceral with hate and the burning desire for revenge.
“Yep. Seventeen, poor dude.”
I shook my head. “You said he was sentenced to life imprisonment. How did he get out so soon?”
Grasshopper tapped his nose, then pretended to zip his lips. “That’s for us to know and for you not to. None of your business, but it was a fucking blessed day for all when he took over the Corrupts and made us Pure Corruption.”
Grabbing my elbow, he carted me away from the stunning images of the boy I loved and the man I couldn’t understand and through another door.
I slammed to a halt.
The room was nothing fancy: grey walls with a ceiling fan, polished floorboards, and windows looking over the compound behind, but the large oval table that sat twelve or so guys was definitely the centerpiece of the décor.
The same abacus, skull, and waterfall of coins had been heavily engraved into the table with the motto that I was beginning to understand: PURE IN THOUGHTS AND VENGEANCE. CORRUPT IN ALL THINGS THAT MATTER.
Grasshopper pulled out a chair for me.
I inched closer, unsure.
“Guys, this is Sarah.”
I trembled at the familiarity and homecoming of my name. I quickly glanced around the room, looking for him.
Nothing.
The men ranged from early twenties to late forties, all wearing the brown leather jacket of the Pure Corruption MC and all at ease with each other—unlike the first night I’d arrived.
“Hey,” some said, while others nodded in greeting.
I clutched the front of my bronze dress, sitting awkwardly in the chair provided. “Hi,” I murmured.
Sitting primly, I narrowed my eyes, inspecting each biker. Friendly hazel, blue, and green gazes met mine. Each man sat comfortably in their chairs, assured of their position and right to be there. The kinship in the room didn’t hide anything malevolent, and I let the tension ebb from my limbs.
Then my eyes met his.
And my world went instantly bleak.
Brown eyes, deep-set in a face that spoke of handsomeness but couldn’t quite disguise the evil in his soul. Thin lips, long hair tied in a greasy ponytail, and a tattoo of an alligator on his neck peeked from the collar of his leather cut.
He nodded, his lips curling at the corners. Something flickered in his hands, drawing my attention.
A lighter.
The tension I’d released shot straight back into my muscles tenfold. Gripping the lip of the table, I never looked away as he flicked the lighter, releasing a small lick of orange flame.
My mind twisted behind the locked door, hurling itself in panic against the amnesiac barrier. My fingers went unwillingly to the fresh burn on my forearm, rubbing at the painful searing that’d sprung from nowhere.
Him.
He was the one who burned me.
That night.
The night they stole me.
Try as I might, I couldn’t remember anything more or how I came to be kidnapped, but I knew with utmost conviction—he was the one to grace my body with yet another scar.
Was it the new burn that set off another episode of amnesia? Could my brain be so traumatized by fire that the barest of flames on my skin made me turn inward and hide?
My heart raced.
Not only was I dealing with remembering one past but it seemed I had two to unravel. A past where my home was England and Corrine and a brown-eyed boyfriend I couldn’t recall, and a lifetime before that one… a childhood of motorcycles, family, and green-eyed lovers who helped me with homework.
Will I ever know the truth?
I jumped as the sandy-blond guy, Mo, sprawled in his chair beside me. His arrival snapped the awareness between me and Lighter Boy, breaking whatever panic attack I might’ve had.
Mo grinned. “Been staying with the boss, huh?” He whistled. “Kinda a big honor to go home with the Prez, you know. What did you do to fuck it up?”
My nostrils flared, body stiffened, and I refused to reply. My eyes skittered back to the asshole playing with his lighter, but he dropped his attention to the table, blocking me from reading his thoughts.
Grasshopper sat on my left, scowling at Mo. “It was always only temporary, dude. She’s the sixth sale—remember?”
The door opened behind me and the scents of grease, cheese, and salami filled the room. The men around the table smacked their lips, eyeing up the huge pizza boxes that were deposited onto the table by a younger member with no patch.
There weren’t too many men—twelve, fifteen, and most of them seemed open and friendly. But I couldn’t shed the horrible feeling of dining with the devil with Lighter Boy across from me.
How did he take me?
How did all of this happen?
And where the hell did they kidnap me from if I’d been living in England? There was no way they could’ve smuggled me internationally. Could they? But most of all—what was the point? Why me? Why the girl who couldn’t remember but had some inexplicable link to their boss? The boss who slaugh
tered a rebellion the night I arrived.
It all felt like a chess game where everyone knew the rules but me. I was a pawn. Being slid left and right until someone smacked me from the checkered board and killed me off in a brutal checkmate.
“’Bout fucking time you got here, boy. I was wasting away I was so damn hungry,” one biker growled, his goatee bristling. He reached across and flipped up a lid, stealing a piece of delicious-looking pizza.
I was suddenly thankful for staying at Kill’ s place. At least he ordered healthy food—even if he didn’t cook. I doubted I would’ve enjoyed a calorie-controlled diet if I’d been a guest of the compound.
Mo stood up, leaned over his brothers to fill a paper plate with two pieces of pizza, then skidded it down the table to me.
I caught it, unable to stop the growling in my stomach. Margherita and Meat Lover’s. I would’ve preferred Hawaiian but the flavor dancing on the air made my mouth water.
The room went quiet as the men helped themselves to pizza and someone brought in a cooler full of beer. I refused the offer and nibbled on my food while watching the rest of them.
My eyes kept returning to Lighter Boy, wishing I understood. The rest of the men looked dangerous with scars and piercings and the occasional feral glint in their eyes, but they were also… normal. They laughed and joked, spoke of mundane things while eating—chatting about family, grumbling about wives, and household chores. I found it mildly unsettling to be around such everyday life when society had already painted them with the “outlaw rebel” brush.
“Buttercup, eat your spaghetti. The meetin’s coming up and you know you can’t be here.”
I shoved the unwanted spaghetti around my plate, sulking. I wanted to listen in—after all, I was his only child and I needed to know how the Club was run, so I could take over when he was gone. But he never stopped reminding me that girls didn’t run the Club. That girls remained on the outskirts—being protected by the men like my dad, who did naughty things to keep up our way of existence.
“But I want to listen.”
He ducked to my eye level. “Go find your friend. He can help you with your homework.”
“Don’t wanna,” I pouted. I was ten years old and it sucked that the boy I’d always looked up to suddenly wanted nothing to do with me. He said he was too cool for kids.
Bully.
My dad laughed, ruffling my unruly hair. “Ah, Buttercup, don’t hate the boy. Mark my words, the minute you turn thirteen that kid will notice you again.”
A small smile spread my lips. “Really?”
My father grinned, his light blue-green eyes crinkling at the corners. His auburn hair was slightly darker than mine and I’d inherited the small freckles on my nose from my mother, who was a pure redhead.
“Truly. No boy or man will be able to resist you. And that’s why I’ll be ready to shoot him if he tries anything.”
The flashback ended, slipping me back into lunch conversation as gently as melting into a warm bath. My heart glowed with love. To remember my father—his face, his voice—it was more than I’d ever hoped for.
Unbelievably cherished.
Relief was swift and full of content. I’d finally earned a concrete puzzle piece in my hunt for answers.
“So, Sarah… what did Kill do to keep you entertained at his place?”
I took a bite of my pizza, letting the wash of conversation lap around me.
A finger poked me in the side. I narrowed my eyes. “What?”
Grasshopper frowned, pointing at a young biker with brown hair pulled back in a wet gel look. “He asked you a question.”
“He did?”
The guy nodded. “Yep, used your name and everything.”
The pizza slipped from my fingers. I should’ve jumped to his question—so in tune with the name I’d only just remembered. Shouldn’t I?
Ignoring the chill trickling down my back, I asked, “What was the question? Sorry.”
Mo spoke around a mouthful of pizza. “He was being an asshole.”
“Oh?”
He chuckled. “He wanted to know what Kill did to keep you ‘entertained.’ ” He waggled his eyebrows.
Two reactions rushed through me. One, to blush and look away. Two, to grin and play them at their own game. Two people lived inside me. The girl who lived abroad and studied hard, and the teenager who’d been brought up with men just like these and a confidence that only came from being around safety and family.
Keeping my eyes resolutely from Lighter Boy’s I said, “If you must know, he took me shopping, brought me lunch, and respected my boundaries.” I kept my face deadpan. The answer was, for all intents and purposes, true—the reply came from the mind of Sarah.
Sarah is quiet and serious.
My eyes went wide, my brain pointing out yet another twist in my journey to remember.
Then who was the vivacious girl who loved a biker’s son? Who was I when I kissed Kill so wildly in the changing room?
Grasshopper groaned. “Boring. Tell us the juice. I already know he fucked you.”
“Stop that.” I turned to stare at him. A strange bond had formed between us—not friendship or understanding—just mutual… respect? Or just a truce because we both knew I’d be leaving in a few hours. “You might know but I don’t want others to—”
“Ah, pumpkin.” A man with a large belly laughed. “He kept you at his place. We know he fucked ya. So… dish it up.”
Annoyance wrangled with mischief. The men, excluding Lighter Boy, watched me with eager amusement and intrigue. It was so nice to be around people again. I’d forgotten the ease of being in a group, of laughing with strangers who slowly became friends.
Friends were all I could gain with my mind like a giant sieve. I had no family.
But I do.
My heart swelled like a hot air balloon. For the first time in years, I wasn’t alone. I came from someone. I belonged to someone.
And it isn’t the boy from your dreams. He didn’t want me.
My spine straightened as tiredness fell over me. Kill still hadn’t showed up. What did that mean? That he still despised me? Still completely in denial that the woman he’d mourned for years actually was never dead?
Was that even possible?
“Come on, Sarah. Tell us—is our Prez a good fuck?” The guy with the belly elbowed another, winking at me.
I reclined in my chair, wishing I had a napkin for my greasy fingers. I embraced the side of the girl still hidden to me. The girl called Buttercup. The girl who would’ve laughed and joked with men similar to these all those years ago. “Well… what do you want to know?”
The men slapped their hands on the table. Their low timbre laughs reverberating around the table. “Oh, shouldn’t have said that, girl.”
“Tell us the kinky dirt.”
“Tell us something that’ll make you blush.”
My back tensed but I smiled at the rough gruff men, not afraid of them as I’d been raised by a brethren similar in some other time and place. I was as much a part of this world as any other—more so in fact: the smell of gasoline and thunder of a motorcycle was the lullaby of my past.
Fear skittered quickly.
So why, if you came from this world, do you fear it so much?
My fingers ached to grab my hair and shake. The questions were piling up and I had no answers to tame them.
Calmly Lighter Boy stood up, wiped his mouth, swigged the rest of his beer, and made his way around the table to leave. His brothers didn’t look up, transfixed on waiting for any gossip from me. But I couldn’t look anywhere else.
Opening the door he looked back, brown eyes locking with mine. His lips spread over his teeth, sending a shiver over my scalp. His eyes shouted that he wasn’t finished with me. Whatever he’d stolen me for had yet to come to pass.
Waggling his fingers condescendingly, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
My heart charged around my chest.
You nee
d to remember. And fast.
My time had screeched to an end. I’d been sold. I would soon leave and never get a second chance. I had to fight.
Mo nudged my ankle under the table. “Tell us. It’s cruel to make a man wait.”
“Yeah, it’s called blue balls,” the prospect joked.
Masculine laughter rippled around the room.
Taking a deep breath, I asked, “You want details…”
“Hell yeah!”
Grasshopper grinned. “One tiny juicy detail. Come on, give it up.”
My mind raced with everything Kill had done—the way he’d made me feel, the vulnerability and brokenness he kept hidden below surly curtness. “Okay, one detail. When he took me shopping, he pushed me against the changing room wall and kissed me so hard his teeth punctured my bottom lip.”
My tummy fluttered recalling the passion, the confusion, and most of all the need.
The laughter died; men looked at each other with strange expressions on their faces.
Mo finally muttered, “As fucking if. Tell the story but don’t lie about it.”
Grasshopper threw me a look, stuffing his face full of pizza. I couldn’t read the message in his eyes.
A lie because he kissed me? Was that so hard to believe?
Yes, if what Grasshopper said is right. Bound, blindfolded, no touching—the only way Kill would sleep with a woman.
I lost the spark to interact with them, letting my soul sink down and down into the forgetful darkness inside. It wasn’t their business what their president did with me. Especially seeing as my answers unsettled them. And I wanted to hoard those precious memories—they were my only illumination in the dark.
“Try again, pumpkin. Something believable this time,” the guy with the belly said, swiping his mouth free of pizza crumbs.
Balling my hands under the table, I said, “What happened at Kill’s place—”
“Is none of your goddamn business.” That voice. Smooth but gravelly. Deep and powerful. An earthquake invoker—his words aftershocking around the room with force.
Awareness electrified the fine hairs on the back of my neck. Every inch of my body hummed.
The room went quiet. Achingly quiet.