Death Layer (The Depraved Club) (11 page)

A moment passes and I dream about what it might be like to
run away with this man, to leave it all behind and start over in a new
place—and then I remember my life, my friends, my sister Rachel…

Suspicion grips me. “Why would you help me, after all the
stuff you told me about the club and how they’ll kill us both?” I ask. “What’s
in it for you?”

“I’m just a fucking hero, I guess.”

He’s gripping me close and I can see his pulse moving in his
neck, smell his scent, and almost taste the dangerous softness of his lips. A
muscle ticks in his jaw and his fingers dig deeper into the meat of my arm like
claws. He looks like a beast, wild and frightening. He looks like he could eat
me alive.

And I might just enjoy it.

A buzzing siren goes off, but it takes me a minute to
realize it’s Bane’s ringtone and snap out of our staring contest.

“Fuck,” he grunts, “It’s the vet.”

Thank god. One more minute staring into those fathomless
cold eyes and I don’t know what would have happened. Bane moves away to answer
the call and give directions, and I slump onto the bed next to Jenny, my head
in my hands. I’ve got to find a way out. Tonight.

Before I succumb to the beast.

Chapter Twelve

The “vet” is nothing like Dr. Doolittle.

“Hey Meat Grinder,” Bane says, clapping the vet on the
shoulder and ushering him in the room. “Thanks for coming.”

Meat Grinder is a mountain of muscles just like the D.L.
Club bouncers downstairs, and he’s wearing the Death Layer Motorcycle Club
patch stretched taut over his back on a ratty denim vest. Instead of New York
City, the bottom rocker says New Jersey. He’s covered in tattoos with giant
earplugs and a purple lip plug. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a lip plug
before, definitely not a purple lip plug on a biker who also moonlights as a
veterinarian. I can’t help but stare, and his enormous black eyes sweep over
me.

“What are you looking at?” He grunts.

“N-nothing,” I stutter.

Ignoring me, the two men move to the bed to examine Jenny,
whose whimpering is growing faint. Meat Grinder’s fingers work carefully over
the almost-severed paw and gashes. Bane is whispering baby talk and scratching
behind Jenny’s ears. He acts like he loves that dog as much as I love my
sister.

After a tense and thorough perusal, Meat Grinder’s face is
grim.

“It’s bad, Beast,” he says.

Bane’s forehead is perspiring and I’ve never seen the look
on his face before—pleading, vulnerable. “Can you save her, Meat? Work your
magic?”

Meat doesn’t answer the question, but lifts a black
briefcase on the bed and clicks it open. Inside are lots of sharp,
pokey-looking metal things, bottles of drugs, and a saw. He pulls out a syringe
and fills it with something clear.

“Get me some hot water,” Meat grumbles.

Bane frowns. “Like, tap hot or boiling hot?”

“Boiling, man. Boiling.” Meat shoots Bane an eye roll and
stabs the needle into Jenny’s haunches. She doesn’t even flinch. “She’ll be out
in sixty seconds and then I’m gonna take off this paw.”

My stomach turns. Poor dog…

Even Bane looks a little green. “Fuck,” he groans. “Well ok,
you’re the pro, whatever you say. Just don’t let her die on me. Anything else
you need?” Meat shakes his head. “I’ll be right back,” Bane promises.

Bane bolts out the door without a second glance.

In his haste to help Jenny, Bane leaves the door swinging
open, and I quickly stick out my foot out like a wedge to stop it from clicking
closed again. Listening, I hear Bane’s boots clunking down the hall until they
fade into the stairwell.

Oh my god, here I am alone with an open door. This might be
my last chance to bail on Death Layer Motorcycle Club.

Biting my lip, I watch Meat Grinder working over the dog.
His big hands are surprisingly steady and light as they wash up Jenny’s wounds.
He’s absorbed in his task and has completely forgotten my presence in the room.
Hell, why should he notice me or care? For all he knows I’m just some moony,
lovesick sweetbutt following Bane around like Coco or Trinity or Tink.

Just go, Ava.

I only hesitate for a second. Resolved, I duck quietly out
of Bane’s bedroom door, close it softly behind me, and walk casually down the
hall towards the stairwell.

Keeping my pace normal, I check over my shoulder. Meat
Grinder hasn’t noticed that I left, and no one else is around. It’s still biker
playtime, and all the Death Layer members and groupies are probably busy being
nefarious, watching the fights at the D.L. Club underground or drag racing
their Harleys on FDR drive or whatever the fuck it is bikers do at night. I
don’t know what they do. All I know is I’ve got to go.

I head down to the familiar window on the fifth floor. I
push with all my strength against the lip of the window, but it doesn’t budge.
I even slam my palms against the glass, but it’s solid. There’s nothing close
by to use to break it, and the edges are nailed down.

“Shit,” I hiss.

Stifling my rising urge to scream, I lean my forehead
against the window ledge to think of my options. If Bane went to the bar for
hot water, I probably only have ten minutes before he returns and realizes I’ve
flown the coop. I should keep moving downstairs, further away from him. There
has to be another window in the stairwell, or at the very least a ground floor
exit—a door from the street. Bikers and sweetbutts are free to come and go in
the building. If I play it cool and no one recognizes me, I can slip right out
too.

I sprint down the stairs, letting my momentum build as
flight after flight passes by windowless. Just as I jump onto the ground floor
landing, the door swings open from the front room and clips me on the chin. I’m
running so fast that I can’t even stop myself to avoid the collision.

“Fuck,” I screech, surprised. Velocity and pain fling me to
the side until I slam into the cement blocks of the stairwell wall.

“Whoa, who’s that?” asks a gravelly voice.

Groaning, I jerk my head up to see who it is, knowing that
this can’t be good for my chances.

It’s not.

A familiar face is leering down at me coldly. “Well if it
isn’t Bane’s personal playboy bunny.” His eyes trail briefly over me, then up
the stairs. “How’d you get off your leash? Don’t you know it’s unhealthy for
property to get this close to the front door?”

My throat has gone dry. “Smokey,” I croak.

Can’t say I’m happy to see him; his huge body is blocking
the exit, penning me in to the stairwell. I can only go back up, or down. And I
don’t like the idea of being alone with him in an empty stairwell.

“L-listen,” I stutter, “I was just looking for Bane–”

“You don’t need to tell me where you were going, I can see
it in your eyes. Getting frisky, looking for some big dick to stick in your
ass. Bane isn’t enough for you, I know. You were looking for this.”

He unhooks the top button on the fly of his jeans and I take
a reflexive step back up a stair.

“No, Smokey, I-I-I–”

“I-I-I,” he cuts me off, mocking my brittle tone. “You talk
too much, bunnyrabbit. We have some unfinished business, you and me.” Smokey’s
fists close over my wrists and he pulls me back to his level and spins me
around, slamming my belly and face into the hard cement wall. “Bane’s too soft
on you, but I’m gonna work you over till you can’t walk.”

“No, Smokey stop! Let go of me! Get off!”

He’s got me pinned against the wall with his body and I can
feel his hot breath tickling my ear. He smells of whiskey and cigarettes.

“You’re just a bag of bones for a man to fuck.” Smokey’s
voice is cruel. “That’s your job here, and I’m gonna fuck you this time good
and hard.”

“No! Let go! Let go of me! Help! Somebody help me!”

When I thrash against him he pressures his torso into me,
squeezing me, and I feel my ribs closing in. I can’t breathe.

“Please, stop!” I gasp. “Help me! Help!”

“Help me!” He throws his head back and shouts, laughing
derisively. “Help me!”

The sound of our voices echoes through the stairwell and
dies.

Smokey’s cold eyes return to me. “See? There’s nobody
around, bunny. Who’s gonna help a little slut like you?”

“That’s not what I am!”

He spins me around so that my back is against the wall and
my breasts and belly are smothered by Smokey’s abdomen. With one hand he fights
down my clawing nails and with the other he slaps me across the face, hard.
Gasping, I put a trembling hand to my mouth. When I pull it away, I see blood.

“You are if I say you are, you feisty bitch,” Smokey laughs.
“I say you’re a slut. You’re my slut now. Let’s see if that red hair of yours
really is natural. Does the carpet match the drapes?”

Smokey’s fingers are groping around my groin and lifting the
skirt of the stupid lingerie Bane dressed me in today.

“Stop!”

I frantically try to push the cloth back down, but Smokey
slams his body into mine and crushes me between him and the wall. The impact
knocks the air out of me and makes my skull buzz. Just for the hell of it, he
rips my body away from the wall and slams it back a second time until my bones
are reverberating like a pinball.

“Smokey, no. Stop, please!” I’m coughing up the words, my
entire body shaking. “Help! Help me!”

“The more you fight it the more I like it.”

“No! Help me!” I scream.

He slaps me across the face again and pushes his hand over
my mouth, gagging me. I try to pry his fingers off but can’t. I bite down as
hard as I can into his skin but his grip doesn’t let up, even when I taste
blood. He’s too strong. Tears of rage and fear are streaming down my face as he
fumbles with the rest of the buttons on his fly.

This is it.

Suddenly we’re sliding sideways to the floor. There’s
nothing for me to grab for a hold and my arms aren’t free to break my fall onto
the stairs. I land with a cry of pain as my head smacks the rim of a stair and
I slide down the steps, bumping to a halt in a painful spread-eagle at the next
landing. My legs are above me on the stairs and my body is twisted below like a
broken pretzel.

I’m so dazed from the fall that it takes me a second to
realize that Smokey’s bodyweight hasn’t followed me down the stairs. He isn’t
on top of me. He isn’t next to me.

I let my body crumple in a painful ball for a minute.
Rolling to my side, I use my arms to push up to sitting. Wooziness washes over
me, and I have to grip the railing of the stairs to stay steady. Gradually I
become aware of thumping and scuffling and cursing above me. Once the dizzy
spell passes, I look up to the first floor.

Two men are fighting, and I recognize Smokey and Bane.
Smokey kicks Bane in the groin, sending him careening into the open door. While
Bane tries to regain his balance, Smokey reaches into a holster and draws out a
Glock.

“Bane!”

My voice is small but shrill and Bane locks his attention on
the gun. He lunges forward just in time, punching at Smokey’s jaw and wrestling
his gun hand off course just as he fires a shot. I scream and Bane roars.

“Son of a bitch,” Bane shouts. “You’re dead!”

Smokey’s unbuttoned pants have slipped down his thighs, and
he stumbles. It’s just enough advantage, and Bane shoves Smokey to the ground.
Straddling over Smokey’s chest, Bane punches at his gun hand until he finally
loses his hold on the weapon.

But Bane doesn’t stop there. His fists are flying, and both
men are grunting with focus or pain. The ferocity of Bane’s blows makes me
flinch.

“Bane!”

He can’t hear me over the thick low sounds of impact. The
expression on his face is terrifying, a mask of cold and resolved judgment.
Bane’s hitting so hard that blood is spattering on the walls around him.

“Bane! You’ll kill him.”

He is killing him, I realize. He means to.

“Bane!”

My god, I have to stop him, don’t I? Sure I think the world
would be way better off without a slimy rapist bastard like Smokey…but murder?

“Bane, don’t kill him!”

I can’t let Bane commit a heinous crime for me. I can’t let
him; I can’t owe him that. It’s too much.

Using the railing as a guideline, I pull myself up and start
to crawl and climb up the stairs one step at a time. All the time I hear the
beating ahead of me. My jaw, neck and sacrum are throbbing and I’m pretty sure
I at least sprained my ankle. Every movement hurts.

“Bane! Stop!
Please
.”

But he doesn’t stop. It takes me too long to crawl upstairs.
I reach the first floor landing and am only an arm’s length away from the men.
I have to look away from the sight of Smokey’s bloodied face, battered beyond
recognition. Somewhere along the line, Smokey has stopped moving. It doesn’t
look like he’s breathing. It doesn’t look like he’s alive.

“Fuck.”

The world slips out from under me as my stomach spasms and I
force myself to look away from the gruesome sight. It’s the second violently
dead body I’ve seen in two days…I’ve only been here two days, but I feel like
I’ve aged ten years.

Trying to regain my composure and my breath, I lean my
forehead against the railing of the stairs. I stare at the dark swirl of the
staircase disappearing below like the interior of a shell, curling in on itself
in a Fibonacci spiral. How many stories deep is the Death Layer Motorcycle Club’s
house of horror? The D.L. Club is down there somewhere, and the cold clinical
holding area and the slaves. How deep does it go?

Deep as hell.

I’m in deep, deep shit. My stomach is still heaving even
though it’s totally empty, and I’m full on hyperventilating now, clutching the
railing for dear life.

Bane seems to finally remember that I’m here. He stops
punching Smokey’s body and sits back on his haunches, panting. He wipes his
bloody hands on Smokey’s shirt and kneels, reaching over to me.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, and he pulls me into his
lap, wrapping my trembling body in his. My head is tucked onto his chest and
he’s resting his chin on the top of my head, his arms gathering my legs and
shoulders against him in a ball. He’s warm and solid.

“Shhh,” he whispers, rocking me. “You’re ok. It’s ok.” I
feel his lips press into my hair. “You’re ok. You’re a crazy, suicidal,
stubborn pain the ass. But you’re ok.”

I take a shuddering breath and wipe my eyes, looking up at
him. “It’s not ok,” I gulp. “Nothing is ok.”

Our gazes lock and the dark fog lifts from his eyes. He
sighs. “You should have listened to me, Red. Now look at this mess.”

My belly goes cold. “Are you saying this is my fault?! You
just killed Smokey, not me!”

“God damn it, of course it’s your fault!”

“What the fuck are you saying—that I asked for it? That I
asked for this?”

Bane’s face contorts. “I leave you alone for two seconds
and—actually, you know what, I take it back. It is my fault for thinking you
had enough of a brain to not go kamikaze again and make my life even more of a
clusterfuck. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but this isn’t the Ritz Carlton here.
You can’t just waltz past the front desk! There are fucking consequences!”