Death Layer (The Depraved Club) (5 page)

One arm closes around the kid’s neck, locking him in an
embrace, while the giant’s other meaty fist closes on the blade sticking out of
his ribs. The giant rips the machete out of himself and with lethal swiftness
tilts the kid’s head back and swipes the blade across his jugular.

The crowd roars and the giant jumps up and down in victory.

“Motherfucker!” Mr. King curses, slamming his fist into his
own thigh.

Vomit burns up my throat and it takes everything in me to
swallow it down. Disbelieving, I look back into the ring and see that the kid
is, in fact, bleeding out in the center.

Dying.

Dead.

“Mr. King, please.” My voice is gone. It’s only a whisper.
“Please get me out of here.”

“You’re alright, Miss Clark,” he says firmly. “Just a bit
shaken up. We’re not finished yet. Get a hold of yourself.”

I stare at him and see he’s serious, his cold blue eyes
unyielding and merciless. With a trembling hand, I reach in my purse for a
napkin or maxi pad or anything to wipe my face. Mr. King is watching me coolly,
and when I finish, he takes a firm hold of my elbow.

“Well done, Clark. Let’s go.”

We stand up, and I have a better view of the arena. They’re
carrying the boy away like a sack of potatoes. More sand is poured and raked.
And two women are thrown into the cage, trembling and sobbing, each of them
clutching axes.

“Please, no!” Screams one. “Help me! Somebody help me!”

I can’t feel my legs. Adrenaline and terror and Mr. King’s
forceful grip are the only things making it possible for me to walk.

Mr. King leads me through an aisle to another room, this one
lined with plush couches. A few richly dressed men are lying down, tended by
scantily clad and startlingly beautiful women carrying trays with syringes,
pipes, and bongs.

“Jesus,” I whisper. It might just be an actual prayer.

Mr. King marches us to the back and raps loudly on a wooden
door. An eye appears in the peephole, and I hear the sound of a latch turning.

“Paperwork,” Mr. King hisses at me.

Behind me, from the arena, I hear a woman scream bloody
murder.

Shaken, I scramble to hand him the documents as the door
opens and he drags me inside with him. This room is an office in an English
library style, with dark leather chairs, bookshelves, and brocade wallpaper.
Did I just step into fucking Wuthering Heights? What the fuck is this fucking
place?
“Mr. King,” says a dark voice. “Not your best night, I’m afraid.”

The voice belongs to a hulking man with a weathered face,
high cheekbones, gray hair, and imposing build. He’s sitting with his feet up
on the desk, smoking a cigar. One eyebrow is missing, replaced by a burn scar.
“Your dog was a pussy and your boy is dead, which means you still owe me seven
million. I sincerely hope you’ve come to settle your account. Otherwise, your
night might just go from bad to worse.”

Mr. King is licking his lips. I’ve never seen him agitated
like this before. He extends the paperwork that I spent the afternoon typing
up. “Here, Jack. It’s the deal we discussed. One hundred thousand shares, the
property in Newark, and the shell company.”

Jack snaps his fingers. One of the leather-clad giants at
his side steps forward and takes the papers from Mr. King, walking them over to
the desk and laying them out. With a terrifying squint, Jack moves his gaze
from my boss to my documents and starts to read.

A clock ticks on the wall. My nerves are stretched thin. I
swivel my head and see it’s a grandfather clock with a skeleton figure at the
top and the same letters, D.L.

“Hmm.” Jack stirs, fixing his gray eyes back on Mr. King. He
smiles and starts to laugh, and Mr. King smiles back. Then Jack’s face goes
hard and he rips up the papers. Mr. King blanches. “No deal, King. Looks like
you still owe me. Which is how I like it.”

“What do you mean, no deal?” It’s the first time I’ve heard
Mr. King angry. “The contract is perfect.”

The giant bouncers step forward and Mr. King grinds his teeth,
cowed.

“No deal,” Jack repeats. He leans back in his chair.
“Shares? I don’t want shares. I’m still shopping around with you and Skollz
Corp. Meanwhile, you can pay some installments. You know what I trade in.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“You’re not in a position to object.”

Mr. King’s jaw is twitching and I’m literally shaking. I
don’t know what the problem is, but I want the hell out of here.

“Mr. King,” I whisper, “Perhaps a counter-offer?”

He looks at me then, his eyes flickering. “You think so, Clark?
You want to know what he trades in?”

Jack is smirking at me. He mouths a word I can’t understand.
My skin is crawling.

“What?” I turn to Mr. King.

“Flesh,” shouts Jack with a dirty laugh. “Peachy white flesh
like hers is pretty high in demand, King. Red pussy. She a natural?”

“She’s natural.”

My stomach sinks and my blood runs cold. I think of possible
escape routes and the long grungy path to this room, but fight or flight kicks
in and I twitch to run, but Mr. King’s arms close around me in a vice.

“Easy,” Mr. King whispers. “Easy, Clark.” He turns back to
Jack. “You are suggesting I leave my assistant with you as a payment? This is
not the type of arrangement we had discussed.”

“She’s kinda skittish though,” Jack observes dryly. The
bouncers laugh. Now I can’t feel my hands, I’m so scared. Jack smacks the belly
of the bouncer standing next to him, laughing at a private joke. “She’d do
nicely for Bane.”

The snickering grows louder.

“Mr. King—Vincent.” I barely recognize my own panicked
voice. “Get me out of here now, please. Please. Vincent. This isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not.” He agrees. He stares at me for a moment,
computing, and mutters something under his breath. He turns to Jack, resigned.
“What’s the going rate for a redhead these days?”

“Vincent!”

“Oh, I’d knock off say…fifty thousand?”

“What?” I shout. “This isn’t real, this can’t be real!”

Mr. King is holding me up. He looks at me with those sexy
eyes, now cold, and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry Clark,” he murmurs. “For what it’s worth, I
wasn’t planning on this. You were a promising assistant.” He kisses my cheek
and releases his grasp on me, turning to face Jack. “Consider this transfer of
assets a show of good faith.”

Consternation and shock render me senseless. “What?!”

“Goodbye Clark.”

“You can’t leave me here,” I screech. “You can’t just sell
people! Rachel will know! People know I was with you! They’ll know it was you!
They’ll find me!”

“People disappear all the time.” Mr. King rips my purse from
my hands, turns his back and is walking toward the door. “You signed over
access to your social media and email accounts with your confidentiality
clause. I can keep your life going all over the world for months before anyone
grows suspicious. By then…well…let’s just say your future has changed.”

What. The. Fuck.

“No!” I explode. “NO! You can’t fucking leave me here!
Vincent! You son of a bitch!”

My nails are clutching at something, anything, and I fasten
myself on Mr. King’s shirt. It rips in my hands and I’m like a drowning woman,
flailing, sinking. I grab at his belt, his legs.

Mr. King whirls around and punches me in the face, dropping
me in a world of blinding pain. I’ve never been struck before and am in as much
shock as pain, my entire body shaking. By now the two bouncers have closed in
over us, separating us.

“Let me go!” I scream, frantic, kicking and clawing.

“Don’t damage my property,” Jack growls.

Mr. King shoots him a withering look.

“Look Clark,” he hisses at me, and I can see dark passion,
anger, rage, and frustration in his face. “This isn’t what I wanted but this is
not a game. These people do not fuck around, and you do not fuck around with
them. Jack owns you now. And you will cooperate with Jack, or I will personally
see to it that your little sister gets a bullet in the brain. Understand,
Clark?”

Looking into those cold eyes, I believe him.

“No,” I plead. “Don’t do this.”

I thrash against the iron arms of the bouncers, but it’s
useless. They’ve probably got three hundred pounds on me all together. My
weight sags and my fury devolves into dry racking sobs that rattle my bones.

“Vincent, don’t!”

Mr. King turns and walks out of the room. As the door shuts
me in, I hear Jack laughing.

“Welcome to the Death Layer, Red.”

D.L.

Death Layer.

Chapter Six

“Now, let’s see what we’ve got to work with here.” Jack is
chuckling low and dirty, and the enormous bouncers spin me around to face him.
“Open up.”

Before my brain can decipher what he means, I find my arms
pinned in a vice-like grip by one bouncer as the other rips open my blouse.

“Stop!” I scream, thrashing. I kick with my legs, trying to
find their insteps or balls but I can’t reach.

“Feisty bitch,” laughs Jack. “We just wanna take a look,
Red. Don’t worry, we’ll save the touchy stuff for the Beast.”

“Fuck you,” I spit. “You sick bastard.”

The bouncer slaps me for that. Hard.

“Enough, I don’t have all night.” Jack snaps his fingers and
the bouncer’s grip on my arms shifts, and now a thick bicep wraps around my
throat and squeezes. Sputtering and gasping, I realize he’s cut off my air
supply. Dots appear and dance in my vision. Tears form in my eyes as they
frantically lock gazes with the giant squeezing my throat. His expression is
blank, grim.

I try to gasp the word, “Please,” but can’t make sound,
can’t even cough.

I feel my blouse come off in shreds. The fly to my jeans
opens and I feel big fingers fumbling with the waistband.

“Yup, she’s a natural alright,” someone laughs.

“Let’s see,” Jack grunts. “Easy! Don’t kill her, jackass.”

Air. Air. No air. The last thing I feel is the tug of my
pants being removed as the darkness takes me under.

My eyes crack open a notch and I look up, but the view makes
me dizzy and confused. All I can see is a concrete floor disappearing under the
rhythmic stride of large feet. I’m swinging like a doll, face-to-face with the
backside of some beat-up leather pants.

It takes me a minute to process that I’m slung over one of
the giant bouncer’s shoulders and that we’re walking down a long, dark hallway.
Jack and the other bouncer are behind us. I notice drains in the floor.
Drains…for draining what? The place looks like a bunker or dormitory,
utilitarian. There are no windows.

  I raise a limp arm to brush my swollen
cheekbone, which hurts like hell, and then slide my hand up the length of my
body, which I realize is not in any pain. Grimacing, my hand reaches my hips
and I sigh in relief. Thank god, I’m still wearing my underwear. And bra. It’s
a small comfort, but it’s enough to reduce my violent shaking to a subtler
trembling.

Don’t worry,
Jack’s voice echoes in my head
, we’ll
save the touchy stuff for the Beast.

Nope, I lied; the violent shaking is back. What the hell is
the beast? As my carrier’s footsteps slow, I have a sinking feeling that I’m
about to find out.

I realize there is a small entourage around me: Jack, the
bouncer carrying me, a couple of other guys. They’re all wearing heavy boots
and guns. We grind to a stop outside a door at the end of the hallway, knock
once, and then the bouncer dude kicks the door open because apparently that’s
easier for him than using the knob or waiting for someone to open it.

“Jesus Christ!” curses a voice from inside the room.

We spill in like a tidal wave, crowding the darkness. It
smells like sweat and sex and leather and man. Someone trips the switch and
light stings my eyes. I squint. The bouncer swings me down off his shoulder but
my legs are too wobbly to trust. Collapsing in a small puddle on the floor, I
blink until I can take in the scene.

There’s a man lying naked in bed—at least he was lying naked
in bed until the ruckus roused him. Now he’s sitting half-up with a shotgun
cradled over his forearm pointed our way. There’s an empty bottle of Jameson
rolling between his legs.

I do a double-take. He looks so much like Ryan Reynolds that
I have trouble convincing myself that it’s not actually Ryan Reynolds. Shoot,
after this evening anything seems possible. Why wouldn’t Ryan Reynolds be here?
But this guy’s face and body are harder than a movie star’s, more dangerous.
Dark tattoos blossom and twist all over his rippling forearms and torso, and
down one leg.

There are two women in bed on either side of him, also
naked, their faces groggy.

I have just enough time to zero in on the sight of his
enormous, exposed cock before I feel hot shame rush to my face and pointedly
avert my gaze. As soon as I do, I wish I hadn’t: I see Jack and company with
their own guns drawn, faces full of menacing smirks.

I’m in the middle of a fucking western or something. Only
these aren’t cowboys.

“Shit,” laughs the man in bed. A lazy and long-suffering
smile relaxes his face as he groans, setting down his gun. “Doesn’t anyone just
txt anymore?”

“Conversation time, Bane.”

“What the fuck you want, Jack? I was kind of occupied.”

“I can see that. Party’s over.” Jack nods at his entourage
and they all put away their guns. With a grin he acknowledges the women in bed.
“Trinity, Coco, beat it.”

The two women scramble to their feet, revealing tight
gorgeous bodies and rumpled sex hair. Their gazes flit over me with something
like hostility. They reach for their discarded clothes, but Bane has grabbed
his gun again and caulks it, firing a shot into the ceiling and bathing us in a
shower of plaster chips.

A scream of panic escapes my lips and the women freeze. The
other men whip out their guns again and everyone tenses. 

“Now hold up one minute!” Shouts Bane. His lazy smile is
gone, a cold mask in its place. The change in demeanor is fast and startling.
“Where’re your fucking manners, Jack? This is my room. I don’t care if you are
the fucking club prez, Czar of Persia, or my mother may she rest in peace. The
girls stay until I ask them to go. My room, my rules.”

Jack’s eyes narrow to lethal slits. “You’re gonna want to
pick your battles more carefully, brother,” he says. His voice is dangerously
soft as he turns the barrel of his handgun toward the beautiful black woman’s
chest. “Trinity, Coco, OUT! Now.”

Long seconds draw out as the women look at the guns, at me,
at Jack. He and Bane are having a staring contest—or pissing contest, hard to
say.

“Ladies,” Bane grunts eventually. “Guess we’re about
finished for tonight. Classes resume tomorrow. Better scram.”

A ruthless grin lifts the corner of Jack’s mouth, and the
drawn guns are tucked away. There is total silence as the women nab their
clothes, glaring at me. As they make for the door Jack grabs the black woman
and licks her neck, resting his gun between her legs.

“Wait for me outside, Trinity,” he orders with a leer.

Bane’s expression clouds but he says nothing.

With another dark look in my direction, the women hustle the
fuck out. The door bounces shut behind them, and there’s a long pause as the
men continue to stare each other down.

After an interminable moment, Bane laughs to himself and
shakes his head.

“I’ve always said you were a cock block, Jack,” drawls Bane.
He deliberately sets the shotgun down on the mattress beside him and rubs the
sleep out of his eyes. All this time, he hasn’t bothered to cover his dick. He
shifts in bed, stretching his hips out long and folding his arms nonchalantly
behind his head. Try as I might, I can’t keep my eyes off of him. “Now,” he
rumbles, “What the hell was so goddamn urgent?”

“It’s time, Bane.” Jack’s hands are on his hips. “I’ve been
more than patient with your conscientious objection bullshit. Yesterday’s vote
made it official: we’re all in. The D.L. club is the MC’s main pipeline now. I
want you beside me.”

“Fuck, Jack,” Bane groaned. “That all? Look, I know I’m
outvoted and I’m cooperating. I help you with the elimination matches. What more
do you want?”

“Harmony, that’s all. This transition has been bumpy for you
and me, so I brought you a little peace offering. Some new property for you,
all yours to test-drive, she’s untouched.”

At that moment, it’s as if Bane notices me for the first time.
His eyes snap onto me, sweep over my mostly naked body and bore into my
horrified eyes with the precision and speed of a professional. Though the
inspection only lasts a millisecond, I feel certain he hasn’t missed a single
scrap of a detail about me: my new black eye, the uncontrollable shaking head
to toe, and my sister’s borrowed pearl necklace that I am somehow still
wearing.

“Oh, no.” Bane jerks upright in bed, his laughter taking on
an edge. He lights himself a cigarette. “No, no, no. No you don’t. What are
you, fucking trolling college campuses now? Fuck, man! Did you just pluck her
out of Whole Foods? She’s a fucking yuppie WASP and someone’s definitely gonna
look for her. This is stupid.”

“This is our business.”

“No. D.L. is our business. I’ll fight the matches. That’s
it. This is my line, Jack. I’m not crossing it.”

Jack watches Bane nonchalantly blow a cloud of smoke into
the air. A muscle ticks in his jaw. When he speaks his voice is measured. “You
swore an oath to the club, Bane. This is the club’s business now. Get on
board.”

“Yeah, I swore an oath to the Death Layer MC.” Bane’s jaw
sets and his eyes darken like he wants to murder someone. He snuffs his
cigarette out on an ashtray with a vengeance. “That didn’t involve the sex
trade. Your presidency doesn’t extend over my dick, Keller. I fuck who I want
to fuck.”

“You’re a member of this club. Get with the program, or the
Beast is out.”

This brings Bane to his feet and he is eye to eye with Jack,
naked as the sun and every muscle clenched. “I don’t do slaves. End of story.”

“Don’t think of her as a slave, more like property.”

“I want no part of this.”

“Are you trying to make me question your loyalty?”

“I want no part of this, Jack. I’ve got strong feelings
about this. You know that.”

“Next time we sit down to talk about feelings with our teddy
bears and mommies, I’ll keep that in mind.”

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.

Maybe that’s why he grimaces at me in disgust.

“Call me old-fashioned, Jack,” he rumbles with finality,
“But I like it consensual. I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.”

A confusingly toxic cocktail of relief, apprehension,
adrenaline and rejection wash through me. I feel myself slump a little in
Bane’s hold, completely exhausted. Deflated.

Jack crosses his arms and shrugs. “You saying you don’t want
her? Should I take her back downstairs to D.L.? She’s just the type our upper
crust clientele would eat alive. Can’t let fresh pussy go to waste.”

Bane sighs and pushes my head back down. I teeter onto my
side, my face inches away from his thighs. I can’t seem to move, frozen with
fear. He sits on his haunches beside me, raking a hand through his hair.