Death Layer (The Depraved Club) (9 page)

“I’ll never be your property.”

He laughs. “See, now, I admire your balls, but you’re
misguided. Listen to me, I’m only going to say this once.” Bane sets down his
tray of chow-mein and levels those calculating eyes on me, suddenly serious.
“You keep this up, we’ll both be dead within the week. Yeah, both of us. Dead.
D-E-A-D dead. I need you to chill the fuck out, and you need me to protect you.
See? We need each other right now. I don’t like it, but that’s how it is. I
scratch your back, you scratch my…well…whatever you don’t mind scratching.”

That boyish grin almost makes me smile in spite of my
disgust. But I crush the impulse and say with boiling calm, “Please let me go,
Bane.”

Bane’s grin fades and he slowly shakes his head. “No can do.
Look, I don’t know what they have on you, but I am assuming that they covered
their asses somehow before tossing you in here, am I correct? Some kind of
threat, what’ll happen if you run away?”

I blanch, suddenly remembering Mr. King’s threat to kill
Rachel.

“That’s a yes,” Bane interprets. I’m beginning to wonder if
he can read minds. “Trust me, Red, they mean it. They’ll do it.”

Trust. That’s one thing I certainly can’t do.

Bane takes another bite of chow-mein, chewing it
thoughtfully before continuing with his mouth full. “They’ll do it no matter
what, sure as the sun shines. Death, rape, blackmail. They stand to loose too
much if just one girl slips away. It’s a whole business for them, one I never
wanted to be a part of, but hey, we don’t always get what we want right? Even
if you did get away, they’d find a way to do whatever they promised and more. I
promise you.”

He swallows, holding my gaze with his intensity. His voice
drops about an octave. “And if you succeeded in escaping, it would reflect on
me. Make them suspect I helped you. Then I’m a traitor. Then I’m dead. They’d
love to have an excuse for me to be dead, Red. You’re their latest little
attempt to trip me up, a baited hook. They want me to let you go. They want for
us to fuck up and give them a reason to come after us. Hard as it may be to
believe, I’m not Mr. Popular around here right now. Shocking, I know.”

Bane chuckles at his own self-assessment, and then allows
the merriment to drain from his face. Something haggard and hunted lies under
the jokes. I can see that he means it, and in spite of myself I feel a pang of
sympathy for him.

“So you see,” he concludes, “I don’t want you here. But I
sure as hell can’t let you go.”

Frustrated with myself for believing him, I let my head fall
in my hands.  “It’s not fair.”

He’s the one who decided to join a biker gang. If being in a
gang isn’t all puppies and rainbows, it’s his own damn fault for making a bad
choice. Why should I pay the price? Me, I didn’t have a choice. But I can see
that it doesn’t matter: we’re both here anyway.

“Come here,” he says, patting the covers next to him.

My body seizes up. No way am I getting on that bed.

He sighs. “I’m fucking tired, Red. I wanna sleep and you’re
a flight risk. So you’ll just have to sleep with me.”

My blood drains and then rushes back into my face and I
shake my head vehemently.

He narrows his eyes and lunges over to me. “Jesus Christ, I
already told you, I’m not gonna rape you. I get plenty of pussy the traditional
way.”

His fists close around my shoulders and slide me up the wall
until I am standing. His nostrils are flared in anger and his breathing is a
little heavy with the effort from lifting me. One of his brawny arms darts
around my waist and presses my body to his like a rag doll, my curves conforming
to him naturally through the thin fabric of his borrowed clothes. He easily
carries me to the bed and tosses me down, grabbing my shackled ankle as I
bounce on the mattress.

He fishes in his pocket for a key and unlocks the cuffs. Of
course he carries a handcuff key in his pocket. Because. Why wouldn’t he?

I gasp in relief as my ankle falls free, but the relief is
short-lived. Bane stretches his body over me and grabs one of my wrists,
forcing it into the shackle. Reaching over my head, his bare muscles ripple in
my face as he strings the chain around the headboard and then snaps my other
wrist captive.
“Fuck,” I groan.

I am literally chained to Bane’s bed.

“Kinky,” Bane observes with a smile.

He is still stretched out on top of me, the pressure of his
massive body alarming. His lips are almost touching mine, his eyes as cool and
intense as ever. I arch my back subtly to try to increase the distance between
our faces, but regret it: the movement launches my breasts into his chest and
his hips rock instinctually into mine in response, a shock of heat radiating up
my sex.

A startled moan escapes my lips at the feeling of his
hardness between my legs and my breath catches in my throat like a butterfly in
a net.

Bane closes his eyes and his face settles into a frown that
almost looks pained. When his eyes open, that original question is back. I
can’t look away, once again a deer in the headlights, and suddenly his hot lips
are searing mine.

For a moment I forget the chains, the club, and the world,
and I melt into him. Bane is all man, cut angles and muscles and heat, but when
his tongue presses under mine and sends a shockwave of radioactive heat through
my brain I suddenly remember who and where I am.

I remember the chains.

“No!” I jerk my chin away, panting, and squeeze my eyes
shut. “No, stop. Please.”

Bane goes rigidly still, and I feel his withdrawal both
physically and energetically. After a suspenseful moment, he rolls off me with
a grunt and snaps off the light.

“Have it your way. Fucking cock tease.”

In the dark I hear him punch the pillow a few times before
settling in.

Chapter Eleven

I awake to the sound of a turning key to find Bane kneeling
over my chest, fiddling with my cuffs. His thighs and, yes, the bulge of his
crotch, are right in my face. Can’t say it’s the worst way to wake up, but it
draws a sharp gasp from me.

“Ow,” I groan. It’s my new favorite word because literally
everything hurts.

Bane looks down and displays that lopsided, cold grin.

“Good evening, princess,” he grunts. “Having second
thoughts?”

He chuckles and does a playful hip thrust in my direction
that almost makes me laugh. There’s no end to this clown’s confidence. Or
arrogance.

“How can I ever forgive myself,” I mutter.

Bane arches his eyebrows. “I don’t care for your sarcastic
tone, Red. It stings just like a boner with no release. Anyway, time to get up.
It’s party time again and you’re going back to the clubhouse. We’re gonna play
it cool like nothing happened last night. Nobody else finds out about your
little date with the drainpipe or my little stakeout in the alley. Got it?”

“Fine,” I sigh, rubbing my chewed-up wrists.

Bane’s eyes narrow as he sweeps an inspecting gaze over my
body. He bends over to his nightstand, opens a drawer, and drops a tube of
Neosporin on my belly. “Rub this in, don’t need you going septic.”

“So you’re a gangster
and
a hypochondriac,” I yawn.
“A man of many talents.”

Bane shoots me a look. “You’ve got three minutes. I grabbed
some clean clothes for you from Tink. You feel about the same size.”

Bane winks and holds up a flimsy black dress. His grin is
maddening, but with no real choice I snatch the lingerie out of his hands.

“Thank you, Bane,” he squeaks in falsetto, imitating me.
“’You’re such a
nice,
sexy, thoughtful biker.’” He lowers his voice
exaggeratedly. “You’re welcome, Red. You’re not such a horrible frigid bitch
yourself.” He checks his watch and smacks me on the ass, making me yelp. “Now
move. I’ve gotta be downstairs in an hour.”

He stalks over to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Somehow
the only response I can manage to say is, “Gangsters have schedules?”

Bane reappears, giving me a death stare. His eyes remind me
of my father when I was in trouble as a kid, and I shudder to imagine what Bane
would do if he didn’t get his way. Without further protest, I stretch out of
bed and move to change clothes. He’s watching every move as I start to roll his
t-shirt over my head. I feel myself flush all over with heat, blushing.

“Turn around,” I beg.

Bane raises his eyebrows but doesn’t move, a playful gleam
in his eye. Leaning against the doorjamb, he makes it clear he’s not going
anywhere. The toothbrush barely obscures his shit-eating grin.

“Fine,” I hiss.

Turning my back to him, I try to put on the dress without
removing the t-shirt. It’s awkward and I get my arms stuck a few times, but I
manage. Pulling the skirt down to cover my ass, I finally shimmy out of Bane’s
shorts, feeling slightly victorious that I got through it without showing him
much. When I turn back around, Bane’s eyes are inscrutable. He rinses quickly
in the bathroom and marches back to me.

“Vamanos,” he says.

His calloused hand is on my shoulder as he steers me ahead
of him through the hallway, and we’ve not gone seven steps when Coco springs
out of her doorway. Clearly she was waiting for us.

“Bane,” she groans, “Baby I don’t know what happened! That
sneaky bitch—”

“Hey!” Bane’s bark makes Coco squeeze herself into the wall,
like a dog afraid of a belt. “If she’s a bitch I guess that makes you her
asshole, cuz she sure licked you.” One of Bane’s massive hands is still closed
around my collarbone, but his free hand drives an accusatory pointer finger
into Coco’s chest. “You got sloppy drunk last night Coco, so I just figured I’d
just take her with me for safekeeping. Can’t trust you. Anyway it gets awful
lonely in that big old bed of mine, you know?”

His cold grin sends a shiver down my spine. My mouth drops
open. I don’t know if I’m more surprised that Bane is lying and sticking up for
me, or that Coco is buying it and looking at me with something like fear. I
don’t have time to contemplate it, though, because the palm of Bane’s hand
gives me a shove and we are marching downstairs, back towards the dank and
smelly bar area.

Coco’s cries of “Bane, I’m sorry! Fuck!” fade behind us.

The Death Layer clubhouse is fitfully stirring to life. It
must be nighttime but there aren’t many bikers around yet: just a few
sweetbutts and the band setting up. Fresh sawdust is strewn over the mopped
floor, but the room still smells like liquor with a trace of vomit. With a
sinking heart, I see that Amy is chained behind the bar again. Her face is
black and blue, and there are welt marks on her bare chest and belly. Guess we
both missed the window last night. Fuck.

Numb, I turn and take a mechanical step in Amy’s direction
to join her in tending bar, but Bane jerks me back and holds me close to his
chest.

“Nope,” he grunts.

That scent of his aftershave washes over me again—musk,
pine, leather—and I feel the hard washboard of his abdomen steering me like a
rudder from behind. I quicken my steps to separate my back from his front, but
he stays close and lets me feel each powerful stride as he brushes against me.
The man is a tank.

Between the sight of a battered, defeated Amy and the raw sensation
of Bane’s hard body herding me, it begins to click in my brain that there may
be no escaping this place. That, or I just need to work harder.

Bane is shoving me up on the bandstand. “Yo Carver,” he
shouts.

A young, lanky man with dreadlocks straightens from the amp
he was fiddling with and cranes his neck our way. He blinks at us with watery,
dazed eyes. I notice the back of his leather vest has the Death Layer colors
but instead of the top rocker saying the club name, “prospect” is spelled out in
big capital letters.

“Hey Beast,” Carver stammers, “What’s up, sir?”

In answer, Bane grabs the bewildered kid by the sides of his
vest and throws him off the stage. He crashes into a table and rolls to the
floor, yelping.

“You’re fired,” Bane announces. “You sing like a dying cat.”
Bane shoves me forward, glaring around the stunned circle of band members in
challenge. “Got a new singer for you today, boys. Play nice for a change.” His
threatening eyes rest finally on me. “Any questions?”

We all shake our heads quickly, and with a smirk in my
direction Bane stomps off the stage to plop himself in a chair at a nearby
table. Carver scurries away and out the door of the clubhouse, dreadlocks limp.
I feel briefly sorry for him, but then remember I’m onstage in lingerie and
feel myself blush bright pink.

The band and I stare at each other like kids on the first
day of school. Finally the dude wearing the electric guitar steps forward and
gives me a terse nod. He looks young like Carver, but his head is shaved bald
and his vest doesn’t say prospect. He must be a full member.

“I’m 8-Ball,” he says. “This is Chunk on the drums and Judge
Jefferson on the bass. Can you even sing?”

His skeptical face makes me jut my chin. Can I sing? Who the
fuck does he think I am?

“You know Aerosmith’s ‘Cryin’’?” I demand. When 8-Ball and
Chunk nod, I step up to the microphone. “Then try and keep up, boys.”

It only takes a few bars for 8-Ball to smile and nod at me,
and we all sort of exhale and jam. I’m in my element,
almost
having fun—it
feels a lot like the bar gigs I’d always do downtown except for the tiny,
miniscule detail that I’m a prisoner. The bar begins to fill up and I loose
myself in the music for a bit, shutting out reality.

Somehow 8-Ball, Chunk, Judge Jefferson and I manage to
scramble and bluff our way through two entire sets without getting any bottles
or syringes thrown at us. That probably has something to do with the fact that
Bane is making a point of whooping it up from his watchful perch in the front
row. I get the feeling not even the bikers of the Death Layer Motorcycle Club
would dare boo if Bane is cheering.

“Take five, jerks,” 8-Ball grunts after the ending
power-chord to the Scorpion’s ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ fades. “They just let
the dogs in downstairs, so one more set before fight-time. We’ll do some Allman
Brothers and Steppenwolf and call it a night.” He gives me a little grin. “Not
bad, sweetbutt. Just don’t quit your day job.”

8-Ball winks suggestively toward Bane, and the boys snicker.
My cheeks flush red again as the band disperses to their liquor bottles.

I cross my arms, unsure where to go. There are muscled,
drunken bikers everywhere and I don’t exactly feel social. Across the room I
can see Coco and Amy working behind the bar. Coco is glaring my way and if
looks could kill I’d be dead meat.

Wincing, I look away, and notice that Bane is in deep
conversation with a grizzled gray-bearded biker. On the wall of club member
portraits, I match the beard to the picture of the Sergeant at Arms, a hefty
man with a stiff face and bushy eyebrows. He and Bane are both gesturing wildly
until Bane smacks the table with a balled fist. The bearded guy stands up in
disgust and lumbers off with a withering backward glance in Bane’s direction.

Maybe Bane’s claim that he’s out of favor with the club is
actually true.

Break is over. Judge Jefferson is plugging himself back in
and Chunk, whose pudgy figure explains his nickname, is huffing his way up the
bandstand steps. Without thinking I lend him a hand, drawing a surprised,
“Thank you.”

“Ramblin’ Man,” orders 8-Ball.

We’re not halfway through the song when wilted, dreadlocked
Carver scurries back in the room, making a beeline for Bane. He crouches,
shouting into Bane’s ear, and I see the bigger man’s face go white.

Bane grabs Carver’s vest and pushes him back onstage,
motioning at me.

“Let’s go, Red,” Bane shouts.

Mid-lyric and confused, I hesitate. “What?”

This wins a curse from Bane and he wraps his arms around my
legs, tripping me.

“Hey!” I shout. “What? What did I do? Bane!”

While the band continues to play, Bane swings me over his
shoulder and carries me out of the room like a caveman to a chorus of shouts
and catcalls from the bikers. As the stairwell door closes behind us, I hear
Carver’s caterwauling take over the speakers.

“Why? I thought I was doing I good job,” I protest, fear
clenching in my belly like a solid mass. Is he going to punish me for
something?

“Not everything’s about you, princess,” Bane mutters.

He hauls me down a couple of flights and into an elevator
that plummets to the depths of the earth, along with my stomach. Safe in the
confines of the elevator, Bane drops me to my feet. My body begins to tremble
uncontrollably beside him.

I can guess where we’re going.

“Bane,” I whisper, “What’s happening?”

He turns troubled eyes to me. “Just a little hiccup at the
D.L. Club I gotta straighten out.”

“Well that clears everything up.”

This elevator isn’t the one I remember from my last
adventure at the D.L. Club. The doors ding open on an unfamiliar floor lit with
florescent bulbs and painted antiseptic beige. Bass beats throb in the floor
below my feet and I can hear muffled voices, screams, and laughter. I’m
guessing we’re right above the club in some sort of staging area.

“Come on,” Bane orders.

His hand closes around my wrist and he drags me behind him
like a laundry bag. We pass a few rooms that look almost like doctors offices.
Ahead, the sound of painful whimpering is drifting through an open door. My
stomach clenches.

Oh god. Now what?

Sure enough, that is the room Bane drags me to. He bursts
inside, startling a small group of bikers in latex gloves leaning over a
stainless steel table.

“Step away from that dog!” Bane bellows.

Everyone, including me, blinks at him in surprise. A man
that I recognize as Smokey rolls his eyes and impatiently snaps off his gloves,
tossing them in a bin. Jack is leaning against the wall smoking, a smug grin on
his face. Something feels off.

“For fuck’s sake, what is this, a PETA intervention?” Smokey
shouts. His eyes flicker over me. “Get her out of here, Bane.”

Bane repeats, “Step away from that dog.”

“She’s done, Bane. Too much damage.”

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you fucking
people!” Bane roars. “What kind of shit are you trying to pull? You stole my
dog and put her in the fucking ring? I should kill all you fucking bastards
right now. Slowly. With a fucking rusty knife. You got not right to hijack my
shit! Not my bike, not my dog, not my girl. You’re crossing the line, assholes.
I’m a dues-paying member of this goddamn MC, not some prick D.L. customer with
an overdue tab who you can extort and fuck with.”

Smokey capitulates under Bane’s vehemence and shifts
sideways, revealing a bloodied pit-bull in full snarl sprawled on the table.
Sympathetic pain stabs through my gut: there’s a deep laceration in its chest
and bite marks all around its face and neck. I think I can see ribs through a
gash on its side. One paw is crushed and almost seems detached.

“Oh god,” I breathe.

Bane shoves Smokey out of the way and drags me behind him to
the table. His hand is surprisingly gentle as he reaches out to carefully
scratch the dog’s head.

“Hey Jenny,” he coos. “Hey baby girl, it’s alright now,
Daddy’s here. It’s gonna be alright baby girl, yes it is.”

The mean, frightened snarl turns instantly to a pleading
whimper and the pit bull’s tongue weakly shoots out to lick Bane’s fingers.

“Call the vet,” Bane demands.

Jack shakes his head. “Nothing to be done, Beast. Look at
her, that foot’s gone.”