Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series (69 page)

There’s a moist rag in my pocket and I can feel it starting to seep through my jeans. I can smell the chemical on it, but it’s not for me to breathe in, it’s for her. Sure, I could just strangle her until she passes out, but it’s easier this way—
cleaner
. My bare hands are just about ready to snap her fucking neck, and then it’ll be over before her damnation has even begun. I fish the damp material from my pocket and release my grip from her jaw, only long enough to replace it with the hand that’s got the chloroform-soaked rag in it. Pressing it against her beautiful fucking face, she fights me with everything she’s got.

I watch the light fade in her eyes as she passes out in my grip. It takes everything inside me not to throw her on the ground and kick the shit out of her, then fuck her while I beat on her until she’s no longer breathing. The beast inside me is baying for her warm blood … for her soft skin.

Do it,
the voice whispers
. Tie her up and fuck her to death. Fuck her and make her bleed, then slit her throat after you’ve unloaded inside her.

No.

I won’t.

I have to make this last.

She must suffer.

When I’m certain she’s unconscious, I let her go. She slides down the door and lands awkwardly on the stained carpet, her lips slightly parted as she breathes heavily.

Fuck it
. My balls are like two weights between my legs, full of hate and lust, and begging for release. I won’t fuck her, not yet. I want her eyes on me and her legs tied to bedposts when I stick my dick inside her and torture her with pleasure, but mostly pain. I want her fully aware when I press my fingers against her tight little clit while making her come and cry, all at once. I want her to know all the things I do to her, and that is the only reason I don’t wrench her knees apart and slam my rock-hard cock into her right now on the floor of my office.

Instead, I pull her shirt up to expose two perfect tits, her pink nipples smooth and flat. I straddle her waist, unzipping my jeans and palming my cock with one hand, squeezing it to the point of pain. This’ll be the last time I jerk off in a long time because I’ve got myself this little whore now, and she’s just become my come receptacle for the rest of her short life. She thought she could outplay me, the fucking President of the Gypsy Brothers? The Kingpin of Venice Beach? No. I snuffed out her daddy for his betrayal, and I’ll do exactly the same thing to her, only much, much slower.

I start to jerk off over her big, round tits, the movement causing them to bounce ever so softly, up and down, my balls aching at the sight. I stop only to lean down and take one nipple in my mouth, sucking until it pebbles to a hard peak. I can’t help but grin. This girl is as fucked up as me. Even in her unconscious state, I feel her writhe beneath me, her breath coming faster.

Dirty whore.

I don’t have long, though I’d like to take my time here. But for now, I’ll settle for blowing on her before I bundle her up and move her to the compound in San Diego. I pause to unzip her jeans and pull them off so she’s in front of me with her long, tanned legs.

Just a little
, I think. I won’t fuck her. I just want a taste of what’s to come later, when she’s chained like a fucking dog on the floor. I already know where I’m taking her. I’m putting her underground, where there’s no light and no hope.

My cock twitches impatiently. Spreading her thighs apart, I hook a finger into her lace panties and pull them to the side, dipping one finger into her moist cunt.
My
cunt. She’s deep in the chloroform-induced sleep I’ve bestowed upon her, but her pussy still tightens when I take my thumb and apply the slightest pressure on her clit. A wry smile spreads across my face as I remove her panties and ball them up, shoving them into her mouth. She might be dead to rights, but that shit turns me on; the way she’ll choke if she wakes up and tries to draw in a breath to scream.

I’ve already vowed to myself that I won’t fuck her, but I need to be inside her. I’m about to blow just thinking about the fear in her eyes as I take my pound of flesh, over and over, for the lives of my sons. For her arrogant assumption that she could enact her revenge on me for taking her daddy. John deserved what I did to him. He took my woman, twisted her mind until she only wanted him, and he had the audacity to try and steal my fucking son from me too. Not once, but
twice
.

I force her legs to open wider, and she’s wet enough, just from where I’ve been touching her to slide my dick inside her pussy. I stop halfway, biting on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, the pain bringing me back to the point of control so I don’t slam my cock into her, violently. I want this magnificent torture to last, for me and for her.

My cock throbs and my balls tighten painfully. I’m only halfway inside her, and I’ve only been there for seconds, but her pussy contracts ever-so-slightly and I have to pull out, spilling thick ropes of come all over the tits she probably paid for with the money her fucking father and that traitorous bitch, Mariana, stole from me.

Once I’ve finished, I stand and admire my handiwork with a smirk. Her legs are spread wide, shaved pussy in full view. My come pools between her tits and in the hollow of her collarbone, seeping into the hem of her shirt that I’ve pushed up around her neck. Any last trace of guilt ebbs away as I think of what she’s done to me, to my sons, and to this club. She might be the girl I watched come into this world, but that girl died. This ghost, this fucking whore, who walked into my office and presented her ass to me with her palms flat on my desk and amusement in her eyes? She should have stayed the fuck away, because nobody escapes my wrath twice.

The things I’m going to do to her.

I’m going to make her death last the rest of my life.

I’m going to hurt her. I’m going to defile her. I’m going to burn her soul away until all that’s left is blood, shattered bones and screams.

I’m going to keep her alive until she begs me to let her die, but even then, I won’t let her leave me. I’ll never let her die. I’m going to twist her diabolical fucking soul until she’s completely at my mercy; knees on the ground and her mouth on my cock, sucking and begging for forgiveness all at the same time.

I’m going to kill every single person she ever cared about, rip her fucking insides out, and only then will I let her bleed to death beneath me as I fuck the last bit of light out of her dying eyes.

*Elliot’s point-of-view takes place three years before Seven Sons, when he leaves Juliette and returns to Los Angeles in an attempt to bring down the Gypsy Brothers himself
*

“Julz!” I said forcefully. She raised her pale green eyes to mine, and something inside my chest tightened painfully. I could always tell if it was going to be a good day or a bad day by her eyes. The lighter they wer
e—
the more washed-ou
t—
, the worse it was going to be.

It didn’t make sense, but it was as if on those days, every ounce of joy and happiness had been sucked right out of her, leaving only the pain and the rage.

And there was so much pain inside this broken girl.
My girl
. It hurt me sometimes just to look at her; just to sit beside her and breathe the same air. It hurt to exist within the same life as her, to know the burdens she carried inside herself, tightly wrapped, black and desolate.

And today? Today her eyes were so pale, you’d struggle to even call them green. Whenever I saw her like this, I imagined them. The Gypsy Brothers. How I’d love to go there and burn their clubhouse to the ground, and then piss on the fucking ashes. For the things they had done to my girl. They were things so horrific, … I wouldn’t even know how to begin describing them.

I remembered the night I’d had found her, almost by chance.

Three years ago, I was still a cop with the LAPD, just before everything in my world fucking imploded. I’d been called into the station at the last minute. I remembered how dog-tired I was after pulling a double shift that’d only ended five hours prior. But the flu was going around, and our precinct was falling like dominoes, one after the other. Mendoza was apparently the latest to fall prey, and we’d been working together all night. I swore to pay him back the next time we were on shift together.

I’d been mainlining cheap station coffee when the call came in over the radio from St. Andrew’s hospital downtown. Normally my squad operated from our own station, Pacific Division 14, but our building was being renovated, so we were all crammed into the older LAPD building on South Spring Street.

I’d literally just turned up at the station to cover Mendoza’s shift when my Captain started barking at me. My eyes felt like they were full of sand and the coffee tasted like shit. I wanted to tell the woman to back off—yes, my Captain was a five-foot-nothing African-American woma
n,
with enough attitude to render me speechless every time she spoke. I stood still, trying to look respectful as I choked down a mouthful of the caffeinated sludge I’d just unwittingly poured into my mouth
.

“Walk,” Iverson barked, taking my coffee cup and tossing it in the trash. “I’ll fill you in while you change.” Not one to argue, I started for the locker room with a strange sense of dread starting in the pit of my stomach. Something told me that what I was about to hear wasn’t good. “Marina Del Rey,” Iverson said, still following me to the men’s locker room. “Go with Kennedy. He’s waiting for you in the basement.”

I raised my eyebrows as I took a fresh shirt from my locker and shrugged it on, buttoning it as Iverson relayed more information. She didn’t seem to care that she was standing in the midst of shift change in an LAPD locker room, surrounded by dudes in various stages of undress, but regardless, I listened intently as Iverson listed more details, noting the fact that I was yet to utter a single word in this conversation.

“It’s a priority case,” she was saying, and I nodded as I got to fixing my belt. The last thing I did was take my Glock from the locker in front of me and snap it into the holster at my hip.

I made my way towards the basement, ready to start whatever it was Captain Iverson was skirting around. She continued to follow me, which was odd. Really, really odd. When we were halfway down, she stopped suddenly. I was a few strides ahead of her and backed up. “Everything alright, Captain?” I asked, my mouth still burning from the shitty coffee I’d forced down. I’d never seen the woman look so jumpy.

“McRae,” she said, then trailed off suddenly. Something wasn’t adding up.

“Is this a personal case, Ma’am?” I asked slowly.

I saw her tense. “Not really, no. But there’s a girl… she’s with the Gypsy Brothers.” My stomach dropped when I heard that. Shit. I’d been at the scene of a murder just last month that had been the work of one of their members, and nobody would talk. The suspect, Jimmy Alvarez, had been let go on lack of evidence. Everyone knew he had shot the stripper in the back of the head, but damned if we could pin it on him. Motherfuckers were good at finding their way around the law. “She’s the president’s daughter,” Iverson added. “She’s fifteen, and she’s probably going to die. She’s at Marina Del Rey.”

I nodded, suddenly more awake. The thought of those ruthless bikers, and what they could possibly have to do with a fifteen-year-old girl being in the hospital, had my stomach in knots. I’d seen my fair share of shit on the job, but when women got hurt, it burned me to the fucking core. I had a deep respect for females. Maybe because my grandmother had raised me almost single-handedly, and the only male role models I had were douchebags, but I sincerely believed that women were smarter, stronger, and more capable than the majority of dudes. I think Iverson recognized this in me, and she seemed to trust me with sticky situations like this.
“
Rival gang?” I asked, digging for something more concrete to go on. What am I walking into here?

Iverson’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Inside job,” she murmured. “Don’t ask me how I know … but I know. Do whatever you have to. Do not let that girl out of your sight, you hear me?”

“Yes, Captain.” Inside job? Great … just fucking great.

Sure enough, Kennedy was waiting downstairs for me. We’d been partners before I was transferred out of central booking and put onto traffic section, before finally moving into tactical response, which is where he’d always wanted to be. Kennedy was a chubby fucker and had failed the tactical physical test. He was only twenty-nine, but he was already in danger of being pushed into a desk job if he didn’t lay off the donuts.

When we arrived at the hospital, Kennedy was tasked with interviewing the bikers while I covered the girl. “Don’t let her out of your sight,” Iverson had said, and I wasn’t going to. I strode right to her hospital room, despite the doctor telling me she was too weak to interview. I walked straight past the VP of the Gypsy Brothers, Dornan Ross, to get to her, just as he was coming out of her room. Dornan made a point of shoulder checking me as he walked past. The guy was built, about the same height as me, and wearing a leather vest with a patch sewn on that screamed, “GYPSY BROTHERS.”

“You should watch where you’re going,” I said, my demeanor deathly calm, despite the horror that lurked beneath the surface. I wasn’t afraid of this guy, but I was afraid of laying eyes on this girl and seeing what had happened to her.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, looking me up and down, making sure I noticed the way his gaze lingered on my name badge.

I smirked, looking him up and down in response. “You got blood on your boots,” I said, pointing to the spatter on the biker’s steel-capped black boots. “You should get that cleaned up.”

“You’re observant,” he replied.

I smiled a smile that contained no joy within it; only scathing. “That her blood?” I asked casually, tilting my head towards the girl in the bed who had lost so much blood, that it had to be replaced not once, but twice.

The biker looked down at his boot-clad foot, as if he were trying to decide whether he should kick me in the balls or not, but instead he grinned, baring his teeth like a fucking dog about to attack. “Well, I brought her in, so it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Officer Kennedy will be out to talk to you,” I said, dropping the smile. “Until then, I suggest you don’t come back in here.”

Dornan narrowed his eyes, but his “fuck you” smile remained. “I can’t get a thing out of her,” he said, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion. “She’s too traumatized to speak. Perhaps you should come back tomorrow, boy.”

I fought not to erupt. I knew I couldn’t afford to show emotion; to express the rage inside my chest at people like this motherfucker who thought they were above the law. I stared at Dornan Ross and had no doubt that he had something to do with the girl’s brutal attack. “She might not last that long,” I replied. “Don’t you want to catch the people who did this?”

Dornan puffed his chest out and stepped closer, getting up in my fucking space. I wanted to step back, but I stood my ground. “She’s like a daughter to me,” he said, stepping even closer, crowding me. “I think you should remember that, son.”

“I’m not your son. I’m Officer McRae, Mr. Ross.”

The biker smiled. “So you do know who I am.”

I didn’t even bother replying. I walked into the girl’s hospital room and slammed the door behind me with force, letting the biker know that he was no longer welcome anywhere near this girl who was “like a daughter” to him.

The girl: the reason I was here in the first place.

I wanted to choke when I turned and saw what she’d been reduced to. I could tell she was a pretty girl, even under the layers of bruising and dried blood. Her blonde hair was knotted and unkempt; Dark bruises encircled her wrists, telling their own story. I slowly approached, afraid that even moving the air around her too fast would make her shatter and break.

Someone had carelessly tossed a bunch of flowers on the bed beside her. The girl might not be dead, but she looked like it. Only the steady beep of the heart monitor and the slight movement of her chest told me that she was still in this world. She was a mess, . Every visible part of her was bruised, or cut open, or burned. This poor girl looked broken beyond repair.

I didn’t know why Iverson had even bothered sending me down. The girl was clearly not going to make it. At least, that was my attitude until she opened her eyes and sat bolt upright in bed, making me jump.

“Jesus Christ!” I yell-whispered.

“My name’s not Jesus,” she replied, in a husky voice that rose barely above a whisper. She coughed and coughed. I stood there, mute, before I snapped to my senses and rushed for the glass of water beside her bed. I handed it to her and she took it gratefully, sipping it between coughing fits.

“I’m Elliot,” I said, pointing at myself. Fuck the formal “Officer McRae” bullshit. She was scared and was damn near close to death. I’d spoken to the doctor briefly on the way in. She had severe internal bleeding that they couldn’t stop, and swelling on the brain. She might have been able to talk, but it probably wouldn’t be long before she passed out again.

“I’m Juliette,” she said.

“Who did this to you?” I asked quietly. The girl, Juliette, didn’t reply for a long time. She stared off into space at something I couldn’t see. I didn’t think she was going to answer me at all until she spoke.

“I’d rather stay alive,” she’d whispered, shaking her head.

That had been three years ago, and now, that fifteen-year-old girl was eighteen, and she was in my bed. She was my girl, and I was the only thing she had in the world. Every other person who had ever loved or known her, thought she was dead. We were in love, or some fucked up version of love that I didn’t fully understand.

Oh, and she had a gun in her hands.

“
Julz
,” I repeated, more urgently this time. “Whatcha doin’?” My words were casual, but my tone was not. I stood at the end of my bed, our bed, and stared down at my girlfriend as she clutched my Saturday Night Special in her hands.

“Nothing,” she said quietly. “Just thinking.”

“Can I have that?” I gestured to the gun.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said petulantly, handing me the gun.

My heart still hammered in my chest as I took it and tucked it into the back of my jeans. “Oh, really,” I replied, attempting to sound more upbeat, but failing. “I don’t have to worry?”

“I wouldn’t blow my brains out. It would ruin my looks. I mean, how would you have an open casket if I shot myself in the face?”

Don’t talk like that, don’t talk like that, DON’T FUCKING TALK LIKE THAT
.

She joked like it was absurd for me to be afraid of her killing herself, and yet she’d tried to do just that …not
once
, not
twice
, but
three fucking times
. Her wrist still bore the scar from the last attempt, when I’d found her in the bathtub, full of red-tinged water. My garage still reeked of exhaust fumes after she’d left my truck running and tried to gas herself. And just last week, she’d tried to hang herself over a rafter in my storage shed. It was exhausting, trying to keep someone in this world when they didn’t want to be in it. Hell, the entire world believed she was already dead, and she was trying to make it truth.