Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series (7 page)

FOURTEEN

I follow Jase down the stairs and through the kitchen. I don’t look into the servery – the last thing I want to see is my mother when I’m leaving, and I don’t know if I’m coming back.

I am scared.

I forgot how crazy Dornan Ross was.

And I can’t get the image of that poor kid’s blood and brain matter out of my mind.

When Jase turns left at the hallway, I hesitate.

“Come on,” he says. “My bike’s this way.”

“Oh,” I say. “I thought we’d just go in a car or something.”

He smirks and looks me up and down. “We’re in a biker club,
Samantha
, not a goddamn minivan club.”

“I don’t have a helmet. Or a jacket.” I look down at my bare feet. “Or shoes.”

Jase just laughs as he continues down the hallway. “You think you’re the first girl who ever came in without a helmet, jacket, or shoes?”

Well, I don’t have anything to say to that. I just shrug in response.

Jase slides the thick steel door at the end of the hallway open, and ushers me inside. I immediately smell oil, leather, and sweat all mingled together. I look around, taking in the impressive line-up of Harley Davidsons that sit two and three deep in the massive garage.

“That’s a lot of bikes,” I breathe, squinting under the harsh fluorescent lights that illuminate the warehouse-sized space.

Jase goes over to the far wall and rummages through a clear tub full of helmets. Fishing one out, he gestures for me to come over. I thread my way carefully through the maze of metal, mindful that if I knock one bike, I’ll start a domino effect of epic proportions.

He puts the helmet on the counter next to him and hands me a pair of women’s white canvas sneakers. They are at least a size too big for me, but I bend down to lace them tightly so they will stay on my feet.

Next, he grabs a beaten, chocolate-colored leather jacket from a hook above the counter and passes it to me. I shrug into it and find the zip, pulling it up to my chin.

“Here,” he says, fitting the open-face helmet on my head. “How’s this?”

I am about to reply, but the door is dragged open again and loud voices fill the once-peaceful space.

It is two of the Ross brothers – Chad, who held his hand over my mouth as I screamed for Dornan to spare an innocent life, and Mickey, the fourth brother.

They are chatting in an animated fashion, every second word
Fuck
, when they lay eyes on me.

“Hey, darlin’,” Chad says, striding through the silent motorcycles to where we stand. “Where you off to?”

Jase looks at him without a single ounce of brotherly affection. “I’m taking her for a ride, Chad,” he bites out. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Chad slides between his brother and I, forcing Jase to step back. His chest is pressed into mine but I stand my ground, looking up at him through a haze of violent memories, my jaw set stubbornly.

“Sorry about your little boyfriend,” he says with a broad smile, not sorry at all. He runs a finger down my arm, from shoulder to wrist, and smirks when I jerk my hand away.

“Sorry about your little hand,” I reply, not taking my eyes off him for a second.

His smile twitches, and for a moment I get the oddest sensation that he is going to take a swing at me. Instead, he leans real close, so that I can feel his breath on my face. It smells sickly sweet, like pineapple flavoring or those ultra-caffeinated energy drinks.

“I know what you’re up to,” he says menacingly. “You think you can just come in here because you’re screwing my pop? It ain’t that simple, sugar. There are rules around here.”

I raise my eyebrows and laugh, unnerving him. “Your father’s head over heels for me. I doubt very much anything you have to say will sway his mind.”

The smirk reappears on his face, and he slams me against the wall with brute force, planting his hands on either side of me so that I am effectively trapped.

“Hey!” Jase bellows, trying to pull his hulkish brother away from me.

Mickey suddenly appears and pulls Jase roughly by the back of his shirt. “He’s not going to hurt her, brother,” he says. He seems irritated, and bored. Everyone here is always either cruel or bored.

“Yeah,” Chad drawls, grinding himself against me. The move isn’t sexual so much as dominating. “I’m not gonna hurt her, baby brother.” With that, he yanks my black t-shirt up with one hand and rips the clear plastic dressing off my stomach with the other.

Fuck.

The lighting is so bright in here, and the coloring isn’t finished. Can he see my scars?

He scrapes his calloused hand along the length of my freshly scabbed tattoo, making me wince. He studies the design, poking and prodding, before letting my t-shirt fall again, apparently satisfied.

“Nice tatt,” he says, baring his teeth in a vicious smile.

“Thanks,” I spit back. “If you wanted to see it, all you had to do was ask.”

“I don’t ask, sugar. I tell. And you know what else I’ve got to tell you?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you’re about to give it to me.”

He leans close and whispers in my ear. “When you get angry, you lose that little southern drawl you’re putting on, sweetheart.”

I don’t visibly react, because I already know he is suspicious of me, but inside I turn cold and fill with dread.

“That Michael boy hadn’t seen your slut face in his lifetime,” he spits. “I’m onto you, darlin’. And once I figure out what you’re playing at, it’s game over for you.”

I don’t answer. Any argument I put forward is going to sound like defensiveness. I think of ten different comebacks, and every one of them makes me look culpable.

“You’re crazy,” I say instead.

He grins and steps back, still observing me closely. “Crazy smart,” he replies. His eyes look funny, and I’m guessing that he is just as high as Dornan was when he was insatiable this morning.

“That’s enough,” Jase says, pushing his brother aside. This time, Chad lets him, laughing.

“You like her, baby brother?” he teases. “You wanna fuck her? Because Pop doesn’t share his women with his sons.”

Jase ignores him, handing me my helmet and guiding me by my hand to his motorbike, which sits in a sea of identical bikes.

“Check her for weapons!” Chad calls to his brother, laughing like an asshole. “Cavity search the bitch in case she has a knife hiding up there in her lying pussy.”

I turn my head to glare at him and he grins. I remember that grin. It is the grin of a thousand nightmares. The grin of someone without a soul. The grin of a firstborn son who has been given a virgin to rape as penance for her father’s sins.

As the oldest brother, Chad had been given the green light to go first. His younger brothers pinned me down, one on each hand and another holding my feet.

Chad’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when he approached me, his jeans unzipped and his erection full and tight in his hand.

“You sure you don’t want to do this, Pop?” he asked Dornan, his eyes full of lust and malevolence.

Dornan laughed and shook his head, slapping his oldest son on the back. My eyes grew wide as he lowered himself onto me and forced his leg between my thighs, creating a juncture.

I did the only thing I could think to do. I started to beg. “Please don’t do this,” I begged him. “Chad, please. I’ve never … I’ve never done it before.” Shame at being exposed in front of eight men turned my skin red and I began to cry again.

Chad grinned that grin, and I started to struggle against the hands that held me down. I bucked and screamed like a wild animal caught in a snare as Chad draped himself over me, a wicked glint in his eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut, unwilling to see what I knew he was about to do.

And then. Pain. Burning, searing pain that never stopped. It felt like I would break in half. I screamed so loud, my throat felt like it would collapse. A hand covered my mouth, muffling my sounds, and I bit down on that soft flesh, choking as I tasted coppery blood spring forth.

“Bitch!” Chad yelled, punching me in the jaw so hard I felt bone crack. I gargled an unintelligible noise as something soft, some kind of fabric, was stuffed into my mouth to still my screams.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Chad groaned, as I burned and cried. “Tight little bitch was telling the truth.”

I tear my gaze away from Chad, a scowl on my face, and watch impatiently as Jase kicks his bike over. It roars to life, the sweet sound of a roaring Harley and the exhaust fumes conjuring a lifetime of happier memories of my father. I focus on those, trying desperately not to slip back into that other memory, determined not to let Chad best me before I’ve even put up a fight. Jase nods his head to the side and I swing my leg over the seat of the bike, shuffling forward and wrapping my arms around his hard midsection.

The minute my feet are securely braced on the passenger pegs, Jase takes off, and I hold on tighter as he accelerates. He maneuvers the beast of a bike deftly through the stack of other gleaming machines, until we are at the roller door. He fishes a remote out of his pocket and presses a button on it, sending the roller door skywards. Sunlight drowns the artificial light and I squint without my sunglasses.

My entire body relaxes as we leave the confines of the clubhouse and drive through the open gate, the bike hugging the road as Jase rides with precision and skill. I can feel a smile growing wider on my face as my long hair whips behind me, my legs snugly wrapped around the first boy I ever loved. Even if he doesn’t know who I am, even if he can never know… in this moment, just to be alone with him, on the open road, is enough for me.

After we get a few miles, Jase slows the bike and pulls over to the shoulder. Smiling, he turns his head and speaks. “Where to?” he asks.
Elliot.

“I need to get this tattoo colored in,” I say, loud enough so that he can hear me over the roar of the engine. “Lost City Tattoos?”

He nods and turns back to the road, checks his mirrors, and we take off again, destined for Elliot and his needles and his questions.

I think I need a drink.

FIFTEEN

I saunter casually up the sidewalk, Jase by my side. I am a squirming bundle of nerves inside at the prospect of Elliot chewing me out, but outwardly I attempt cool, calm, and collected.

“Here we are,” I say at the door to Elliot’s studio, handing Jase my helmet. “Meet me back here in a few hours?”

Jase looks uncomfortable and scans the sidewalk on both sides of us.

“What?” I ask him.

Jase breathes out audibly. “If you run, my father will fucking kill me. Literally.”

“Wait, you think I’m going to run?”

Jase shrugs. “I would if I were you.”

I point to a Hooters across the road. “You can keep an eye on me
and
order beer from hot girls with nice racks,” I say. “What do you say?”

He shifts from foot to foot. “I’ll just come in with you,” he says.

“Wait,” I say, putting my palm flat against his chest. “If you must know, I kind of … cried last time I got tattooed. And he told me the coloring in is worse than the outline.”

Jase relaxes perceptibly and steps back. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll be just across the road.”

I smile sweetly. “Thanks.”

I wait patiently until he has crossed the road, wave him off and take a deep breath, pushing the heavy glass door to Elliot’s studio open. The bell above the door chimes to signal that someone has entered, and I jump ten feet in the air.

Elliot is tattooing a butterfly on some woman’s lower back when I walk in. He notices me immediately and stops his work, the gun clattering onto the tray beside him.

“Okay,” he says to her. “We’re all done for today. Make sure to give us a call next week and book in for your final appointment.”

The lady sits up, a look of confusion on her face. “Aren’t you gonna finish it now?” she asks.

Elliot squirts her skin with a layer of antiseptic solution and tapes a piece of plastic-backed gauze on top. “Nope,” he says. “You’re bleeding too much. Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

The guilty look on her face provides an answer. Elliot gently but firmly pushes her out of the door, promising that her finished tatt will look just gorgeous next week. Once she leaves, he spins around to face me.

“Where the
hell
have you been?” he asks, his expression frustrated.

I smile in case Jase can see us from here. “We’re being watched,” I say to him through my cotton-candy grin. “Are you gonna take me back there and color me in, or what?”

His entire demeanor changes when he understands that there are eyes on us, and he points to the table that the old lady had been prostrate on only moments before.

I take my shirt off and hang it over the seat beside the table, my breasts covered by a plain black bra that is struggling to contain their ample size. Elliot seems a little flustered, and I grin wickedly. “You like them?” I ask him, waiting for him to bite. “I got them for a good price.”

“Shut up and get on the table, whatever your name is,” he says, and I can’t tell if he is amused or annoyed.

I hoist myself onto the table and lay down, wincing as I rip my bandage off in one go. “They’re just boobs, El,” I say, settling against the squeaky plastic.

He takes a moment to look at them dubiously before shifting his attention to my face. “They’re hot. I don’t want to talk about your boobs, though.” He snaps a plastic bag open and withdraws a single-use needle chock full of ink that will stain my skin permanently.

“I want to talk about where the fuck you’ve been for three days not answering my calls.” His words are bitter and I can tell he has thought of nothing else except me and my safety since I left here three days ago.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “They took my phone and smashed it.”

“Well, are you okay?” he asks me, his voice straining to sound normal under the weight of his despair. His blue eyes are oceans of worry and hurt, and I have to look away before I really do cry.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I got in there. They bought my story. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Elliot stops fumbling with needles and packages and stares at me questioningly. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, the events of the past three days a broken record of pain, blood, and lust playing on repeat in my addled mind. I can’t tell him about Michael. He would never speak to me again if he knew the depths of my treachery.

“Dornan liked me straightaway,” I say in a monotone voice. “He liked me a little too much.”

Elliot’s hands are empty and I can hear his nails digging into the hard plastic that covers the table I lay upon. “Julz…” he growls.

Hot tears fill my eyes and I look up at him angrily. “Don’t call me that,” I say viciously. “Don’t you ever call me that, do you understand? Do you want us to both get killed?”

He lets go of the table and shakes his head. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, his fists in tight balls.

“Yes,” I say honestly, blinking the tears away. “But I let him. It’s all part of the act.”

He goes to grab my shoulders and I look at the front door in alarm. “Jason is watching,” I say in a high-pitched voice, and I see Elliot use every single reserve of strength he has to back away from me and collect his tattoo gun from the counter. He preps the needles, each one holding dye that will soon be on my skin.

“How’d you convince him to stay out there, anyway?” Elliot is crazy angry, but attempting normal conversation at the same time.
Super.

I stretch out on the soft plastic bed. “I told him I cried last time I got inked, and it would be way too embarrassing for me if he watched.”

Elliot smirks despite his earlier tirade, his needle poised at my hipbone.

“So,” he asks stonily, “you gonna cry?”

I clench my fists as he begins to drag sharp needles through the sensitive, scarred flesh that covers my hipbone. “Hell, no. It takes more than a little tattoo gun to make this girl cry.”