Vicious Cycle (Vicious Cycle #1)(48)
“N-no, I—I’m n-not,” I stammered from behind the gag. “I s-swear.”
The man eyed me curiously before his lips curled in a sneer. “You lie. You lie to try to save yourself and to save that piece of shit you spread your legs for.”
“No!” I cried.
“I’ll go easier on you if you tell the truth. You see, we need to draw him out. Since he keeps that brat under lock and key, you were the next choice. He’ll want revenge for us hurting you, and that’s when we’ll strike. So I’ll ask you again, are you Deacon’s old lady?”
Fearing for my life, I finally nodded my head. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
When he licked his lips, fear prickled over my body like tiny knives. “Now comes the best part of the job.”
While the beating had been horrible, the insinuation of what he was about to do was more than I could bear. He pushed me back farther on the table. Shoving my legs apart, he came to stand between them. His fingers grabbed at the button on my skirt, and I closed my eyes, praying for strength. Then, with everything I had left in me, I shoved him with one foot and then kicked him in the face with the other. The force sent him flying backward against the kitchen counter. Once again, I pulled and tugged against my bindings with all my strength.
When the man pulled himself up off the floor, blood pooled from his busted lip. “You f*cking cunt!” he screamed. I tried scrambling away on the table, but I had nowhere to go. His fist pounded into the side of my head. The world around me spun in a dizzying flurry before the dark curtain of my nightmare came crashing down.
As Alexandra’s taillights faded in the distance, I pounded my shitkickers down the porch steps. Flicking my cigarette butt into the bushes, I made my way down to the clubhouse. Just like her, I couldn’t manage to sit down at a table full of my family right now. More than anything, I needed something to block her from my mind. Her scent clung to my body and fingers while her taste still resided on my tongue. I found myself completely fixated on her. Considering the half-mast erection I still sported, my body was still thinking of her, too. Taking an emotional and sexual stroll down memory lane wasn’t something I was used to doing, and it was freaking me the f*ck out. The very fact Alexandra had this much effect on me when we hadn’t fully f*cked was even more mystifying.
The sound of Archer’s pipes roaring to life brought me out of my thoughts. Every night I had the prospect follow Alexandra home and make sure she was safe. I had instructed him to always hang back a little because I didn’t want to spook her that her life might be in danger because of her association with me. Because she was also way too smart for her own good, I didn’t want to arouse any more suspicion about how dark my dealings were.
I gave a nod at Bubba and Ollie as I headed in the back door. Since it was a Friday night, the clubhouse was filled with members from in and out of town. From the looks of it, all the rooms would be used.
I slid across one of the worn barstools. I didn’t even have to flag Cheyenne down. Like she possessed some kind of “Deacon radar,” she had been alerted to my presence the moment I’d walked in. I had felt the heat of her eyes seeking me out as I walked through the crowd, stopping to say hello to some of the out-of-town members.
With her palms planted on the bar, she leaned in, cocking her brows at me. I shook my head at her behavior. She always knew what I wanted and usually hauled ass to get it for me. “What crawled up your ass tonight? Get me the usual. Now.”
Shooting me an “eat shit and die look,” Cheyenne shoved her hands off the bar in a huff and then went to snatch me a beer out of the fridge. After popping the top on it, she thrust it across the bar to me. But when I reached for it, she jerked it away from me. I narrowed my eyes at her. “Seriously, bitch, what the f*ck is your problem tonight?”
She slammed the beer bottle down in front of me. “I think I’m the one who should be asking that question.”
“Excuse me?”
Cheyenne crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you f*cking her?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be an *, Deacon. You know exactly who I’m talking about. The little white-bread bitch who has been making doe eyes at you since the day she walked in here.”
I took a pull of my longneck. “Alexandra. Her name is Alexandra,” I replied.
At the mention of her name, Cheyenne’s nostrils flared in rage. “I don’t give a f*ck what her name is. I do give a f*ck about the fact that you’ve just waltzed in here with her scent all over you, not to mention the fact you got f*cked-up hair and your lips are colored from her lipstick.”
“Last time I checked, you ain’t my old lady, and there ain’t no ‘Property of Deacon’ patch on your back. So you best not be sticking your nose in my business.”
My declaration caused the angry expression carved into her face to recede, and in its place, there was one of extreme hurt. “Deacon, you know how I feel about you—” she began in a shaky voice. My phone buzzing in my pocket interrupted her. I dug it out and glanced at the ID. Unease washed over me as I accepted the call.
“What’s wrong, Archer?”
“Fuck, man. Some * shot out my back tire as I was tailing Alexandra. I skidded out. My bike is a f*cking mess. Someone called the cops because I’m bleeding and shit, and then—”