Breaking Hammer (Motorcycle Club Romance) (Inferno Motorcycle Club Book 3) (13 page)

“I’m fucking cultured, man,” Pipes said.  “Shit, I’ve seen it on the internet.  What the hell do you think?”

“Wherever the fuck,” Ants
said.  “Ping pong balls.  Out of her twat.”

“That’s...awesome,” I s
aid.  I looked at Skunk and he grinned.  Okay, so there was a part of me that missed this life.

Ping pong balls and all.

Skunk slapped my back.  "Hammer didn't come for the fucking stripper, you shitheads," he said.  "He came because he wants to fight.  Got him a fucking fight next weekend.  So which one of you assholes is going to practice with him, make sure he's ready?"

ONE
WEEK LATER

"What is this place?"  Aston and I walked toward a warehouse of some sort.  Cars lined the parking lot, many foreign and expensive, the kinds of cars you'd see in Beverly Hills, not in a dirt lot in the middle of the desert.

I didn't know where the hell we were, or what the hell we were doing here, and those things made me nervous.
 Aston taking me out into the desert made me nervous.  The only thing that consoled me was that he had so many opportunities already to kill me.  If he really wanted to, he would have done so by now.

"It's a little side venture I've got going on," Aston said.
 "You'll see.  You'll be impressed."

I forced a smile.
 "I have no doubt, Aston," I said.  "I'm always impressed with your business acumen."

He laughed, the sound mirthless.
 "For a whore, you use a lot of big words."

He'd taken something earlier, I could tell.
 He was unpredictable normally, but when he was high, it was much worse.  It seemed to bring out the wild part of him, the sadistic part.

He was right, of course.
 I was a whore, bought with my son's life.

I hadn't seen him since last week, when I'd been walking through the casino and that man had run into me, the man who put his hands on me, who held me for a moment too long.
 Aston had seen it, and swore he was someone I knew.  Someone I had to be sleeping with.

He’
d dragged me up to the penthouse at the hotel, paced back and forth, a frenzy of meaningless activity, his movements erratic.  He grabbed me by both arms, slammed my back up against the wall, the back of my head throbbing immediately where I made impact.

Afterward, he'd whispered into my ear, stroked my neck where he'd gripped me with his fingers, so tightly it had left imprints, welts on my skin that matched the fading bruises on my arms.
 "Forgive me, Meia," he said.  "It was more than I intended."

I didn't respond, and he’d laughed.
 Said he didn't mean it.  "I'll do anything I want with you.  You're mine.  I give, and I take away.  I'm like fucking God to you, do you understand?"

"I understand," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I'd ever heard it sound before.
 "Like God."

More like the Devil.

I vowed that I would kill him with my bare hands.

It was only a matter of time.

I would figure out how to get Ben back, and I would kill him.

It was the only thing that kept me hanging on.

Aston's voice broke me out of my thoughts.  "Meia," he said.  He gestured toward the large man at the door, apparently a bouncer, dressed in jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket - or vest, I wasn't sure what they were called- with patches sewn onto it.  On one side of it, it had a one percent patch.  Underneath, it read
Inferno Motorcycle Club
.

He looked down at me, a permanent scowl seemingly etched on his face.
 “You’re with him?” he asked, obviously recognizing Aston.

“She’s with me,” Aston said.

Even from outside the building, I recognized a fight environment.  The old man who had owned me had a penchant for dog fights.  Violence against humans was one thing, but I couldn’t take cruelty to animals.  If I was about to walk into a dog fight, it would push me over the edge, I already knew it.

I felt the bouncer’s eyes on me, sweeping over me.
 “Do I need to search her, Mr. Roberts?” he asked.  He ignored me, expecting me not to answer.  Why should I?  I was on the arm of a man who traded in human chattel.  There was no reason to expect that I had a voice of any kind.  I had no opinion.

“No,” Aston said, without looking at me.

“Cell phones or recording devices?” he asked.

Aston shook his head.
 “I’m familiar with the rules.”

“Just a reminder, for the lady, Mr. Aston,” the bouncer said.

“Yes, well,” Aston said.  “Are we finished here?”

“
Yes,” he said.  I wasn’t quite sure, but I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice, an edge that I’d expect from someone who had contact with Aston.  Aston was a real prick, especially where “the help” were concerned.  And he would certainly consider this guy to fall in the category of "the help," with his imposing frame and arms covered in tattoos.

We were waved on through, and Aston's arm was on mine, guiding me through the bodies inside the warehouse.
 I stepped gingerly on the concrete floor.  I was wearing jeans, but I didn't want to know what the hell kind of bodily fluids might be covering the floor here.  A loose coating of sawdust and dirt covered the floor, I assumed to mop the blood.  Human or animal, I didn't know, but the thought was nauseating.

Then the bodies in front of us parted, and I glimpsed the corner of the
cage in front of us. And I felt a huge sense of relief.  Human fighting, not animals.  Aston turned toward me, looking down at me with a strange grin.  "Have you ever seen this kind of thing?"  He paused for a beat, not waiting for me to answer.  "Of course you have."

He knew about the old man and his dogfighting.
 How much Aston knew about my life when he was not a part of it chilled me inside.

Aston looked ahead, distracted by what was about to happen. All around me were the sounds of voices, the murmuring of conversations I couldn't quite catch.
 The air was charged with a sort of electricity, and I imagined that this is how it must have been for spectators watching gladiators - two men fighting to the death.

An announcer was already introducing the fight.  "In the camouflage trunks, our very own underground knock-out heavyweight champion, undefeated in eight consecutive fights, Marshall "The Law" Fowler!"

The crowd cheered and whistled for the clear favorite.  I watched as a thick man with a shaved head walked around the perimeter of the cage, acknowledging his fans, making his way to the center.  Aston pulled me with him, toward a roped off area, some kind of makeshift VIP space that was apparently reserved for important people like him.

"Do you have money on the fighters?" I asked Aston, who was only half listening to me. His grip on my arm tightened absently.
 Aston had a number of vices, and I knew gambling was one of them.  What I really wondered was whether this was a new business venture.  Dealing in flesh came naturally to Aston.

"There's always money on everything, doll, didn't you know that?" Aston asked.
 "Of all people, you should know that."

Of all people.
 Of course I knew that.  I was his prized possession, after all.

Standing in the middle of the ring, the announcer looked from one fighter to the other, and then announced "Fight!" before exiting the cage.

The fighters circled each other, each looking for an opportunity to strike.  Sweat glistened on the length of their bodies, their sinewy muscles rippling, causing light to glint off them under the dim lights in the warehouse.  The bald fighter in the camouflage shorts was turned in my direction, his face revealing that this wasn't the first fight he'd seen.

I couldn't see the other guy's face.
 But he was tall, lean, and carried thick muscles around his neck and shoulders. The way he stood and moved reminded me of a Muay Thai fighter. His movement was fluid, calculated, and he had a leanness that came from hours and hours of working out.  A large tattoo covered his back- an emblem and the words "Inferno Motorcycle Club" at the top.  I could see tattoos covering the length of both arms, on his calves, and I wondered if they covered his chest as well.

He sidestepped a sudden onslaught of swings from the man in the
camouflage shorts, never stopping his rhythmic movement.

But when he turned,
I saw his face.  I recognized him, or I thought I did.  I squinted at him, staring like an idiot.  It wouldn't be
him.
 The odds were astronomically high.

But it was.
 I was sure of it.  It was the man from the casino, the one who had been wearing slacks and a collared shirt, looking every inch the corporate employee.  Except for the fact that even then his shirt sleeves had been rolled up to reveal his tattoos.  And the look in his eyes that day, when he saw the lashes on my arms, that scared me.  There was a darkness there, anger that made me afraid to imagine what was going through his mind.

I held my breath, glanced at Aston to see if he'd noticed.
 He'd been so far away, that day in the casino, there was no way he'd actually seen the man's face.  I waited for Aston to recognize him, but he didn't seem to.

His opponent in the
camouflage shorts had managed to work him backwards towards the chain-link of the cage, pushing him against it while striking at it him from the knees.  My breath caught in my throat as he took a few shots, then I felt myself exhale as he spun quickly, and backed away.

The crowd threw out a few "boos," expecting more action from the fighters, I supposed.  I heard a few of his friends, dressed in leather like the bouncer at the door- bikers- shout.  "Come on Hammer, let go already!"

Hammer.

It didn't seem to faze him.  He continued to move around the cage, and seemed satisfied to let his opponent bri
ng the fight to him.

He didn't have to wait long.

As he circled backwards, the bald man ducked low and dove at his foot as it was catching his weight.  Caught on his heel, Hammer was already falling backwards, and the large man in the camouflage landed rapid blows on his face and torso.  My heart thumped loudly in my chest as I watched Hammer put up his hands to cover his head, then bring up a knee to push his opponent slightly off of him.