Circle of Death (7 page)

“And where, exactly, would we go?” Packer laughs. “I don’t think most resort towns are eager to welcome us with open arms.”

“I can’t really see us shacking up in Martha’s Vineyard,” Jules points out.

“What if I told you that I’ve been hearing talk of a place that
only
wants our kind as guests?” I ask the group. “Some other MC’s have already stumbled on the spot, so I went to the trouble of reaching out to the management. We’ve been invited to stay as long as we want. A club with a reputation like ours is a good catch for these guys. Spend the days drinking, smoking, fucking, living the good life. Sound like something you can all get behind?”

“What the hell is this place?” Brutus asks gruffly.

I beam mischievously around the room at my brothers. “It’s just called The Club,” I tell them. “From what I hear, it’s about as close to MC heaven as you can get. So, what do you say? You guys interested in blowing off some steam for a few weeks or what?”

I take their roar of assent as a whole-hearted “yes”. Looks like the Circle of Death is heading its own island paradise for a spell.

Chapter Six

Logan

“I don’t know whether I should be excited or terrified for you,” Emma says, finally regaining the ability to form words after I tell her about the
FootSoldier
assignment.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” I reply, refilling her glass of wine to the brim. “Imagine how I felt, hearing about it for the first time!”

We’re sitting together on the living room floor of our barren apartment, splitting a bottle of Malbec. It’s the evening of our school’s commencement ceremony, a rite we’ve both decided to ditch. Guilt tugs at my heartstrings as I think about where I left things with my parents the other day, but I try my best to let it go. I’ve just come clean to Emma about the details of my strange job offer, and the first story I’ve been assigned.

“And you’ve really found a way out to this exclusive island?” my best friend presses. “How the hell did you swing that?”

“It was actually way too easy,” I laugh, leaning back against our threadbare couch. “Turns out, dozens of young women are visiting this place all the time while different groups of wealthy men shack up there. Right now, one of the groups in residence happens to be this motorcycle club, but all kinds of guys head out there for a good time. Businessmen, hedge fund managers, professional sports teams, you name it. But the girls who head out there are usually college aged. Looking to step out of their comfort zones, you know.”

“Their comfort zones?” Emma retorts, “What about your comfort zone? You’ve never even dated an upperclassmen. What are you going to do with some hardened, forty-something biker dude?”

“My last boyfriend was three months older than me, I’ll have you know. And on the fencing team,” I joke.

Emma has a point, of course. I’ve been a little nervous, wondering what chance I have at grabbing the attention of a world class hottie like Devlin Vile. I’m not exactly brimming with feminine wiles, over here.

“I’m serious, Logan,” Emma insists, taking my hand in hers. “This sounds insanely risky. Is paying off your loans and getting this job really worth it to you?”

“There’s, um, a little more to it than that,” I say slowly, meeting her gaze as best I can. “The MC I’m going out there to write about...It’s called the Circle of Death. The same club my sister Juliet ran off with when I was a kid.”

“Oh, Logan...” Emma breathes, her fingers tightening around mine. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think to make the connection.”

“All these years, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I’d never see her again,” I go on, speaking around the hard knot in my throat. “She didn’t exactly leave an address or cell number when she left, but all of a sudden, I’ve got a lead. Maybe it won’t pan out. Maybe she’s not with the MC anymore. Maybe she’s not even alive. But I have to find out for myself, Emma. And if that means putting myself at risk...well, that’s something I can live with.”

My tiny friend doesn’t say a word. She simply wraps her arms around me and presses her slight frame to mine. I hug her fiercely, knowing that this is her way of giving her blessing for this crazy mission of mine. With her support, I feel like I can really take the next step on this wild journey.

“There are some girls from our school heading out to The Club tomorrow night,” I go on. “Brie, Ani, Kari, I know them from freshman year, if just barely. But they’ve agreed to let me come along. Getting invited to that island is all about who you know, and I guess they know the right people. It’s all set up.”

“Brie Whittington? I remember there was a scandal involving her and my Sociology professor last year. She doesn’t seem to make the best choices…”

“I know but I have to reach out, she’s my only connection here.”

“You’re just going for the night, then?” Emma asks hopefully.

“Just for the night, at least this time around,” I assure her gently. “But it might be the first of many trips.”

We sit in silence together, taking this fact in. After a time, she heaves a little sigh and forces an encouraging smile onto her lips.

“I guess you do have to go infiltrate a secret sex resort, woo the president of a badass biker gang, and find your long lost sister. Not exactly all in a day’s work, is it?”

“Not quite,” I smile.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” she pleads.

“I promise,” I reply earnestly, “Careful as can be.”

“And bring protection,” she adds. “Can’t be going to a bacchanalian bonanza without a crate of condoms, can you?”

“Words of wisdom from Emma Sanders,” I laugh, happy for her levity. Joking about this undertaking almost erases my fear of what I’m about to do.

Almost.

Chapter Seven

The very next evening, I find myself standing on the dock of a swanky Boston Harbor yacht club just before sunset. I tug at the hem of my black mini skirt, adjust the straps of my silky white tank. I’m more than a little conscious of the gazes I’m drawing from the monied men and women lounging about their vessels all around me. This is not exactly my natural habitat, that’s for sure.

“Logan!” a peppy voice calls, “Over here, honey!”

I turn to see a petite red head furiously waving at me from the deck of a huge, gleaming yacht tethered at the end of the dock. Smiling gamely, I make my way toward the boat, trying not to twist an ankle as my heels wrangle with the wooden planks of the dock. Rookie mistake, Farrah, I chide myself. Who wears stilettos to a secluded island orgy?

“Hey Kari,” I say as I approach the yacht, looking up at the trio of beauties who will be my traveling companions this evening. “Hey Brie, Ani...”

Kari, the redhead, spearheaded this little mission, dragging the blonde bombshell Brie and willowy brunette Ani along for the ride. I wonder if she only let me come along so that there’d be a raven-haired, ethnically ambiguous girl to round out the group aesthetic. If so, at least it’s worked to my advantage. Yay diversity, I think wryly.

“Come on up,” Kari says, cradling a pink cocktail in her manicured hand, “The party’s just begun!”

Swallowing hard, I tread on over to the entrance of the yacht. Refusing to let myself hesitate or second guess, I take my first step onto the vessel. Here goes nothing.

I fall in with the girls from my school, letting them shepherd me into the main cabin where a bar has been fully stocked for the occasion. Eight or so girls have already congregated, and each is sipping happily on some frozen cocktail or other. A margarita is thrust into my hand the second I step inside, though by who I cannot say. The cabin speakers pump Top 40 pop into the air, and before long I’m feeling mighty claustrophobic. The excited voices of the girls around me, the heady mix of too many opposing perfumes and body sprays, and even a sip of my heavily poured drinks send me reeling. If I already feel overwhelmed, then what am I going to do once we land? I set down my drink at once, vowing to keep my head.

“I hope all the bikers look just like that guy from that show,” one of the girls I don’t know gushes insipidly in my ear. It seems that the only points of reference any of these ladies have for MC types are TV soaps and actions movies. But from the little Juliet told me about her own experiences with outlaw life, the girls here are in for a rude awakening.

The yacht skips across the Atlantic, bringing us ever closer to our destination. Even when I steal away to the bow for a breath of fresh air, I can’t quiet my wildly beating heart. I feel like I’m plunging off the side of a cliff, free and weightless for the time being, but speeding toward an absolute and messy end. Just keep your mind on your task, I remind myself, Get the story, find Juliet if you can, that’s it. Easier said than done.

Just as my solitude is interrupted by my trio of tipsy classmates, I see it off in the distance: the island I’ve been dreading and dreaming of for these past few sleepless nights. And there, towering above the tree line like an imposing being all its own, is the brick and mortar majesty of The Club itself.

Originally built as a Revolutionary War fort, the building was converted into a prison for the criminally insane in the mid 1800’s. For more than a century, those walls housed some of the most disturbed, violent criminals tried along the East Coast. The prison shuttered by the 1960’s, and was bought up by a private investor about ten years ago. The new owner gutted the fort-turned-prison while leaving much of the grungy, mysterious exterior of the place intact. These days, it’s outfitted with luxurious rooms, spas and saunas, bars, a casino, and whatever else might tickle the fancy of the rich men who frequent it. It’s a playground for the monied and the horny, and I’m about to walk right into the center of it.

Night has fallen by the time we reach the shore, and the illicit scene we come upon is illuminated only by the light of a raging bonfire. Bodies writhe and teem everywhere I look, coupling wantonly in the open air. Booze flows freely, pungent pot smoke drifts distinctly from the earthy smell of the fire. After the perfumed, feminine scent of the yacht cabin, this new aroma is strangely appealing to me.

My dozen companions and I step out onto the dock and stare, amazed, at the outrageous, sexy madness playing out before our eyes. Before anyone can change her mind, the yacht pulls away with a bellowing cry of its whistle—it almost sounds mournful. Out of the darkness, a gigantic figure appears, his bushy face illuminated by the light of a lantern. He introduces himself to us as Titan—the gatekeeper of this island. I can tell he’s trying to put us all at ease with his cheerful, friendly demeanor, but I can feel the girls tensing up around me, still. It’s starting to hit everyone, exactly what they’ve gotten themselves into.

We’re led through a maze of towering, ancient trees, toward the bonfire that surges and burns in a clearing of the forest. All around, the sounds of blaring rock and voices crying out in ecstasy mingle in the summer air. Red cigarette tips smolder in the darkness as they’re raised to full, flushed lips. I feel totally intoxicated already, but I try and force the clouds from my mind. I need to be sharp tonight, keep my wits about me. They’re the only defense I have, after all.

Scores of hungry gazes swing our way as we step into the light of the fire. A herd of fresh meat, as it were. I watch Brie’s knees start knocking together as we’re set upon by a pack of looming, lumbering forms. One by one, the girls are picked off—plied away with the promise of a drink or a handsome face. But not me. I know exactly who it is I’m looking for. The gorgeous Circle of Death President, Devlin Vile—a man I’ve only seen in grainy photographs and years-old mug shots.

Until this very moment, that is.

The chaotic scene raging all around me fades away as I lay eyes on Devlin Vile for the first time in the flesh. Pictures could not possibly do justice to the sheer size and solidity of him. The vitality and virility that simmers in every muscle and sinew. He towers over the bonfire, the tattoos twining across his perfectly balanced form standing out in the shadows. Across his chest, the Latin word for devil, Diabolus, is scrolled in rough script. He certainly looks like some sort of demon king, presiding over this drunken, fire-lit scene. And I guess that means I’m about to make him the devil I know.