The Cut by Carol Lynne: Kings of Bedlam MC Series, Book One (5 page)

She warred with herself for several moments. “Why now?”

“Open the door, lady bug,” he ordered.

“Answer my question first.” She walked to the door and stared up at him through the screen, pretending the nickname didn’t fill her with memories. “Before today, how long’s it been since you’ve been here?”

“You know how long it’s been, and you know why.” He set the sacks on the porch. “Eat the food or don’t. It’s up to you.” He turned and walked away, the dark night swallowing him almost immediately.

Santana held her breath, waiting for the loud rumble of his Harley. When it didn’t come, she unlatched the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. Nothing. No Harley, no vehicle of any kind. Where had he gone, and how had he gotten to her house? “Stake?”

When she received no answer in reply, she glanced down at the sacks of food. She wasn’t sure how to feel about the generous gift. Although the help was much needed, it embarrassed her that he knew their circumstances.

“Stake?” she called again before picking up the groceries. The sound of an engine firing up down the road caught her attention. She set the sacks down and hurried to the road, hoping to stop him as he passed by. Why had he parked so far away? The thought of him being ashamed to be seen at her house hurt more than accepting the food he’d delivered. She wasn’t sure how it was possible, but she felt even worse about herself and her situation then she had before. It wasn’t that she was too proud to accept help, though no one had ever offered, it was the realization that for him, helping her was something to be ashamed of, something to do in the dark of night.

She stood beside the road for longer then she should have. It had been obvious after only a few minutes that he wasn’t going to drive by the house, but she couldn’t get her feet to move, couldn’t accept that he was gone again, and she had no way to contact him.

* * * *

After pouring a small glass of Grape Crush, Santana turned off the lights and retreated to her bedroom. She set the glass beside her makeshift drawing table, intent on returning to the portrait she’d started earlier, before opening the bottom drawer of her dresser. She removed the threadbare Harley T-shirt Stake had loaned her so many years ago. She took off her tank top and pulled the buttery soft cotton shirt over her head. It had long ago lost the smell of his cologne, but that was understandable after wearing the damn thing as a sleep shirt for years.

She sat down at the drawing table and took a drink before concentrating on the portrait. It was a black charcoal drawing of Stake which wasn’t surprising. She’d drawn quite a few charcoals of the sexy biker over the years. Actually, she rarely drew anything else.

She added the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that she’d noticed earlier in the day. She liked the addition to his face even if she was still angry with him. Whether or not he was a good man, he was still drop-dead gorgeous and one of her favorite subjects to draw. She thought of the way he’d looked at her through the screen door. She wasn’t sure how to describe the expression on his face. It hadn’t been anger, despite the way he’d left. Finished with the eyes, she stared at the updated piece. Although it wasn’t nearly as good as looking at the real thing, it was safer.

“What am I doing?”

Before she could stop herself, she crumpled the drawing in her hands. It had taken years to get over him. The last thing he deserved was her longing. He was a piece of shit biker who had turned his back on his friends because the club had told him to. No, she refused to let herself fall for him again.

She filled the trashcan with every drawing of him she could find. Most of the portraits had been drawn on the brown paper grocery sacks she’d brought home from the store, but a few of her best pictures were on a soft vanilla heavy-weight paper she’d bought herself for Christmas a few years earlier. She held up one of her favorites, a portrait of Smash and Stake sitting under a shade tree in the front yard, drinking beer and laughing. She’d drawn it from an old photograph she’d found in Smash’s trunk. It saddened her that a man’s entire life could fit into an olive green Army chest, but that was the way of her father. She wondered if there was another trunk in the attic for her mother’s meager possessions.

Tears burned her eyes as she sank to the mattress. “Damn it.” She hated to cry. Hated feeling weak. “I won’t do it,” she vowed, wiping the tears from her face. She grabbed the trashcan and stared at the portrait of her father and Stake.
One
. She told herself she wanted something nice to remember her father by as she set the drawing aside. The rest she’d burn in the old barrel beside the shed. She had to destroy them, otherwise, she’d be tempted to dig them out of the trash in the morning.

Mind made up, she strode through the house with the trashcan. She felt like she was on a mission to purge herself of the past as she swiped the box of matches off the old stove. Other than her mother, he was the only thing holding her to Broken Ridge. It was something she hadn’t realized until she saw him talking to the sheriff. Hope was a wasted emotion for someone like her, and the sooner she rid herself of it, the better off she’d be.

She dumped the drawings into the rusted barrel before dropping the trashcan to the ground beside her. “This is it,” she whispered, striking a match. She stared at the flame on the end of the tiny piece of wood for several heartbeats, willing herself to drop it, when she heard the sound of a stick breaking a few yards away.

“It’s illegal to burn trash in this county,” Gordon said, reaching out to seize Santana’s upper arm. He blew out the match still clutched in her fingers.

Fuck.
She tried to pull out of the sheriff’s grip. How had she not heard him until he was upon her? “Let go of me.”

Gordon tightened his hold, his fingers biting painfully into her flesh. “Not until I get what I came for, bitch,” he sneered, spittle flying from his mouth. “If you think you can hide behind that dirty biker, you can think again. I own this fucking county.”

She pushed against him as her free hand raked down the side of his face. Her short nails just long enough to mark him.

Gordon howled in pain seconds before knocking her to the ground with a punch to the left side of her face.

She tried to scoot away as he towered over her, blood dripping from two of the scratches on his cheek. She needed to get back to the house, back to the knife. Damn it, why had she left without it? Scrambling to get to her feet, she was knocked down again by his booted foot. Before she could move, he was on top of her, pulling at the front of her thin T-shirt.

“This’ll go easier if you don’t fight.” He managed to rip open her shirt with ease before grabbing one of her breasts. “Fuck. I always knew you had a great set of tits.”

Pain shot through her as he squeezed her breasts.
He’s going to rape me
. God, it’s really happening. She fought back with everything she had, landing a few blows before he slapped her hard.

Tasting blood, she dropped her hands, searching for something, anything on the ground to defend herself with. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Of course I will. You think anyone in this county will take your word over mine? Besides, if you don’t stop fighting me, there won’t be enough left of you to question.” Gordon sat up to straddle her. He yanked down the zipper on her shorts before shoving his hand inside. “You’re wet for me.”

She almost vomited, remembering how she’d pleasured herself earlier with thoughts of Stake. Gordon’s fat sausage fingers felt nothing like her own. When his attention went to her pussy, her hand closed around a stick. She would only have one chance at hurting him and a brittle stick wouldn’t do anything to that fat gut of his. “Go to hell!” she screamed, thrusting the stick upward towards his body with all her strength.

The stick caught the sheriff in the soft skin under the arm, sinking in almost an inch before hitting bone and breaking in her hand. Although the wound wasn’t enough to kill him, it did startle him enough to topple his girth to the side, giving her the room she needed to slide out from under his legs and get to her feet. She took off toward the house with Gordon on her heels.

“You fucking bitch. You’re going to pay for that!”

She made it to the front porch before she was shoved hard from behind. Her body flew forward through the screen door as if she weighed nothing at all. Pain shot through her as the splintered doorframe scraped against her exposed skin. Landing on the living room floor, she tried to scramble to the coffee table.

Gordon grabbed her hair and yanked her backward. “You’re dead,” he spat, slapping her again. “I’m gettin’ some of that pussy. It’s up to you whether I do it now or after I kill you.”

She knew she’d rather die than suffer him rutting on top of her. She gathered saliva in her mouth and spit in his face. “Then fucking kill me first.”

He surprised her by pulling a set of handcuffs out of his back pocket. He dangled them in front of her face. “I think I’d rather hear you scream while I fuck you.”

“No!” She went wild, kicking at him with her feet while swinging her arms, heedless of the grip he had on her hair. She knew if he managed to get the handcuffs on her, there would be no way to fight him off.

He threw his considerable bulk on top of her, knocking the breath out of her. While she fought to fill her lungs with air, he stretched her arms over her head and snapped the cuffs on her, using the wooden leg of the couch to keep her in place.

Pleased with himself, he sat up and moved to sit on her legs. “I do love a good fight.” He noticed the knife for the first time and grinned, picking it up. “Is this what you were after?” He stared at the blade and shook his head before drawing the tip up and down her torso, over one breast and then the next.

She felt like she was looking at someone else’s body as thin lines of blood began to ooze from the shallow cuts. She supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t applied more pressure, but with her hands and feet bound, she had resigned herself to what was about to happen. It would be a fitting end to her life, and part of her welcomed the defeat.

He set the knife aside. “Patience,” he told her. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his fat, stubby cock. “Good things come to those who wait.”

She turned her head to the side and squeezed her eyes shut as the sheriff yanked her shorts and underwear down and off. She refused to beg him, refused to do anything but hope the end would soon come.

* * * *

By the time Stake returned home, he was livid. He stalked into the kitchen, grabbed a beer and strode out to the porch. He directed his anger at only one person, himself. What the hell had he been thinking? Did he expect her to welcome him inside after years of turning his back on her? Unfortunately, yes, that’s exactly what he’d hoped would happen.

“Stupid sonofabitch.” He put the beer to his lips and gulped two big swallows. When he’d started to knock the first time, he’d noticed her on the floor with her hand down her pants. The soft moan that had escaped her plump lips combined with the flush on her cheeks painted an immediate picture of what was going on. Two things had happened in that instant, his cock had gone hard as steel, and he’d hated himself for wanting her. Fuck, he’d known her since she was just a little girl. How could want her so much?

There were too many reasons why he should stay away from her. Not only was she fourteen years younger, but Smash’s daughter. Worse, the hard life he’d lived had jaded him irreparably. Even if he managed to get her in his bed, there could be no future for them. The club wouldn’t allow it, and he’d pledged his heart and loyalty to the Kings. The last thought brought him up short. Church was in less than twenty-four hours. He should be figuring out what the hell was going on with the drugs in San Antonio instead of fantasizing about being between Santana’s legs.

He finished his beer before going back inside. He opened the refrigerator to get another but decided against it. Instead, he slammed the door shut. “Fuck.” There was no way he’d be able to concentrate on the club with her on his mind. He shouldn’t have left the way he had. He’d been so damn mad at himself and his traitorous body that he hadn’t given her the answers she’d deserved.

“Fuck!” he screamed to the ceiling, knowing he should have explained why he’d dropped out of her life the way he had. Before he could talk himself out of it, he jumped back into the old beat-up truck he used for errands and sprayed dirt and gravel as he sped down the drive.

* * * *

Instead of parking down the road like a fucking coward, Stake pulled into the grass-covered driveway. He noticed the broken screen door immediately. His heart thumped hard and fast as he jumped out of the pickup and ran to the porch.

He opened his mouth to call out to her, but his throat seized when he saw her crumpled body on the living room floor. Rage warred with heartbreak at the nude woman curled into a protective ball. He knelt and reached out to the shaking woman. “Santana?”

The moment he touched her, she uncurled her body and lunged at him with that damn knife he’d seen earlier. He grabbed her wrist before the blood-covered blade plunged into his chest. “Santana!”

She pulled against his hold, trying to free herself. Her stare was vacant, but it was her injuries that stole his breath. He wasn’t sure what the dried bloody patches hid on her chest and stomach hid but one thing was certain, she needed a doctor.