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I change into my bikini and head to the pool. Almost nobody uses it during the day, though it’s a party spot at night, when all of Grisham’ brotherhood relaxes a bit.
They get drunk, push each other into the pool, fornicate ... It’s a weird place between day and night. During the day, it’s all business. People doing jobs, making reports, riding in and out of the property. They obviously don’t bring whatever they buy and sell into the compound, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a bunch of debauchery. I know at least that much from my father. He was very careful to make sure I wasn’t at the club after sundown. Always said guys get antsy and use the evenings to fight and fuck. Guess it’s no different here.
I float around on a swan-shaped floatie, soaking in the sun, falling asleep in the heat. I’m not sure how long I stay like that, but the sound of chaos wakes me up right quick.
Guys are running around like crazy, some pulling on bulletproof vests, some loading weapons. A car flies down the gravel path toward the garage. Shortly behind it, a medical vehicle kicks up dust behind it.
Paddling to the edge of the pool, I peer at the commotion. From the black car, two guys pull a body. A ... dead body? No, he’s shaking his head. I climb out of the pool and grab a towel, padding over toward the action. At the last minute, I dive behind the garage, thinking maybe it’s best if I’m not seen during all this business.
As I peer out for a look, I see it’s Spree who’s injured, a huge blood stain spreading across his upper thigh. He’s pale, doesn’t look good. I hear him saying something about an ambush as someone from the medical vehicle hops out and advises him that he should go to the hospital. As a crowd gathers, Grisham appears, hands in fists at his sides, jaw clenched, eyes hard and furious.
“What the fuck is this?” he demands.
One of his guys, an older, burly-bearded guy, says, “Fuckin’ GR was there at the pickup. They demanded restitution for the girl. The Oberovs tried to get out of the middle of it but one of the GR shot off a weapon. It was mayhem.”
Grisham stomps over to where Spree’s pants are being cut off by a paramedic. “He gonna live?”
The paramedic says, “He will. Looks like the bullet path has an entrance and an exit. No major arterial damage. We’ll patch him up but he should probably go to the hospital.”
“Fuck that,” Spree growls, sweat beading on his forehead. “I’ve had worse.”
“You’re gonna have worse when I get finished with you, you arrogant piece of shit.” Grisham says. “I specifically ordered you off of club business. You disobeyed a direct order.”
“A little bloodshed ain’t never hurt nobody,” Spree says, trying to smile.
“Really.” Grisham says flatly. “Well, it hurts our business. What happened to the deal?”
Spree doesn’t have anything to say about this. He turns his head away as the paramedic continues cleaning and stitching the wound.
Another club member says, “Oberov says he’ll go find another club for this round. He’s spooked. And Spree shot a Robber. Guy’s dead.”
“Fuck!” Grisham yells. “You fucking blew the deal and got yourselves shot up, and now you’re adding the little detail that you killed someone? What the fuck kind of business do we run here? You think we’re just some gang, all random and picking fights every day? No. We’re motherfucking professionals and you all walked right into that bullshit. Fucking idiots.”
Some of the guys hang their heads. From the ground, Spree says, “The guys believe we need to take more risks to get more rewards. We need to be pillaging some shit, taking what we want. We want more territory? Take it. We want more women? Take ’em. Fuck beingprofessional. We need to be fucking pirates.”
Grisham looks like he might blow a gasket. His tan face goes red, his teeth bared like an animal as he gets into Spree’s face.
“We are not—not—pirates. We are a goddamned motorcycle club. We all pay dues. We all have a job to do. That job is not to get in a street fight with a rival gang in a residential neighborhood in the middle of the goddamn, motherfucking day!”
The paramedic finishes, looking uncomfortable. He stands and two club members help Grisham’ vice president to his feet. A second paramedic brings a pair of crutches to Spree before turning to Grisham.
“How do you want to handle this?” he asks.
Grisham looks at him. “Go find Lenny and have him get you some cash for the follow. Have the official bill sent to the PO Box as usual. And thank you for your discretion, as always.”
As the medical vehicle pulls away, Grisham turns to the large group of club members gathered. He says, “You all got something to say?”
At first, no one speaks. But then the burly guy says, “Boss, I ain’t meanin’ no disrespect, but do you think maybe you ought to step down? Just for a bit?”
Grisham narrows his eyes and the guy steps back from whatever he sees there.
“Who built this club, Hank?” he asks, deadly calm, like a pit viper waiting to strike.
“You did, boss,” he says quietly, shifting on his feet.
“What’s that?” Grisham asks, stepping closer, too close.
“You did, sir,” Hank says, looking at his feet.
Grisham grabs him by the neck and pushes him up off of his feet. “I built this fucking club. It is mine. Not Spree’s. Not yours. Mine. I make the fucking rules of engagement. You follow them. You pay your dues; you do your work; you get paid. That is it.”
He tosses the guy like he’s weightless and turns to the rest of the group, making eye contact with as many as he can. “Anyone else got something to say?”
“You’re wrapped up in personal shit,” Spree announces. Your kid. Your sister. You’re hardly here. And now, you’re wrapped up in that little Blazing Pistons cunt. We’re left to do the work on our own and we want to do it differently.”
“We,” Grisham says, his voice lifeless. “Well, here’s the deal. I don’t give a royal fuck who agrees or doesn’t agree with the way I work. This is still my fucking club and my fucking rules. So the ‘we’ you speak of can turn its colors in right now, or get the fuck in line.”
“You’ve done nothing with the gift I gave you,” Spree says. “You in love with that little bitch? That why you’re not using her to get more out of the Robbers? They shot us up today, ran our partner away. You ain’t gonna do nothing about that?”
“It’s just sex,” Grisham says. “You gave her to me to claim; I claimed her.”
“Well, then, you won’t mind if I have a taste, then. I’d like to have those long legs around my fat waist,” Spree challenges.
Grisham is in his face faster than if he’d been on wheels. He jams his fist into Spree’s wounded leg, sending his second to the ground with a howl.
“Don’t fuck with my stuff,” he says to Spree. “ The rest of you can turn your shit in, if you think like this asshole. Otherwise, get the fuck back to work.”
That’s the end of it. Grisham leaves Spree on the ground, looking every bit like he’s about to pass out. The guys mostly dissipate, headed off to follow orders. A few mill around in pairs or small groups, talking. I think he might lose some guys today, based on the way they hang back and look at him as he walks away. And though Grisham acts like he doesn’t care, I know that seeing guys leave based on how he leads will cut him.
I take the cue to leave, sneaking away quietly, finding my way back to Grisham’ bedroom where I lock the door and crawl into the tub, ready to soak away the tension I felt watching all of that go down. Grisham makes good on his offer to send someone to give me a massage, and I spend more than an hour getting kneaded and pounded into a total state of relaxation. At this point, I’m wondering if being a prisoner isn’t so bad after all.
Around dinnertime, I expect to see Grisham but he doesn’t return. I unlock the door to head down to the dining room, only to be immediately intercepted by Spree, who shoves me back into the room, a knife pointed at my throat. He kicks the door shut and forces me backward until my back is against the wall. The knifepoint digs into my skin.
I refuse to cry or beg. This jerk gets off on that stuff. Instead, I spit in his face.
He smirks. “That’s cute. Bring it on, you little slut.”
I try kneeing him between the legs but he blocks. It does knock him off balance, though, since he’s injured. I get enough of a window to get away from him, but as I run for the door he manages to get ahold of the back of the flowy dress I’m wearing. I trip, scrambling, as he drops, still holding onto my clothing. Somehow I end up on my back, one of his hands underneath me, one leg across my belly, a dead log pinning me in drowning waters.
I can’t breathe as he frees his hand and puts it on my windpipe, squeezing, the knife high above my head in his other hand.
“Grisham ain’t gonna do nothin’ useful with you; you might as well be one of our regular whores. Open for business,” he says, looking over my face with curiosity.
I fight against him but he’s holding me pretty good for a dude who’s gotten his ass kicked like three times this week.
“Hey now,” he says, tossing the knife aside and petting my hair. I cringe. “Hey, hey. Grisham had his fun with you. Time for all of us to have a sample. You’ll like it. I’ll make it real good for you, princess.”
He’s got sweatpants on and his hard-on is obvious against the forgiving fabric, bumping like an insistent finger against my thigh. I gag.
He uses his free hand to pull his pants down, freeing his dick, shoving my dress up, exposing my pussy, left bare for Grisham’ pleasure.
“Easy access,” he says. “Gotta love it.”
Everything’s a little fuzzy, as he’s still got pressure on my windpipe. I try to struggle but I feel like I’m stuck in a mud pit, not fully in control of my limbs. When I feel him enter me, I try to scream, but it’s a hoarse, laryngitic sound. It’s like one of those dreams we all have, where we try to scream but nothing comes out. A nightmare.
My vision goes fuzzy as he groans, but then, suddenly, he’s gone. My vision starts to clear, my heart picks up pace. I struggle to breathe, my throat raw as I cough and sputter. To one side of me, Grisham has Spree against the wall with one hand while the other punches him repeatedly. I manage to roll to my side, pushing the knife toward him.
He ignores it, continuing to pummel Spree until he’s bloody and nearly unconscious. Grisham tows him to the door and tosses him into the hallway. I hear him yell for someone, ordering them to lock him in a holding cell and not let him out, no matter what.
I’m picked up, taken to the shower. The water is warm and comforting as my senses return. Grisham takes a washcloth and gently cleans between my legs.
It’s a long time before he speaks. It seems obvious that he’s furious but I see something else there, too. Sadness? Longing? Caring? I’m not sure, but it hurts my heart.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice scratchy. “You saved me.”
He cringes at the sound.
“Don’t talk,” he orders, gruff. “I’m sorry he ... that’s not something I condone. Ever.”
“He only just ...”
“No,” he interrupts. “His cock was inside of you. I don’t care if it was half a second. I don’t want to think about it or I’ll go kill him now.”
He bites his bottom lip and lets out a huge sigh, looking everywhere but at me. I reach up and touch his face, forcing him to see me. I need him to see me, to see that I’m okay, that I’m stronger than he thinks.
*
