Page 2 of Blue-Eyed Jacks (Destroyers MC: Skilletsville PA #1)

T oday was the day I’d been waiting for since my father sold me to pay off his cocaine habit.

Melodramatic? Yes. Illegal? Absolutely. It was so far-fetched, no one believed me.

Except for the ones who’d orchestrated it, which meant they enforced their secrets hard.

I was only seventeen and branded as a slut for “marrying” the president of the local one-percenter motorcycle club.

Even months later, the whispers would start wherever I’d go in Pittsburgh.

“I hear she rode a train. Every member of that club has had a piece of her.”

“How could she sink so low? She came from money, you know?”

“He’s twice her age.”

“Her father is a lawyer; you’d think she’d be smarter than that.”

“I bet she’s one of those girls who likes getting abused.”

But I wasn’t in Pittsburgh anymore. We were halfway across the state of Pennsylvania, where no one knew me, no one would whisper about me, and where, if I was lucky, I might find someone brave enough to stand up against Keith “Shock” Weaver, my legal husband who I hated down to the screaming depths of my soul.

Daddy saw to the paperwork himself. He signed my life away, then snorted a line of coke off the marriage certificate.

My “husband” joined him. Then consummated the marriage in my bedroom under my music-themed decor and a plethora of boy band posters.

Their smiling faces laughed at me and my pain.

When Shock’s men packed up my room, they tore those faces down and rolled them into tubes of a reality I’d never know again.

I burned all of them. Bye. Bye. Bye .

The van lurched through a gated wall. No one said there’d be gates . My heart rate picked up.

The prospect assigned to the van to watch me noticed me taking note of the surroundings. “Skilletsville is so cheap they stuck their club in a junkyard. But don’t worry, the building has two floors, and the top floor is all bedrooms.”

A lump of bile crawled up my throat. My insides churned with panic. I wasn’t going to get away tonight; I’d arrived at a deeper level of Hell.

“Girls through the back, Toro wants them checked first.” Shock’s VP, BamBam, pulled women from the other van and shoved them toward the end of the building.

There was a small access door propped open.

A dumpster sat behind it, overflowing and squalid.

It matched the tableau of stacked rusty cars and dirt.

The piles were so high in spots I couldn’t see the pine trees surrounding the compound.

The prospect dragged me out of the van. “Come on, Kate. Shock’ll get mad at me if you’re not ready.”

I’d never be ready, not for any of this.

“Whoa. Where ya going?” BamBam grabbed my arm and snapped his fingers at the prospect. “Get your ass in the front, Shock’s got errands for ya.”

His grip was much tighter than the prospect’s had been.

“You, kitchen is to the right as you walk in. Don’t go upstairs.”

Oh, thank God . I followed his directions and hovered in the entrance to a modest industrial kitchen to note if the back door would remain open. But BamBam slammed it shut with a bang. And the distinct rattle of chains being looped through the handle crushed my hopes.

“What are you doing standing there? Get upstairs with the others.” A blonde woman, dressed in scanty red satin and black fishnet stood at the bottom of the stairs.

In her right hand was a joint, held like a cigarette.

Her elbow propped against her hip, artfully angled to resemble an old movie harlot.

Her skin was almost as pale as her hair.

It contrasted with her bright red lips that matched her outfit.

She had smoky kohl eyeliner, smudged grunge style.

Despite the obvious wear, was Playboy model pretty.

“I was told the kitchen.”

Please don’t make me go upstairs.

A barely five-foot-tall woman pushed me aside as she barreled out of the kitchen. “Jewel, get your ass upstairs and stop harassing the guests.”

“She ain’t no guest.” Jewel, the blonde, eyed my clothes with contempt.

Every item of my clothing except for the “property of” vest on my back was borrowed from someone in the club’s arsenal of hookers.

I tried my damnedest not to think about where the hand-me-down thong used to reside because it was either that or go commando.

Never go commando around bikers. It’s like waving raw meat in front of a grizzly.

That was why I’d layered on a pair of booty shorts over the thong and under the black leather micro mini school girl skirt.

On top, I’d layered more clothing over a red lace Demi-bra.

A muted gray Henley no one claimed, a ripped lace body suit, and a slouchy tank top with the slogan “Lifestyles of the Tattooed and Famous” written on it in glittery gold script.

It clashed with the muted vibe I desired, and if pressed, I’d ditch it or turn it inside out once I got free.

Ditching it was secondary. If I was going to wander the streets of Skilletsville after dark, summer or not, I’d need warmth.

Only the vest would go. And with it, every tainted memory of the Destroyers Motorcycle Club.

I was not property.

But first, I also needed to get free of this place. I made myself as small as possible against the wall.

“Are you an old lady?” A little girl, maybe seven or eight, pulled on my left hand and played with the ring there.

To a normal seventeen-year-old, that question would sound ridiculous.

But three painful months changed my entire vocabulary.

I knew she meant “significant other” or “wife” by that question.

Technically , that included me, as much as I didn’t want to admit it.

I glanced at the girl’s mother, who regarded the girl’s question with interest. “I’m Shock’s.

” That killed me to admit. I wasn’t his.

I belonged to myself. Or would as soon as I could get free.

The mother’s face changed from guarded to defiant.

“Hear that, Jewel? She’s the Pittsburg’s President’s ol’ lady!

” My defender, all five feet of her, looked like an older clone of the little girl still holding my hand.

Both had curly black hair, deeply tanned skin, and gorgeously wide, dark-brown eyes with thick eyelashes.

The mother, I guessed, also hated Jewel.

It proved true in the scowl she sent the woman and the sharpness of her voice.

“Whatever, I’ll fuck him first. I hope you don’t mind.” Jewel singsonged that last sentence and then retreated upstairs.

“Bitch,” the mom muttered.

“Bitch,” the little girl mimicked.

“Poppy, don’t. We don’t swear.”

“But you just did.”

Poppy’s mother noticed me against the wall and used an introduction as an excuse not to answer. “I’m Hilea Hikialani-Albert, Pinner’s wife. You should call me Lea or Lady High, I guess. This is my girl Poppy. Kitchen?” Her outstretched arm invited me inside.

“Are you messing with Jewel again?” A middle-aged woman with brown hair, hazel eyes, sun-tanned skin, and a streak of gray emanating from one temple noticed me next to Lea.

“Hey, ‘name’s Regina, but everybody calls me ‘Ma’ or just Gina.” She held out a sudsy hand.

I took it and marveled at the sensation.

It had been four months since anyone dared to greet me before they greeted my jailor/husband or his crew, and even longer since any woman looked at me with anything other than pity or scorn.

I swallowed and finished the handshake before I made an impression.

“Kate.” I refused to go by any last name, or any nickname given to me by the asshole men or women who enabled them.

“Nice to meet you. Lemme see that ring.”

Ma, or Gina, snapped her fingers. Whoever she was, she seemed to run this room. I opted for compliance rather than fighting because she’d been equitable to me so far.

“Looks fake.”

“It probably is,” I answered. Shock Weaver wouldn’t give me anything of value. Not even clothes. So, I had to assume this was a highly gaudy piece of horseshit. I’d know as soon as I found a pawnshop.

“Cheap bastard,” she muttered under her breath. Then she plastered a smile on her face. “You didn’t hear that.”

“He is.”

“Why are you with him?” Lea asked.

I debated how to respond.

Gina dipped her head at Poppy, reminding me there were small ears in the room. I tried to smile but couldn’t. “Let’s just say I didn’t have a say in it.”

“That’s cow poop.” Out of the mouths of babes…

“Poppy!”

“I didn’t swear, Mama. You say poop, and that other word I’m not supposed to say. And Daddy says—”

“No, no-no-no-no no… you do not repeat your daddy’s words.”

While they hashed out semantics, Gina studied me. “You on the pill?”

I shook my head. “I have an implant, and it’s good for another year and a half.”

Gina nodded. “I’m a nurse; let me know if you need anything else on the down low. Within reason, that is.” She glanced at the door opposite the back hall. Constant noise came from that direction, but it had increased significantly.

A young biker popped his head in. “Ma? Have you seen—” he saw me and pointed. “Shock wants to introduce you to the club.”

Oh, God. My hands trembled. I barely survived the first “meet the club” experience. I glanced at the back hall and the bolted door.

“Ma?” The boy-man asked.

“Give her a minute; she’s in the bathroom.”

“She ain’t,” he pointed out.

Regina stepped between us. “She is. I’ll send her out in one minute. You have my word on that, now go pass that along, and while you’re out there, check on my son, will ya? Make sure he knows I told you to check on him. That should keep him out of trouble for another ten minutes.”

“Okay, Ma, but one minute only.” He shut the door behind him and the noise reduced.

“I’m going to ask once; give me a straight answer. Did that bastard husband of yours hurt you?”

I nodded.

“How bad?”

Tears blurred my vision. There were many ways I could answer, but the worst event stood out. I’d never stuttered in my life, but the word didn’t want to come out cleanly. “T-t-train.”

“Oh shit. We don’t do that here. Chin up.” She wiped my eyes and swept my unruly hair away from my face. “You blotch when you cry. I bet you bruise easy, too, don’t ‘cha?”

I pulled the long sleeve on my right arm up. The black-blue-and-yellow marks where Shock deliberately hurt me hadn’t faded, and the injury was over a week old. “Ten days ago he tried to break my arm.”

Her jaw went to the side as she tried to contain her anger. She tugged down the sleeve and held my chin. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try. Lea, swear Poppy to secrecy. Not even her dad gets this. Poppy?”

The girl nodded. Her eyes were a little too wise for her years.

“Now. Don’t make a liar out of me. Go out there, play by the rules, and I’ll see what I can do from here.”

There was nothing she could do. The hierarchy was simple. Men made the rules, enforced the rules, and dealt out punishment if you forgot or fought back. I smoothed my expression and braced for the worst as I exited through the door to the main room.

The building was one of those metal barns, but the inside had been altered to suit the club’s needs.

It had a second level, side rooms or offices, and a large bar at one end of the open section.

Metal poles held up the roof framing, and mis-matched furniture littered the space, creating little groupings of use.

There was a pool “room” with a dart “room” mirroring it, and between them, round wire spools laid flat to be used as tables for beer drinking.

Couches ran along the side where the hookers already paired off with men.

I walked through the crowd to the middle where Shock sat in one of the few overstuffed recliners.

Next to him sat a grizzled man with the name “Toro” embroidered above a president patch on his vest. They were deep in discussion.

A small barrel sat between the chairs. On it was a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses, along with a plastic cup of beer.

Shock had a matching cup in his hand. I halted just outside of arm’s reach and waited.

As I did, I noticed Toro’s bodyguard. All clubs had one officer with the sole job of protecting the president.

They gave that person the rank of Sergeant at Arms. Skilletsville’s answer to BamBam wasn’t ugly.

In fact, he was one of the better-looking men in the room.

I dipped my eyes so no one would catch me looking.

His name patch read, “Jackson.” I wondered how he got such a normal-sounding nickname.

Shock interrupted my thoughts. “About fucking time you showed up. Toro, this is my wife. Ain’t she the palest bitch you’ve ever seen? Babe, lift your shirt and show him your pink tits.”

I couldn’t. The lace body suit would have to be unsnapped, and I’d be damned if I did that here.

Instead, I tugged as much fabric away from my shoulder to show exactly zero of my boob and only a bit of my shoulder.

It was enough to also display the hickeys that asshole marked me up with this morning.

“I said tits, bitch .”

“Shock, are you hearing of any action on your west side? The Legion are giving our boys south of here some shit.”

“Fuck those bastards.”

I wasn’t trying to listen, but wondered if he meant the Destroyers’ allies or enemies. With Shock, it went both ways.

Toro leaned in to talk shop. I stood, shaking with fear, and trying to keep as silent and as still as possible so Shock would forget I existed.

No such luck. He motioned to his feet and pointed a finger at the floor. His not-so-subtle signal I needed to park my ass on top of one of his boots and fawn over him like a slave.

I sat but did no fawning. And I avoided touching him, opting for leaning against the chair instead.

He kicked me in the thigh, then planted his boot between my crisscrossed legs, dragging me closer and pinching me between the chair and the floor each time he leaned forward to make a point with Toro. I tried to edge my leg out from under the chair to avoid the worst of the pain.

The cold concrete floor was sticky and filthy.

It smelled like stale beer, and the air held the distinctively pungent odor of weed.

I had eaten little, was wearing too many clothes for the closeness of the party and the weight of Shock’s warm leg against me, and a sickly sweat broke out over my skin.

More than my extremities trembled as I fought the urge to puke.

It would serve Shock right to vomit on his shoes.

Maybe then I’d have just one night of peace?