I go back into the bedroom, putting my ear against the door.

  “Fuck!” somebody is shouting. A bunch of glasses smash. About a dozen people are talking at once, maybe more. I can’t make them out though. They’re just a general chatter. Every now and then a voice will rise above the general chatter. “Fuck!” one voice goes again. “Danny and Mickey and Bones and… Junker and… Fucking Wolf! Fucking Wolf!”

  My blood turns to ice. Isn’t that what they call Mason in the club? Wolf? I remember hearing something about that, but I’m not sure where. Mason is dead? I fall back as though my legs have become disconnected from my body. Tiffany kidnapped and Mason dead … It’s history repeating itself; some cruel hand taking everybody I care about away from me. Call it God or Fate or the Devil; somebody is out to get me.

  “Mason!” the man roars.

  I’m on the verge of unstoppable tears when somebody shouts: “We’ll get him back, boss! We’ll get back him back!”

  Nobody talks for a long time. I guess they’re waiting for their president to calm down. From what I hear, I piece together that Mason put himself in a stupid position and got himself caught. Most of the men think he’s still alive. “They’d be stupid to kill Wolf.” But they’re not certain. None of them are. I sit on the edge of the bed and squeeze my knees, willing myself to calm down.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  “I can help,” I whisper, head spinning with ideas. This is not my world, though, and I’m sure most of my ideas are terrible. But surely, there must be a way for a woman to help. Maybe it would catch them off-guard or something?

  I run to the door, slamming my fist against it. I don’t even care about the shock that moves up my arm or the pain in my knuckles or the pounding in my ears.

  “What is it?” the guard asks, growling slightly. Maybe he doesn’t like that he has to babysit me with everything that’s going on.

  “I want to speak with the president. Yates,” I add, remembering his name. “I want to speak with him about Mason and—and everything, the whole mess.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because I want to help!” I snap. “I’m sick and tired of sitting in here like some waste of space. I’m not just a … I can help.”

  “How?” the man asks.

  “That’s what I want to talk to Yates about.”

  “Listen, lady. I get that you’re Mason’s lady and that means I’ve gotta be nice to you. All right, I get that. But I can’t go to the boss right now and tell him that some girl wants to take on the Pagan’s Sons. They’re busy.”

  “You won’t even try?” I ask, struggling to hide the disgust in my voice. “They have Mason! They have my friend! I’ve known Tiffany since we were kids and—”

  “Yeah, and how long you known Mason?”

  I slam my fist against the door so hard the frame trembles. Or maybe it just trembles in my mind. Either way, hearing this man question my devotion to Mason makes me want to rip the door down and slap him across the face.

  It doesn’t even matter that I don’t know how solid my devotion is. At least, I didn’t know before right now, before his life was in jeopardy.

  But now I know for sure. Maybe not love, maybe not undying devotion, but I don’t want him to die.

  I want him to hold me again. I want to feel him inside of me. I want to taste him.

  “What if there’s even a one percent chance I can help?” I hiss. “Or even less. If there’s even a zero-point-one percent chance that I can help get Mason and Danny back, how can you tell me no?” I don’t mention Tiffany seeing as they don’t even know her. But I mean her too.

  He hesitates. “I was patched two months ago. I was a pledge for a year before that. I can’t just walk up to the boss ’n—”

  “What if I write a note? If I write a note will you at least just give it to him? I know you’re nervous, but just walk over and hand it to him. He’s not going to go crazy or anything if you just hand him a note, is he? Please?”

  He sighs. The heavy sigh of a man caught between what he wants to do and what he thinks he should do. After a long moment: “Write the note and slide it under the door. I’ve got orders to keep this door closed. Those are from Mason himself.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I go to the desk and open the drawer. I found the pad and pen earlier. The pad is empty apart from some random stick-man doodles I must’ve drawn before collapsing into sleep. I turn the page and write as neatly as I can with my trembling hand: I am Mason’s lady. I can help get him back. One of those is true, and one of them is a wild guess. Please just give me five minutes of your time. Thank you.

  I fold the piece of paper in half and slide it under the door.

  “All right, give me a minute.”

  His footsteps echo down the hallway.

  I return to my newfound passion for endless pacing when he leaves. It takes about ten minutes for anything to happen. All I can do is think of all the horrible things that could be happening to Mason and Tiffany. My head fills with horrors, the kinds of things that plagued me for years after the car crash. I see Mason in a million torture scenarios with Tiffany right alongside him. The strange thing is that both of them terrify me almost equally. I can’t stand the idea of them hurting Mason just as much as I can’t stand them hurting my childhood friend.

  What the hell?

  I don’t have time to reflect on this for long though. A heavy pounding sounds at the door.

  “You decent in there?” a gravelly voice growls.

  “Decent?” I mutter.

  “Are you naked?” he snaps.

  “Oh no. I’m wearing a hoodie and jeans.” Like he needs a fucking report.

  The man who pushes the door open looks almost like a skeleton. Sinewy with sharp bones and wrinkled skin which seems like it sits right on the bone. He slams the door behind him and stuffs his hands in his pocket, standing close enough to the door that he can leave quickly if he wants to.

  “So you want to help?” he says, looking at me closely.

  I stand with my back straight and return his gaze. I don’t let him see the panic inside of me. I don’t let him see just how scared I really am.

  “I want to help,” I tell him.

  He narrows his eyes. “And how do you reckon you’d do that?” he asks. “Are you military trained?” His hands are clenched into tight fists. He has this faraway look in his eyes, his wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. If it wasn’t for the leather, he could be a librarian. But he wears the leather like a coat of armor. “I’m guessing that’s a no?” he says when I don’t respond.

  “I don’t have any training,” I say.

  “So how are you gonna help?”

  I throw my hands up. “I don’t know, Yates. But I know one thing that isn’t going to help for sure. That’s standing here whining like a little baby.”

  His upper lip curls, his eyes going wide for a second. I stand completely still even if I want to take a step back. I can tell that he wants to hit me, or at least shout at me. But after about fifteen seconds, a wave of relaxation moves through his body. I can track it, the tension releasing in every part of him. It’s like the truth of my words is kneading its way through him.

  “There’s something to that,” he says. He walks over to the desk, spins around the chair, and drops into it. “So you’re Wolf’s old lady?”

  “No, not …” I was going to say ‘yet.’ I bite down. “Not exactly,” I say instead. “They’ve got my friend as well,” I add, seeing that he wants an explanation. It’s easier to tell him that than to try and explain about the crash and about Tiffany and the feelings of guilt and all of it mixed together in a confusing, wild cocktail. “But I want to help. They won’t be expecting anything from me, will they?”

  “A club girl, maybe, but no, not you.” He strokes his chin. Cogs spin behind his eyes. “There might be a few ways we could use you,” he mutters. “But Wolf’d never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”

  “How is he going to be able to forgive you if they kill him and my friend? They’re crazy; they’re absolutely crazy. I saw that when they came into the bar. They’re just … they’re just a bunch of wild dogs running around causing mayhem. We can’t give Mason and Tiffany to men like that; we can’t just let them have them.”

  “And Danny,” he snarls. “You’re right, girl. I won’t deny that. But I’m not sure if you know what you’re saying.”

  He stands up, walking over to me. He stands close, but not so close that I feel intimidated.

  “Let me ask you something,” he says. “Are you okay with the idea of dying? And dying painfully? Imagine a bullet hitting you right here.” He points to my belly, but again he doesn’t get too close. “Just imagine a bullet goin’ right in there and you having no damn clue what to do. Blood pissing all over the place and that’s it, you’re done. Or try and imagine them getting ahold of you, all the things they’d do if they decided they didn’t want a ransom. This is serious shit, girl. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  He shakes his head, letting out a sharp whistle. “When I was your age, I didn’t even know my asshole from my elbow. Goddamn.”

  “How many of your men have these people killed?” I ask. I don’t allow myself to look away, to appear weak. I have to convince him to let me help, otherwise I’ll go through life with two nightmares on my conscience. Or three, depending on how my warped mind decides to count it. Or five, if I include Mom and Dad. Do I count the events or the people? “How many?” I persist, when he just looks at me.

  “Too damn many,” he growls, turning away from me. He paces over to the door. “I’ll think on what you said, all right? Jasmin, yeah?”

  “Jasmin.”

  “All right, Jasmin. I’ll think on it, but I don’t make rash decisions. But you should be ready.”

  “I am ready,” I say with certainty. Even if it might be a certainty I don’t feel.

  “Good.”

  He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

  15

  Mason

  If I get out of this alive, I’m smashing every bottle of whiskey I can find.

  They keep forcing slugs of it down my throat. They’ll beat me around a little and then shove the end of the bottle in my mouth and tip it, making me drink. It’s either drink it or cough it all over myself. I’ve done plenty of coughing and that only makes it worse. They just get another bottle. The room is dark except for naked bulbs right above me and across the room above Danny.

  At least, I think that’s what’s happening. Between the liquor and the pain surging through my skull like lightning bolts, I’m not exactly sure where I am. Hallucinations are dancing and the world keeps flickering back and forth.

  My jaw is pulsing like my old man just gave me a working over. And this blood dripping down my face and neck; it could be mine or it could be the pigs I just slaughtered. The old man likes to make me use the claw hammer since he says it’ll make me stronger. Maybe he’s right about that, but there’s something sick about the way they squeal.

  I shake my head as my old man steps into view, right at the edge of my spotlight. No, not my old man. The bald prick with the tattoos covering his head. Trevor. Deadman.

  “Just give me one address to one warehouse,” he says, teeth gritted.

  I shake my head. He’s living in a dreamland if he thinks Danny or me are going to talk.

  I want to spit at him or say something that’ll bring him down. But torture is a motherfucker, and I know if I do that I’ll only make it worse. I’ll never rat on the club. I’ll die before I do that. But I’ve gotta be smart, too. How long have we been at it? It’s hard to know when just holding my head up is an effort. Hours, at least.

  “Don’t be stupid.” He walks across the room and stands behind Danny. His face is a patchwork of bruises and cuts. He grins at me; winks. Then Trevor puts his hand on his shoulder and squeezes. For a ratty motherfucker, he really does have some strength. He clamps his hand down so hard on Danny’s shoulder that he starts whining. It’s a fucked-up sound, not at all like Danny. But then torture changes every man, surely.

  “I’ll kill him,” he growls. There are men all along the walls, silent watchers. Sometimes I wonder if I am imagining them but then somebody will laugh or lift their cigarette to their lips. The glow gives them away, the real bastards.

  “I’ll kill you all!” I bark, stupid, stupid. Letting my anger get the—

  He flies across the room like a man on a mission. I try to weave my head to the side but they’ve got me tied to this chair pretty good. I manage to roll with it, at least, snapping my head aside as his fist catches me in the jaw. Nonetheless, a right hook to the face with no way to defend myself still hurts.

  I spit blood, grinning wildly. Maybe the old man did me a favor by beating me bloody every damn day. Made me tougher.

  “You keep smiling, I’ll cut a permanent one in you,” he snarls. “Give me a fucking address!”

  “You won’t do any serious damage to us,” I sigh, fighting down the vomit rising up in my throat. It rises constantly, but I won’t let it come out. That’d make these bastards’ day. “You won’t be able to ransom us, and you know how the boss would take it if you killed me. You must know that.”

  “What are you to him, eh? His fucking rent boy?”

  I laugh, spitting blood everywhere. “He likes me because I was a stupid kid when he picked me up, trained me up.”

  “We’ve killed quite a few of your men already.” He scratches his bald tattooed head. I wonder if it’s a nervous tic. Or maybe that’s just my natural optimism.

  “True, and the boss is pissed. Try for two more and see what happens.”

  He shrugs, waving his hand off the side, into the darkness. A shadow shifts at the edge of my vision. “Fair enough. Bring the girl. Here, Mason, you look thirsty.” Deadman takes the whiskey out of his pocket and shoves it into my mouth.

  “Where’s mine, motherfucker?” Danny growls from someplace far away.

  But Deadman doesn’t hear. He just keeps tipping the whiskey down my throat until the bottle is empty. It’s all I can do to swallow quickly enough. It burns down my throat and settles in my belly like fire. He throws the glass against the wall. It smashes loudly, except I’m only half sure of that because I’m back in the slaughterhouse again and I’m in the corner, kneeling, puking, and the old man is asking if I’m a little pansy girl or what’s wrong with me…

  Cold water brings me back to reality sometime later. I’m not sure how much time has passed. Jasmin’s friend is next to Danny now, though, both of them tied to chairs. She looks a whole lot better than him. She hasn’t got any cuts or bruises, though her face is covered in streaky makeup tracks from all the crying. Can’t say I blame her.

  Trevor walks over to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “She’s a wild one,” he says, stroking slowly. She cringes away from him, but she doesn’t speak. Maybe she’s too scared or maybe she just knows it’s no use. He hasn’t gagged us. I reckon he likes our roaring and coughing and spitting and choking. He’s a sick bastard. “I had some boys look into her. The things this one gets up to, Wolf … you wouldn’t believe it. A new man every night a couple of months ago. A nine-day streak. What a fuckin’ whore.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” I growl. “Who gives a shit who she fucks? She’s a civilian, you fuckin’ rat.”

  He smiles. It’s like liquid, shifting in the lowlight.

  Goddamn, I miss Jasmin. Would she ever forgive me if I let something happen to her friend?

  “What do you think, beautiful?” He puts his hand on her shoulder. She has some fight in her, though, just like Jasmin. She doesn’t cringe or scream out like the prick obviously wants her to. It’s difficult to be sure, though, since there are five of her. I’ve heard of people seeing double or triple when they’ve had too much to drink, but I always thought it was a myth. How fucked up does a man need to be to let that happen to him?

  It ain’t a myth.

  “Eh?” He kneels down next to her and takes out a sharp knife. I can tell it’s sharp from here. It has that look about it, a knife he’s shown some love to. He brings it to her neck and strokes down toward her chest. He grins when she lets out the first whimper. “What’d you reckon, Wolf? It wouldn’t take much to gut this bitch, would it?”

  “You know I can’t tell you shit about the club,” I growl. I have to focus hard on each word. I feel like my tongue is trying to choke me. “The boss’ll pay you well for a ransom. For all three of us.”

  “What if I kill this girl right now?” He grabs her hair, yanking it back. She lets out another whimper, and then her trembling lips split open into a cow’s dying moan. At least that’s what I see, hear. The first cow I ever killed. Her name was Lola, and she was a good cow, and I did not want her to die. But my dad gave me no choice. She sounded sad when I ended her life.

  I blink. Tiffany is crying heavily, her entire body trembling. The chair leg tsk-tsks against the floor.

  “That would be a mistake,” I mutter.

  “It would,” Danny echoes.

  “Why’s that?” Trevor asks, looking from me to Danny and back again.

  I search my mind. But there’s nothing there, no clever reason. No quip. Me and Danny have always been fast thinkers when it comes to this sort of stuff. But sometimes even hard nights are too much even for meant-to-be-hard men. We’re done, I think, and so is this girl—

  “That’s the boss’s daughter, dumbass,” Danny says. But he doesn’t just say it. He believes it. Maybe it’s the whiskey or maybe being this close to seeing a civilian lady die has brought out the actor in him. Whatever it is, it’s the most sincere thing the bastard has ever said.

  Trevor pauses, the knife at the top of her cleavage. “What?” he growls. He looks around the room. A million shadowy figures watch. I blink again. My eyes water like crazy. I’m not crying, but they just keep watering. Every time I blink, it’s like whiskey is dripping down my cheeks. Whiskey and blood and sweat.