Reign (The Henchmen MC Book 1) Read online

  Holy. Shit.

  What the fuck did I get myself into?

  I needed to get the fuck away.

  Before he came back.

  Because there, sprawled across the table, was an assortment of guns and an enormous sum of money.

  Shit.

  Normal people didn't keep guns and cash on their dining room tables.

  Normal people didn't keep ten foot fences around their entire property.

  Shit.

  I needed to...

  “Keep your mouth shut about it. Don't ask questions. And we won't have any problems.”

  Shit.

  I felt myself jerk.

  His arm raised and I flinched away from him. Knee jerk. I wasn't even aware I was doing it. But he saw. His hazel eyes darkening, his brows lowering. “Towel,” he explained and I looked and saw the white material in his hand.

  Shit.

  Again.

  Way to let your trauma show, Summer.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, taking the towel and scrubbing it over my face, then rubbing it through my hair.

  “What's your name?” he asked, watching me.

  “Summer,” I answered automatically. Crap. I shouldn't have said that. I should have come up with some fake name. “You?”

  “Reign?”

  “Rain?” I asked. “Like... precipitation?”

  That made him snort. “No, babe. Reign. Like a king.”

  Well then. Okay.

  “I'm gonna get changed. Find you something dry,” he said, moving toward the hallway again. “Don't touch the guns less you know what you're doin'. They're loaded.”

  Right.

  Wasn't planning on touching them. I had never even touched a gun before. Though it seemed like any idiot could handle one. As evidenced by V's ragtag group of morons. Evil, sadistic morons.

  I forced my eyes away from the dining table, looking out the back windows into the darkness.

  I didn't have to think about them. I was, for the moment, relatively safe. Okay, well, maybe not safe safe, judging by the very criminal looking supplies laid up like Thanksgiving dinner on the dining room table, but safer than I had been. And as soon as the storm let up, I could ask Reign to drive me somewhere.

  I wanted to go home.

  But that wasn't safe.

  Not yet.

  Not until Daddy got more men in to try to...

  “Yo, babe,” Reign's voice broke through my thoughts, making me jump.

  “Yeah?” I asked, turning to see him walking down the hall, dry except for his hair, dressed in a pair of thick dark gray sweatpants hung low at his hips. And... no shirt. It was in my personal opinion that men with bodies like Reign's should never wear shirts. Because, damn. He was built. Not bulky, but strong. Muscled. Tattooed. Hot. Oh, my god he was hot.

  “You gonna' keep starin' or you want to get changed?” he asked, a smirk playing at his lips. Because he was hot shit and he knew it.

  I shook my head, walking toward him, still toweling my hair. Reign turned, walking back down the hall, leaving me to follow behind him. He walked up to a door, opened it, and stood there.

  “Christ. You're shiverin',” he said, watching me.

  I'd been shivering for hours. “I'm fine.”

  “Take a hot shower,” he said, shoving clothes at me.

  Oh my god. Yes. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. “Okay,” I said, giving him a weak smile and going into the bathroom.

  I shut the door, dropping the dry clothes on the sink in front of the huge dome shaped mirror. I found a spare toothbrush still in it's packaging and added a massive amount of paste, brushing my teeth mercilessly until they felt smooth and clean. Turning to the shower bay, I reached in and turned the water on hot, stripping as fast as my hands would allow, then throwing myself under the hot water.

  I shampooed four times. I scrubbed every inch of myself five times. I wished for a razor and half stepped out of the shower to rummage in the linen cabinet until I found a spare disposable one, thanking my lucky stars.

  I must have been in there for an hour. But it still didn't feel like enough. I was worried I was never going to feel clean ever again. The kind of clean that never knew the touch of filth. The kind of clean I had been before.

  But that was just another cross I had to bear.

  I grabbed a fresh towel, drying off, making my way over to the clothes. The black wifebeater would definitely fit so I slipped it on. It hung loose around my breasts and belly but it was warm and clean. I was definitely not complaining. I wasn't taking anything for granted anymore.

  I was pulling up the pants which looked hopelessly too large when the door flew open and my heart slammed up into my throat. PTSD type memories flying through my head until I forced myself to focus and saw Reign standing there. Not V. Not his men. Reign.

  But it wasn't a sigh of relief.

  Because he wasn't looking at my face.

  His gaze was stuck on the outer side of my left ass cheek. Something more like upper hip meets thigh, but far enough back for it to technically be ass.

  That's where his eyes were.

  And they were angry.

  “Looks like we have a fucking problem.”

  Four

  Reign

  She flinched. Flinched. Like I was gonna' fucking hit her. Shit. Not brain damaged. Abused.

  I had some abused chick in my house. I never brought any chicks to my house. I fucked them in my room at the compound. I never took tail home. And now the first piece of ass I brought back was damaged.

  That was just my luck.

  I walked away from the bathroom door, going to the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on. Then I cleared the money and guns away, taking them to the safe, locking um up. Didn't need some damaged chick thinking I was some fucking psychopath.

  She was lying to me too. About the shoes. She was lying. There had been no flip flops. She had been barefoot when she flew out of that car. Which left another question unanswered. Why the fuck would she be out in a hurricane, driving barefoot, in a ritzy fucking car, in pajamas?

  She said she wasn't going back. That I was going to have to kill her because she wasn't going back. Back to what? Back to some piece of shit who liked to knock her around? Some domestic abuse shit? Stole his car and got the hell outta dodge?

  Had to respect that.

  I made a cup of coffee. And drank it. And she still hadn't come out of the bathroom. I made another cup. Drank it. Still nothing.

  I sighed, slamming my mug down, walking down the hall. The shower had been off for a while. I was half-worried she had some kind of injury after all and passed out in there.

  Worried.

  Me.

  What the fuck?

  I pushed open the door. And there she was. In my wifebeater, pulling my pants up her thin legs. She was so tiny. Like a bird. Fragile looking. My eyes dropped to her upper thigh/ ass area. And any story I had come up with about her past flew away.

  Because there on her ass was a brand.

  A fucking burning flesh brand.

  And it was V's.

  A letter V inside of an upright triangle.

  A brand meant she was one of V's girls.

  And she was in my house.

  Fuck.

  What the fuck did I get myself into?

  I didn't fuck with V.

  It was club rules that none of us went near V or his girls. I didn't mind my guys getting their dicks wet with any willing pussy they could find. But they did not, under any circumstances, take someone unwilling. And V's girls were all unwilling. Because V's girls were forced into the mother fucking skin trade.

  And V was also one sick fuck.

  Another reason to not go anywhere near his operation or his girls.

  Fuck.

  Mother fucking shit.

  “I swear I will be out of your hair tomorrow,” she said, yanking the pants up and having to hold them fisted in the front or they'd fall down. Her gray eyes were wide and pleading.

&nbs
p; “You want to get outta that shit situation, fine. Good. Good fucking for you. You saw an opportunity and you took it. Smart. But I ain't fucking with V's business.”

  “I'm not his business,” she objected, her eyes flashing. Pride?

  “That brand on your ass says otherwise.”

  “The brand says nothing other than he was trying to scare my father.”

  Her father? What the fuck?

  “Get your skinny little ass out into the kitchen so I can get more coffee. And you're going to explain your shit. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  That was all I needed. I turned and walked back to the kitchen.

  Five

  Summer

  Okay. I believed in telling the truth. As a rule. Ninety-eight percent of the time. The two percent was saved for those times your friends asked if their new dye job looked good and you personally thought it was absurd for someone who routinely baked in the sun to dye their hair red and think it looked natural... or when a relative gave you a gift certificate to a store that you wouldn't be caught dead shopping in. In essence, lying was only acceptable to save you from hurting someone's feelings.

  But then again, that was before.

  Fact of the matter was, I didn't know Reign from Adam. And aside from what I had already stupidly admitted, I needed to keep my wits about me. He could see an opportunity to help himself and whatever criminal underground thing he had going on by dropping me right back in V's arms.

  Or to barter me.

  V would pay.

  I knew that. But I wasn't going to let him know that.

  I needed to start playing things smart. My freaking life was on the line. I had to stop blurting stuff out like a teenager caught with a six pack.

  I was a good liar. At least I was pretty sure I was. I just really needed to commit to my story. Whatever the hell that story was. Which I was going to have to come up with on the fly seeing as the space between his bathroom and his kitchen wasn't nearly long enough to come up with a cover.

  Reign reached up into the cabinet for a second mug, filling it, and handing it to me. Now, I was always a coffee person. Before. I would get up in the morning and take the drive to the coffee shop around the corner and get my fix. Then again in the afternoon. And if it was a rough day, the evening too. But I liked my drinks milky and sugary. Preferably with some sort of flavor. Caramel. Mocha. Pumpkin.

  I had never had black coffee in my life.

  But the fact of the matter was, I hadn't had anything but struggled handfuls of water from the bathroom tap for months. So I was going to drink it. And I was going to learn to enjoy it.

  “Thanks,” I said, cradling it between my hands for a second before taking a sip. It wasn't bad. It wasn't good either. But it wasn't bad. And it was strong. It felt like it kicked the whole way down.

  “Talk.”

  Well then.

  “What do you want to know?” I hedged.

  “I want to know why you got the brand of a fucking skin trader on your hip. I want to know what happened to you. I want to know how the fuck you escaped that fortress.”

  “I have a brand because he brands all the girls he brings in.” That was true. Even though I wasn't one of those girls. It felt wrong to say 'thank god', but thank god!

  “So you're just one of his chicks?”

  “Yes.” Nope.

  “How'd you get out?”

  “Honestly?” I could do this honestly at least. “I don't know. I have no idea what happened. My binds were loose and I slipped out of them. I got up and went to bang on the door to go to the bathroom and... no one answered. Someone always answered if I made a fuss. Even if it was with their fists, they answered.” Did he just wince? I was pretty sure he winced. That was good. I could play the beaten woman card. It was really the only one I had anyway. “So I looked out. And... there was no one. I didn't even think about it. I just ran. Which was probably really stupid.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, nodding.

  “But it worked. I got outside and... there was no one there either. I just bolted to the gate, hit the button, hopped into one of the cars and floored it.”

  “You hot wire it?”

  “No,” I said, half-laughing. Because if he knew me, he would know how absurd a question that was. I didn't even know where to put wiper fluid in my car back home. “No, they leave the keys in the cars.”

  “That's careless.”

  “I guess they never thought anyone would get the chance to run.”

  He nodded, looking out the window for a second. “Who is your father?”

  Shit.

  Shit shit.

  I never should have said that.

  “Just a guy. A normal guy. V wanted to screw with him I guess.”

  “Babe,” he said, his voice very flat. “I know criminals. And I know crime lords. V is a fuckin' crime lord. No way he wanted to fuck with your daddy for shits and giggles. He had a reason. What's the reason?”

  “I don't know,” I said, putting a little desperation into the words, making them convincing. Because I did know. And it was horrible. And I was willing to keep going through the torture every day that my father denied V what he wanted. Because he was doing the right thing. I begged him to do the right thing.

  “You come from money? You sound like you come from money.”

  I sounded like I came from money? That sounded like an insult. But if his mind was running toward extortion, well that was a good direction for him to go. “Yes. I come from money.”

  “V likes money. Almost as much as he likes stealing girls off the streets and making them suck and fuck until they're too used up to be useful.”

  I felt myself shiver because it was true. It was so awfully, disgustingly true. That was what he did. I saw them all the time. Getting dragged in. Screaming. Crying. Trying to claw away. But it never did any good. The men were too strong. Too immune to it all. And the women would be held down. They would be forced to endure the searing, unbelievable pain of branding. Then they would be thrown into some building with a hundred other girls, waiting to be transported out. Waiting to spend their lives being raped and tortured by whoever paid the most money.

  And that was what Reign thought had happened to me.

  So be it.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, my voice quiet from disgust.

  “You're lucky as fuck to get out. But if he was using you to extort money, babe, he ain't gonna stop lookin' for you.”

  “I know that.” God, I wish I didn't know that.

  “You put me in the middle of your mess.”

  “Technically you put yourself in the middle,” I corrected, feeling annoyance rise up. “You could have left me on the side of that road.”

  “No I couldn't.”

  “Yes,” I said, firmly, “you could have. You chose not to. And I am grateful for that. But don't put it on me. I told you I would be out of your hair once the storm blows over. Drop me anywhere. I'll figure it out from there.”

  “Ain't dropping you nowhere,” he said, looking at me like I was crazy.

  “Why not?”

  “You got any fuckin' idea how crazy that piece of shit is? He'll have every man, every cop, every lackey out looking for you. Hair like that, babe, they'll find you.”

  “Then I'll dye it.”

  “Nah.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Like it was any of his damn business what I did with my hair. “Do you have any better suggestions?”

  “You'll stay here.”

  What?

  No. Seriously. What?

  “I'm sorry?”

  “You'll stay here. Give it a few days to blow over. No one saw me with you. It was dead as fuck out tonight. Everyone with their power out in town and shit. He'll find the mangled car, figure you got taken to the hospital. He'll spend some time on that. Then he'll hit the streets. You need to stay hidden for a while. Ain't no better place than here for that.”

  Was he seriously offering me sanctuary? Like, actual san
ctuary?

  “You can't be serious.”

  “Do I look like I'm fuckin' jokin'?”

  “V is dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “If he finds out you helped me, you'll be on his shit list.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why would you ever offer...”

  “Babe. He ain't gonna find out. It's that simple. You stay here. Inside the house. Couple days. Week. Two at most. I can get you out of here and far away from all this.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Reign's shoulder shrugged. “Certain criminals give us all a bad name.”

  I snorted. Then my eyes widened, my hand slapping over my mouth. Shit. I wasn't supposed to snort at the nice criminal who was offering to help me. Good going, Summer.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, looking down at my coffee.

  Another shrug. “Might not get it, but we all got a code.”

  “A code?” I prompted.

  “Yeah. A code. That's why you see some good old fashioned cell block justice when a baby raper ends up in prison. Fucker doesn't get to live long enough to regret his life choices.”

  “Have you been to prison?”

  Damn it.

  I was prying. And he had said to not ask questions. I was royally screwing up my chances of being allowed to stay.

  “Yeah, babe. I've been locked up.”

  “For a long time?” Oh my god. What was wrong with me?

  “Sixty seconds behind bars is a long time.”

  Well, that was true. And, in my own way, I knew exactly what that felt like. I had been in my own prison for months. Without regular eating schedules. Without trips to the yard. Without anyone to come in and stop the beatings.

  “Seems you might know a thing or two 'bout that. How long did he have you?”

  “What's the date?”

  “What?”

  “What is today' date?”

  “October fifteenth.”

  “I was taken on July second.” I had done that thing you see in movies. When people get caught. Or when they're in jail and they start scratching days into the wall. Four lines. One across. Four lines. One across. I had one-hundred and five days. Three months and two weeks. It felt so much longer. But knowing how long it actually was helped me keep my sanity through all the pain and the hunger.