Captive: A Bodyguard Romance (Hollywood Guardians Book 1) Read online

The only thing I'm interested in a long-term commitment to is my job. The whole family, kids, white picket fence thing? Fuck all that. I was born to make a difference, and I've never been more dedicated to anything in my life.

  "If that's how you want it," she finally manages to say, but her voice betrays how emotional she feels over this whole thing.

  My shoulders drop as I exhale loudly. "Look. You've got a lot going for you, and if you want a commitment, maybe try looking for guys who don't straight up tell you they're not interested in that, so next time you won't be so disappointed."

  Her icy glare might've cut right through me if I cared, but I don't. I gave her a solid piece of advice that would save her all sorts of emotional baggage if she'd only listen, but I'm betting she won't. It's not my problem. When I turn away from her and walk back into the building, I'm already forgetting about what's-her-name and looking toward the mission in front of me.

  With my focus sharp and my head in the game, Reign of Chaos has no idea just what's coming for them.

  "Shit, shit, shit." I’m hopping on one foot, tugging my boot on while I rush toward the door to my room. I'm running crazy late, and if I don't hurry my ass up, no doubt Vandal or Bomber will notice and bitch me out about it. That's the last thing I want right now—or ever.

  Those old bastards can go die a slow, painful death, and I'll happily sit and eat popcorn while they do it.

  Sadly, my luck's not that good. Reality likes to shit all over my violent daydreams, so my shift at the bar started five minutes ago, and no doubt I'm going to catch heat for it. I grab a banana on the way out since I don't exactly have time to eat lunch, and down it as fast as I can while I race down the smoke-stained outdated hallway of the Reign of Chaos clubhouse toward the bar and try not to choke.

  Maybe I should feel grateful that instead of keeping me in one of the cages in the basement, they let me have a bedroom all my own. Up until recently, these men haven't been exactly warm and fuzzy, and that's only happening now because Devil died. I can't say I'm sad to see him go.

  Good fucking riddance.

  That old bastard was mean and ruthless. My skin crawled being in the same building as him. The one good thing he ever did for me was tell the club guys hands off. No one dared to go against Devil's orders, so I've been relatively safe here.

  If you could call regularly getting belittled, screamed at, and bruised up safe.

  It's not like I have much of a choice. Okay, it's not like I have any choice at all. You know how society tells us that parents are supposed to love and protect their kids from the evils of the world? Well, my mom literally sold me to Devil himself for her next fix, and I've been stuck here ever since.

  I try to look on the bright side because what other option do I have? At least I don't have to worry about paying rent or what I'm going to eat, so I guess it could be worse.

  As I round the bar and nod to Lola, one of the sweet butts here who helps out behind the bar, too, I toss the banana peel in the trash and wash my hands. These guys might be no better than animals, but I'm a fucking lady, and I refuse to live in filth. There aren't a lot of things I can control about my life, but that's one of them.

  "Nice of you to join us," Brutal drawls, leering at me from across the bar. He's what I'd call piggy with a gut that hangs over his saggy, faded jeans and a cut that's a couple sizes too small since he's obviously had it forever and gained a lot of weight between then and now. He wears a pair of glasses that look like the kind a rapist from the eighties might wear—the lenses tinted ominously, no doubt so he can look at your tits while he's talking to you. I bet he thinks I don't know he does it, but he drops his bearded chin, too.

  A chill runs down my spine at the attention he's giving me. If I could, I'd steer clear of every one of these old pricks. Now that Devil's dead, I wonder how long it'll be before they decide his word's no good and start to think I'm fair game.

  Lola and I exchange a glance as she slides Brutal his beer of choice, a lukewarm bottle from the fridge that never keeps up with the scorching desert heat. "You have a good ride, sugar?" she asks him, and I know what she's doing. She's one of only two friends I've managed to make in this place, and she's trying to get his attention off me.

  See, Lola's here by choice. She and Tiffany—my other sorta friend—are sweet butts. That means, despite the horrible term, that they're here because they like the biker lifestyle. They want to fuck them in the hopes that someday, someone'll claim them as their old lady.

  We're so different that if I wasn't stuck here, I doubt we would have ever met. But we're here together, and we look out for each other the best we can. It's a man's world, or so I've been told, but this place is worse. Women are a commodity, a tool to be used whenever a man sees fit, and that's it. The rest of the time, we're supposed to stay out of the way, keep our mouths shut, and open our legs without complaint.

  Have I said fuck that yet?

  The hours tick by as I uncap beer after beer—don't these guys drink anything else? For fuck's sake. This is pretty much my whole pathetic life now. If it hadn't been for my mother, I'd be out in the world living my life instead of a prisoner. I'm a virtual slave to a motorcycle club, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I even have the nifty GPS tracker under my skin to prove it.

  I could wallow and get depressed; I could lean into it, hoping some asshole in a leather vest, who thinks himself important, takes me on as his wife so I could get a bit of the freedom I crave, but that's not me. I can't give up on the hope that someday, I'll be free of tobacco-stained teeth, rough hands that aim to cause damage, and harsh words.

  Is it any wonder the last thing I'd ever want to do is end up chained to a biker for life? A shudder runs through me at the idea. Lola glances at me out of the corner of her eye, raising an eyebrow. I give her a quick shake of my head so she'll know it's nothing. If she can keep Brutal's attention on her, I might have a hope that his little jab from earlier is all he'll do to me for being late.

  It's not likely, but it's all I've got. That's sort of the theme of my life, if you hadn't noticed.

  I’m the girl who tells the past to get fucked. It doesn’t matter other than how it shaped me into who I am now. The future is what's important, and with that in mind, I step into the back storage room.

  There's another fridge in here, and I need to refill the beer; plus, a breather from Brutal's creepy-ass presence is always welcome. I lean my back against the fridge, letting my head fall back against the cool metal surface. Sweat beads on my forehead as I take a minute to breathe. Constantly having to be on guard around the club is exhausting, and when you throw in the hot-as-hell desert setting we're in, sometimes I need a break to catch my breath and cool off.

  My eyes snap open as a set of rough hands grab my upper arms, and I find myself looking up into the eyes of Vandal. He's another of the older guys in the club. As far as I know, he was Devil's old secretary or something—I don't keep up with club politics since I don't give a shit about what they do as long as they leave me alone.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing back here?" he sneers at me. His beady eyes bore into mine and make me want to shrink back into myself, but I can't. Anytime these guys try to bully me into submission or get physical, this intense defiance rises up inside me that won't let me back down or shy away. Maybe it's a lack of self-preservation or something. Who knows? But fuck him if he thinks I'm going to stand here and beg him not to hurt me.

  I grit my teeth and stare back at him with a look I hope conveys all the ways I'm imagining disemboweling him with a dull razor blade. I don't bother answering his stupid question because nothing I can say will convince him to lay off. The best I can hope for is that the only place I'll have bruises when I walk out of here are my arms.

  "Nothing to say?" he taunts, and I lift my foot a little, wondering if I could get away with kneeing him straight in the junk. Probably not, so I set my foot back down but never drop eye contact.

  He leans closer, close
enough that I can smell the stale tobacco and bitter beer on his breath, and it makes me want to gag. I turn my head to the side, finally breaking eye contact. I imagine if I heave up that banana I ate a couple of hours ago onto his shoes, he'll try to make me lick it up or something equally heinous.

  Vandal lets out this menacing chuckle like he thinks he won our little stare off, and he squeezes my arms harder. I'm definitely going to have bruises in the shape of fingerprints, but it won't be the first time. Hell, sometimes I wear tank tops and display them proudly so they know they're not getting to me. "You're so pathetic. No wonder your mom didn't want you. You can't even stand up for yourself."

  Fuck it, I'm going to pay for this, but my pride's a bit of a bitch. "Maybe if your breath didn't smell like you just ate a can of tuna that's been sitting in the fucking sun for a month before you went and licked Bomber's asshole, I could stand breathing the same air as you. As it is, I don't have anything to say because you don't deserve my attention."

  The fury that sweeps across his face is actually impressive when you consider he's usually either drunk or drugged out of his mind, and I don't know how much he actually pays attention to. I know his appearance isn't one of them since he looks like even when he was young, he was ugly as sin. Now, he sort of looks like a hobo who manages to pull their greasy hair back off their face under an old stained bandana and calls it good.

  Come to think of it, he smells like a hobo, too, so he's checking all the boxes on this example perfectly. He leans down so his hot, rancid breath fans across my ear, and I try to breathe through my mouth so I don't upchuck. His hand lets go of my arm and circles my neck instead. I hope he can't feel my pulse thundering under my skin, but it's unlikely he won't notice. "You think you're funny? Guess you haven't learned what happens to mouthy bitches who don't know their place yet, but now that Devil's gone, I'm going to take it on myself to teach you."

  I don't have the chance to snap back at him because he cuts off my air by tightening his fingers around my throat. I don't struggle; I close my eyes and go to my happy place instead. Like I said, this sort of shit happens all the time. I'm not new here, and these guys have always been more animal than man, and not in the hot, sexy fun way. Guys like Brutal, Vandal, Poison, and Bomber? They live up to the titles they've earned in violence and blood.

  The best thing I can do right now is not struggle and accept my fate. Either he kills me, and I'm free from my prison, or he lets me go, and I've won this battle of ours. Either way, I win, so I wait. In my mind, I'm under a shady tree with my sketchbook in my lap and a charcoal pencil in my hand. I'm working on a new drawing near the shore of a lake. It may not be much to some people, but to me, it's bliss. It's my idea of the perfect afternoon, and no matter how much these guys hurt me, they'll never be able to take this place away.

  I start to feel dizzy, and I can register harsh words being barked out somewhere in the distance, but I'm so lost in my own head that I don't even care. The grip on my throat loosens, and I'm slammed back into reality with a gasp of air that drags down my sore throat and fills my lungs with much-needed oxygen. "Consider this a warning. The next time you decide to show off that attitude you like to walk around here with, I won't let go until your lips are blue and your heart stops beating. Then I'll fuck your corpse before letting all the brothers have a turn."

  Pushing him off of me, I slide out of his hold, still panting and trying to catch my breath from almost being strangled. "Jesus, you sick fuck," I mutter, and I know I'm pushing my luck with him, but it has to be said, doesn't it? He really is a disgusting piece of shit, but this is the caliber of man I'm used to being around. The club is full of 'em, and since I've got nowhere else to be, I've never really known anything else.

  At least when I was twelve and this all started, I didn't have tits yet, so they stuck me behind the bar and in the kitchen and mostly considered me the sweet butts' and old ladies' responsibility. I still haven't figured out why the asshole in charge had even kept me around. It wasn't like they had a shortage of women willing to do their bidding.

  Vandal might be pissed off at my little mouthy comment, but instead of backhanding me across the face or making good on his threat like I thought he might, he just lets out this really intense and menacing chuckle that sounded a lot like broken glass coming up his throat. My skin crawls at the sound. The hair raises up on my arms and the back of my neck.

  That sound means nothing good, but instead of strangling me dead right here, he turns and walks out, taking his stink cloud and necrophiliac tendencies with him. Sucking in a deep breath of somewhat clean air, I can't help wondering if his walking out of the room means he's letting my comment go or if I need to watch my back even closer now because payback is coming.

  If I have to guess, I'm thinking his Neanderthal brain is plotting something I'm not going to like, but I can't worry about that now. Lola's been at the bar by herself for a while now, probably wondering what I'm doing back here, and I need to help her out. Right about now, the sun has set, and the brothers pour in from all over the place to get drunk and fuck away their day.

  Wallowing can wait until my shift's over, the bar's wiped down, and the place is somewhat quiet. I steel myself for the night ahead. I've been here hours already, but as the main person who runs the bar night after night, I'll be here until it shuts down just before the sun comes up. It'll be like every other night—filled with sights I'll never be able to unsee, sounds and smells I'd give anything to ignore, and drunken bikers with zero filter spouting off shit I'd be better off never hearing.

  I almost forget to grab the case of beer I came in here for on my way back out, but I swing the fridge door open and heft it into my arms. My throat's sore, and my lungs ache; my arms are on fire, too, but they'll never hear me complain. My chin is held high while I walk back out to the bar and make eye contact right away with Brutal who's gaze drops to my neck, and a sinister smirk curves up his evil mouth.

  "You okay, sweetie?" Lola whispers as she grabs the case of beer from me and starts filling up the fridge under the bar. I nod once even though the last fucking thing I am is okay. This entire situation is fucked up, and if I had anything at all, I would give it all up to be free of this place.

  But I don't. I have nothing and no one except myself, and that'll have to be enough.

  Two of the younger guys sit down at the bar, and I uncap their favorites and pass them over. The younger guys aren't quite as bad as the older ones, and I can usually at least tolerate them. Sometimes.

  Sometimes they're good for a quick fuck if I feel like it, but that's it.

  I would never, ever try to have a future with a biker. I'd rather jump off a skyscraper without a parachute.

  "Hey, Gigi." Ruthless tips his head up in that way that guys do to say hey, as if they know they're hot shit and can't be bothered to lift their damn hand and wave. Unfortunately for me, I'm a sucker for that kind of thing.

  "Hi, boys. Long day?" I grab a bar rag and start drying the glasses Lola just washed before stacking them back into place. I hate standing still while I'm back here.

  Ruthless bumps his shoulder into his friend. "Lyric here crashed his bike. He had to ride bitch on mine all the way back from the city." He laughs while Lyric scowls at him. I have to admit, it makes me almost want to crack a smile imagining these two huge, muscular bikers clinging to each other on one seat.

  "Would you shut the fuck up? You don't have to announce it to the club." Lyric has fair coloring that makes it so his cheeks flare pink when he's embarrassed. If he wasn't a biker, tied for life to this club, I might think he was cute.

  "Oh, I'm telling everyone I can get to listen. Look, I even took a selfie," Ruthless laughs while he slides his phone across the bar so I can see the picture of the two of them.

  "It's too bad you didn't crash your bike while you took that," I snark. Ruthless glares at me, his dark brown eyes narrowing while Lyric throws his head back and cracks up.

  "That would've been funny as fuc
k," Lyric says, holding out his hand for me to slap in a high-five. I still haven't figured out what he's doing with all the other broken assholes in this place since he doesn't seem to have lost his bright outlook and joy for life like the rest of them.

  Lifting my shoulder, I adopt an indifferent expression. "All I know is I always hear you're not supposed to text and drive. Of course, I wouldn't know."

  What? No one ever said I had to play nice with my captors. If I can take little jabs at them here and there, I do it.

  Both of them have the good sense to look uncomfortable at the reminder that I'm not here by choice. It doesn't take long before they're surrounded by sweet butts—the Cunt Club as I call them because they’re the meanest bitches in this place—all vying for their attention for the night. Between getting their dicks wet or being snarked at by me, I don't blame them for choosing what they do. I'd probably pick it, too, if I swung that way.

  The bar's filling up quick. The place is stifling and smells like stale beer and skunky body odor that makes me want to plug my nose. Over the years, I've gotten good at breathing through my mouth when the bikers converge. I don't know why it seems to be an unspoken rule for them all to have the worst hygiene known to man, but last Christmas, I got everyone a stick of deodorant with a bow on it.

  I wasn't stupid enough to leave a from tag, but for a few blissful weeks, I could breathe freely without wanting to vomit.

  When Savage and his crew—Saint, Grim, and Ruin—walk through the doors, the atmosphere changes, and my shoulders relax for the first time all night. The four of them pass by the bar like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, only in this hell, they're my saviors—the ones who keep the monsters under the bed instead of letting them come out to torment me. The newly minted president and his officers claim they want to do things differently, and I can only hope that means one thing: My freedom.

  Damon McKenna—or Sin, as he was now known—looks nothing like I remember from when we served together. I guess a whole lot of fucked up trauma could do that to a man. Besides, I can hardly talk considering the state of my ink-covered skin.