My words caused the shakes to run through Frankie’s body. His eyes, which had once held such defiance, glazed over. Bingo. This girl, most likely his daughter, was his Achilles’ heel. “How old is the sweet thing? Fourteen? Thirteen?”
When he didn’t respond, I slammed another right hook into his jaw. “When I ask a question, you fucking answer me. Got it?”
Frankie nodded weakly. In a hoarse voice, he replied, “Twelve.”
“Ah, just a baby. Man, I bet she has one tight pussy.” I cocked my brows at him. “Nothing like breaking in a fresh piece.”
As his broken jaw clenched, Frankie’s arms jerked against his binds. If he could have gotten loose at that moment, he would have tried his best to kill me. But even though he was playing right into my hands, I wasn’t done with him yet. No, I was about to go for his jugular. “Let me make one thing clear to you, Frankie. The next time you try to double-cross me and my boys, I’m going to find your pretty little daughter. Not only am I going to take your precious baby girl’s cherry, but I’m going to ass fuck her, too, while all my brothers watch. Then any one of my guys who wants a chance can have a go at her.”
As if I had taken a knife to him, my words seemed to tear through Frankie’s skin, nicking an emotional artery. Tears poured from his eyes as he began to imagine something so horrific done to his little girl. His massive body shook under the weight of his sobs.
I’d painted a pretty depraved and disgusting picture for him. But what Frankie didn’t know was it was all a fucking elaborate lie. I didn’t go for underage pussy, especially little girls. I knew my men didn’t, either. If I ever got wind of something so fucking sick, I wouldn’t have waited for a vote in church—our club meeting—about blowing their ass to the curb. No, I would single-handedly cut their balls off, take their patch, and send them packing. The Hells Raiders might have been a lot of things, but sick-fuck pedophiles weren’t one of them.
Once I had let Frankie stew in his torture long enough, I cleared my throat. “So are we good now, Frankie? No more playing us with the Iron Lords, right?”
“Y-yes,” he stuttered, as his teeth chattered from his full-body shakes.
I cocked my brows at him. “Yes, what?”
His eyes, which still shone with tears, widened. “Yes, sir, Deacon. You have my word. I won’t ever fuck you over again. I swear on my life.”
“And your daughter’s?”
He cringed at the mention of his daughter. “Yes, mine and hers. I swear to God!”
“Glad to hear it.” I then slid the picture of his angel-faced daughter back into his wallet. “Glad to know that your baby girl will be staying safe and sound, too.”
“Yes,” Frankie whispered, a tremor of what appeared to be relief going through his body.
Glancing at Bishop, I gave a nod. He took his pocketknife out of his jeans and cut the ties binding Frankie.
“Have a good one, man. I look forward to our shipment next month,” I said with a shit-eating grin.
Frankie gave a brief jerk of his head in acknowledgment as he rubbed his wrists where they had been bound. With a final wave, I headed out the door of Frankie’s warehouse with Bishop on my heels. As we stepped into the intense May sunshine, I felt grateful for the warmth that heated the exposed skin below my T-shirt and the leather cut, or vest, I wore that boasted the Raiders’ logo. When I slid across the seat of my bike, I caught Bishop’s chuckle behind me. Craning my neck to look at him, I demanded, “What?”
He shook his head with a grin. “I was just thinkin’ it was good I was with you and not Rev when you started in on that kiddie-pussy shit. He would have freaked the fuck out and ruined everything.”
I snorted at the mention of my adoptive brother Reverend, or Rev, as he was known within the club. Nathaniel was his birth name, but none of his brothers called him that. The only person who refused to call us anything but our given names was my adoptive mother, Elizabeth. Although Rev was six foot four and a wall of muscle, he was really a tenderhearted pussy when it came to most things. He was the gentle giant who loved puppies and kids and that rainbows-and-hearts shit. Most of the time, he had too much goodness and integrity to fit into our world. “Yeah, well, that’s the reason no one ever voted him in as sergeant at arms. They knew he wouldn’t be able to do shit when it came to being a hard-ass.”
“True,” Bishop replied, as he slid across his bike’s seat. After putting on my helmet, I kick-started the engine. There was no other feeling in my life quite like the roar of the engine beneath me. The only peace I found was on the road. Although I now had the support of a loving family, I still felt like a loner—an outsider still searching for a place to make his own. Only the road offered a place for me to be my true self.
As I wound my way through the back roads toward home, Bishop stayed close at my side. When we got to the compound, there were a few scattered bikes here and there. It was only four, and members didn’t really start hanging around until they were done with their straight jobs. Years ago, when the cotton mill went bust, Preach had the business sense to buy the property. At the time, it wasn’t for the Raiders. No, he was holy rolling then and focused on his ministry. After growing up in the MC world, he’d found Jesus in prison when he was just twenty. When he got out three years later, he buried his biker past and became a Pentecostal preacher. That’s where he’d met my adoptive mom—she was a fresh-faced, pure-of-heart-and-body, eighteen-year-old beauty. The daughter of a church elder. She saw him as the lost black sheep she could lead into the fold.