Born to Ride_A Clubhouse Collection

chapter 8 ~ Ryder

The life I lived in that center, I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Because I was the youngest, I was the target of every other boy. They called me their bitch and did things I didn’t even know boys could do to other boys with their dicks. I always thought that men only liked sticking it into women.

Boy, was I wrong.

My life became a living hell. With every passing day my hopes that Marianne would come and bail me out and take me away from the god awful place diminished. The light in my eyes dimmed along with my spirit. How could she not care what happened to me? How could she let me suffer at the hands of these boys? Why did my mom no longer love me?

I knew I had done wrong, but I also knew I didn’t deserve this life.

A year later and life in this hellhole hadn’t gotten any better. I found myself cornered in the shower by a group of three boys, their dicks hard, sneers on their pimply faces. With every grain of strength, I fought back, only to be sliced across my cheek and eyebrow by a switchblade knife. I fell to my knees, clutching my cheek—warm blood oozed through my fingers. Hot and sticky.

Blood poured down over and into my eye. Everything was red. Fear gripped my heart. My throat tightened and my head started spinning.

Today I’m going to die.

The short fat kid with the pimply face grabbed my hair and pulled my head toward his groin, shoving his dick into my gasping mouth and forced me to suck it. He hit the side of my head with the back of his hand. My head burst with pain, stars floating across my vision. I closed my eyes and gagged.

My torture was far from over. As I nearly choked on thick warm liquid filling my mouth, the ring leader, Riccardo, angled his cock between my ass cheeks, trying to mount me from behind, screaming for me to hold still, or he’d cut my throat.

Cold hard steel pressed into my skin. My eyes squeezed shut. I tried to go away in my mind. To a better place. For God’s sake, it was my twelfth birthday.

Birthdays were supposed to be happy days. Another lie. F*ck Marianne.

The door swung open and slammed against the wall. Somebody was listening and heard my anguished prayers. The gods had decided to smile on me after all. My salvation came in the form of Jessie ‘Razor’ Malone and his older brother, Cobra.

Both young men had just been re-admitted to the center and needed a piss. Followed by Razor, Cobra walked in on the confrontation. Fists flew, together with kicks to the groin and head, as the brothers beat the living shit out of all three assailants.

Razor was street wise and knew how to fight. Using razor blades inserted into his shoe’s toecaps was his not-so-secret weapon. He didn't have those shoes on that day, but his fists did more than enough damage.

Cobra was known for striking fast and unexpectedly. A martial arts expert, he could take a life with a swift turn of the neck. The pimply kid didn't stand a chance, his neck clicked once before he slid to the floor in a heap.

Their father was the President of a biker gang and both were here for a few weeks, for their ‘protection’, while the Scorpio Stinger MC compound was in lockdown. Apparently this happened regularly, so the boys weren’t strangers to everyone in juvie.

The Malone boys were badass. I’d heard stories about them from when they’d been at the detention center before. Everyone spoke of them with fear lacing their voices, because apparently nobody ever won a fight against the brothers. If they were lucky enough to win the battle of the fists, they were found dead in their beds only a few days later.

The Scorpio Stinger Motorcycle Club would somehow find a way to even the score. They took care of their own. They went to great lengths to protect their brother’s lives, even willing to give up their own to do so. It was the kind of loyalty I could understand.

At first I hadn’t believed the stories. They sounded like urban legends. Until Razor and Cobra walked into that bathroom, on that particular Sunday afternoon, and beat my assaulters to a pulp, leaving one dead.

Cobra was seventeen and Razor sixteen, both just young enough to escape going to adult prison.

The brothers instantly adopted me. I pretty much owed them my life. My attackers were not only planning to rape me, they were part of a satanic gang and had plans to offer me up in a ritual later that day. Apparently because it was my birthday, I was the perfect offering. I was to be carved up, penis first, then one limb at a time, until I slowly bled to death.

The cut on my cheek needed nine stitches and the one above my eye, five. Glad to be alive, I didn’t even flinch when I saw the needle the nurse used to sew me up. I knew I would always have scars on my face. But I was fine with it, because it would always remind me of this day and how close I had come to death. It would remind me to live every day as if it were my last, never taking a single breath of air for granted.

Over the next few weeks, the Malone brothers helped me to become strong. They taught me how to exercise my body with simple moves, using my own body weight as resistance. They not only helped me strengthen my body, but also my mind.

That’s how I became Cobra’s wing man. Robin to his Batman.

I was VP to the Scorpio Stinger, a Motorcycle Club as deadly as our name.