“Wherever the fuck,” Ants said. “Ping pong balls. Out of her twat.”
“That’s...awesome,” I said. I looked at Skunk and he grinned. Okay, so there was a part of me that missed this life.
Ping pong balls and all.
Skunk slapped my back. "Hammer didn't come for the fucking stripper, you shitheads," he said. "He came because he wants to fight. Got him a fucking fight next weekend. So which one of you assholes is going to practice with him, make sure he's ready?"
ONE WEEK LATER
"What is this place?" Aston and I walked toward a warehouse of some sort. Cars lined the parking lot, many foreign and expensive, the kinds of cars you'd see in Beverly Hills, not in a dirt lot in the middle of the desert.
I didn't know where the hell we were, or what the hell we were doing here, and those things made me nervous. Aston taking me out into the desert made me nervous. The only thing that consoled me was that he had so many opportunities already to kill me. If he really wanted to, he would have done so by now.
"It's a little side venture I've got going on," Aston said. "You'll see. You'll be impressed."
I forced a smile. "I have no doubt, Aston," I said. "I'm always impressed with your business acumen."
He laughed, the sound mirthless. "For a whore, you use a lot of big words."
He'd taken something earlier, I could tell. He was unpredictable normally, but when he was high, it was much worse. It seemed to bring out the wild part of him, the sadistic part.
He was right, of course. I was a whore, bought with my son's life.
I hadn't seen him since last week, when I'd been walking through the casino and that man had run into me, the man who put his hands on me, who held me for a moment too long. Aston had seen it, and swore he was someone I knew. Someone I had to be sleeping with.
He’d dragged me up to the penthouse at the hotel, paced back and forth, a frenzy of meaningless activity, his movements erratic. He grabbed me by both arms, slammed my back up against the wall, the back of my head throbbing immediately where I made impact.
Afterward, he'd whispered into my ear, stroked my neck where he'd gripped me with his fingers, so tightly it had left imprints, welts on my skin that matched the fading bruises on my arms. "Forgive me, Meia," he said. "It was more than I intended."
I didn't respond, and he’d laughed. Said he didn't mean it. "I'll do anything I want with you. You're mine. I give, and I take away. I'm like fucking God to you, do you understand?"
"I understand," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I'd ever heard it sound before. "Like God."
More like the Devil.
I vowed that I would kill him with my bare hands.
It was only a matter of time.
I would figure out how to get Ben back, and I would kill him.
It was the only thing that kept me hanging on.
Aston's voice broke me out of my thoughts. "Meia," he said. He gestured toward the large man at the door, apparently a bouncer, dressed in jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket - or vest, I wasn't sure what they were called-with patches sewn onto it. On one side of it, it had a one percent patch. Underneath, it read Inferno Motorcycle Club.
He looked down at me, a permanent scowl seemingly etched on his face. “You’re with him?” he asked, obviously recognizing Aston.
“She’s with me,” Aston said.
Even from outside the building, I recognized a fight environment. The old man who had owned me had a penchant for dog fights. Violence against humans was one thing, but I couldn’t take cruelty to animals. If I was about to walk into a dog fight, it would push me over the edge, I already knew it.
I felt the bouncer’s eyes on me, sweeping over me. “Do I need to search her, Mr. Roberts?” he asked. He ignored me, expecting me not to answer. Why should I? I was on the arm of a man who traded in human chattel. There was no reason to expect that I had a voice of any kind. I had no opinion.
“No,” Aston said, without looking at me.
“Cell phones or recording devices?” he asked.
Aston shook his head. “I’m familiar with the rules.”
“Just a reminder, for the lady, Mr. Aston,” the bouncer said.
“Yes, well,” Aston said. “Are we finished here?”
“Yes,” he said. I wasn’t quite sure, but I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice, an edge that I’d expect from someone who had contact with Aston. Aston was a real prick, especially where “the help” were concerned. And he would certainly consider this guy to fall in the category of "the help," with his imposing frame and arms covered in tattoos.