Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series Page 4

  I jump suddenly as a dark figure materializes out of the shadows. I immediately recognize him as Jazz, Dornan’s fifth son. He is painfully thin, and it doesn’t take a genius to realize he has some kind of drug problem.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls out to me. “What’s your name?”

  “Sammi,” I reply, my heart hammering in my chest.

  “You’re late,” Jazz says, pushing open the enormous old roller door and gesturing inside. “You’d better hurry up and come inside.”

  I hesitate for a moment, my feet itching for a decision.

  Fuck it. I sling my bag over my shoulder, set my jaw, and walk to the doorway, ducking underneath the roller door. I try not to cringe as it is slammed shut behind me, the sudden rush of cold air nipping at my heels.

  It is dim inside the warehouse, and I struggle to see more than superficial figures as my eyes adjust to the lighting.

  There are figures moving casually about. From what I can see, all male. Before I can make out their faces, Jazz has snatched my bag from my hand and immediately begins rifling through the contents.

  “Hey!” I protest. Another set of hands pulls my arm behind my back, forcing it up in a painful V. I am slammed into a brick wall and the wind is knocked right out of my lungs.

  Be cool.

  I feel hands patting me down, efficiently at first, before slowing down when they reach my inner thighs. I stay perfectly still as someone - who, I have no idea – gently teases my clit as they search me. I don’t react.

  “Where’s Dornan?” I ask. “He told me to meet him here.”

  “Shut up,” another voice says, and I turn to follow its owner. It seems the fingering body search has ended, and I am allowed to move freely again. Dornan’s oldest son, Chad, is standing in front of me, my iPhone in his hand.

  “What’s the password for this thing?” he asks me.

  I smirk. “D…I…C…”

  I’m about to finish that word when he throws the phone at the ground, so hard it explodes into a million tiny pieces. I look at the ground in disgust and then back up at him.

  “Oops,” he says, raising his eyebrows for effect. I don’t say anything, just hold his gaze without wavering.

  “What’s your name?” Chad asks, repeating Jazz’s earlier question.

  If you knew who I was, you’d shoot me in the head right now where I stand.

  I look over at Jazz as if to say, why don’t you tell them? He doesn’t speak.

  “It’s Sammi,” I say. “Samantha.”

  Jazz tosses my purse to Chad, who pulls out my license and studies it intently.

  “What’s your address?” he asks. I act bored and recite my address perfectly, followed by my date of birth when asked.

  “What’s your license number?” he asks. I know it, but I also know that most people don’t. That it’s probably MORE suspicious being able to rattle it off than it is to feign ignorance.

  “How the fuck should I know?” I say incredulously, tossing my long hair over my shoulder. “Do you know your license number?”

  He laughs and shoves my fake license back into my purse, tossing it to Jazz, who hands it to me along with my bag.

  “Where’s Dornan?” I repeat. “I’m supposed to start working for him. I don’t want to be late.”

  Dornan steps out of the shadows, and I jump minutely, unaware that he’s been watching the entire time.

  “Baby girl,” he says, his deep voice commanding respect among his sons, who seem to stand to attention all of a sudden. “You’re already late.”

  I smile nervously. “I’m so sorry. The tattoo artist took forever–”

  “Tattoo artist?” Dornan cuts me off sharply. “What tattoo artist?”

  I shrug. “Some guy near the pier. You wanna see?”

  He smiles, and despite my hatred for him, I can definitely understand why so many women throw themselves at him. His deep, booming gravel voice; his unmistakeable good looks that he’s inevitably passed on to all of his sons; those coal black eyes that miss nothing and give nothing away. Yes, I can see why he has seven sons to five different women. He’s just got something I can’t quite put my finger on. A charisma, an allure, a larger-than-life presence. Even at forty-eight, he’s only getting better looking with age.

  It makes me hate him even more.

  “Sure,” he says. He looks impatient. I smile, lifting my white dress so that he has a clear view of my lace panties, and stick my hip out.

  Dornan whistles. “That’s some nice ink you got there, sweetheart.”

  “I got it for you,” I say, smiling shyly. “I know all your girls have them.”

  The sons don’t seem impressed. In fact, most of them look downright bored.

  It’s ironic, really. That, cunning as they all are, they don’t realize their judge, jury and executioner stands before them, painted in roses and ink.

  My heart soars at the thought of what I will do to each of them.

  EIGHT

  Twenty minutes later, we are in Dornan’s room at the clubhouse. I know he has a home, but his wife is probably there. That poor woman. After my humiliating strip-search, he whisked me away, up here, away from the curious eyes of his sons and fellow club mates. I am equal parts relieved and annoyed. Relieved that I didn’t have to put on a show in front of so many suspicious guys, or dance with my bandaged tattoo on full show. Annoyed because I can’t breathe properly in this room, large as it is, since the windows all have metal bars on them and I am unmistakably trapped. Alone. With him.

  My scars are hidden nicely by Elliot’s handiwork, but if someone knew what they were looking for, if they studied my skin long enough, they would find them.

  “You understand why I had to have my boys search you before you could come in here, right?”

  I stretch out on his bed, resting on my elbows and attempting to look unperplexed. “Of course. You don’t want some crazy bitch coming in here.”

  “Or a cop,” he says, looking at me sidelong through his thick eyelashes. Christ, his voice is so deep, I can feel everything he is saying rumble through me like a freight train.

  “When am I going to dance?” I ask him. I’m not enjoying being cooped up in a room alone with him, and I’m craving fresh air.

  He smiles menacingly, and my stomach drops as I remember I don’t have my phone anymore. That idiot smashed it right after his brother finger-fucked me. Shit.

  “You’re not going to dance,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say, acting a little disappointed. “You want me to waitress or something instead? Because I could show you my routine–”

  He kneels in front of me so that his face is inches from mine. I can smell mint on his breath and some kind of aftershave mixed in with his sweat. It’s not offensive, except that it’s his.

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you all afternoon,” he says, walking his fingers up my thighs. I smile naughtily at him as he threads a finger inside my panties, searching.

  I fidget as he finds my pussy and inserts one finger, then two, then pushes three in. I can’t help it. I moan as he applies the slightest pressure to my clit with the pad of his thumb. I can’t keep looking at him, I need to close my eyes, so I pull his face to mine, our lips crashing together in a kind of frenzy.

  He takes his hand away and tugs at my dress, taking it over my head before throwing it to the floor. I wince as he lightly traces the intricate patterns of roses and a phoenix rising from the ashes that now adorns my midsection.

  “Need to be inside you, baby girl,” he moans, unbuttoning his jeans and letting his hardness rise to full size. I have a chance to study it more closely. Yup. No wonder my ass is so sore. His cock is huge.

  He doesn’t even bother taking my panties off, just pushes them to the side with rough, crazed hands. I am equal parts thrilled and terrified that I have had this effect on him in the space of a few short hours. I think briefly of my makeover and mentally high-five myself for getting everything completely right.
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  He pushes me down on the bed, hovering his cock between my thighs.

  “You’re mine now,” he says, thrusting inside me with enough force to make me cry out. He immediately starts pumping in and out, hard and fast, and my brain does battle with my body. So many conflicting emotions are vying for my attention, I am completely and utterly overwhelmed.

  Ohhhh.

  I open my eyes to see him above me and am immediately a scared, bleeding fifteen-year-old girl again.

  No. Don’t think about that. Pretend he’s someone else. Remember why you’re here.

  And that delicious knowledge of my deceit stirs something carnal in my belly, a snaking kind of desire that coils around me and squeezes tightly. Yes. Better.

  I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, the thrill of my treachery almost enough to make me orgasm on its own.

  “That feels so good,” I moan, and he smirks because he thinks he is fucking me, when I am the one fucking him.

  He is a skilled lover. I don’t have anyone to compare him to, other than my high-school sweetheart from Nebraska, but as he carries me to the brink of climax on a white-hot wave of pleasure and lies, I cannot help but scream.

  Afterwards, we lie together, catching our breath. I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see him staring back.

  “Where’ve you been my whole life, baby?” he asks, running his hands over my breasts and between my legs. His touch is everywhere, all over me, marking me as his, a possession that has been claimed.

  I smile coyly. “In high school, probably,” I giggle.

  “Hey, now,” he replies playfully. “Don’t tell me I gotta prove to you that age doesn’t matter?”

  “I think you just did,” I breathe.

  We lie there in silence for a few blessed moments. It gives me time to think. Time to plan.

  Dornan’s voice strikes that silence, shattering my moment of refuge.

  “I just have one question for you, baby girl.”

  One question. Sounds easy. I turn to face him and nod in anticipation.

  “Your ex. What was his name?”

  It’s one teeny, tiny white lie. “Michael,” I say, my fake backstory flashing before my fake blue eyes. “Michael Trevine.”

  He nods. “He’ll never hurt you again. Why won’t he hurt you again?”

  I smile dreamily, imagining the look on his face when they put him in orange overalls and slam his jail cell shut forever. Maybe they’ll give him the death penalty.

  They should.

  “Because,” I say playfully, tracing his lips with my finger, “I’m yours?”

  He just fucking laughs. “What have I done to deserve you?” he breathes.

  Now I am the one who laughs.

  NINE

  I grew up next to the ocean. Until I was fifteen years old, I had no idea that some people could go an entire lifetime without ever seeing the sea.

  And then, one night, I was forced to flee from it, ripped from its beauty forever.

  I didn’t see a beach for six years. Landlocked and bitter, surrounded by dirt and storms and nightmares of Dornan Ross’s face.

  So when I wake up, after barely sleeping, to see his unshaven face peering down at me, it is all I can do not to scream.

  “Whoa,” he says, grinning like the cat that got the motherfucking cream. “Bad dream?”

  I sit up, pushing the sheets off me to discover I am completely naked, my tattoo angry and red and burning. Elliot warned me about this. But instead of trying to avoid thinking about the pain, I relish it. The burn helps me to remember why I am here.

  It makes me remember how good it feels to be alive.

  “Good morning,” I say, rubbing my eyes. I lean back, letting my breasts jut out in full view so that he can see them. “Oh Jesus,” he says, groaning loudly. I can see the bulge in his pants. The man is literally ready to go any time of the day.

  “Wish I could stay, baby girl,” he says, handing me a mug of hot black coffee. “But I gotta go run a job with my boys.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, arranging the sheets around myself. “I’ve got to go and get this tattoo finished, anyway.”

  “Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” he says. I almost choke on my coffee.

  “P-pardon?” I ask, wiping coffee from my chin.

  “Severe storm warning’s in place,” he says, shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ve got about ten minutes before this motherfucking weather outside becomes damn near impossible to drive in. Lucky we weren’t planning to ride.”

  “So, you want me to stay here?” I ask. “By myself?”

  He drains his own coffee cup. “Nope. My son’s gonna be here. Jase. He’s staying behind with you.” He looks at me oddly for a moment, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Besides, little runt is the only one of the lot that I’d trust to take care of your fine ass.” He leans closer and smiles conspiratorially. “I’m eighty percent sure he’s gay. Don’t tell anyone, though. Little fucker’d be beaten to death by his brothers if anyone else knew.”

  Jase. Fuck.

  I just smile vacantly, my mind going a million miles an hour. I’m essentially trapped, without a phone or a way out. I memorized Elliot’s number, but that doesn’t actually matter if I haven’t got a way of calling him. And I don’t want to raise any suspicions by making a big deal of contacting him.

  I just pray he doesn’t get impatient and report me missing. Especially since, technically, I’m already dead.

  “Okay,” I say brightly. “Where are you going?”

  Dornan chuckles as he pulls his leather cut on over his black t-shirt. My throat gets tight as I see the club colors adorning the black leather, the President badge unmissable. It is exactly like the jacket my father used to wear.

  “It’s a surprise, babe. You’ll see soon enough.”

  A surprise. I wonder what the fuck that could possibly be. I have to strain forcibly to stop my eyes from rolling violently back into my head.

  “I like your jacket,” I say softly. “It looks comfy.”

  He puffs his chest out and studies himself in the mirror next to the bed. “I got it when I became president of this club,” he says, and something inside of me dies a little. So it is my father’s jacket.

  “Get dressed,” Dornan says, still preening himself in front of the mirror. I obey, swinging my legs out of the bed. I find my bag next to the bed and select a new outfit – dark denim jeans and a white halter top that exposes my cleavage nicely. I pull on the jeans and halter, then make my way into the adjoining bathroom to apply some more mascara and fix my bed hair.

  Ten minutes later, I am being paraded around in front of the club members who are still at the club. We are downstairs in the main room, which features lots of low-back leather couches, a fully-stocked bar that we stand in front of, and a small stage at one end. There are no windows, which makes me itch. I know why. Windows mean people can see inside. Windows mean people can shoot bullets through.

  I look around, scanning the dozen or so guys and girls hanging off Dornan’s every nauseating word. I guess most people have decided to return home after the storm warning was issued. I tune in to what Dornan is saying as he’s finishing up.

  “Nobody is to touch her,” he finishes. “She’s mine. You hear?”

  I smile vacantly as a few guys jostle and wolf-whistle and a few slutty-looking girls look seethingly jealous as they look me up and down.

  Dornan snaps his fingers and grabs my arm. “Come on,” he says. “Time for me to go.” I trot after him like an obedient puppy, taking in every detail I can about the place.

  Some things have changed, and some have stayed exactly the same. Dornan is still an asshole – that definitely hasn’t changed.

  I follow him out of the main club room, down a narrow hallway that has several closed doors and which eventually opens up into a large kitchen, complete with several dining tables.

  “Wait here,” he says, stabbing a table with
his finger. I sit at the table and look up at him. “What am I waiting for?”

  He leans on the side of the table and studies my face. “We’re just waiting, that’s all.”

  I nod, looking around the room. Photos of club members dot the walls, and my throat catches when my gaze lands squarely on a photo I remember well. A photo I’ve been carrying around for six years. My copy now lies in a safety deposit box under another fake name in downtown LA.

  My father.

  I force myself to look away, certain Dornan is studying me. He may have allowed me into his club, but I know damn well that he still doesn’t trust me an inch.

  Jase hurries into the room a few moments later, looking as though he’s just stepped out of a shower fully dressed. He’s creating a water slick behind him and when he stops in front of his father, that slick becomes a full-fledged puddle.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Dornan says, towering over his son even though they are both about the same height.

  “You’re making a goddamned mess, boy.”

  Jase wipes the moisture from his face and more droplets of water rain down. I have to force myself not to smile. Jase clearly enjoys making his father upset.

  “I had to ride through the rain. It’s crazy out there.”

  It is only now that I realize he’s carrying a black motorcycle helmet in one hand, the chin strap looped over his fingers.

  Dornan shakes his head. “Borrow a fucking car next time,” he says. “I don’t need you dyin’ out there.”

  Jase nods. “Why’d you call me down? I thought you wanted me in the club today.”

  Dornan shifts so that Jase can see me. Jase immediately looks unimpressed.

  “I gotta go on a run for a day or two,” Dornan says. “I need you to keep this one company for me.”

  “This one?” Jase asks caustically. “Isn’t this one supposed to be working tonight?”