Page 1 of Blood Revealed

1.

Hannah

Seven years ago…

“Hannah, get your ass in here.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to steel my temper before I go in the conference room at the clubhouse. Using fits of temper to clip someone else’s temper seems like an odd teaching method to the outside world, but that’s the way of it on the inside. Whether from my dad, our president or our vice president, I’ve been on the receiving end of a backhand enough times to know the only one ever hurt by me showing temper is me. I bear a couple of scars to prove it, but I hate this place. Hate it. It’s never been fun. The Black Pythons, my dad’s club—club? Ha! That’s a laugh. They’re a gang of bikers with absolutely no scruples or morals in the bunch. I’ve been watching my back around them since I was seven. What kind of man looks at a seven-year-old and thinks, “Damn, baby… I’d hit that”?

I was a late bloomer sporting an A cup until about a year ago, when boobs grew like fast-growing tumors and they just kept growing until I ended up a C+ to a D-. You know, that halfway point between a C and a D cup where it’s impossible to find a bra to fit properly? You’re either hanging out or gapping.

That was my first time being summoned to attend a Python party. They’re awful. All these gross men making me feel on display, like one of those dog shows. It makes me shudder to think about it.

The club’s president sits at the head of the table, in his usual spot, when I enter. They call him “Grizzly” and it fits. He’s covered in a coating of brown fur and looks like he’s been packing on fat to sustain him throughout hibernation. Next to him, on the right, is first lieutenant Dred. Dred’s a good-looking guy, medium dark hair, pretty blue eyes, nice physique, and not at all hairy. But he also openly cheats on his old lady and beats the living shit out of her and their son whenever the mood strikes, it seems.

I’ve taken food over to feed the little guy enough times when either of them has been too injured to cook for themselves.

My dad stands against the wall because he hasn’t earned a seat at the table. But there’s a man sitting at the foot of the table who has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on edge. A Mexican man, could be Mexican-American, but judging by his clothing and the Pythons’ associations, my guess, from Mexico. He’s dressed in an expensive suit. Handsome face. He wears his hair slicked back, a thin moustache and his fingernails are trimmed and impeccably clean.

His eyes, though. They found me the minute I walked into the room and I knew it before ever seeing him. I felt them on me, like a thick goo spreading over all my curves. When I did turn to look at him directly, his black, beady eyes glared predatorially.

I recognize him. He was at a party last month. Normally, I don’t pay attention to the men at Python parties. They usually host men from other clubs and tend to go all Caligula real fast, which means I spend my time hiding from grabby hands or worse. But this party was different. It was at a venue I’d never been to before and for the drive over, my dad kept me in the back of a van with no windows.

The whole night unnerved me. From the way I’d been ordered to dress—sexy dress to show my curves, no jeans or the like, heels, hair down, and light makeup—to the way they kept trying to force drinks on me. Most eighteen-year-olds would probably love being offered alcohol, but it’s too hard to keep on guard when you’re tipsy.

Now he’s here.

Why is he here?

“Are you a virgin?” he asks in a thick accent.

“Excuse me?” I ask back.

“Fuckin’ answer the question, cunt,” Grizzly snaps at me.

I don’t want to talk about this in a room full of nasty bikers. Immediately, I turn to my dad, hoping he’ll help me out here. What a joke. My dad is still handsome, but with the drugs, he’s losing his looks fast. When he was younger, he was downright hot. We have the same sandy-blonde hair, same blue eyes. Though the rest of me is my mom, wherever the hell she went to. When I was five, I woke up one morning and she was gone. No note, nothing. She left me to my own devices.

She was young when I was born, sixteen I think, and my dad had already moved on to another woman, Cassandra, who ended up taking me on despite having a daughter with my dad, too. My younger sister, Brinley. I called Cassandra “Mom.” She was beautiful. My sister looks exactly like her, except for one glaring difference. Cassandra was built more like me, streamlined and curves where necessary. Whereas Brinley, she always said Brinley got the genes from the Eastern European side of the family.

Then one day she up and left us, too. This isn’t a life for everybody. It’s a tough life for women.

“Are you a virgin, my dear?” the man in the suit asks again, not yelling, but his voice sounds tight.

This is embarrassing. I look between the man and my dad again. My dad pushes off the wall, stalking over to grab me harshly by the arm, and he shakes me. “Fucking answer the question, girl. We don’t got all day.”

I should lie. I should, but I can’t discern whether it would be better to be a virgin or not to be.

Biting my lip, I suck in a sharp breath through my nose and answer, “Yes.”

A sly, sexy smile spreads across the man’s lips. One of those not-to-be-trusted smiles. The kind that makes me think I just screwed myself over by answering honestly. But that’s not the worst part. It’s when he leans his chin on the hand of the elbow he has propped up on the table and uses his other hand to order me to turn for him by spinning his finger in the air.

That’s the part that gives me the heebie-jeebies. I spin in a slow circle for the man, feeling down to the pit of my stomach that if I turn faster, I’ll pay for it.

“Come here,” he orders me, and as I walk over to him, he pushes back from the table, again using his hands to gesture me to sit on his lap. He’s gentle when he speaks to me and with all the other men glaring daggers my way, I decide my safest option is to sit on the man’s lap. “My name is Carlos Escalante,” he continues. “But you will call me ‘el maestro,’ is that understood, my dear?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Right. “Yes,el maestro.”

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