Page 3 of Vicious Cycle
Real men don't cry.
That bullshit adage sure as hell didn’t ring true in my line of work. Over the years, I'd come to see that even the biggest and baddest fuckers have their breaking point. It’s not just the physical torture that breaks them. Sometimes, just a threatening mind fuck involving their wives, girlfriends, or daughters cues the waterworks until they’re blubbering like absolute pussies. And at the end of the day, most would rather be beaten within an inch of their lives than to give in to theiremotions and show weakness. Men can handle physical pain, but it’s the emotional shit that truly fucks with us.
To prove my case, I give you Pussy #1: Paul Delbraggio, or the dumb fuck sitting before me with a mixture of tears and blood streaming down his fat-ass cheeks. He was the current recipient of my wrath because he decided to pull an idiot move, thinking he could double cross me by working with another club. He’d gotten greedy both for more money and more power in his territory. In the process, he’d become overstretched and let one of my club’s gun shipments run late.
Sure, at first glance he looked like your worst enemy—a really menacing bastard with tats and piercings who you sure as hell wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley. His skin was leathered from years of hard living, and his arms, which were currently bound behind him with cable ties, were pockmarked with track marks from the heroin addiction he just couldn’t beat.
As Sergeant of Arms in my club, the Hell’s Raiders, I had to be the strong arm—the main man who used physical and emotional torture to get shit done. If I let someone like Paul get away with drag-assing his feet on shipment deliveries and wavering in his loyalty, the whole club would suffer. I couldn’t and wouldn’t deal with that. The Raiders are my life. They’ve been what I lived and breathed for from the time I was a snot-nosed, thirteen-year-old punk plucked off the streets by my adopted father, Preacher Man, or Preach as he was affectionately known.
Standing behind Paul to lend a hand if needed was my adopted brother, Benjamin, or Bishop as he was known. He chomped on a piece of gum while eyeballing Paul contemptuously. He was probably less pissed about Paul fucking us over and more pissed over the fact I’d torn him away from some heavy action with one of the crow eaters—aka the ladies who willingly spread their legs for club members. At twenty-three, Bishop, with his baby-blue eyes and wavy, dirty-blonde hair, thought only with his dick most days. Even though he’d been patched in a year ago, he still had a lot to learn.
While I’d worked Paul over with a few right hooks and sucker punches to the gut, I’d only broken through to him when I’d taken his wallet. Between the weed, condoms, and a few twenties was a picture. After gazing at it for a moment, a smirk curved across my lips. Waving the picture in front of him, I said, “Mmm, mmm, look at that pretty piece of ass.”
My words caused the shakes to run through Paul’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?”
When he didn’t respond, I slammed another right hook into his jaw. “When I ask a question, you fucking answer me. Got it?”
Paul nodded weakly. In a hoarse voice, he replied, “Fifteen.”
“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, Paul’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 hand, I wasn’t done with him yet.
No, I was about to go for his jugular.
“Let me make one thing clear to you, Paul. 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 to let all my brothers watch. Then any one of my guys who wants a chance can have a go at her, too.”
As if I had taken a knife to him, my words seemed to tear through Paul’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 Paul didn’t know was it was all a fucking lie. I didn’t go for underage pussy, and 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 Hell’s Raiders might have been a lot of things, but sick-fuck pedophiles weren’t one of them.
Once I had let Paul stew in his torture long enough, I cleared my throat. “So are we good now, Paul? 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’teverfuck 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,” Paul whispered, a tremor of what appeared to be relief going through his body.
Glancing at Bishop, I gave a nod. He took his pocket knife out of his jeans and cut the ties binding Paul.
“Have a good one, man. I look forward to our shipment next month,” I said, with a shit-eating grin.
Paul 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 Paul’s warehouse with Bishop on my heels. As we stepped into the sunshine, I felt grateful for the warmth that heated the exposed skin below my T-shirt and cut. 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 thinking 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 adopted 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 adopted mother, Elizabeth.
