12 Chapter 11 (1/2)

Dornan

She was pretty, but he'd seen pretty. Dornan Ross, vice-president of the Gypsy Brothers motorcycle club, had seen hundreds of pretty girls, broken and abused, usually by someone else but occasionally by him. As soon as the little minx had opened her mouth, his d.i.c.k had twitched in his jeans at the thought of all the deplorable things he could do to her. She had sa.s.s, and s.p.u.n.k, and something else that he couldn't quite figure out.

She's a survivor. The phrase jumped into his head. She wasn't like the girls they typically had under these circ.u.mstances.

Women in the Gypsy Brothers world were divided firmly into three camps: Old ladies, who were wives or partners of the bikers and not to be shared around. Usually, they weren't welcome at the club, but occasionally they wheedled their way in. Then there were party girls, who were usually young and f.u.c.king stupid, and would pretty much let you stick it anywhere you wanted. Dornan had his favourites, the ones he used and abused, and he didn't feel guilty about it one little bit, because they chose to stay. They each got their pay-off in some way — drugs, protection, the thrill of danger. Sometimes they left the club, and other times, if they were found to have divulged club information — h.e.l.l, even if they had seen something potentially incriminating — they were taken up to the roof of the clubhouse and given a bullet. Quick, efficient, and more often than not, n.o.body even reported them as missing, let alone actually missed them.

Yeah, it was a pretty bleak way to handle things, but the smart ones stayed alive because they knew what would happen if they stepped out of line.

Which made Dornan consider the third group of women who were frequently around the club compound.

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The transients. The ones who didn't belong there. The ones who made him slightly uncomfortable, the ones his father insisted on dealing in.

The slaves.

Human trafficking was a nicer term for what they were doing with those girls, but not by much. Typically the girls were an in-and-out job, a truck or a boat or a carload that needed to go from point A to point B; usually teenage girls from out of state or, less frequently, from overseas. Sometimes, the girls would beg him to help them, and it broke his f.u.c.king heart every time he turned a blind eye to what his father was doing.

But he still did it, and so he was an a.s.shole. He accepted that. It was part of who he was.

John Portland didn't like it. He was Dornan's best friend and the president of the Gypsy Brothers, and he abhorred the practice of taking these young girls and forcing them into a life of prost.i.tution or drug smuggling. He wanted to f.u.c.king save everyone all the time. Dornan often had to remind him that his role as president was largely symbolic; he was not the one in charge.

It hadn't always been that way. The club had been just that — a club. Not a gang. Not organised crime. Just riding, free as birds, setting up camp and sleeping under the stars. They'd both ditched school in favour of seeing the world, riding their Triumphs across the USA, along Route 66 and beyond.

It had been John who suggested the name Gypsy Brothers. They'd jokingly tossed a coin and declared the winner the president, the loser VP. John had called heads, and the coin landed heads up. They'd cut lines into the flesh of their palms with a pocketknife and sealed the deal with a handshake marked in blood. Blood Brothers. Gypsy Brothers who travelled the roads, and had each other's backs.

And then everything had gone to s.h.i.+t. They'd returned home to LA to find Dornan's girlfriend, Lucy, pregnant with his baby, John's younger sister needing cancer treatment that he couldn't afford, and Dornan's mafioso father finally having caught up to his wayward son.