Page 60 of Slaughter
Chapter Twenty-One
Hope
The truck door slammed shut with a finality that made my bones rattle. I sat in the passenger seat, my hands clenched in my lap. I barely managed to pull on my jeans and shirt before he dragged me out to the truck. I could still smell Chapman on my skin. Could still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck, his body moving inside mine. The scent of sex and sweat and jasmine clung to me like a second skin, and I knew Zeke could smell it too.
The engine roared to life, and Zeke threw the truck into reverse, backing out of the motel parking lot with enough force to make the tires squeal. I braced myself against the door, my heart hammering in my chest.
Chapman.
I left him there. Left him standing in that motel room with blood dripping from his nose, his ribs bruised and broken, facing Whisper and Widow and Monk. The image of him, naked and defiant, refusing to be ashamed even with guns pointed at him, was burned into my mind.
The truck hit the main road, and Zeke accelerated hard, the engine growling as we sped toward Lawton. The landscape blurred past the window. Scrub brush and red dirt, and the endless Oklahoma sky. The morning sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt like the end of the world.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Zeke’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and furious.
I turned to look at him. His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but I could see the rage simmering just beneath the surface.
“I was thinking,” I hissed, my voice steadier than I felt, “that I’m a grown woman who can make her own choices.”
“Your own choices?” He barked out a laugh, harsh and bitter. “You call fucking a Golden Skull in a goddamn motel room achoice?”
His words hit me like a slap, but I refused to flinch. “Yes. I do.”
“Jesus Christ, Hope.” He shook his head, his knuckles going even whiter on the wheel. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Any idea at all?”
“I know exactly what I’ve done.”
“No. You don’t.” He took a sharp turn onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing over ruts and potholes. Dust billowed up around us, coating the windshield in a fine red film. “You have no fucking clue what kind of shitstorm you just created.”
My chest tightened, fear and anger warring inside me. “Then explain it to me.”
“You want me to explain it?” He laughed again, the sound devoid of humor. “Fine. Let’s start with the fact that Slaughter is aGolden Skull. The Tennessee Chapter’s executioner. Do you know what that means?”
“I know what it means.”
“Do you?” He shot me a look, his eyes blazing. “Because I don’t think you do. I don’t think you understand that the man you just let fuck you is a killer. A stone-cold, no-remorse, bury-the-bodies-and-sleep-like-a-baby killer.”
“Stop it.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
“Like what? Like he’s dangerous? Like he’s exactly the kind of man you should be running from instead of spreading your legs for?”
The crudeness of his words made my stomach flip, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “He’s not dangerous to me.”
“Not dangerous?” Zeke’s voice rose, filling the cab of the truck. “Hope, he beat two men bloody with his bare hands yesterday. Broke bones. Left them unconscious in a pool of their own blood. And you think he’s not dangerous?”
“He was protecting me!” The words burst out of me, raw and desperate. “Those men were Satan’s Angels. They would have hurt me, Zeke. Chapman stopped them.”
“And that makes it okay? That makes it okay for you to—” He broke off, his jaw working as he struggled to find words. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand the rules.”
“What rules?” I demanded. “The club’s rules? I’m not in the club, Zeke. I don’t have to follow their rules.”
“Yes, you do!” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, making me jump. “You’re my sister. Balthazar’s sister. That makes you protected. That makes youoff-limits.”
“Off-limits to whom? To Chapman? Why? Because he’s a Golden Skull?”
“Because there are protocols!” His voice was shaking now, fury and something else—fear, maybe—bleeding through. “There are ways things are done. If a brother wants to pursue a sister, he goes through the proper channels. He talks to her family. He gets permission. He doesn’t just—” He broke off again, his breathing ragged. “He doesn’t just take what he wants.”
“He didn’ttakeanything,” I said fiercely, my hands clenching into fists in my lap. “I gave myself to him. Willingly. Gladly.”
