Rocket (Hell's Handlers MC 5)

At one point, on the second day of being a prisoner, all but one of the men had disappeared. The lucky guy left behind had leered at her for about an hour before growing bored and disappearing from the room she was held in. For two blessed hours, she’d had peace. Until bad turned to worse.

Lefty had returned with his thugs, ranting, raving, and smashing things around the…house? Shack? Apartment? She still never found out where they’d taken her. She hadn’t been alert enough to take note of her surroundings after the ride in the trunk. Plus, it’d been dark as hell. Most of what Lefty had uttered during his tantrum had been muffled by the closed door, but she’d caught phrases like, “Who the fuck are they to give me orders?” and “Fucking Handlers.”

The Hell’s Handlers? It was the only thing she could associate with Handlers. The Hell’s Handlers were a motorcycle gang from Townsend, Tennessee, a town adjacent to the one she lived in. The most she knew about the Handlers was that they were criminals and not the type of men she’d ever associated with.

The final thing Chloe had caught before the shit really hit the fan was a bellow of rage from Lefty followed by, “I’ll deliver her, but she’s gonna be a fucking mess when they get her.”

A shiver charged up her spine. Not thirty seconds later, the door burst open revealing the furious Lefty. After screaming slurs she could never have dreamed up, he proceeded to beat her until she’d lost consciousness. Something had changed because he had no qualms about taking his rage out on her face this time around. The blackness had been a far better alternative to the crushing pain of his heavy blows.

When she’d woken, the real horror began in the form of three men who deserved castration and worse. Naked, spread eagle, and tied to a bed in what now appeared to be a cheap as hell motel room, Chloe had been completely helpless to prevent what was coming. Despite her vulnerable position, she’d fought for all she was worth. Spitting, screaming, biting, bucking hips. She even managed to get a few deep scratches in.

None of that prevented the vicious assault. To her everlasting shame, she resorted to begging and bargaining, offering them money, and anything else she could think of to just make them stop. In the end, she drifted somewhere in her mind. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Somewhere she could pretend she was someone—anyone else.

Which brought her to now. Battered, bruised, naked, and so freaking cold her entire body shook in an attempt to warm itself. While she was hurting, terrified, and shamed beyond belief, at least she was finally alone, and the attack seemed to have ended.

Someone would find her at some point, right? Friends and family would wonder why she wasn’t taking their calls. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. How would she ever face them again knowing what had been done to her? What would they think of her? Would she be subject to nothing but pity for the rest of her life?

A sob broke through, but it was so painful, she forced the rest of them down.

The motel’s housekeeping staff would be in to clean the room in the morning. It was night. At least that’s what the darkness peeking through the slit in the curtains suggested. Time had ceased to make sense hours ago. She felt bad for the unsuspecting woman who’d open that door and discover the mess of her body tied to the bed. Chloe barked out a laugh.

Shit. She was losing her mind. Shock, maybe? Pain induced delirium?

Did it matter?

The question now was why was she there? Didn’t seem to fit with their plan. Would a guy who wanted to purchase a live sex toy want one with a swollen, bleeding face who’d just been raped? Unless that’s what he got off on…

God, she couldn’t even go there. No, this had to be something else. But what?

Right before he’d…finished, Lefty had whispered in her ear. “You can thank the Handlers for this.” There it was again. Reference to the Handlers.

Chloe carefully drew in a long, slow breath. As she started to exhale, the air caught on a sob.

No! This wasn’t the time to think about what they’d just done to her. This wasn’t the moment to let the reality of what she’d endured sink in. That could come later. In order to survive, she’d have to remain detached. Think of it as though she were watching an episode of Law and Order SVU. She could recognize the horror of it, but it wouldn’t actually touch her. Later…later she could shatter.

She craned her neck, trying to get a peek at the binds securing her hand to the bed, wincing as the action stretched the abused skin of her face. A quick tug of her arm made her gasp then hiss. Her shoulder ached from being trapped overhead for hours. Oh, and the arm wasn’t going anywhere. There had to be an entire roll of duct tape wrapped around her wrist, which was then secured to the leg of the bed with another million yards of tape. Where were the scissors when a girl needed them?