Page 1 of Hellraiser

“Shit,”I hissed as my car started to sputter before coming to a steaming halt.

I stood outside my hot car on the side of a deserted back road, feeling the cool evening air bite at my butterscotch brown skin through my blouse. I couldn’t fucking believe my luck. My car had broken down in the middle of a deserted stretch of road on the way home from meeting with a whistleblower with crucial information about a major sex trafficking scandal being done by a local MC, theChicago Outlaws.To protect the witness’s identity, I agreed to meet them in a secluded location two hours away, which eventually led to the thick-colored smoke emitting from my vehicle.

I drove an older diamond-white Toyota Camry that I’d lovingly named Pearl. She was practical but aging to the point where she’d become unreliable. She’d seen better days, with a few dents and scratches around the bumper and doors from years of wear and tear.

“You’ve really done it this time, old girl,” I muttered while leaning over the hood as if I knew exactly what to look for.

Frustration and anxiety bubbled up inside me as I quickly realized I had no idea how to fix the problem. Not to mention, my phone was dead, I had no charger, and my GPS was utterly useless without four reliable wheels.

Great. Just fucking great. Of all the times for this to happen…

I’d been working my ass off to redeem myself after a significant career setback six months ago, after I ran with a story with a quote from a source that turned out to be false, which resulted in a big-ass defamation lawsuit for my company and cost me my job.The article I was writing for my new employer could make or break my journalism career. And if I didn’t turn it into my editor by midnight, I was going to be even more royally fucked than I already was.

“Why me, God?” I quizzed, looking up at the sky.

I knew he had to be up there in Heaven having a hearty laugh at my expense.

After deciding I had no other option but to use the two feet he’d blessed me with, I grabbed my small crossbody bag with my essentials and started walking. I was thankful I’d paired my simple white blouse and forest green dress pants with sturdy boots instead of heels and that my hair was away from my face—pulled back into a sleek ponytail that stopped in the middle of my back.

The long road stretched before me, dark and empty, with no sign of life. I walked for what felt like hours, the cool air seepinginto my bones with each step. Feeling drained and cold, I spotted the flickering neon lights of a bar in the distance.

Thank you, Lord.

Relieved, I headed toward it, hoping to find help. I pushed open the door, too tired to notice that I’d forgotten to remove my press badge after the interview. The warm air and noise hit me like a tidal wave. The place was crawling with rough-looking men. Not just any men—bikers. Their eyes followed me as I walked in. I felt a chill race down my spine but tried to appear confident. I kept my head held high, determined not to show how fucking nervous I was, as I proceeded over to the bartender.

The interior was far from any place I’d ever stepped foot in. It was dimly lit, with a few flickering neon signs scattered across the room. The air was thick with the smell of stale liquor, smoke, and something else I couldn’t quite place—something musty and sour like a mixture of vomit and tequila. My shoes stuck to the floor, and I had to resist the urge to look at what was causing it.

The bar counter was dark and scarred from years of drunk ass patrons. Behind it were shelves lined with various liquor bottles. An old jukebox played an old country tune in the back corner, the music barely audible.

“Excuse me, c-can I use your p-phone?” I stuttered as I approached the counter. “My car broke down way down the road, and I need to make a call.”

The bartender was a burly man with long, fuzzy locs, a grizzly beard, and what looked like a permanent grimace. His lip curled in a twisted smirk that creeped me out.

“Sorry, lil lady. Ain’t no phone here,” he answered, eyes lingering on me too long for my liking.

His response was curt but still made my skin prickle. Still, I didn’t know if I was more disappointed or relieved to have not received any help. I glanced over my shoulder. All eyes were still stationed on me. The patrons were all rugged, and the room wasfull of brooding bikers who seemed to have made this place their home away from home. They sat scattered around cocktail tables and booths across the room. By the looks on their faces, it was a place where strangers weren’t welcomed, and my uninvited presence had noticeably disrupted the vibe.

I felt the weight of their stares, and my anxiety heightened. It wasn’t a place a young woman like me should’ve been in alone, especially not one on a desperate mission.I gotta get the fuck out of here.

“Thanks,” I said quickly.

I turned to leave, only to lock eyes with a young female who didn’t look to be a day older than fifteen. She was carrying a tray full of drinks, had on a skimpy waitressing uniform, and way too much damn makeup. It screamed,I’m trying to look older than I really am.

From the neck down, she looked like a good time, but one look into her eyes, and all I saw staring back at me was a scared child. Before I could say anything to her, I found my path blocked by a biker with a patch on his leather jacket that said President and a menacing grin. The one percent patch on his jacket was apparent, signaling that he was part of a gang that separated themselves from other law-abiding riders, and it became clear my safety was far from guaranteed. He was the president of the Chicago Outlaws,the MC at the epicenter of my article. My heart stumbled out a frantic beat as the heavily tattooed man wrapped his waist around the young girl, whispered something in her ear, and smacked her ass before she disappeared into the back. By the time I blinked, he’d grabbed my arm. His grip was unyielding.

“You lost, lil lady?” he asked, noticing my press badge. Before I could answer, he reached out to snatch it from my waist. He glanced at it, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Mercy Harris, huh? What’s a pretty lil thing like you doing in a place like this?”

Terror had me in its clutches as the other bikers started to close in. Their vulgar comments made my skin crawl. I glanced away, trying to think of an excuse quickly.

“I’m just passing through,” I explained, trying to keep my voice steady. “Having a little car trouble, that’s all.”

The man leaned in closer with the group of men at his six. “Passing through, huh? Ain’t nothing for you to find here but trouble. Or maybe that’s why you’re here, to start nosing around in shit that ain’t none of your fuckin’ business.”

I stuttered, trying to explain myself, when the menacing figure snatched my bag from my shoulder. I watched helplessly as he dumped its contents onto a nearby table, scattering my notebooks, pens, sticky notes, and voice recorder. He laughed and made crude comments as he rummaged through my things.

He swiped up my voice recorder, studying it with a scornful grin. “Sorry, Oprah. No stories here,” he taunted menacingly.

“No, please wait,” I called out to him.

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