Page 523 of Hell Hath No Fury
Hell, I’d rip someone’s jugular out with my teeth if it was needed.
Armed, I made my way back out of my apartment and toward my car.
Nerves jangled in my bones as I drove several towns over toward the Razer’s Edge Raiders clubhouse.
It wasn’t much to speak of, just a long, low building that hadn’t seen an update since the seventies. The grass was burnt up, and weeds were breaking through the cracks of the pavement of the lot toward the side.
Climbing out, my heels crunched on broken beer bottles all over the path as I made my way toward the building, the music pulsing so hard that I felt like it was jiggling my organs, which was helping me ignore the nerves, so I wasn’t mad about it, even if I was wondering if, someday in the future, if I made it through this, I would be struggling with some intense PTSD anytime I heard these songs, and associated them with this event.
At the last possible minute, I moved toward the back of the house, wanting to take a look around, get a feel of the layout before I moved in.
The rear of the property was empty of people, but full of crap. Old material chairs, soaked through with rain so many times that I could smell the mold and must emanating from them from several yards away. There was an old, rusted dumpster overflowing with broken furniture and electronics. There was one random shoe sitting in the middle of a weed patch, and several crunched beer cans scattered about.
Not exactly the kind of area anyone wanted to hang out in, which worked in my favor as I moved around the back unseen, checking in the windows.
I wasn’t sure what the clubhouse had once been, but there seemed to be two back rooms, one large common area, a bathroom, and a basement.
Inside the common area, while the music was blasting and the liquor was clearly still flowing, it looked like the party was close to petering out.
There was one clubwhore that I could see, sitting on the lap of the guy I was pretty sure was the club president, her hand in his pants, rubbing his seemingly uncooperative dick.
Two more guys were hanging around, one looking at shit on his phone, the other half-zoned out with booze and, likely, drugs—judging by the joints, pills, and powder on the coffee table in front of him.
Where was everyone else then?
Some, it could be theorized, went to the bar and went home with some random women. Clubwhores, while not usually in short supply, weren’t that easy to come across either. It was easier to go out and find some chick at the bar and go home with her than wait your turn for a clubwhore to finish with one of your brothers and be ready for you.
I tried to lean up and peek in the windows to the back rooms, but I wasn’t tall enough to see inside. And even if I could, there was a thick film on the glass that bubbled up from improper installation.
On a grumble, I moved forward instead, toward the small windows that led into the basement.
They were filthy, being at ground level, caked in years of dirt and grime. And barred. So even if I wanted to, there was no way to get in there to sneak in unseen by those upstairs.
Lowering myself down on my knees, I had to get down so low that my tits nearly brushed the ground, my ass up high in the air, showing off all my secrets if anyone came up behind to look.
But as I gazed around the half-lit basement, it proved to be smart to look.
Because there was Bear.
Strung up from a support beam in the ceiling, his massive arms pulled tight from the pressure of holding up almost all of his weight, since his feet were dangling.
His bare feet.
Bare, bloodied feet.
My stomach tensed as my gaze moved upward, checking him over as best I could in the poor light with the filthy window obstructing my view.
Still, I could see it.
The way his shirt was stuck to his wide, sturdy body. Sweat, on the back. Blood, on the front.
My gaze shot upward to his face, seeing it bloodied, bruised, and twisted up in pain.
Pain.
Bear.
My Bear.
