Chapter 11

Ariana

11

It's getting more and more confusing.

I should have seen it coming. From the moment I lost myself in Sky's arms, from the minute I realized that I was attracted to all three of them, I should have seen it coming. Yet I cannot resist their pull. We don't talk about it, but we feel it. We engage in it.

Some nights, it's Sky. He comes into my room and drives me up the walls, consuming me, claiming me, making unabashed love to me until I'm spent and barely able to get out of bed the next morning.

On other nights, it's Kendric. Despite his intimidating size, he starts soft and sweet every time, but then he lets loose and fucks my lights out until I'm utterly and totally spent.

Whenever Raylan lingers in my doorway, I can see the desire burning in his hazel eyes, the hesitation, the "what if" that crosses his mind whenever our gazes are locked in heavy, tempting silence.

This isn't right. It's not what I planned for or expected when I lost my virginity. It was supposed to be different. Dinner and a movie. A date or three. A walk through the woods or somewhere along the river. Brunch and a theater matinee. We'd talk and talk for hours, just me and him. We would never be able to get enough of one another until one evening, he'd lean in for a kiss, and I would simply melt. It's what I thought I wanted.

Instead, I got kidnapped by three bikers and ended up yearning for each of them differently.

I'm ashamed of myself because I'm dying to find out what Raylan is like, too. Worse even, I'm dying to know what the three of them are like. Together. The four of us locked between four walls. No inhibitions, no fear, nothing but our flesh and spirit dissolving into one. I think about it a lot. I pleasure myself under the bed covers while I let my mind wander.

My hand moves as I slowly wake up from the sweetest, most imaginative dream I've had in a long time. I'm about to work my clit into a secret, rippling orgasm when a knock on the door startles me, and I practically jump out of bed. By the time Raylan comes in, I'm red-faced and panting. I was so close to a release; it feels like I'm edging myself.

"Good morning, sunshine," he says, half-smiling. But the look in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what I was doing. "Thinking about me?"

He's voicing his dirtiest thoughts, too.

"Just waking up," I reply. "What's going on?"

"Checking in, first of all," he says, his gaze wandering up and down my figure. Granted, I'm hiding under the dullest flannel jammies that Shiloh could find—for which I should be grateful—but right now, I wish she'd walked into a Victoria's Secret instead. "Your father is adding more officers to his manhunt, which leaves the streets we're about to drive through somewhat clearer."

"What do you mean?"

"He's desperate to find you, but he's not ready to hear what we have to say, so we're letting him stew for a little while longer."

I feel bad about that. "Does he at least have proof of life? He must be going out of his mind."

"We sent him something, yes."

"What?"

"A photo of you, dated and with clean metadata from one of our outings," he says.

I think I remember which one. They took several photos of me from different locations and using different smartphones. They tossed each device in bins on the other side of the city after they uploaded the images to an online server. They have been exceptionally careful about hiding their tracks, from what I've noticed. I'm actually impressed with how thorough and well-organized they are—not just with me but with the club and their business activities. I know they deal with shady people, too, but it's a means to an end, according to Sky, and they make sure never to leave a paper or data trail behind.

"It's been weeks," I sigh deeply.

"They're looking for you in all the wrong places. We manipulated the image's original metadata for that specific purpose," Raylan replies. "Believe it or not, Ariana, you are safer here with us than you ever were with your father."

It might sound absurd, or it might be Stockholm Syndrome talking, but I actually believe him. I feel guilty for not missing my father more, yet this whole time that I've been away, I've put it to good use. Thinking. Revisiting past moments and seeing them in a different light, especially after everything that the guys have shown me. The truth may be somewhere in the middle. I'm not sure anymore, but I am sure of one thing—it's not how Dad said it was. That task force of his is starting to sound increasingly more ridiculous.

"Come on, get dressed," he says. "We're going somewhere new today."

"Another tour of the Knights' noble activities?"

"No."

But he doesn't give me any details. He simply walks out and waits for me in the hallway while I put on a pair of jeans, a dark blue hoodie, and a matching ballcap, making sure to keep my red hair pulled back in a tight, not-so-obvious bun resting on the back of my neck. Once I've got my boots on, I join him and we go downstairs and grab a quick coffee before we leave.

The ride through the city feels different this time.

I look around, holding on to Raylan as his bike rumbles down the streets of Everton, wondering what the people are thinking and if anybody recognizes me. My face has seen more screen time over the past few weeks than it did my whole life before I was kidnapped, yet I still take my helmet off and find myself surprised that no one is quick to gasp or point a finger my way, saying, "Oh, my God, you're Ariana David!" or something along those lines.

I never wanted to be famous, but I've become a walking missing persons poster, for heaven's sake. Yet I walk in and out of the city like it's nobody's business.

Then again, Raylan said something not that long ago that made sense—my face isn't on TV as often as my father's. He has held press conferences and done late-night interviews, going from one channel to another to talk about his distress about his torment over his missing daughter. He's the one getting the most screen time while political pundits have begun talking about his future run for senate, mentioning sympathy votes and similar points that get extra ratings after 8 p.m. It has left a bitter taste in my mouth.

It's a reminder that absolutely everything is political where Henry David is concerned—including his missing daughter.

"Just wondering, did you tell him anything when you sent him proof of life?" I ask Raylan once we pull up in the parking lot of a pristine-looking residential ensemble in the heart of the city.

"Like what?"

"Anything."

He nods once and takes his helmet off while I put my ballcap back on. "Only a note saying we'd be in touch with our demands. We didn't want him to think you were dead, nor did we want him to think we were rattled in any way by his supposed manhunt or task force. Right now, he's wondering why we're taking so long with that ransom demand, which is good. We need him stewing for as long as possible before we communicate again."

"Why?"

"You'll find out soon enough, I promise," he says, then looks at the building in front of us. "What do you think?"

I glance up and take a moment to admire the architecture. It is striking with its white fa?ade, minimalist design, black-metal-frame windows, and sloping roof. The front is decorated with a Japanese garden and an elegant glass fence, while stone-paved alleyways snake between the different buildings that are part of the same residential complex. "It's pretty. What are we doing here, Raylan?"

"This used to be Sweet Mother of Mercy," he says quietly.

I'm speechless for the longest minute as I wrap my head around the view in front of me. "The orphanage," I whisper.

"That's right. This whole block was leveled, and this was built in its place," Raylan replies. "It was supposed to be a community center, but city hall said that Everton already had one."

"My father was a councilman at the time."

"Yes, you know the story. I wanted you to see for yourself, though. I wanted you to see the effect that Henry David's decision had on the entire neighborhood," Raylan says. "How many of these apartments do you think are occupied as we speak?"

"I have no idea."

My heart is breaking all over again because I can see the pain in Raylan's eyes as he talks about it, as he remembers the kids he got so attached to—the kids he ultimately lost to the foster system after my father broke his promise and convinced Raylan to support the city's claim on the entire property.

He assured Raylan that he would move heaven and earth to see a second community center built here, complete with emergency housing for the Mercy orphans. They would only be in foster care for a year or two, tops, and they'd be moved back into the new building once it was completed.

All lies. All bald-faced lies.

"Fourteen out of eighty units," he says. "After all these years, only fourteen apartments have been bought or leased."

My stomach drops. "Oh, wow."

"Yeah. So, all that lying, all that backdoor dealing, all of it—"

"—for nothing," I exhale sharply as I finish his sentence.

Raylan chuckles. "Well, Daddy got his commission and then never answered my calls again. He was happy about it. The investors, not so much. I hear they're donating to Mayor David's opponent in the next election cycle. They've got money stuck in this place, and for some reason, they can't seem to find enough buyers."

"I have to ask why," I reply, staring at the buildings again. "It's a beautiful complex. It looks clean and ultra-modern. I thought there were plenty of jobs in the city for people to move in from out of town."

"It was advertised in all of your father's election campaigns, all of the literature," Raylan says. "All fluff, though. Talking out of his ass, promising things he knew he couldn't deliver. It isn't as easy as you might think to bring a corporation to Everton. First, there are no tax incentives whatsoever. Second, the local authorities and the local government are a mixed bag, and miscommunication between departments tends to make every single process unnecessarily tedious. Third, the crime rate in Everton is going up, not down. People look at the statistics before they decide to bring their businesses here. The same for people who think about moving here."

"I thought he was savvier than this."

"He probably is, but the people he's beholden to aren't. They're ancient, Ariana. Old Freemason descendants with money and ties behind the political scene, their filthy fingers dipped in so many pies that it makes them seem all-knowing and always right. But they're not. They're dying out, and they're struggling to draw fresh faces in so they can keep the system going, to keep the favors flowing, to keep the money coming into their bank accounts."

I give him a skeptical look. "Is this about the Black Hand, whatever, whoever they are?"

"You have no idea how powerful, how influential they are," Raylan says, his gaze briefly darkening. "And you're still not ready to have that conversation."

"How can you tell?"

"That smirk you keep putting on whenever you mention them speaks volumes," he replies.

The fact is if I admit they're right, if I give them that benefit, then it would mean that everything I was raised to believe was built on a lie. It would mean that my father is, in fact, the monster they claim him to be. And what will that say about me? That I'm a monster like him, or that I am irreparably stupid? Either way, it doesn't bode well for me. It hurts. The mere thought of having my own reality questioned has become unbearable.

It has also become unavoidable.

The crash is coming. And when the walls do fall, brick by brick, I wonder what will be left of me. Where will I stand when the truth becomes so big, so glaringly obvious, that it will be impossible to ignore?

Another week passes. Another news cycle.

I'm allowed to watch the cable news now. I haven't made any further attempts to escape. I've been a good girl, sitting in my room or spending time with the guys downstairs eating and drinking, or just keeping to myself, reading and watching movies. Sky, Kendric, and Raylan take me out once in a while to show me what they're up to.

My face shows up for a minute, at most, on the news before they cut to another segment of my father tearing up and telling the talk show hosts about the excruciating efforts he's making to find me. A minute later, they're asking him about his senate run, and I see it on his face—that brief glimmer of excitement before he goes back to playing the grieving father—saying that's the farthest thing from his mind.

I try to tell myself it's in his nature. It's who he is.

Turning the TV off, I blink back the tears, wondering what my mother would do in this situation. My guess is she'd be out driving all around the city, all day, every day, asking anyone and everyone until she picked up a lead.

She wouldn't have time to do interviews on TV. She'd set her job and everything else aside, turning the whole of Everton inside out to find me. I miss her now more than ever.

But my day is only just beginning, and judging by the pensive look on Raylan's face when he comes up to my room, it's about to get interesting. "I need you to meet someone," he says.

"Who?"

"Not here. Come with me."

I trust him wholly and completely. I do not question his decisions anymore. I don't question Sky or Kendric's, either. I only accept what they give me and return their affection every time. I live in the moment, and I let them take me just as they let me take them. It's our secret, our unspoken sin. But I sleep well at night. For some reason, to me it makes sense. It feels good. It feels right.

It's Raylan that hasn't gone over the edge with me yet. He's almost there, though. I can sense it.

The sexual tension between us is downright palpable. His touch is pure electricity coursing through my body, jolting my heart into a frenzy whenever he puts his hand on me to help me on or off his bike.

We go to the ugly side of Everton this time—a place I've not been through in quite a while—and it looks just as bad as it did when I last saw it.

Abandoned rundown townhouses line the narrow, potholed streets. Unkempt bushes and damaged metal fences line dried-up front yards. Some of the houses' windows are boarded up. A couple of vagrants push carts loaded with whatever they could salvage from their repossessed homes and junk they find in the trash at night.

It breaks me to see this place. It's the neighborhood that people in midtown never talk about. The neighborhood never gets addressed in any of my father's speeches, either. It's the biggest stain on his record so far. The one place he promised to heal during his campaign yet never touched.

Armistice Street.

One of Everton's oldest parts, Armistice Street, used to be the center of a vibrant residential area where everyone wanted to live. But as the city expanded, as the suburbs stretched out, and as apartment buildings rose higher and higher, Armistice Street was left behind—forgotten, neglected.

The original owners of these houses passed away. Their heirs moved out and sold them for pennies to money-hungry realtors who never made good on their promises to flip them. This happened during the financial crisis of 2008 when the real estate bubble blew up.

The once vibrant homes have sat empty and in ruin ever since.

"Most of these are empty, but a few are frequently used as drug dens," Raylan tells me, following my gaze up the road. "The occasional dead body pops up, the majority being overdoses, but some get killed in these parts, too. Drug deals gone bad; junkies stabbing one another for a fix, that sort of thing."

"Why are we here?" I ask him with a trembling voice. "Is this another lecture about my father's ineptitude because I've had enough of those."

"No, not at all. I just wanted you here while I talk to Paulie," he says.

"Who's Paulie?"

As if summoned, a young man stumbles out of the light blue townhouse in front of us. He looks left and right with a worried expression, his face pale and blotchy, his red jersey torn, and his jeans barely hanging on to his waist as he comes down the front steps. "What's up, Ray-Ray?"

"Hey, Paulie. I'm glad you're still here," Raylan replies with what I can only describe as a sad smile. "How are you holding up?"

"Same, same, man. Every day. Still here, like you said," the shaggy-haired man replies.

I would guess he's in his early twenties, but he looks a lot older on account of the abuse that his body has clearly endured over the past few years. He gives me a curious, suspicious look, so I offer a soft smile in return. "I'm Randy, a friend," I tell him.

"Nice to meet you," Paulie says, turning to Raylan. What brings you here, man?"

"I'm worried about you, kid. How much longer do you plan on staying in this mess of a place?"

"I got nowhere else to go," Paulie replies, increasingly frustrated. "I told you I don't need your help anymore. I'm on my own; I'm doing all right."

Raylan looks at me. "Paulie was one of the kids at Sweet Mother of Mercy. I found out just recently that he was still in Everton."

"I see. Paulie, Raylan really is trying to help," I'm compelled to say, but Paulie laughs dryly.

"Like he helped the others?"

"That's not fair," I shoot back.

Raylan raises a hand to silence him before he says something he might regret. I can see a muscle twitching nervously along his stubbled jaw. Raylan is usually a calm and cheerful man, but it doesn't take much to cross him and bring out the beast. "Paulie, I haven't found Manny yet. I was hoping he might've come around since—"

Paulie cuts him off. "I haven't seen him. Hell, I don't think he's in the city anymore."

"Why do you say that?" Raylan asks.

"Old Scooter was gathering kids from all over for some paid labor in the orchards beyond the ridge up north," Paulie replies. "It wasn't much money, but he offered boarding and a hot meal. Manny was always trying to go on the straight and narrow; he never wanted any of this."

"Why didn't you go with Scooter, then?" Raylan says.

Paulie's smirk fills me with sadness. "What's a couple of bucks going to do for me when I'm making more selling out here, huh?"

"Who are you selling for?"

"None of your goddamn business, Raylan. I've made my peace with this life; you should, too."

"Paulie, we're still open to welcoming new prospects into the club. My offer stands."

"No, thanks," the kid replies, about to go back into the house. "Listen, don't come around here anymore. My guys don't like Steel Knights showing up. It scares the customers away."

Given the state of this place, I'm about to ask which customers, but then I remember what Raylan told me. They tend to come out in the late afternoon, most of them sticking to the long shadows and darkness of the night to get their fix and their money in the right pockets. This street is livelier once the sun goes down, though not in a good way.

The defeated look on Raylan's face tears me apart inside. He watches as Paulie goes back into the house. We both hear the front door lock turning twice. We stand in silence for a while, and I give Raylan all the time he needs to decide what he's going to do next. It can't be easy for him. He feels responsible for these people, even though most of them are adults.

"He is in charge of his destiny," I feel the need to tell him.

"I promised them that they would be together again," Raylan says, lowering his gaze in pained shame. "As your father was waffling and telling me that he'd make sure to divert funds into a new community center, I was telling the nuns that they'd be back here and the kids that they'd only be in foster care for a while. It's how I convinced the church to surrender the land. It was a financial black hole for them, anyway, but the nuns had been so resistant to selling even when the archbishop tried to put his foot down. I'm the one who sealed that deal."

"Because you believed my father. But you're not responsible. Hell, Raylan, you got swindled, too, if you think about it."

The way Raylan looks at me feels different. Profound. Emotional. I see things in his eyes, things I wish I knew for certain, things I already feel within myself yet cannot voice them.

"People are complicated, Ariana," he says. "They may seem simple, but they're not. And the reality is never black and white; it's always too many shades of grey. Your father is lost in these shades. I don't want you to get lost in them, too. That's why we're coming out to see these places, to meet these people."

"I know."

"I'm not sure you do."

And that's where the conversation ends. He hands me my helmet like I'm supposed just to take it and put it on. To hide under it again and let him take me back into captivity. But I do precisely that. I accept my fate. I no longer fight it, except when I'm alone with my screw, still toiling away at the window frame. Eventually, I'll get that old thing to budge. I only wonder if I'll have enough courage to leave when that happens. There's no telling where or how this ends.

By the time I get back to my room, it's midday, and the sun is shining. It's beautiful out, but I need to stay upstairs. There's a game on TV in the clubhouse, and customers are already pouring in. I'm wondering more often how much longer the guys are going to keep me. Sky, Kendric, Raylan. They're becoming important to me. But they are still my captors. I am still their prisoner. Despite the obvious shift in our rapport, that one fundamental aspect hasn't changed. I deserve better than this.

"From the minute we brought you here, we knew there was something different about you," Raylan says, prompting me to turn away from my barred window and deep thoughts in genuine surprise. "We knew you weren't aware of a lot of what was going on with your father."

"Something tells me I have plenty more to learn," I mutter.

"You do. But it needs to come in carefully measured doses because the truth is a hard pill to swallow, Ariana, and given how we brought you here in the first place, I can't blame you if you don't fully trust us."

"I don't understand what it is that you want from my father, though."

Raylan comes closer, his shoulders broad, his figure tall as it casts its shadow across the room. The walls are slowly closing in, the air between us getting thicker and harder to breathe. The effect that he has on me is undeniable and downright frightening. I fear that I might lose control altogether, and given how I've been spending my nights, already in Sky or Kendric's company, my cheeks burn red with shame as I dare to imagine adding Raylan into the mix.

"What we want is something you're not ready to hear, sweetheart," he says, and the way that word rolls off his tongue has my pulse racing.

"I've been here for quite a while," I reply. "I've seen and heard enough. You should give me more credit. Sweetheart."

He stills mere inches away from me, his expression shifting from mysterious amusement to something fiery and playful, something decadent and exhilarating as his lips part, ever so slowly. The flicker in his eyes dances in shades of green and grey, making my skin tingle all over. "Call me that again, Ariana. Call me that again."

"Why?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. A strange new power surges through me. The kind of confidence derived from feeling wanted, I suppose. The way Sky looks at me when we make love, the way Kendric whispers "baby" in my ear whenever he takes me from behind, it's lighting fires within me, blazing flames that lick at the fabric of my reality, causing me to say and do the craziest things. "Why do you want me to call you that again, Raylan?"

He closes the distance between us and sneaks an arm around my waist, pulling me close. His hard muscles smash into me, knocking the air out of my lungs as I glance up at him, utterly defenseless and already turned on. "Because I want to hear it. I want to feel the way Sky and Kendric feel when they're with you," Raylan says, then kisses me.

There is no room for objection. No way for me to withdraw.

Despite the shame cutting through me like a sharp knife, I let his mouth conquer mine, his tongue sliding in and playing around, exploring and tasting at will. I moan in his tight embrace and run my fingers through his messy, dark brown hair. I breathe him in; I delight in his conquest, and I let his hands roam up and down my body.

But then he pulls away, panting. The alarmed look on his face has me frozen with worry.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice a mere whisper.

Sorry? I don't get it. What was that? I'm alone now. Confused. Turned the hell on and then some. What was he thinking? Oh, God, he knows about Sky and me. About Kendric and me. It must mean that Kendric knows about Sky, too, and vice versa. Spike's comments come back to haunt me: They share everything. These three share everything, including secrets and their women.

Riddled with embarrassment, I curse under my breath and decide it's time to run away from everything. But the only way out is via this barred window. Once again, I have faith in my trusted screw and go back to working hard until I get the metal frame to come loose. Once again, I choose to turn away and run off as fast as my feet can carry me.

Because facing my truth has become too much.