“I’m not fucking around. Answer me, why?”
His smile and his hands drop and his face scrunches, almost pained. “How can you ask me that?” I frown, not sure what he means, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “Jesus. Fine. Just tell me, are you in or out?”
Terrified my chance at escape will disappear, I almost shout, “In!”
Bane nods but looks suddenly tired. “Alright. I’ve got a contact can make us new passports: help us start over. Might as well tell me your name before I change it.”
His hands cup my chin again and I close my eyes against the rush of confused sensation. “Why does it matter?”
“I want to say it.” His voice is a whisper. His thumbs slide away from my lips, down my throat to caress my collarbone. “I want to say your name when I touch you.”
“Bane—”
“I want to say your name so you know that I know that you’re a person, and that you don’t belong to me. Alright?”
Stunned, I blink into his face. It’s strained with some kind of emotion. His hands slide over my shoulders, down my arms.
“I want to say your name,” he says, “So that when I touch you, you know that I know I’m not just taking what’s mine.” His fingers close around my side ribs, framing my breasts. “You’re not like the others. And neither am I. When I touch you I’m asking you something, Red. Don’t you know that?”
He leans closer, his breath rushing over my lips. I can smell his scent and see every coarse hair of his five o’clock shadow. My heart is pounding.
“Answer my question, Red. You know what I’m asking.”
I know exactly what he’s asking. I know what he wants. But I lie. I avert my eyes from his all-knowing gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bane.”
His grip tightens on my ribs. “Yes you do. Tell me your name.”
“No.”
“Dammit, Red.”
He shakes me until I have to grab onto his shoulders for steadiness. The shock of touching him, of feeling his hands gripping so firmly under my breasts, is like a fucking lightning bolt straight to my groin. But he’s being too rough, and I’m scared.
“Please, don’t, Bane.”
I can’t handle this right now. It’s too much, right after Smokey.
As soon as my palms land pleadingly on Bane’s chest he freezes, catching himself. His eyes sear into mine, hungry and hurt, but then his expression softens.
“Jesus,” he groans. “I’m sorry. You’re making me nuts, woman.” He leans his forehead against mine and sighs. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his face back and plants a long, warm kiss on my forehead. “I’m sorry.” His lips brush my cheek, silky and tender. “I’m sorry.”
His mouth is moving toward mine. A new kind of fear grips me and with a gasp I turn my face away.
“No.”
It’s a tiny little word, but an important one—like a magic spell that reveals a person’s character. With Smokey, it didn’t work. With Bane, it stops time and cracks the space wide open between us. His body is still just as close to me as the moment before, his lips still resting against my deflecting cheek. But I feel him leave.
“Yes ma’am.”
Slowly, he extracts his body from mine until he steps back from the sink, watching me, and I can see the desire on his face and in the bulge in his pants.
I am confused, hungry and scared, shaken and aroused. I can’t move towards him, but I want to. A kiss still hangs in the air between us but neither of us reaches for it.
Bane shakes his head. “It’s too bad,” he says. “I know you want me, too.”
Just then, there’s a knock on the door.
“Bane?” Meat Grinder’s voice is serious. “You’ve got some company out here.”
Bane rubs his hands over his face and shouts back, “Yup, been expecting them!” He turns back to me with a grim expression. “Fucking consequences, Red.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bane and I are standing in the office where this all started for me: Jack Keller’s den in the underground D.L. Club. I can hear screams and moans from the drug, sex, and fighting dungeons just down the hall. The room is dense with sweat and suspense.
Six patch-wearing officers of the Death Layer Motorcycle Club are sitting in smoking chairs or leaning against the absurd brocade wallpaper and bookshelves. Their faces are as serious as a heart attack, just the way Mr. King used to look at Skollz Corp board meetings. Only instead of smart phones, these guys all have guns.
I’m shivering in spite of the high temperature. My lacy lingerie dress is torn and pathetic, but feels somehow appropriate. No one is paying much attention to me anyway, like I’m just another piece of furniture or something. Anyway, it’s not so much the exposure that has me shaking; it’s just plain old fear.
Bane is on trial.
The hefty, bearded man I recognize from the bar as the Sergeant at Arms is here. So is Judge Jefferson from the band, who evidently moonlights as club Treasurer. President Jack Keller is heading the meeting, his severe face smug and leonine. It finally occurs to me who Jack reminds me of: Scar, the evil uncle from The Lion King. I can’t stop staring at the void and burn mark where Jack’s eyebrow should be.
He even sounds like Jeremy Irons. “All you officers are witnesses,” Jack rasps between puffs on his cigar. “Road Captain Bane ‘the Beast’ Harme openly confesses that he killed our brother Paul ‘Smokey’ Gunn over a piece of tail of all goddamn things. Death Layer has a strict no-kill policy among members. We look down on that sort of bullshit. Retribution has always been blood for blood. Now I call upon you officers to act as judge, jury and executioners.”
The men all shuffle, tense. The grandfather clock with the skeleton and D.L. initials engraved on top tells me we’ve been here for over an hour, the men grilling Bane about Smokey’s death. Now Bane clears his throat, taking the floor.
“Look down on killing at Death Layer, do we?” Bane says. “That’s rich. What about manipulation, stealing, destruction of property, raping a brother’s property? Smokey broke charter laws too!” Bane holds up one finger. “One, he stole my dog and threw her in the ring; but that was probably on your fucking orders, right Jack? You all know I don’t do dog fights. Fucking stealing, not to mention you almost succeeded in killing my dog!”