Devil's Ride (Royal Bastards MC Tonopah, NV #3) - Nikki Landis

Eighteen years ago ––

The smell of mildew and cigarettes were the first thing I noticed when my eyes slowly cracked open and the fuzzy haze of the last twenty-four hours began to lift. My memory was jogging along at a slow and inebriated pace as I blinked and tried to focus on my surroundings. A steady ache throbbed between my eyes as awareness rose to the surface like a bloodthirsty monster. I winced at the movement of my sore and stiff muscles. Dripping water snared my attention while it echoed throughout the barren room. The steady plop was spaced just far enough to vanish completely before dropping into a ceramic basin somewhere close.

I wasn’t wearing my shirt or my cut and that seriously pissed me off. My colors were sacred, and no way did I remove them voluntarily. The skin around my nose itched like a motherfucker and that was when I figured out that I couldn’t move my hands or reach my face. Cotton mouth proved I hadn’t had anything to drink in a long while. When I licked my lips, I almost groaned with the sting as the skin stretched. My tongue felt thick and unused. I’d been out for a long time. No one had to tell me the situation was dire.

Shit. I wasn’t with my club brothers. Completely alone, I lifted my head as far as I could to figure out where I was being kept.

Assessing my situation, I tugged on the chains holding down my wrists and ankles that were attached to an old, worn wooden table with gouges in the surface where my bruised and bulky flesh settled upon unevenly. Leather straps were buckled across my chest and upper thighs. It was futile to move and try to break free, but I wasn’t above testing the limits anyway.

It was a no-go.

I was locked down and held prisoner. No one else was in the room but that didn’t mean I would have uttered a single word if every motherfucker in Nevada was standing next to my chained and imprisoned ass. I wasn’t a pussy. Whatever was going down, I’d handle my shit.

The room I was being held in was dark and cool, hidden somewhere deep underground with a dampness that chilled to the bone. Bleach added to the odor of cigarettes and mildew. The singular window on the opposite side of my position was covered with a scrap of material black as sin. Fluorescent lights hung down from above where I lay but only one actually worked and the solitary bulb was the only illumination available.

Kind of wished the light was burnt out. It was too damn bright. I kept seeing dark shadows and echoes of the light whenever I blinked, and my eyes shut. Old blood stains and crimson splatters could be seen all over the tiled walls and even a few droplets splashed up on the yellowed plaster above my head. The ceiling had once been white from what I could tell but the grime had long ago disguised the original color.

It wasn’t hard to figure out that I was located in a torture chamber of some kind. Blinking, I used all the strength I could muster and jerked at my restraints, but the chains rattled, mocking my pathetic efforts. I wasn’t leaving this table, not until I was released. Didn’t take a lot of brains to know that meant my death.

“Fuck,” I cursed aloud, frustrated at the lack of control. I hated to relinquish any power to anyone else. It was a personality flaw to be sure, but it wasn’t going to change. I needed to be the one who made decisions and led others. I wasn’t a follower. Those who knew me best understood.

Keys certainly did. That was why he helped raise me up and became my sponsor. I served the minimum one-year probation for a prospect and then I was patched in right away. Maybe he saw the viciousness of my nature or maybe he just glimpsed my old man and that was enough to gain his trust and admiration. I wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter.

I was a Royal Bastard, and I was fuckin’ proud to wear my patch.

The door across the room from my position flew open and interrupted my musings. The president of the Scorpions strolled in. Scar was a ruthless piece of shit, but it was his son that truly stole the show. Acid was carrying two knives with gut hooks on the edges of the blades

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