Destroying Beauty (Hell Hounds Motorcycle Club): Vegas Titans Series (2 page)

Jo

One month earlier

“Jo! You still there?”

“Yup! Yes, I’m still here,” I reply, almost dropping my
phone as I snap to attention. Elise is my best friend, but she can really talk
my ear off sometimes.

“You
sure
you don’t want to come out tonight?” she
asks for the millionth time.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m just not in the mood.”

“You’re never in the mood,” she says, and I can practically
hear her rolling her eyes.

“I know,” I reply with a sigh. No argument against the
truth. “Next week, though, I promise.”

“Sure, sure. Call you tomorrow. Love you,” she singsongs.

“Love you, too,” I say, hanging up and tossing the phone on
the couch next to me.

It’s not that there’s anything super exciting going on in my
apartment. To the contrary, it's completely boring and drab in here. The color
scheme I went with was whatever was on sale at Target. But I’m just tired of
going to the same old places with Elise. Same type of guys, same tired lines.
I’d rather spend the night in and not have to put heels on.

I stretch out on the couch and turn on the TV. I can’t
afford cable, so my options are pretty limited. I think back fondly on my old
big-screen with all the additional channels and smile wistfully. Then I
remember the asshole that came with the TV and my smile disappears.

My ex-husband Steve was the star of the football team in
high school and his parents were wealthy and willing to turn a blind eye to his
house parties. He was popular, to say the least. I felt lucky that a guy like him
wanted to date me, and even luckier when he wanted to marry me. Fast-forward to
one year in, and I find out he’d been cheating on me with a receptionist at the
tech company where he worked.

His parents hired a divorce attorney/shark who managed to
fix it so I got to keep nothing but my used car, and here I am in my tiny
one-bedroom staring at my grainy basic cable. But at least I’m not worried
anymore that he might give me herpes. Silver lining.

My stomach starts to rumble and I swing my legs onto the
stained carpet and walk into the kitchen that’s separated from the living room
by a narrow counter. I open the fridge and lean down to peer inside. Slim
pickings: an apple, some string cheese, and milk. And the freezer? Empty too. I
don’t bother checking the cabinets; I know there’s nothing there. Ate the last
of the cereal this morning.
Pull it together, Jo
, I chastise myself.

I walk into my bedroom and pull on jeans and a t-shirt from
the restaurant where I work now. It’s not so much that I’m depressed—because
believe me, that self-diagnosis has crossed my mind—it’s just that I feel like
I’ve seen it all before. I’m twenty-five, and I’ve already been married and
divorced. In fact, if anything, I feel restless.

It’s a restlessness that a walk to the gas station on the
corner won’t cure, but that’s the best place to get a late-night snack, so off
I go. I lock my apartment door behind me and head down the dimly lit stairwell
and into the parking lot. The gas station is only a block away, and it's a nice
night. We're just moving into spring, and there's just the slightest chill in
the air. I stare up at the sky as I amble. That’s one good thing about living
in a small town in Nevada—you can always see the stars.

The bell on the gas station door jingles as I push it open.

“Where’s Dewey?” I ask the greasy-haired stranger behind the
counter. Yeah, I’m a gas station regular. I’m that cool.

“Sick,” the guy replies without looking up at me. I murmur
sympathetically as I make my way back to the frozen food section in the rear of
the store. The door jingles again and I look behind me just in time to see a
heavily tattooed Hispanic guy walk in behind me. He glances at me and I smile
reflexively. He doesn’t smile back.

I turn the corner of the aisle and crouch down to look over
my options on the bottom shelf. Should I try the pepperoni tonight? I’m always
a little distrustful of frozen meats for some reason. Maybe I should just stick
to the four cheese. The bell on the door rings again as my hand rests
indecisively on the door of the freezer.

“What the fuck you doing here?”

My head snaps toward the front of the store at the sound of
raised voices.

“Me and my brothers will go wherever the fuck we want!”

“You don’t fucking talk to me like that, you little bitch!
You have no idea who the fuck I am!”

"You're a pussy, that's what you are. You think I'm
scared of you?"

“Guys,” I hear the clerk say warningly, but he doesn’t seem
to have much conviction behind it.

I hear a grunt and a yell and then the sound of a couple
punches being thrown and a display toppling over.

"Hey, that's it, I'm calling the cops so you guys
better—" the clerk begins.

"Don't you fucking touch that phone,
motherfucker."

The next thing I know, there’s silence, broken only by heavy
breathing and a wet clicking sound. What the fuck is going on up there?

I slowly take my hand down from the door of the freezer and
tiptoe over to the edge of the aisle, still in a crouched-down position. I peer
slowly around the Pringles stacked in front of me and have to bite my lip to
keep from crying out. The Hispanic guy has his hands up in the air and there’s
a gun pointed at him. The guy holding it must be the one who came in last, and
I can’t see his face without peering any further around, and I’m not about to
do that. All I see is his pale white hand wrapped around the gun. He holds it
steady, pointed at the man’s chest.

I reach slowly toward my back pocket as I hear the clerk
begin to cry and the gunman shout at him. I pat my jeans frantically. Fuck. I
forgot my phone. Maybe the clerk has a panic button back there and the police
are on their way. I feel sweat trickle down the side of my face as I stay
still, my thighs beginning to ache in this awkward position.

Now the Hispanic guy is talking to the faceless one. “Look,
man, just calm down. I walk out of here, no one has to know about this. It’ll
be better for both of—"

The back of his head explodes as a gunshot rings out. Blood
and brain matter splatter across the glass door behind him as his body crumples
to the ground. The clerk screams shrilly and I pull back behind the chips as a
second shot rings out, accompanied by a thud. The clerk. I press both hands
against my mouth to keep from making noise as tears stream down my face.

"Fuck!" I hear the man swear and I'm sure I'm
about to see him walk around the other end of the row and that will be it.
He'll kill me for sure. "Need your help on something," he says, and I
don't understand until I realize he must be talking into a phone. "Two
people, gas station on Laurel. Gun can't be traced."
Who the hell is
this guy? A professional?
"Well, why the fuck we been paying you, then?
'Cuz you sure as shit didn't afford that new car on a cop's salary!"

A hum begins to fill my ears and I blink to keep the
darkness from taking over my vision. He's talking to a cop. He's talking to a
cop. This can't be real. This can't be happening.

"Well, you just do your fucking job," he yells
into the phone, and I hear him snap it shut. There's a long, interminable
pause, then I hear him shuffling around up front—maybe stealing? My heartbeat
is loud, far too loud in my chest. He’s going to hear it. He’s going to hear my
heartbeat and kill me. Footsteps, coming toward me. He’s peering down each
aisle, checking to make sure no one is there. I hear the clicking noise again—is
it coming from him? I curl up even smaller. If he doesn't turn down the aisle, if
he just looks from the front, he won't be able to see me. I make myself so
small and will myself to disappear. More footsteps.

The bell on the door rings.

I uncurl my body slightly and take my hands away from my
mouth. Is he gone? I wait. No sounds.
Don't wait too long—he might come
back.

I peer around the aisle and almost scream at the sight of
all the blood. I take a deep breath and scurry over to the window. I can just
see a pair of taillights disappearing around the far corner. I stand up and
look around. I feel like my head is floating above my body.

The floor is covered in blood in front of me and it's still
spilling outward. The puddle is bright red like a tomato, not rust-colored like
I thought blood would be. I stare at the Hispanic man's face. His eyes are
open. They’re brown, like mine. There is blood covering the wall behind the
counter, but the clerk's body fell behind it and I can't see him. It. His body.
Not a 'him' anymore. The only other dead person I've ever seen was my
grandmother, but she passed peacefully in the hospital while I was holding her
hand.

I shake my head as a wave of dizziness hits me.
Think.
Get moving.
The man's body is blocking the way to the door so I flatten
myself against the window to move past him. When I reach the door, I throw it
open. I take one step outside and start running. Running like the gunman is
chasing me. I run all the way back to my building. My hands shake as I unlock
the front door and run up the stairs. I drop my keys as I try to unlock my
apartment door and I start sobbing again. I finally manage to get the keys in
the lock and collapse against the other side of the door as I lock it behind me.
I slide down onto the floor and pull up my t-shirt to cover my face as I cry. How
long was I out of my apartment? Twenty minutes?

Finally my cries change to dry sobs and I take a deep breath
to try to calm myself down. A surge of nausea bursts up from my stomach and I
hurry to the bathroom, for once thankful that my apartment is so small. I
manage to pull my hair out of my face just before I retch into the toilet. I
stand up and turn on the water in the sink and spoon it into my mouth to get
the taste out. I look up into the mirror. I look different. Terrible and
different. And I feel dirty.

I turn the water on in the shower then walk into the kitchen
and pull a trash bag out from under the sink. I take off my old sneakers and
toss them in, then peel off the rest of my clothes and throw them in, even my
bra and underwear. I twist the top of the bag and knot it then place it by the
front door and walk back naked into the bathroom. The water is scalding hot and
I step into it. My skin turns pink as it washes over me.

I fold my arms over my breasts and stare at the water as it
pools there. I need to think clearly for a moment. I need to force myself to
think clearly.

No one saw me. Just the clerk and the Hispanic man and they
are dead. The gunman didn't see me. The gunman was talking to a cop. Can't go
to the cops. What if I talk to the wrong cop? I am the only witness. I am the
only witness to a double murder. Keep quiet. Be normal. No one has to know. No
one will know.

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll stay shut up about it. If there is
one thing I know about myself, it is that I am good at keeping secrets.

Chapter Two

Holt

Brette groans as I thrust inside her, her fingernails
reaching and clawing the wall in front of her as her cries build. I snake my
hand around her hip and flick her clit back and forth, driving her over the
edge. I feel her clench around my dick as she screams, and I slow down for a
moment.

"Oh, fuck…" she murmurs, tucking her red hair
behind her ears, then looking back at me over her shoulder. "Shit…are you
still hard?"

"Yep," I grunt with a smile.

"Damn, Holt," she breathes, licking her lips as
she looks down at my cock.

I slide my hand over her ass, palming it and giving it a
firm squeeze. "Why don't you put that pretty mouth to work?"

I pull out of her and toss the condom into the trash in the
corner. We're in one of the upstairs rooms in the clubhouse that's made for
just this purpose. I take a seat in an old wooden chair in the corner and
spread my legs. The music thumps from the party downstairs as Brette smiles and
walks over to me. Her tits barely move as she walks. They're huge, but fake and
a little too high and hard for my taste. But she's still one of the hottest
sweet butts that the Hell Hounds have. We fuck a couple times a week, sometimes
more, sometimes less. She never gets clingy or jealous like some of the others,
which I appreciate almost as much as her tight pussy.

She kneels in front of me and I lean back in the chair and
interlock my hands behind my head. I'm naked but for my cut.
Keep it on
,
she always begs. She takes me into her mouth and I close my eyes as she sucks
hard. Even though Brette's going for broke, I have to keep my mind from
wandering. All these girls have started to run together for me. I've done it
all, always looking for the crazier fuck, the more flexible girl, and I've
never found what I've been searching for.