Death Layer (The Depraved Club) by Celia Loren, Colleen Masters Read Free Book Online Page B

dormitory,
utilitarian. There are no windows.
      I raise a limp arm to brush my swollen
cheekbone, which hurts like hell, and then slide my hand up the length of my
body, which I realize is not in any pain. Grimacing, my hand reaches my hips
and I sigh in relief. Thank god, I’m still wearing my underwear. And bra. It’s
a small comfort, but it’s enough to reduce my violent shaking to a subtler
trembling.
    Don’t worry, Jack’s voice echoes in my head , we’ll
save the touchy stuff for the Beast.
    Nope, I lied; the violent shaking is back. What the hell is
the beast? As my carrier’s footsteps slow, I have a sinking feeling that I’m
about to find out.
    I realize there is a small entourage around me: Jack, the
bouncer carrying me, a couple of other guys. They’re all wearing heavy boots
and guns. We grind to a stop outside a door at the end of the hallway, knock
once, and then the bouncer dude kicks the door open because apparently that’s
easier for him than using the knob or waiting for someone to open it.
    “Jesus Christ!” curses a voice from inside the room.
    We spill in like a tidal wave, crowding the darkness. It
smells like sweat and sex and leather and man. Someone trips the switch and
light stings my eyes. I squint. The bouncer swings me down off his shoulder but
my legs are too wobbly to trust. Collapsing in a small puddle on the floor, I
blink until I can take in the scene.
    There’s a man lying naked in bed—at least he was lying naked
in bed until the ruckus roused him. Now he’s sitting half-up with a shotgun
cradled over his forearm pointed our way. There’s an empty bottle of Jameson
rolling between his legs.
    I do a double-take. He looks so much like Ryan Reynolds that
I have trouble convincing myself that it’s not actually Ryan Reynolds. Shoot,
after this evening anything seems possible. Why wouldn’t Ryan Reynolds be here?
But this guy’s face and body are harder than a movie star’s, more dangerous.
Dark tattoos blossom and twist all over his rippling forearms and torso, and
down one leg.
    There are two women in bed on either side of him, also
naked, their faces groggy.
    I have just enough time to zero in on the sight of his
enormous, exposed cock before I feel hot shame rush to my face and pointedly
avert my gaze. As soon as I do, I wish I hadn’t: I see Jack and company with
their own guns drawn, faces full of menacing smirks.
    I’m in the middle of a fucking western or something. Only
these aren’t cowboys.
    “Shit,” laughs the man in bed. A lazy and long-suffering
smile relaxes his face as he groans, setting down his gun. “Doesn’t anyone just
txt anymore?”
    “Conversation time, Bane.”
    “What the fuck you want, Jack? I was kind of occupied.”
    “I can see that. Party’s over.” Jack nods at his entourage
and they all put away their guns. With a grin he acknowledges the women in bed.
“Trinity, Coco, beat it.”
    The two women scramble to their feet, revealing tight
gorgeous bodies and rumpled sex hair. Their gazes flit over me with something
like hostility. They reach for their discarded clothes, but Bane has grabbed
his gun again and caulks it, firing a shot into the ceiling and bathing us in a
shower of plaster chips.
    A scream of panic escapes my lips and the women freeze. The
other men whip out their guns again and everyone tenses. 
    “Now hold up one minute!” Shouts Bane. His lazy smile is
gone, a cold mask in its place. The change in demeanor is fast and startling.
“Where’re your fucking manners, Jack? This is my room. I don’t care if you are
the fucking club prez, Czar of Persia, or my mother may she rest in peace. The
girls stay until I ask them to go. My room, my rules.”
    Jack’s eyes narrow to lethal slits. “You’re gonna want to
pick your battles more carefully, brother,” he says. His voice is dangerously
soft as he turns the barrel of his handgun toward the beautiful black woman’s
chest. “Trinity, Coco, OUT! Now.”
    Long