Seven Sons

Seven

Four and a half hours later, I’m running to the address Dornan gave me. Of course, I don’t need to look at the card – I know exactly where the clubhouse is. I’m almost there when it occurs to me that the address looked a little off, and I stop to fish the card out of my bag.

Sure enough, the address on the card is not for the clubhouse at all. I stand under the yellow glow of a street lamp, trying to massage the stitch out of my abdomen without touching the fresh tattoo gouged into my side.

I unlock my iPhone screen and navigate to the maps section. I plug-in the address that Dornan has written down for me, and wait impatiently as it loads. The little red dot is telling me to go in the opposite direction – 200 yards to what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. I jog the 200 yards and come to a stop in front of the warehouse, my fear a living thing inside me. My heart sinks as I wonder why Dornan wants me here instead of down the road at the clubhouse.

I jump suddenly as a dark figure materializes out of the shadows. I immediately recognize him as Jazz, Dornan's fifth son. He is painfully thin, and it doesn't take a genius to realize he has some kind of drug problem.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he calls out to me. “What's your name?”

“Sammi,” I reply, my heart hammering in my chest.

“You're late,” Jazz says, pushing open the enormous old roller door and gesturing inside. “You'd better hurry up and come inside.”

I hesitate for a moment, my feet itching for a decision.

Fuck it. I sling my bag over my shoulder, set my jaw, and walk to the doorway, ducking underneath the roller door. I try not to cringe as it is slammed shut behind me, the sudden rush of cold air nipping at my heels.

It is dim inside the warehouse, and I struggle to see more than superficial figures as my eyes adjust to the lighting.

There are figures moving casually about. From what I can see, all male. Before I can make out their faces, Jazz has snatched my bag from my hand and immediately begins rifling through the contents.

“Hey!” I protest. Another set of hands pulls my arm behind my back, forcing it up in a painful V. I am slammed into a brick wall and the wind is knocked right out of my lungs.

Be cool.

I feel hands patting me down, efficiently at first, before slowing down when they reach my inner thighs. I stay perfectly still as someone - who, I have no idea – gently teases my clit as they search me. I don’t react.

“Where’s Dornan?” I ask. “He told me to meet him here.”

“Shut up,” another voice says, and I turn to follow its owner. It seems the fingering body search has ended, and I am allowed to move freely again. Dornan’s oldest son, Chad, is standing in front of me, my iPhone in his hand.

“What’s the password for this thing?” he asks me.

I smirk. “D…I…C…”

I’m about to finish that word when he throws the phone at the ground, so hard it explodes into a million tiny pieces. I look at the ground in disgust and then back up at him.

“Oops,” he says, raising his eyebrows for effect. I don’t say anything, just hold his gaze without wavering.

“What’s your name?” Chad asks, repeating Jazz’s earlier question.

If you knew who I was, you’d shoot me in the head right now where I stand.

I look over at Jazz as if to say, why don’t you tell them? He doesn’t speak.

“It’s Sammi,” I say. “Samantha.”

Jazz tosses my purse to Chad, who pulls out my license and studies it intently.

“What’s your address?” he asks. I act bored and recite my address perfectly, followed by my date of birth when asked.

“What’s your license number?” he asks. I know it, but I also know that most people don’t. That it’s probably MORE suspicious being able to rattle it off than it is to feign ignorance.

“How the fuck should I know?” I say incredulously, tossing my long hair over my shoulder. “Do you know your license number?”

He laughs and shoves my fake license back into my purse, tossing it to Jazz, who hands it to me along with my bag.

“Where’s Dornan?” I repeat. “I’m supposed to start working for him. I don’t want to be late.”

Dornan steps out of the shadows, and I jump minutely, unaware that he’s been watching the entire time.

“Baby girl,” he says, his deep voice commanding respect among his sons, who seem to stand to attention all of a sudden. “You’re already late.”

I smile nervously. “I’m so sorry. The tattoo artist took forever–”

“Tattoo artist?” Dornan cuts me off sharply. “What tattoo artist?”

I shrug. “Some guy near the pier. You wanna see?”

He smiles, and despite my hatred for him, I can definitely understand why so many women throw themselves at him. His deep, booming gravel voice; his unmistakeable good looks that he’s inevitably passed on to all of his sons; those coal black eyes that miss nothing and give nothing away. Yes, I can see why he has seven sons to five different women. He’s just got something I can’t quite put my finger on. A charisma, an allure, a larger-than-life presence. Even at forty-eight, he’s only getting better looking with age.

It makes me hate him even more.

“Sure,” he says. He looks impatient. I smile, lifting my white dress so that he has a clear view of my lace panties, and stick my hip out.

Dornan whistles. “That’s some nice ink you got there, sweetheart.”

“I got it for you,” I say, smiling shyly. “I know all your girls have them.”

The sons don’t seem impressed. In fact, most of them look downright bored.

It’s ironic, really. That, cunning as they all are, they don’t realize their judge, jury and executioner stands before them, painted in roses and ink.

My heart soars at the thought of what I will do to each of them.