Lili Germain - Seven Sons

I put my bra and t-shirt back on and look at myself in the large mirror that hangs over the sink.

 A complete stranger stares back at me, so different I wouldn’t recognize her as me. Juliette had shoulder-length blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes. The girl I’m staring at has dark brown hair that skims her ass, thanks to extensions, bronzed skin, thanks to hours lying in a tanning bed, and dark blue eyes that still reflect the tiniest hint of hazel that the contact lenses can’t stifle.

 I miss being Juliette. But I feel invigorated by my new appearance at the same time. The anonymity it affords me is something I underestimated when Dr. Lee and I were going over my surgical rework plans. I’m on an adrenalin high; having just screwed Dornan, my ass is throbbing but my spirit is elated.

 I did it. I fucking did it. I fooled him.

 He has no idea who I am.

When I exit the bathroom, Dornan is back behind his desk as if nothing ever happened.

“So,” I say, as if I don’t already know. “Did I get the job?”

He stabs the air with his pen, gesturing for me to sit down. I drag out the metal stool from under the desk – the desk we just fucked on – and sit my throbbing ass down.

“You into drugs?” Dornan asks. “Drinking? What’s your thing?”

I shrug. “I’m kind of boring, really.”

Dornan smiles knowingly, and flashes his straight teeth. He and his sons might be rough and tattooed, but they all have amazingly straight, white teeth.

“Well,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, “I have a lot of sex with a lot of different people. Could that be a problem?”

His smile stretches so wide I think his face might break under the weight of it. “I don’t see that being a problem, no.”

“I do have one other problem,” I say, looking at the floor. “I mean, I just got here from Texas, I don’t know anyone … I’m staying at a backpackers’ hostel a few blocks away, but I’m going to run out of cash soon.”

He nods. “You need cash?”

I shake my head. “I don’t take money unless I earn it. I just need … somewhere to stay, a few weeks at the most.”

Say it, Dornan. Come on and fucking say it.

“That’s not a problem,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ll stay at the clubhouse. Plenty of extra rooms. You’ll have to sign a non-disclosure statement and agree not to speak with anyone about what goes on there, of course.”

Hooked, line and sinker. Sucker.

“What goes on there?” I say, my Bambi eyes as wide as I can stretch them.

“Baby girl,” he replies, clearly high-fiving himself for his luck today. “Why don’t you just see for yourself?”

He writes the address down on the back of a business card and hands it to me, letting his fingers brush against mine again. I see the glazed look in his eyes and a small burst of adrenalin spurts into my stomach as I realize he’s pretty damn taken with Samantha Peyton.

“Here,” he says, handing me a roll of crisp fifties. There’s probably cocaine on them. “Get yourself some nice clothes. Damn, I like those shorts, but you gotta wear something a little more upmarket if you’re gonna be working here.”

I laugh to myself, thinking that he still holds his club to such a high esteem even though he’s turned it from an artistic burlesque club to a strip club and whore house.

The cell phone on his desk vibrates and he gives me one last look up and down. “I gotta take this. Go shopping, get yourself some nice things to wear, and I’ll see you here,” he points to the address on the business card, “tonight. Be there at eight. We’ll go over everything then.”

I smile broadly and offer my hand. He looks at it, takes it, and pulls me across the desk. I feel his lips on mine and the only thing I can do is respond. He’s a good kisser, even though the feel of his hot tongue in my mouth makes me want to clamp my teeth down and bite it off.

He breaks away and lets go of me.

“I think that’s a little more appropriate than shaking hands, don’t you think?”

I giggle, licking my lips. “Yes, sir.”

His phone continues to buzz angrily. “Eight,” he says, answering the phone and holding it to his ear. “Now get that piece of ass out of here before I spend my entire day fucking it.” He starts barking things into the phone and I back away, grab my roll-along suitcase, and make my way as quickly and quietly as I can down the stairs.

I pass Jase, who is still polishing beer glasses, but I don’t make eye contact. I’m almost at the set of doors, where I can go outside and fill my lungs with fresh air before I have a complete meltdown, when he speaks just behind me.

“Did you get the job?”

I turn slowly, ashamed that he has to look at me like this. Like a whore. “Yeah,” I reply quietly. “I got the job.”

Jase looks intrigued, and I have to wonder if he senses something about me. About us. After all, I might be Samantha now, but before that I was Juliette, the first girl he ever loved.

“What’s your name?” he asks me, setting a tray of glasses on a table between us.

Julz! Don’t touch her! Get away from her! Juliette!

I turn, swallowing back a lifetime of tears, and smile at him. “Samantha. You can call me Sammi.”

He nods. “Well, see you ‘round, Sammi.”

“Yeah,” I say, and suddenly my sadness is so heavy, I’m afraid I might collapse on the floor in front of him. But I don’t. I swallow back the hard lump in my throat and turn to leave. “See you ‘round.”

When I steal a glance over my shoulder as I’m pushing the heavy doors open, he is still watching me.

I nearly didn’t make it out of LA alive.

If it weren’t for Elliot smuggling me out of town and setting me up in Nebraska, I would have been dead that very night I lay in hospital, broken and bleeding. Dornan’s second son, Donny, had been on his way back to the hospital to inject a lethal dose of heroin into my veins while Elliot was questioning me.

“Who did this to you?” the young police officer asked softly. I stared into space, unable to form words.

 “I’d rather stay alive,” I said finally, shaking my head. 

He leaned close and whispered to me, so close I could almost taste the coffee on his breath. “It was Dornan Ross, wasn’t it?”

The fear that leapt into my eyes must have confirmed his suspicions.

“I think they’re planning to kill you whether you tell me or not,” he said urgently. “They’ve been hanging around your room all afternoon, waiting for me to leave.”

My entire aching body stiffened, and my heart started beating so fast, I thought it would explode out of my chest and drench the beige walls in a shower of red.

Elliot eyed the small cart in the corner of the room that was meant for washing. He lifted the lid and peered inside, pulling out a blood-stained set of green hospital scrubs with his fingertips. He quickly and efficiently stripped down to his boxers, which would have been completely traumatising for me had I not believed that he was trying to help. He dragged the green scrubs over his head and hopped around, trying to pull the pants on as quickly as possible. 

He came back over to the bed and unhooked my IV from the stand. I had a bag of morphine attached to the main saline bag, and a little button I could press to deliver a new hit of pain relief every fifteen minutes. 

Elliot pressed and held the button, delivering the maximum dose possible, and almost immediately I felt floaty and numbed. 

“Scoot forward,” he said, looking around behind him. He lifted me as gently as possible, but I still screamed in pain from my broken bones being moved. “I’m sorry,” he said, covering my mouth so that no sound escaped.

He maneuvered me to the side of the bed so that my legs were hanging off, and eased me down into the laundry cart. I wriggled down, biting on my fist to stop from screaming, and arranged myself so that the lid would close on top of me.

“Here,” he said, handing me his gun, and that’s the moment when any suspicion I had about his intentions melted away. 

“If this doesn’t work, and somebody else opens this lid … shoot and keep shooting, you hear?”

I nodded.

“You know how to use a gun?”

I nodded, tears streaming down my cheeks. My father, up until a few weeks ago, had been the president of the most renowned and feared biker club in the United States. Of course I knew how to use a gun.

“I’m gonna get you out of here, kid. I promise.”

 And he did. 

Six years later, Elliot isn’t a cop anymore. In fact, he resigned from the force almost immediately after moving me to a safe house in Nebraska with his grandmother. Juliette Portland was reported dead in the hospital from internal bleeding the night he smuggled me out, and while we think that Dornan bought the story, it’s always possible that he is still keeping watch for me.

 I’m standing outside a building with LOST CITY TATTOOS emblazoned across the front, my dirty clothes switched for a spaghetti-strap white summer dress that skims my knees and shows off my enviable tan. I’ve just spent the last hour scrubbing every inch of myself in the shower of my hotel room. I wasn’t actually staying in a dingy hostel. I had a room at the Bel Air. I figured I may as well enjoy my last few hours of freedom before moving into the clubhouse tonight.