Owned: An Alpha Anthology Part 15

Jani hopes you will enjoy reading about the characters that live in her head and insist on being brought to life through her novels.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

To all the amazing authors I worked with in this Anthology:.

Thank you for sharing this experience with me. It was a blast working with you all. It's not easy to juggle your own work and deadlines and then work with a group as well, but we did it!! The best part was how seamless it went, everyone just pitched in and did their bit to make it all happen as if by magic. Well, maybe that's because magic was indeed involved. Put a bunch of creative, talented, awesome people like these authors in a group, then stand back and watch the magic happen! I just love it when a plan comes together!

A special Thank You to my beautiful friend, Nina Levine, who started this crazy idea with me after an innocent conversation about how awesome it would be to do an ALPHA Anthology. We seem to think the same and have similar ideas at the same time-so it was a no-brainer to work together on this and see it to fruition. Love you, babe!

Thanks to Natalie from Love Between The Sheets for organizing the Cover Reveal and Release Day Blitz. It was a pleasure to work with you.

I am blessed to have the talented and skilled Louisa Maggio design my favorite cover to date for Debonair, capturing exactly what I wanted. Thank you.

Editors are the unsung heroines of every novel. Thank you lovely Lauren McKellar for making my words shine and for kicking my a.s.s when needed. I love working with you. Please keep a spot open for the next book in the series.

To my amazing Street Team and all the awesome Krusaders: Thank you for your support and encouragement. It helps me through the tough times and makes me smile in the good times. Also to all the Beta Readers who give me feedback and suggestions to make the stories better: It's PRICELESS!! Thank you for taking the time and for caring.

A special thanks to my family too. Thanks for your patience and understanding while I was working on two books at the same time and spent more time in my head with my characters than with you. I love you and will make it up to you, I promise!

REBEL.

By Callie Hart.

Please be aware that this is a short SAMPLE of the first part of Rebel, and therefore not a complete story. If you would prefer to read the entire installment at a later date instead of being introduced to the characters here, please skip this part of the anthology now.

Best.

Callie Hart.

xoxoxo.

A BRIEF THOUGHT ON DEATH.

PROLOGUE - ALEXIS.

I never thought I'd die on the streets of Seattle. I never thought I'd be the kind of person to wish for death, either. You ask people what frightens them most in this world and nine times out of ten, you'll get the same universal answer: death. The Great Unknown. That one last wild ride. I used to be one of those people, paralyzed by the mere thought of non-existence. Seems a lot has happened recently to adjust my outlook, though. Now, I've realized there are more frightening things than simply ceasing to be. Living, for example. Continuing to breathe, even though it feels like your heart is shattered into a million pieces and you can't possibly go on another moment. Continuing to feel, even when your nerve endings are so frayed and overloaded from pain inflicted by others. Continuing to hope, despite the odds of rescue growing smaller and smaller each day.

I never thought I'd die on the streets of Seattle. I never thought I'd want to die. Beg for it. Wish for it constantly. I suppose my ingrat.i.tude for the great gift this life poses might be hard to comprehend. Perhaps if I started from the beginning, you might understand.

Here.

Let me explain.

REBEL BY CALLIE HART.

1 - Alexis.

St. Peter's hospital looms over the city, the building a crouched, disapproving sentinel blaring light and sound into the night. Fog blossoms on my breath. Curled around my takeaway coffee, my hands are finally beginning to thaw out. I'm listening to Led Zeppelin on my busted iPod with the cracked screen, watching people stream in and out of the hospital, and imagining their stories. Filling in the blanks from the expressions on their faces.

Broken leg.

Chest pain.

Only one more shift before the weekend, thank G.o.d.

New baby.

Lost loved one.

It never ceases to amaze me how a person's face alone can convey so much of what they're feeling, especially when they don't know they're being watched. I've seen the whole world crumble and be reborn at least five times before the cell phone, in the pocket of my thick Parka, rumbles against my stomach. It's my dad.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Are you still on the bus?"

I smile. I smile because the old man is clueless. "No, I'm outside. I've been waiting for you for half an hour."

He groans. In my mind I can see him pressing his fingertips into the creases of his brow, trying to figure out the problem he's presented with. Because there's a problem. There's always a problem. "Ah, okay. All right, I'll be out in a moment. A little girl just came in. She was in a car accident. Her whole leg's shattered. They asked if I could stay behind and monitor her while they operate, but I'll just tell them to-"

"Dad?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"It's fine. I can catch a bus back to your place. It's not a big deal." This is not the first time I've said these words, nor will it be the last. Since I decided to stay in Seattle and go to college here, it's been tradition to go back home every Sunday to hang out with my parents. They're big on church, big on Jesus. They like it when I spend Sunday nights with them. Most of the time, Dad's working, though, and Sloane, my older sister, is following in Dad's footsteps, training to be a doctor, so she's hardly around either. Usually it's just Mom and me, and I'm used to that. Used to the endless cups of tea and church gossip. Used to doing the dishes after dinner and sitting in comfortable silence while we watch whatever inane reality TV show Mom's hooked on at the time.

"You're sure you don't mind?" Dad asks. This is a script both of us have repeated countless times; we barely need to think before the words slip out of our mouths.

"I'm sure, Dad. It's okay. Go and anesthetize the c.r.a.p out of that kid."

Dad tuts-is c.r.a.p a curse word? Dr. Alan Romera sure thinks it is, but then again, the old man thinks shoot is a curse word. His disapproval is, as always, mild and affectionate, though. "Love you, sweetheart. I'll see you when I get home. Tell your mother not to put dinner in the oven for me, okay? I'll heat it up when I get back."

No dinner in the oven means he won't be back until well after midnight. I tell him I love him too and hang up the call. My role as voyeur is at an end. I drain the remnants of my coffee, shove my ear buds back into my ears, and begin the long walk across downtown Seattle to the bus depot. It's not often that snow sticks here since it's so wet. I feel like a little kid again as I trudge through the four-inch covering that carpets the sidewalk, tucking my face into my jacket, trying to keep warm as I listen to Robert Plant sing about letting the sun beat down upon his face. I pa.s.s a homeless guy hunkered over in a shop doorway, the only person out on the streets in this frigid weather.

I come from a family where giving is second nature. The ten-dollar bill I pa.s.s to the man vanishes quickly into the many folds of jackets and shirts he's wearing as protection against the cold, his quick, distanced eyes blinking thanks at me as I hurry down the street. I'm almost halfway to the depot when I can no longer hear Robert Plant singing anymore, and the ground feels like it's shaking apart beneath my feet. A convoy of motorcycles sweep down the street, engines snarling, drowning out all other sound. You don't get many packs of motorcycles traveling through the city. The sight is bizarre enough that I stop and watch them pa.s.s, until the very last of them disappear around a right-hand turn at the intersection behind me. They're gone from sight, but the sound of their rides echoes off the tall buildings for at least another twenty seconds.

Dad calls men who ride motorcycles temporary citizens. He's seen so many fatalities over the years, so many decapitated heads still inside crushed helmets. He swears blind if he ever catches me on the back of one of the things he'll ground me for life. The patients he's dealt with in the past are usually riders of sports bikes, though, aerodynamic things designed for going way too fast. The men who just pa.s.sed me-at least twenty of them-were on machines constructed from polished chrome and exposed engines, handlebars way too high, exhausts way too fat. Society tells me they were criminals. Perhaps they were.

I carry on toward the bus depot, my iPod shuffling through songs. The streets are clear by the time I find myself closing in on my destination. Everyone's playing it smart tonight, already inside, enjoying the warmth and a hot meal. That's exactly where I'll be soon, and I cannot wait. I'm getting ready to cross over the street when a tall man with silvered hair staggers out of the darkened side alley beside me.

I don't hear him-the music blocks out any sound he makes-and the sight of him suddenly emerging from nowhere has me jumping out of my skin. My heart slams against my ribcage, adrenaline fires through me. There's blood in the snow. He's bleeding. I tear the headphones out of my ears, and then he's lurching toward me, one hand outstretched.

"Help...please help...me," he gasps.

I skitter away from him, clutching my hands to my chest. It's a natural reaction most people would have, I think. A terrifying old man, dressed in a torn great coat, and covered head to toe in blood comes flying at you from out of nowhere, and your first instinct is to run. Not people like my father or my sister, of course; they would run straight toward someone like that. It takes a heartbeat to get myself together before I realize this guy needs me to be like my dad. Or like Sloane.

"What...what happened?" I hurry forward, unravelling the scarf from around my neck, preparing to use it to staunch the bleeding, wherever it's coming from.

The old man's eyes grow round. Suddenly he's not staggering toward me anymore; he's backing away. "No..." His voice comes out in a ragged, wet rasp. "No!" The look on his face is sheer terror. And he's staring at something behind me.

I've seen enough films to know what comes next. The hand that clamps over my mouth. The iron grip of the arm that wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides. The weightless, stomach-churning sensation of being lifted off the floor by someone much bigger and much stronger than me.

I try to scream. Pain rips down my throat, but I barely make a sound. The hand covering my mouth captures my cry and shoves it back inside me, effectively putting me on mute. My heart's racing. I can't...I can't see properly. Black spots dance in my vision. I've never been good with small s.p.a.ces, and being trapped inside this person's arms is a very small f.u.c.king s.p.a.ce. I react. I'd like to say I remember the training I received from the on-campus security team, showing us how to protect ourselves when out walking alone late at night, but that's not what this is. This is the panicked flailing of a twenty-one-year-old girl gripped in the deepest throes of fear.

I bite down on the hand and taste blood. A loud hiss from the man behind me lets me know I've caused him some discomfort, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d doesn't let go. My feet are still off the ground. I lash out, kicking backward. My heels. .h.i.t shinbone and strong muscle, but the grip around me doesn't falter.

"What the f.u.c.k you doing with that b.i.t.c.h, hijo?" a voice demands. The accent is strong and thick. "Get her off the f.u.c.king street."

I've been too terrified to take in much, but now I see the b.l.o.o.d.y man, on his knees, staring off up the street. He looks devastated, like he knows this is the end. His abject hopelessness. .h.i.ts me like a wave; this man, whoever he is, knows he is alone right now and no one is coming to his rescue. Which means no one is coming to my rescue, either.

He looks up at me, his mouth hanging open, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he tells me. I try screaming again, with just as much luck. My captor tightens his hold on me and then we're moving, heading into the darkness of the side alley. f.u.c.k. I know it instinctively: if I disappear into the darkness of this alleyway, I will never be seen again. And pinned to this stranger, struggling with every last ounce of strength I possess, there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I see the face of another man, a Hispanic guy with a shaved head and a spider tattoo underneath his right eye, as he moves forward and grabs hold of the b.l.o.o.d.y old man under one arm. He spits on the old man, takes hold of him, and drags him behind us into the alleyway.

Dumpsters, trash, broken wooden crates; there's nothing back here to indicate someone is going to come along at any moment and save us. The sound of footfall-many pairs of boots-rings off the walls on either side. We reach the iron railings of a tall gate in the middle of the alleyway, dividing it into two, and this is where my captor stops. He spins us around, and for the first time I see exactly just how much trouble I'm in.

Seven men, all with guns drawn, stare back at me. The same cold, indifferent look marks most of their faces; only one man wears a different expression-the guy who dragged the old man behind us. His victim is laying face down on the concrete, shoulders shaking, and now he has turned his attention to me. And he looks...excited.

My stomach drops through the floor.

He's wearing a black Parka with grey fur trim, which strikes me as odd fashion sense for someone of his...standing. It's also strange that I should be thinking things like this when he's stalking toward me and sticking his face into mine. Regardless of his fashion sense, I know with certainty I'm looking into the eyes of a killer.

"You scream...and I'll cut your tongue out with this." He draws a narrow, six-inch knife from the pocket of his jeans, sharp and cruel-looking, and I know he's being very, very serious. "You hear me?"

I can't tell him yes. I can't even nod. I'm far too scared to have any sort of control over my body. Instead, I manage to blink at him. The Hispanic guy accepts this and nods to his friend. "Uncover her mouth so she can speak, f.u.c.khead."

The hand lets go of my face, though the arm around my chest doesn't loosen any. "You know this old guy, puta?" Spider asks.

I shake my head straight away. I don't want to give him any reason to get angry. His boys all look bored, but this guy...this guy looks like he could get riled up, and easily.

"Let the girl go. She doesn't know me," the old man on the ground groans. He shouldn't have opened his mouth; one of the other men boots him in the chest so hard I hear a snapping sound. Without looking over his shoulder, Spider guy says, "Don't worry, my friend. We'll get to you in a moment. But in the meantime..." He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek, running his tongue over his top teeth. "You swear you don't know this guy?"

"Yes," I whisper. "I swear."

With little more than a blur of black material, Spider pulls his hand back and lashes out. Pain rockets through my head, surprising and sharp. I open my mouth, trying to gasp in a breath, but it won't come. He hit me. He hit me, and he looks like he enjoyed it. He smiles at me, nodding. "I think I believe you. But I have to be sure. What did he say to you, pretty? Did he tell you something, huh?"

I've never been struck before in my entire life. I can't even remember my parents striking me for misbehaving as a kid. A tiny part of me is roiling with anger at the treatment, but the rest of me is shocked, paralyzed with fear. "He didn't tell me anything. He asked for my help," I whisper. Spider laughs at this.

"He asked you for help, pretty? That's kind of ironic, no?" The question is rhetorical. He nods to the man holding me, and the hand comes descending over my mouth again. Spider presses the tip of his knife into his index finger, turning around so he's facing the old man on the ground. I catch the glint of a gold wedding band on the old guy's finger-somewhere out there this man has a wife who is probably worried about him. It's late, and it's dark. He could have been on his way home when these guys jumped him. He could already be late for his own family meal.

"So, what we gonna do with you, ese?" Spider asks. "That was some crazy s.h.i.t you just pulled. You seriously thought running was a good plan? And I thought you guys were supposed to be smart. Educated and s.h.i.t." He spits on the ground. I can't see the expression on his face, but I'm betting his eyes are glinting with that same poorly concealed depravity he fixed on me a moment ago. This man thrives on power. He thrives on blood, and from the way the old man on the floor is shrinking away from him, I think he knows it, too.

"I...I can't help you. You know there's nothing I can do," the old man says. His voice catches in his throat. "Just...just let the girl go. Please."

Spider looks over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow arched into a bemused black line. "Her? You're begging for her life?" With a shrug, Spider crouches down, still playing with the knife. "What about your life, Conahue? Not worth begging for?" he asks.

The old man-Conahue-swallows. The action looks painful, as though he's swallowing razor blades. He looks up at me and I see the last flicker of fight in his eyes fizzle out and die. "You're going to kill me anyway. Begging is probably a waste of what little breath I have left."

Spider barks out a sharp blast of laughter. "Your life's been in your hands for a long time, my friend. We gave you plenty of warning. When my employer asks for something, he gets it. There are consequences if he doesn't. Hence this little...meeting, my friend. You could always change your mind? Do as he asks?"

Conahue gives a brief shake of his head, breathing heavily. His face, underneath the congealed, drying blood, is mottled and ashen. "I've never lied. I've never taken bribes. I've never let a piece of s.h.i.t gang lord get away with murder."

"Ah, so you're a man of morals?" Spider asks this, twisting the knife over in his hands.

"Yes," Conahue gasps. "Not that Hector would understand that. He hasn't suffered a guilty conscience a day in his life."

Most of the men snort at that. It appears as though the majority of them agree, and they're proud of the fact that this mystery man, apparently their boss, isn't inconvenienced by a functioning moral compa.s.s. Conahue struggles to push himself upright, but Spider tuts at him, wagging the knife back and forth in front of his face. The action is enough to stop the old man in his tracks.

"You do realize," he says. "That the wh.o.r.e Hector's accused of killing was a junkie, right? She was a drain on your country's precious resources. You'll die for some cracked out b.i.t.c.h you don't even know?"

Resolve flashes in Conahue's eyes. "I will."

"So be it." Spider acts slowly, extending his arm with deliberate purpose so Conahue can see what he's doing. From my vantage point, still a foot off the floor and unable to turn away, I witness the point of the weapon press down into Conahue's chest and travel slowly, slowly, slowly, into the man's body. Conahue's eyes widen, a look of mild disbelief coming over him as he starts to convulse.

A pool of thick, dark red blood begins to rise up out of the wound, around the blade of the knife, and then around the hilt when Spider has driven the weapon all the way into the other man's body.

I scream, but there's no sound-only a high-pitched out-rushing of air from my lungs. The vice-like grip around my chest tightens, and a sharp pain lances through me-my shoulder, burning, suddenly on fire. Spider draws the knife out of Conahue's body; the old man is still alive, but the muscles in his face fall slack. He's not got long left. He reaches up a shaking hand and clutches at the wound in his torso, his feet twitching. Spider watches him, back still turned to me, with such stillness that I get the feeling he's mentally recording this-the life slowly slipping out of his victim, absorbing every fine detail of the moment so he can replay it again later.

A violent crash of sound roars down the alleyway, and I'm suddenly hit with the sensation of it-a wall of noise slamming into me, rattling my bones. I don't know how I didn't hear it before. It can't have registered through the fear, the horror of watching that knife disappear into a man's body. The guy holding onto me turns along with everyone else to see what's going on; a motorcycle has pulled into the alleyway behind us.

The high wrought iron railing is all that stands between me, trapped with this group of killers, and the single biker on the other side. The bike's headlight spears through the darkness, lighting us all up and eliciting a chorus of Spanish curse words from Spider and his friends. "What the f.u.c.k is he doing?" one of them hisses.

Spider snarls, pacing to the railings, knife still in hand, though it's now dripping with blood. "You're too late, ese!" he hollers. "It's done. Run back to your cabron and tell him he's f.u.c.ked. And so are you!"

The growl of the engine cuts off abruptly, so that Spider's last words sound outrageously loud against the following silence. The guy holding onto me clucks his tongue derisively when the figure on the bike climbs off and lowers the hood on his sweatshirt-a handsome guy, late twenties, with dark hair and dark eyes. From the way he walks toward us, I can tell he's built like a tank. He's wearing gloves. He reaches to the back of his waistband and produces a gun.

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me, ese?" Spider laughs. "There are eight of us and one of you. You gonna shoot us all through the railings before one of us gets you?"

The biker on the other side of the gate doesn't say anything. He has quick eyes. He takes in the scene before him-the old man on the floor behind us; me clasped tightly in someone's arms, my mouth covered; blood splattered on the top of my Converse shoes; the other men behind me. He sees all of this, and his face remains completely blank.

"You realize what you've done," he says. He doesn't look at anyone in particular, though it's clear he's talking to Spider. He looks down at his gun, snaps back the action and then frees the clip containing the ammunition.

Spider takes hold of one of the railings, the steel of the knife in his fist clanking against the steel of the gate. "I did what had to be done, pendejo. You're a man who gets things done, I've heard. You should know all about that."

The biker on the other side of the gate casts his eyes upward from under drawn brows, apparently not even remotely fazed by the situation. He presses the first bullet out of his clip into the palm of his hand, and then fits the clip back into the gun. The gun goes away, back where it came from. "Borrow your knife?" the biker asks.

Spider shrugs. An evil smile spreads across his face. "Sure, hijo. Why the h.e.l.l not?" He reaches his hand through the gap and drops the weapon into the snow. The biker comes closer, bends and collects the knife. He's only three feet from me now. I can see the club patch st.i.tched onto his hoody over the right hand side of his chest-Widow Makers-along with the small separate patch underneath that, which says V.P. The club's emblem-a fleshless skull flanked by two guns and surrounded by st.i.tched roses-is so close I could reach out and touch it, if only my arms weren't being pinned to my sides.