MARLOWE
Being jerked out of bed, and having clothes crammed at me at the same time as the words, "Put ’em on," were growled at me, didn’t make for me being a very happy person. True to my obstinate nature, as well as to whom the words belonged to, brought the bitch out in me.
Shoving the clothes back at Satan, I snarled, "Fuck you," as I made to climb back into bed.
With a low hiss, he jerked me back around and barked, "Put the goddamn clothes on, kitten, now! We ain’t got time for this shit!"
Suddenly, the sound of hurried activity in the other rooms, as well the sound of voices caught my attention.
Eyes jumping to Satan’s, I stared at him in confusion, however, without another word, I began jerking the leather pants up under the overly large t-shirt I’d been sleeping in, then, tugged the leather jacket on over the t-shirt, before raising an eyebrow, I waited for further instructions.
After running his eyes over me, and a quick nod, he snapped, "Okay, Kitten, let’s go!"
Unsure of what was going on, I followed silently as he led me down the hall. We turned a corner and passed through another hallway before coming to a stop in front of a door. Shoving at it with one hand, Satan gripped my arm with the other as he pulled me forward and into an area that quickly revealed itself as a garage.
Large, with a concrete floor, it reeked with the distinct smell of oil, gasoline, and paint that lingered in the air—yet, opposite of what you would have expected to find due to the powerful aromas—the room itself was spotless.
Quickly going over to a wall, he reached out and pushed at a section of it. Restlessness practically poured off him in waves as he impatiently waited while the wall silently slid open on well-oiled hinges. Bright light flooded the interior and revealed the arsenal within the compartment.
My jaw dropped and I couldn’t help but gape, for it looked like world war three could be fought with what had lain hidden behind the inconspicuous wall.
As Satan stepped inside the small room, he quickly gathered two pistols and a knife, afterward he stuffed the gun into the front of his jeans, and the knife in a scabbard he’d tied to his leg. Finally, facing me, he handed me the other gun, murmuring, “Pack it, Kitten, and use it if you have to.” Then, hitting a button inside the vault, he caused the wall to move silently back into place, at the same time as I slid the gun into my waistband.
Reaching out for my arm, Satan wrapped steel fingers around my wrist before turning, he began leading me out another door and into the coolness of the evening. A number of bikes and their riders—some sitting double—were already in the yard and were, apparently, waiting on us.
As we came to a stop before a custom made, flat-black, bike, Satan tossed a helmet at me. grunting that I put it on. Then slipping his own on over his head, he slid onto the bike as leaning forward, he made room for me to climb on behind him.
Placing a booted-foot on a foot peg, I grabbed a handful of his kutte, then tossing a leg over the bitch-seat, I pulled myself on and settled in behind him. The other bikes came to life with a loud roar, and as if a choreographed dance had begun, they started intricately spreading out in different directions.
As they picked up speed, the bikers wove their way into the tree line, following an almost indistinguishable trail that led them further into the heavily wooded area behind the compound.
Over their roar, the sound of an explosion ripped through the air, causing Satan to shout over his shoulder at me, “Hang on, Kitten, Hell’s started raining assholes with teeth.”
A few seconds later, I realized his words were an understatement, as having kicked their bikes into gear, Satan, and the two remaining team members who had stayed with us, headed straight into the fracas.
The sound of bullets hitting the ground, as well the bark on the trees, was intermingled with loud blasts that rocked the ground beneath us. Debris filled the air, surrounding us in a dirt cloak. Covered in a thick layer of earth, I closed my eyes, and ducking my head, I hung on for dear life, my thoughts focused on one thing—I was going to die—and fuck me, if it wasn’t going to be on the back of a bike that was escorting me straight into Hell by the Devil himself.
**~Satan/Torin~**
*Three days later*
I was drowning, and there wasn’t a damn life preserver in sight! We'd been here at the new compound for three days now—and I'd found myself practically tripping over my own goddamn feet to get out of a room every time Marlowe walked in. With her presence came an itch I couldn’t scratch, and it didn’t help that it was just the two of us. The others would be here in a few days—a safety percaustion in case anyone was following to keep them from being led to this compound, but damn if I didn't feel like a fucking dog following my bitch around to see if she was in heat! I mean, Jeeesus… I'd get that heavy feeling in my balls and my dick would get hard, wagging at me like it knew there was a goddamn treat right outside its denim doghouse.
Shit, if this crap kept up, I was going to have to give him a real name…something mean, powerful…something like *Sampson* or *Goliath*, maybe even *Brutus*. *Hercules*? God knew I needed to find something, besides DownBoy. And I really, really, needed to get my shit together. This bullcrap with Marlowe was fucking me up and I couldn’t afford that. None of us could. Somehow, the damn rivalry between SMOS had spilled over onto us.
**~MARLOWE~**
The first few days we had been at the new compound, or the *bomb shelter* as I’d started calling it, as more than half of it was underground, I’d walked around like I’d been on eggshells, never knowing which way the wind would be coming from. The mood swings I’d witnessed from Satan could have given even the moodiest days of a woman’s period a run for its money.
He was a powder keg, a human stick of dynamite waiting to blow, and I couldn’t help but wonder when the explosion would come as time continued to crawl: molasses fingers that inched their way around a clock of uncertainty—and on top of that, was the fact I’d begun to wonder if I smelled bad. No matter where I went in this monstrosity of a place—in its former glory it had been a motel Satan had told me in one of the few times he’d spoken to me—if he were in the room, he would exit it if I walked in, or if I was already in the room, he would turn around and leave before ever walking in: off course, his actions had me checking my pits just to be sure I hadn't smelled bad.