Page 61 of Thug

He was a horrible-looking specimen of manhood. Dressed in a filthy wife beater, baggy jeans, and a pair of lace-up boots, he was peppered from his fingertips to his chin in rudimentary tattoos, many of which were half-finished.

When my hood was removed, I was relieved—at least initially. That relief only lasted a few moments. A nagging fear soon replaced it. In the movies, seeing the faces of your abductors meant death was imminent.

The two men were either doing a good job of playing the part, or I was truly going to spend my last living moments digging my final resting spot.

If my initial thoughts were correct and what was happening was some sort of initiation, it was easy to see why so many people chose to ride solo. A club that required such mental and emotional sacrifices for an Ol’ Lady to be trusted had to require much more from their male members to earn a patch.

“Got anything you want to confess?” Tattoo asked.

I leaned against the shovel’s handle. “It doesn’t matter how many times you ask. I don’t know anything.”

“Keep digging, bitch,” he snarled.

My arms were too tired to plant a flower, let alone toss shovels of sand over my shoulder and onto the bank of a make-shift grave.

“I’m too tired to dig,” I said, lowering the shovel. “I’m done.”

Pacing the edge of the grave with his pistol in his hand, Tattoo surveyed the hole. He looked at No Name. “Is it deep enough?”

No Name shook his head adamantly. “Nope.” He glanced at his watch and then scanned the horizon before looking at Tattoo. “Twice that deep, at least.”

Tattoo gave him a funny look. “Twice?”

“At least,” No Name replied. “Needs to be to her waist.”

Tattoo wagged the gun at me. “Dig, bitch.”

My arms felt like they were a mile long. “I’m too—”

“Dig,” No Name said, stepping between Tattoo and me. He mouthed the word please.

No Name’s apologetic look and one-word plea convinced me if I dug a waist-deep hole that the game would end. Fueled by a surge of energy that was brought on by the thought that a bottle of water, shower, and celebratory meal was surely on the horizon, I began to dig like I was being paid to do so.

I shoveled and shoveled, all but creating a dust storm in the process. After a few minutes, my energy dissolved to nothing. With heavy arms, wet shorts, and a foggy mind, I looked up.

In the distance, a dust devil blew. From my right to my left, it slowly moved along the horizon, growing in intensity as it grew closer. I watched it, wishing it would come close enough to provide a hint of a breeze.

As if it could hear my thoughts, it veered in our direction. Fascinated, I stared, wondering if it would dissipate before it reached us. It grew closer by the second.

Despite the clear blue sky, the sound of thunder crackled in the distance.

In the Tucson areas, it rained in the mid-afternoons, often for no more than sixty seconds. In that one-minute period of time, a torrential downpour would belch an inch of rain onto the desert. I gazed at the horizon, hoping the dust devil was the beginning of a rainstorm.

Equally fascinated, No Name and Tattoo turned to face the cloud of dust.

With the dust devil merely two hundred yards away and approaching fast, the thunder grew louder. Growing confused, I blinked my eyes.

It wasn’t a dust devil.

It was a motorcycle.

Riding ahead of the cloud of dust, Price blazed across the desert floor. His tattooed arms were outstretched to his ape hangers. His hair was blowing in the wind. Coming straight for us at breakneck speed, he jockeyed to miss the cactus, rocks, and sagebrush that lay between him and his destination.

My heart shot into my throat. Although anything was possible, I was convinced Price was my prince, and that he was riding in to save me. He rode not a galloping white horse with a flowing mane, but a steel stallion that glistened with chrome.

Finally, the sickening game was over. Tears streamed down my sunburned cheeks. I tossed the shovel aside and attempted to crawl out of the makeshift grave I’d been forced to dig.

The motorcycle slid sideways, casting rocks in every direction. Before he came to a complete stop, Price bailed off and stumbled toward me. His motorcycle came crashing down a few feet away, against a giant saguaro.