Heathen (Cerberus MC Las Vegas Chapter #1)

Chapter 8

Kaylee

Despite being in the same house that I drove past, these women here still refuse to speak to me.

They look at me, sneer, and then speak to each other in a language I'll probably never understand.

Unlike Spanish, something I picked up a little, having grown up in Texas, I don't even know Russian cuss words. But I can tell you that I think several have been spat in my direction since that big guy put me in the back of the SUV with four other women late yesterday evening.

The SUV brought me to this house, where I discovered just how so many women live in such a small place.

There are three tiny bedrooms in the house and each room has two triple-stacked bunk beds. They're squeezed in so tightly that in order to access the mattresses, one has to climb through the end of the bed to get to it.

The house is clean, something I know is maintained by the women who live there, but it's still crowded. I counted fifteen women in total, but I have no way of knowing if they keep some women back at the warehouse on a twenty-four-seven rotation.

After what little information I was able to gather from my brief conversation with Dima the other day, it became clear, very quickly, that he's running some kind of marriage-for-sale business that he's disguised as a janitorial service.

I don't know if it was the best idea or a massive mistake, but I didn't argue about going home the day before yesterday. I told myself that I could easily walk away when I want to, and I still haven't found out anything about what happened to Alena. I have a few guesses as to what "promoted" means to these people, but I need rock-solid evidence in order to quiet that demand for information in my head.

"Get up," a voice snaps from the doorway of the room I was given when I arrived last night.

I crawl out of the end of the bunk, eyeing the same woman who refused to answer my question the other day at the grocery store.

Her sneer transforms her beautiful face, and I can see the hatred she has for me in her eyes.

"Where's Alena?" I snap, not letting her hatred bother me.

"Stupid American," she mutters. "Check the chart."

I follow the point of her finger to the paper hanging on the bathroom door. It seems everything around here is scheduled, and I guess it sort of has to be for this place to function without catfights.

I saw this list the night before last, noting that all of it was in Russian. Although I didn't see my name then, this is an updated list that does include my name.

"What does this mean?" I ask a woman as she tries to slide past me toward one of the other bedrooms.

I point to the title at the top of the column, but all she does is say what I believe to be the same word that's at the top.

"Thanks," I mutter. "Big help."

The house is a bustle of activity, with women waiting in line for the bathroom and the kitchen. Hell, one woman is using the water hose in the tiny backyard to wash her hair.

A horn outside blares and several of the women make their way out the front door.

The woman I asked earlier what the word was with my name in the column says the word again as she points toward the front door.

"Fuck," I mutter, following her outside and into the waiting SUV, hoping it is taking us back to the warehouse. At least that's where my car was left two nights ago.

The sooner I can get out of this mess, the better.

The woman who was so rude to me earlier and in the store is in the car with us, and I plan to corner her and demand answers the second I get a chance. She has to know where Alena is, and, at a minimum, I know she understands enough English to answer my questions.

Knowing now what I didn't know the other day when I watched the women enter this building, I know why none of them looked happy. Who would want to be here, part of a cattle call for men to pick and choose based solely on how they look for a wife? It's degrading and inhumane. I don't have a clue why anyone would put themselves through this.

The drive to the warehouse isn't long, and I breathe a sigh of relief that we're here instead of being taken someplace much farther away.

We file out of the vehicle and enter the building so quickly, that I don't even have a chance to look around and see if my car is still outside. Darkness sweeps over us as the door closes behind us, the dull thud of finality echoing down the hallway. We enter into a door to the right, and I recognize the place from yesterday. It's where Dima told me to wait after my job interview, if you can even call it that.

After only a handful of minutes in the room, another door on the far side opens and five chattering women walk inside.

It's the most animated I've ever seen any of them, and I can't help but smile when one woman waves her hand in front of her face. I can tell by the swoon in her grin and the universal sign that she's talking about a man.

"This," one of the girls says as she hands me a slinky dress. "Put on."

I look up into the always irritated eyes of the woman who I've been trying to catch alone.

"What's your problem?" I snap, standing to my full height, and still only reaching the bottom of her chin.

She shakes her head as if she's disappointed in me.

"You wear the dress for the man or we all get into trouble," she says. "It doesn't matter if you're American. You must follow the rules."

Once again she points, and I notice the sign hanging on the wall. And once again, the entire thing is in Russian.

"I don't read nor do I speak Russian," I growl. "What does it say?"

She inches closer, the upper right corner of her mouth twitching in aggravation. "It says if you go out there and take a man meant for one of us, I'll track you down and slit your fucking throat in your sleep. Now, put on the dress."

I swear I'll have a clothes-hanger-shaped bruise on my chest within the hour with how hard she shoves it into me.

I take the dress, wanting to cry as she walks away, but I straighten my spine and look around the room for the bathroom.

Several of the women who rode in the SUV with me earlier have already changed their clothes, and I see two others changing right in the middle of the room for all to see. I realize now isn't the time to get on someone else's bad side by insisting on privacy, so I strip down and change into the dress.

I can't recall a single other time in my life when I've faced such hostility. Even the masked gunman who pointed a gun in my face told me thank you after I opened the register and stepped back so he could take all the money last year. That woman hates the sight of me, and she made it very clear that she's afraid I'm going to take whatever offer of marriage she's suspecting to get.

The dress is scratchy, making my skin irritated, and the scent covering it tells me that it wasn't laundered since the last person wore it. My thought is proven correct when the women who came inside animated and excited start to undress and hang the dresses they were wearing on hangers and situate them on a rolling rack full of other clothes.

I cringe seeing the section of lingerie and count my blessing that the creep of a man out there waiting for the women to strut out with hopes that he'll pick them didn't request a little more skin.

But what the hell do I know? This could just be the flimsy dress portion of the night.

My hands are twitchy, my nerves frazzled, as another group of women leave the room, each of them transforming their faces into fake smiles a second before they exit through the far door.

It seems like half an hour that they're gone, and while that time is ticking by, the women I arrived with are standing in front of a wall of mirrors, dabbing makeup on their faces, fixing their hair, and doing their best to get their breasts to hold up in their dresses.

Noticing all of them in high heels, I walk to the shelves with the shoes and grab a pair that has my correct size on it.

The woman who was so hateful to me laughs when she sees what I have in my hands, but what the hell do I know about shoes? I've been a t-shirt and jeans type of girl all my life. Dressing up for me is a nice shirt and a pair of jeans without manufactured holes in it.

I curse all the times I ignored Morgan when she tried to make me more feminine. Paying more attention to her would probably help me a ton right now.

When the second group of women comes back into the room, I follow the hateful woman and the others toward the door, concentrating very hard not to sprain an ankle or break my neck.

My concentration doesn't hold out very long and I make my grand entrance into the room, wobbling and reaching out for anything I can grab onto to keep from eating the concrete floor.

The woman in front of me helpfully steps aside, giving my body momentum and the full ability to sprawl out on the floor, like a baby fawn learning how to walk for the first time.