Seeking Sanctuary (Hometown Heroes Book 2)

by J. P. Oliver

  Victor.

  I needed to call him. I needed to let him know.

  I thought of his smile—the most inconsequential thing in the world until this very moment, until it was suddenly everything; the only thing. I wanted to press myself against his chest and feel his heartbeat, his warmth, smell the whiskey and wood, the dried ink on his fingers as he touched my chin and pulled me in for a kiss that felt too much like home.

  A kick. Another.

  I didn’t know how much more I could take.

  But before I stopped breathing—before I felt the smooth blackness of slipping out of consciousness fall over me—they stopped as soon as they’d started. Muscles tight, I braced for more, but more never came.

  Distantly, beyond the rush of blood in my ears and my own ragged breathing, I heard their footsteps slowly retreating. Satisfied. Bikes starting and driving off, until there was no sound at all except for the buzzing of the gas station lights.

  I don’t know how long I lay there for. I only knew that I was safe, that they were gone, and I was still alive, and that counted for something. Everything hurt as I rolled onto my hands and knees, pushed up onto my feet—and stumbled forward into the back of my truck.

  “Hey!”

  I flinched, glancing over the roof as a cashier stumbled out of the front door, looking nervous.

  “Sir!” he called just a kid, no older than twenty probably. “A-are you okay?”

  I grunted in response.

  “Shit.” I heard him panting, scared out of his mind as he trotted back to the store. Saying something about calling the police.

  Braced against the metal, I moved slowly. I couldn’t drive like this, but if I could just get inside the truck, then I could be safe. I could call somebody. The world was spinning like I’d had too much to drink, on the brink of passing out, as I pulled the handle and slithered inside.

  I nudged the lock button. With a resolute thunk, all the doors and windows locked with me safe inside, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  Call someone.

  The part of me that needed to survive—that was good at surviving—yelled from someplace inside me. Blindly, I fumbled, felt along the cupholders and console until I felt the smooth planes of my cell phone.

  Peering at the blurry screen, I used all the strength I had to dial the first number that made sense to call. I only prayed that it was still right after so long, and that it wasn’t too late for them to pick up…

  “Hello?” Pleasant, tired.

  He’s awake.

  “Curtis,” I exhaled, absolutely wrecked. “Curtis Walker.”

  “Walker-Savage,” he corrected, sounding confused. “I’m sorry, who is this—”

  “Adrian Cole.”

  His tone changed, slipping into something less professional and doctor-like.

  “Jesus, Adrian,” he huffed. “You sound like death. Are you okay?”

  “I feel like death,” I said. With a bitter grin, I pulled up the hem of my shirt to examine the damage. Bruises were already starting to form. The skin there was all red and blotchy, scratched up bad. “I don’t think I’m okay, no.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got followed and beat up by some pricks,” I groaned. “It doesn’t matter. I feel like everything’s fucking spinning…”

  “Where are you?” Curtis asked, urgent.

  “A gas station off of I-40.” I blinked blearily out the window, unable to make out any of the words on the signs. “I don’t know what exit. About an hour out of Nashville, maybe…”

  “Adrian.”

  “Mm…”

  “Stay awake,” he snapped. “We’re going to get you help. We’ll be there—”

  “Don’t know,” I murmured, already feeling too dizzy and hazed and heavy. It would be easier to sleep. It would be better to not feel the pain all over. “I dunno if I’m gonna stay awake, man… fuckin’ hurts.”

  Curtis barked something to someone on his end of the line.

  I thought of how warm the truck was, how soft the leather seats were compared to the cold, rough grit of the asphalt and stone. I touched my cheek and felt the sting of the scrapes there. When I looked at my hand, I registered with half a brain that they were bloodied.

  “—Adrian!”

  “Hm?”

  “We’re on our way. We’ll be there in twenty minutes, just—” and Curtis sounded flustered and worried. I was just fucked up enough to grin, touched by his concern. “Just stay exactly where you are and stay on the line. Do not try to drive, you understand me?”

  “You got it, boss,” I said, and it was the last thing I managed before passing out, consumed by the perfect silence of a deep and ache-less sleep.

  I woke to the sound of a fist on the window.

  My first instinct was to turn over and keep sleeping, curled up against the warm leather of the bench seat. But people were shouting and there were lights coming in through the glass, and it was too much to fall back asleep.

  With a groan and a slow roll of my bruised body, I glanced up at my window.

  There, beyond the pane, was Victor.

  He looked worried, his fist bounced against the glass desperately, and as we locked eyes, he only looked afraid. Frantically, he pointed at my door—at the lock.

  Right, I thought. Let him in. He can come in.

  It took all my strength to sit myself up again—everything fucking hurt, like it never had before, and every movement sent a wave of pain and nausea through me. I pressed a blood-stained finger to the unlock button.

  The moment the locks sprung up, Victor was heaving the door open.

  My weight followed it. Luckily he was there for me, and he caught me in his large, capable arms before I could hit the pavement again. He was soft—softer than the seat, that was for sure—and he smelled fucking amazing.

  “Adrian,” he huffed, relieved, holding me close. “Oh my God. When Curtis and Zach called, I was so fucking worried you were gone, and I—”

  I groaned, wincing at the contact.

  “Fuck,” he huffed. Gingerly, he helped me sit upright again. “I’m sorry—”

  “No,” I said, relief setting in as I looked at his face. Still a little dizzy and out of it, I murmured, “I missed you,” and then fell asleep once more, hoping he knew how much that was true.

  17

  Victor

  North Creek Medical Center was not a place I liked to be.

  Sure, they were nice to their patients and took great care, and I trusted Curtis and Sarah as doctors completely, but being at the hospital meant something was wrong. The last time I came to the clinic, it was for my father when he was diagnosed with cancer. This time, it was because someone had attacked Adrian.

  Finding him at that gas station alive was a mixed bag of feelings: I was relieved to know he was alive, and that after a brief assessment, Curtis gave the okay for us to skip the ambulance and drive him the short way back to North Creek, but I was fucking pissed that this had happened to him.

  As he faded in and out of consciousness, Adrian had mumbled all sorts of things to me. This was no accident or mugging gone wrong, he confessed; this was the work of a rival motorcycle club, the Raptors.

  I believed him—of course I believed him—but this went beyond the typical biker rivalries. Maybe I didn’t know much about the history between the Falcon Grims and the Raptors, but also I didn’t understand how a group of people could beat someone unarmed and alone. Something felt wrong; something felt personal.

  I needed answers, but for now, all I could do was wait.

  I glanced at the clock: eleven-thirty in the evening. Sarah and Curtis had taken him back for X-rays as soon as we got to the clinic over an hour ago.

  What the hell is taking them so long?

  I hated being stuck in the waiting room, especially at this hour, when the place was empty and dim. The television in the corner played a rerun of The Golden Girls silently. Beside me, Zach sat with his arms crossed o
ver his chest silently. Neither of us spoke. I didn’t know what to say; I only knew that I wanted to talk to Adrian, to see him.

  Finally, finally, my senses set themselves on edge. I could hear something distinct on the other side of the door: footsteps.

  Zach heard it too. We glanced at each other and he put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, trying his best to be solid, supportive, a rock. “Maybe someone with good news.”

  When I spoke, it was quiet, shaken. “I hope you’re right.”

  It was Curtis who nudged the door open, looking tired and serious.

  As soon as I saw him, I shot to my feet, needing to know. “Is he all right?”

  Curtis grimaced, but nodded. “He will be.”

  Another mixed bag. “But he isn’t all right now.”

  Curtis motioned for me to follow him.

  “Are you okay staying behind?” I asked Zach.

  Like a good brother, he grinned, reassuring, and sent me off with a solid pat on the shoulder. “Go on,” he said, “I’ll be here when you two get out. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “No,” I said, swallowing. “You ought to get some rest. I… thanks for calling me. I would’ve been waiting for him all night if you hadn’t.”

  Anxiety leached through me, mixing with the anger, the confusion.

  “I know he means… a lot to you,” Zach said, leaving space for interpretation; he didn’t know what we were. He only knew that I cared about Adrian deeply. “Call me if you need anything. I mean it. Anything.”

  And then, the unexpected: Zach pulled me into a firm, brotherly hug and then pushed me gently towards Curtis; go see your man. I followed Curtis through the door, down the sterile and silent white hallways as he leafed through his chart—Adrian’s chart.

  “The X-rays have come back. When we got his clothes off of him, he was extremely bruised, so we wanted to be thorough,” Curtis explained as I fell into step beside him. “He’s got a broken rib and his knee is broken. Other than that, he’s lucky; it’s only bruising.”

  Broken bones didn’t feel so lucky.

  “Okay,” I said. “Is he, uh…”

  Curtis paused and grinned up at me. I felt vulnerable, caring so openly for Adrian, but I was fucking worried. With a gentle touch to the shoulder, Curtis nodded.

  “He’s in the last room on the left,” he said. “Resting. Pain meds. His knee’s going to need surgery, but that’s a discussion for later. I’ll be talking with Sarah about a treatment plan. Leave that to us. You should be there for him when he wakes up.”

  I nodded, feeling my mouth go dry.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “Go ahead.” Curtis nodded his head. “And get comfortable. He’s on some pretty stellar meds, so he might be asleep for a while.”

  He left me with that. From there, it was a journey I had to take on my own—down the hall, the last room to the left. With every step, the anxiety rose; was he as bad as I remembered him being, propped up in the passenger seat, bruises shadowed and illuminated by the passing highway lights?

  Please, I thought, hand nudging the door open slowly. Just let him be okay.

  I held my breath.

  There was no major reveal; nobody pulled back a curtain for me, there was no swell of music. There was just Adrian, asleep in his hospital bed, lit by the soft bedside light.

  I swallowed. It was just enough to show off his bruises where they peppered small spaces on his cheek and jaw, the slope of his small nose; where they trailed down beneath his starchy hospital gown. Wires slid beneath the covers where he was tucked in, the machine beside his bed beeping softly; a heartbeat.

  “Adrian,” I whispered.

  He looked so small, so peaceful in the bed like this. Unguarded. Quietly, I slid a sidelined chair up to his bed, toed off my shoes, and picked up the remote. Curtis said I would be here for a while, so I got comfortable, and, this time, when I flicked on the television, the muted, flickering images of The Golden Girls felt a little less lonely.

  I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until I woke to the sound of arguing.

  Any other time, it might not have been noticeable beyond the din of the clinic—the footsteps and shuffling papers, the confidential chatter of patients—but tonight the clinic was nearly empty. Soundless, save for the rising voices.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall, grimacing when it read two in the morning. Nothing good ever came from people yelling at each other so late in the night. Sparing Adrian one lingering look, I slipped my shoes on and pressed an ear to the crack in the door. If it wasn’t any of my business, I wouldn’t intrude, but—

  “I have a right, after all, when it’s my own flesh and blood. He’s my brother.”

  All of me froze, winter flushing through me. My fingers gripped the threshold.

  Winston.

  “Like that’s ever mattered to you before,” Curtis fired back, calm and collected as always. “It’s too early for your drama, Winston. Come back tomorrow when he’s had the night with Adrian—”

  “I don’t want him spending another minute with Adrian.”

  Winter melting into fire; I didn’t appreciate the idea of anyone talking about me when I wasn’t around, especially when Winston was involved. When I left Adrian’s room, I made sure to ease the door shut, not wanting whatever was about to happen to wake him.

  Curtis and Winston stood at the far end of the hall, by the door to the waiting room. Curtis was ramrod, arms crossed, and he looked very pissed that Winston had managed to even get this far inside. Knowing Winston, he’d probably barged in unannounced and unexpected.

  And Winston—he turned to me, sensing my presence, seeing the movement in the corner of his eye. His matching brown eyes met mine, all concern. I tried to find a flicker of mischief in them, and felt even worse when I found none.

  “There you are,” he huffed, disregarding Curtis completely.

  I tensed, cutting Winston off as he tried to get closer to me—to Adrian’s door.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, annoyed.

  “Here. I found this.”

  No pretense, no hello, just a piece of a folded page torn from a newspaper. Winston pressed it into my hands, watching my face carefully as I scanned it.

  The headline read, ‘MOTORCYCLIST SLAIN BY RIVAL GANG IN LOCAL BAR.’

  “I did a little digging on your precious boyfriend,” Winston said, holding up a hand when I grimaced at him. “I don’t care what you think of it. I’m glad I did. It’s from a few months ago in Nashville. A man was killed in a confrontation between his motorcycle club and a rival group.”

  As he spoke, I skimmed the article. It was small and easy to miss; barely a full column on page four. There was a grainy photograph of the biker who’d died—Troy Sanders—and a paragraph detailing the confrontation. Two rival clubs: the Raptors and the Falcon Grims. I paused, reread the words over and over. Slowly, they sank in.

  “You and I both know Adrian’s a part of the Falcon Grims,” Winston said.

  “That doesn’t mean he did this.”

  Winston scoffed, lips twisting bitterly. “You can’t be this dense. It’s no coincidence that your precious Adrian shows up in North Creek after years of radio silence the very same week this man dies.”

  “I…” Anxiety churned over in my stomach, blooming fast as a moonflower. As I read the rest of the article, I swallowed at the final photograph. It was small, just a blurry nighttime photo from some tailgating crime photographer. But amidst the chaos and the many grainy bodies, I thought I recognized Adrian. “This says it was self-defense.”

  “Yeah, it also gives his name. He’s a killer, Victor.”

  “Fuck you,” I snapped.

  The force of it was quick, hot as iron and whip fast. It surprised even Winston, whose eyes went wide before narrowing.

  “God, you’re either a fucking idiot or willfully ignorant,” he huffed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “T
hink,” he spat, pointing to his own temple. “For once in your fucking life. Adrian was the one who killed that man, and that’s why he got attacked. Retaliation. It’s how these groups work. There’s order and consequence.”

  “How did you even—” I stumbled over my words, doubt cast over Adrian. Why did the world feel so different suddenly, after Winston spoke: he’s a killer. “How did you even know we were here?”

  “Mom,” he said. “I was at the house with her when Zach called to say he and Curtis had to go with you to pick up your little Al Capone.”

  Adrian, a killer.

  No, I thought, indignant. It was self-defense. The paper said so, the report said so. He isn’t a killer. Winston always lies, always manipulates, always twists things around. I wondered what his angle was this time, before deciding it didn’t matter.

  “I’ll make my own decision on this,” I said.

  Winston rolled his eyes. “Fuck off. We’re waking him up and getting to the bottom of this—”

  As he tried to push past me, aiming for the hospital room, Curtis called out a warning—something along the lines of calling security—but it wouldn’t be necessary. With a hand to his chest, I forced Winston back. He took a step back, looking as pissed as he was surprised.

  “Leave,” I growled, “before it’s your nose I hit this time.”

  “Just listen to me—”

  “I said get out.”

  “You’re overreacting,” he huffed, grinning, fatalistic. With a sneer, he said, “You’ve always been the dramatic one, Victor, and you’re letting your dick run your life, so just take my word—”

  “No.” My voice echoed in the still of the hall. “Fuck you, Winston. You don’t get to come in here and tell me what to do, you don’t get to give your opinion. We’re in the same family, but you’ve barely been a brother to me our entire lives. This—” and I gestured between the two of us, “—this doesn’t concern you.”