Colt: Devil's Nightmare MC: Book 10

by Lena Bourne

  What the fuck didn’t I just leave last night? Why the fuck did I think any of these monsters had any pity for me?

  Lisa is smoking a cigarette by the door outside the clubhouse, and that’s fear in her eyes, not glee as they drag me past her. Funny, I thought she hated me.

  If the two guys holding me weren’t clutching my arms so hard I’m starting to get tingles from lack of blood flow to my hands, I’d probably try to make a run for it once we’re outside.

  If you gotta die you die fighting. That’s what my daddy taught me. That’s how he went. But he had a chance to win his fight. I have no chance. All I have is my charms to try and get some pity out of these bastards. I just need enough so I can run.

  Colt

  Ace is out, the sons of the President of Roadside Sinners MC are in our possession, and everything so far’s going according to Cross’ plan. Whatever that plan is. I’m something of a hero around here now, after how pivotal a role I played in saving Ace’s life. That’s how he put it when he found out what I did and Cross agreed. A double win.

  But the days are still long and hot and the sum total of my task in this job we’re working on is keeping watch on the Sinners and making sure none of them does anything rash.

  It’s early evening and I’ve just returned from a full, scorching hot day of following the Sinners’ president around. Or more like sitting on my bike out of sight while he first visited the clubhouse for half the day, went home for dinner, and then back to the clubhouse. Hardly exciting.

  Ace is smoking a cigarette by himself, standing near the corner of the huge concrete structure we’re using as our base of operations here in SoCal. It’s actually a weapons storage facility since Devil’s Nightmare MC is supposed to be phasing out the mercenary part of our operations and just settle into weapons trafficking. But in the last two years, since I’ve joined, we haven’t moved very far into that. Things just keep coming up, or, more like, people to kill, do.

  Ace picked his spot because the building casts shade on that side this time of the afternoon, but it’s actually only a bit better than standing in the sun. Dry heat’s supposed to be better than humid heat, but I’m finding I hate them both equally. The air is thick with dust, the earth screaming for some rain, but I doubt it’s coming. It’s drought season.

  “Hey, Ace,” I call out before I even reach him. “You got a second?”

  He shrugs, nods, and takes another drag on his cigarette. The bags under his eyes are huge and black. He needs to get some sleep, but I’m not dumb enough to suggest it. Nor do I know how to start the conversation I do want to have. I’ve been planning on finding him for a private talk all day but didn’t get very far in the planning of what words to actually say.

  “What can I do for you, Colt?” Ace asks once I stop next to him and a couple of moments of silence pass.

  “I’m not really sure how to ask…” I say, my voice fading away as I realize that was definitely the dumbest possible way to begin this conversation.

  He chuckles and offers me a cigarette. “How about you just say it. If it’s a favor you need, it’s yours. I owe you.”

  “I did what anyone would’ve,” I say, and that again sounds wrong. But after a lifetime of not being acknowledged, let alone praised for a damn thing I did right, Ace’s gratitude is taking some getting used to. He lights my cigarette and the first drag cuts through my dry and parched throat like a knife. For a few moments, it’s all I can do not to start coughing.

  He’s looking at me expectantly, so I swallow, decide to stop thinking, and just blurt it out.

  “You’ve been with the Sinners for a while, so you know them. Do you think they’ll take care of the club girls?” I ask. “Or will they just leave them there to fend for themselves when the going gets tough for them?”

  As it will any day now. We both know that.

  A very dark look passes across his face, disgust mingled with the killing kind of quiet rage.

  “They treated Stormi like dirt,” he says in a menacing voice. “They might treat the others better, but I haven’t seen anything of the sort, while I was there. My guess is they’ll all just run for the hills as soon as we move against them like the low cowards they are. So yeah, I suppose they’ll leave them to fend for themselves. And we won’t hurt any of them, you know that. Why do you ask?”

  He’s eyeing me like maybe he already knows.

  “I was talking to the girl behind the bar,” I say. “I kinda liked her. Don’t want her to get hurt or something.”

  I did more than kinda liked her. I can’t stop thinking about her and these long days of doing nothing but trying to stay out of the sun have not made it any easier. I’m not even sure why. I spoke to her for like ten minutes tops, not counting the fifteen I spent checking her out before she noticed me. There’s just something about her. This perfect blend of beauty and wickedness in her face and the way she speaks.

  He grins. “Brenda? She’s got a mouth on her. I’m not sure you can handle her.”

  And that’s just it. I’m not sure I can either, but I want to try.

  “It’s never fun if it’s easy, if you know what I mean,” I say and grin too.

  His face turns serious. “She’s probably gone already. Stormi told her she was leaving. And seeing as the two of them were being held prisoner by the Sinners together, I doubt Brenda would wanna stick around by herself.”

  “Held prisoner? You mean she’s not there voluntarily?” That simplifies things for me. And…

  “You think she’s in danger now that Stormi’s gone?”

  Ace’s eyes widen as he fixes them on me. “I didn’t even think of that. Stormi was sure Brenda can hold her own, but then again, she didn’t know the whole story.”

  “So if I go and see her, see how she’s doing, and if she wants to leave, you think that’d be all right?”

  I can see him struggling with finding the right answer. We’re probably thinking the same thing, namely that Cross wouldn’t be happy if I go hang out at the Sinners bar now that we’re about to move against them.

  “I’ll be inconspicuous and won’t stay long,” I add.

  He nods like he’s reached some sort of a decision.

  “Go later tonight,” he says. “After eleven. And take some backup just in case.”

  “Should I tell Cross?” I ask since even though I have no orders to stay away, I still think he probably wants me to.

  “Be in and out,” Ace says. “After tonight, it won’t matter much if you’re seen there, anyway.”

  “All right, good, I will,” I say, still not sure if it’s the right thing to do. My stomach is telling me it is, my dick is too, but my mind isn’t completely on board with this idea.

  “I’ll handle it with Cross,” Ace says, finally answering my question. “And Stormi’s gonna appreciate you getting her friend out safe, so try to convince her to leave even if she doesn’t want to.”

  She’ll want to. She as good as said so during our brief encounter. Or is that just what I wanted to hear? Am I walking into the lion’s den cock-first with no guarantee of ever getting back out? It wouldn’t be the first time. But my cock has never been this loud in saying it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.

  The parking lot in front of the Sinners’ bar is only about half full when me and Blaze roll up at just past eleven. Music is blaring inside though, loud enough to be heard clearly from the road.

  “Wait about fifteen then follow me inside, I guess,” I tell Blaze.

  “Try to be out in less than fifteen,” he counters. “I doubt Cross wants us here, no matter what Ace says.”

  Me and Blaze go way back. We’ve been best buddies since before kindergarten, and that’s probably the only reason he’s even here, doing this crazy thing with me. He’s always had my back in all the crazy things I’ve done. It’d be a very poor way of repaying that by getting us kicked out from Devil’s Nightmare MC for this stunt. If they even kick anyone out, rather than just killing them. But Cross strike
s me as a reasonable man.

  “Stop stressing, it’ll be fine,” I say and leave him standing by the bikes.

  I was expecting a party to be taking place inside, but it’s a very subdued affair. Less than half the tables are occupied, and there’s no laughter, no loud talking. They all seem to be whispering to each other or not talking at all. Most of them turned to look at me as I walked in.

  On a normal night, a night where I just stopped in at a bar for a drink and a maybe a lay, I’d turn right around at this point and walk back out. Too much tension. Something ominous is hanging in the air, thicker than the smoke filling the room.

  But this isn’t a regular night. I’m here on a mission.

  A mission that’s not starting off well.

  The tall redhead is behind the counter serving drinks and Brenda’s nowhere in sight. I check every lap, every table, getting very belligerent looks back by the men I’m very obviously disturbing by my presence here tonight. I ignore it, pretend I don’t even see them as I make my way to the bar.

  The redhead’s smile is a very tight thing, like she painted it on there like she did her eyebrows.

  I order a beer and sit on the same barstool I sat on the other night, belatedly realizing that might make some of the men still glaring at me realize where they’ve seen me before—right here, on this same splintery stool on the night that their president’s sons went missing. If I was any dumber, I’d have to live in a special home. My father was fond of telling me that. I was always sure he was wrong, but I’m not so sure anymore.

  “Say, where’s the girl that was serving drinks other night?” I say to the redhead as she places the bottle of beer on the counter in front of me. “Is this her night off, or something?”

  There’s fear in her eyes as her lips become a very thin line. That should tell me something. But I’ll be damned if I know what. Nothing good. I know that much.

  “She’s…she’s…” the redhead stammers.

  “What’s it to you, stranger?” a gruff voice asks behind my back. I turn to find three Sinners flanking me.

  “I kinda liked her,” I say, smiling wide, hoping they’ll take me for the simple-minded idiot I clearly am.

  This went downhill fast.

  The door leading to the offices at the back of the bar slams open and the Sinners’ president strides in, the very air around him crackling from the anger etched deeply into his wrinkled face.

  “Everybody out!” he yells. “And turn that damn music off!”

  Several men scramble to obey, knocking over chairs in their eagerness. The music cuts off as someone yanks the plug of the jukebox from the wall.

  The guy questioning me grabs my arm and pulls me off the stool, dragging me closer to the president.

  “This one’s asking about Brenda,” he tells him.

  The look I get from the president is sharp enough to cut glass and as mean as they get.

  “What the hell for?” he asks.

  I open my mouth to answer, to say anything, anything that’ll at least give me a chance to walk out of here alive. But the words don’t come, and he’s already ignoring me.

  “Have Crow take care of him along with that bitch,” the president barks. “I’m not playing any more games.”

  From bad to worse at neck-breaking speed. I doubt anyone can fuck up a simple bar visit as bad as I can.

  The guy holding my arm starts dragging me across the bar to the door that leads to the courtyard.

  “Don’t take too long. We’re riding now,” Griff tells him. “Follow us right away.”

  None of the rest follow us. Good. Outside, I could overpower him. He’s big, but old. That means he’s probably slow and stiff. And not as strong as he’s pretending to be. Already his arm is shaking from gripping mine as hard as he is and leading me out of the bar, and he’s breathing hard from dragging me. Getting the better of him’ll be easy. Then I can get out the same way I escaped the other night.

  But I’m pretty sure the bitch the president was referring to is Brenda. And I’m not about to let whoever Crow is take care of her. Whatever that means.

  Brenda

  It wasn’t until I nearly passed out from thirst and hunger that Griff finally thought to have someone bring me some water and something to eat. I guess even a dumb old guy like that managed to figure out I’m no good to them starved to death. If they’re gonna let me live. Which I’m not so sure’s part of their plan for me.

  Now I have a stomachache from eating the sandwich they tossed in here along with the lukewarm bottle of water on top of the dull ache deep in my stomach that his punch left, and which just isn’t going away as it should. After all the months I’ve spent serving them drinks, you’d think they’d take a little better care of me. Not that I did think that. The Sinners are all dumb, mean bastards down to the last man. I blame Griff. He’s surly, mean, and gruff all the time, and his men take after him. Monarch was loud and liked to be the center of attention, and his men were a lot like that too. There was a bunch of followers too, the kind that type of personality attracts.

  And why the fuck am I even thinking about Monarch?

  He’d like to kill me as much as the Sinners want to, I’m sure.

  But as long as I keep my thoughts on positive things, things like fighting and finding a way out of here, I’m fine. As soon as I start thinking about where I actually am, my mind starts drifting to horrible things I’d rather not have in my head.

  Like never seeing my mom again. She might not be all there in the head anymore, but she has good days and it’s not her fault she lost her mind. She misses me. I know she does.

  Or Monarch. A brute and a taker, but he never left me wanting for material comfort.

  Or Stormi and how I’d like to scratch her eyes out for leaving me here. Or hug her and apologize for being such a bitch that she had to.

  Or how I deserve to be in here for being such a bitch to everyone all the time. For being such a user. For getting a man killed.

  No use thinking about any of that.

  I did what I did to survive.

  It’s a dog eat dog world out there, kill or be killed. My dad often said that too. Men used me and I used them. Just like I would’ve used that long-haired stranger to get me away from the Sinners, if he’d just stayed long enough. Just like he’d use me for his pleasure. On and on and it never ends. Unless it ends for me tonight. But I won’t think of that either. Because it’s useless too. Right now is all I have.

  I have no way of telling the time here, but I’m pretty sure a full twenty-four hours have passed since they locked me up. I’m also pretty sure it’s dark outside, although I only have a drop in temperature in this smelly cell—which is the same one in which they kept me that first night I was here. It reeks even worse of blood and piss now. My own in the case of the latter. I tried to hold it as long as I could, but in the end, it was either piss on myself or piss on the floor. Both bad choices. Animals are fucking taken better care of than I am.

  I’m starving again. My bottle of water is completely empty and dry besides. Just like my mouth.

  The next time someone comes in here to bring more, I’ll put on the charm and try to talk myself out of this cell. I don’t want to think about how bad that’s gonna go with my failing skills in that area and the aroma of fresh piss surrounding me. But I’m gonna give it my all.

  And as if my luck finally turned, the door leading into this rickety jailhouse bangs open, and at least two sets of boots come thumping towards my door.

  “Hey, who’s there?” I ask in my most seductive voice, which is raspy and throaty now, sure, but also hoarse as fuck.

  “Did you hear something?” a guy asks gruffly. I think his name’s Mouse, but I’m not sure.

  “The bitch isn’t passed out yet, I guess,” another guy answers and this I know is Crow—a mean, black-eyed Irish guy whose wavy black hair is always greasy.

  I probably have no chance in hell winning either of these two guys over. They’re bot
h as mean and cold as they get.

  “Can I have some more water, please?” I ask anyway.

  They laugh as one of them unlocks my cell door. The fluorescent light outside is so bright compared to the faint yellow one in my cell that it slices right through my eyes and into my brain. It’s so painful, I have to close my eyes. When I open them again, they’re both standing right in front of me.

  “Aww, look, she got up for us?” Mouse mocks.

  “What’s that smell in here?” Crow mutters.

  “I know, it’s terrible,” I say. “Won’t you guys take me out of here? We can go somewhere more comfortable. I bet Griff won’t mind where you keep me, as long as you keep me.”

  I think I elicited some interest in Mouse, because his eyes glint with desire, but Crow’s remain as black and scary as the dead of a moonless night.

  “The only place you can look forward to going that’s more comfortable than this is your grave,” he says in his drawling voice. The dark, ominous meaning behind his words is even more striking because of his thick Irish accent. It hits me like a second blow to the stomach.

  “Lucky for you, that’s where you’re going now,” he adds. “Griff doesn’t need you anymore.”

  He grabs my arm and Mouse takes the other before I can even let out the breath I was holding, never mind fighting back.

  “Come on, Crow,” I say anyway. “It doesn’t have to be like this. I can make you a very happy man. Both of you. Griff doesn’t give a shit about what happens to me. You can just take me somewhere and keep me there.”

  They’ve physically lifted me off the ground and are carrying me out. It’s a tight squeeze down the corridor. And just like the last time I walked this way, my worst nightmare will begin at the end of it. I know this, but I don’t want to know it.

  “Is she still talking?” Crow says. “I think it’s time to make her shut up.”