DADDY AT THE ALTAR: Iron Claws MC

by St. Rose, Claire

  That is the answer , he thought, laughing. Then, he lost himself to the heavy drunkenness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Ariana scrubbed the sink in her apartment as if her life depended on the stainless-steel contraption being completely free of any speck of dirt, food, or bacteria. Her arm and shoulder were sore, and her back was starting to twinge with the tightness and strain of her muscles. Still, she continued to work. When she was done, she would clean the counters, followed by the cabinets, and then she’d move on to the living room.

  She’d taken the week off, overwhelmed by everything in her life outside the job and looking for a way to make peace with it. Ariana needed to go see her father; but, after their last conversation, she couldn’t face him yet.

  “Your boyfriend came to see me,” he croaked. “Apparently, you’re ignoring him.”

  Ariana had clamped her lips in a tight line. “Vince’s not my boyfriend, Dad. I can’t be with someone who shoots people and gets thrown in jail. I need more stability than that.”

  Her father had shaken his head, his face riddled with pain. “He didn’t do it, Ariana. He wasn’t out on bail. The charges were dropped. Maybe you should look deep inside and find another reason you’re pushing him away.”

  He’d broken out in a coughing spell, and she’d given a press to the button that dripped morphine into his system. Within minutes, he was asleep, and Ariana ran out of the hospital. Not only was she having trouble processing the swiftness with which her father’s health was failing, but she didn’t want to hear what he had to say about Vince.

  She’d seen the news about his arrest shortly after she’d visited him behind bars. He had been charged with second degree murder. And now, the release of Vince and his motorcycle club brothers was everywhere, claiming new evidence had come to light. Of course, there were rumors of tampering with evidence and witnesses, but the overwhelming majority of the public believed they’d been falsely accused.

  Ariana didn’t know what to think, and she wasn’t sure it mattered. After all, guilty of murder or not, Vince had been involved in a shootout, and he was constantly involved in dangerous situations. This was the reason she’d been hesitant to get involved with him at all, and Vince had only proven her right.

  At the same time, she felt like she’d judged him unfairly over this event by assuming he was guilty until proven innocent. Now, he’d supposedly been proven innocent, and she still couldn’t come to terms with that fact. Plus, she still had feelings for him, and they weren’t any weaker than they were before. In fact, that was part of the reason she was scouring her apartment. It was a stupid thing to think, but Ariana felt like she could scrub out her feelings for Vince by scrubbing out the dirt from every crack and crevice of her life.

  Screaming in frustration, Ariana pounded her fist into the sink, only her sponge keeping her from bruising her knuckles. It still sent shockwaves of pain up her arm, and she fell back against the counter behind her, clutching at her forearm and cursing herself for her own stupidity.

  It was time to take a different approach to things. This was hiding and running from her problems, something Ariana had vowed never to do. She stared at her cell phone, lying on the coffee table in the living room, silenced. She hadn’t even listened to any of the voicemails Vince had left, and she considered doing so, or possibly calling him—just to get real closure if nothing else. However, it didn’t seem like the right time, and she didn’t think she was in the right mindset.

  No, the way to start on a better path was to go back to see her father. He didn’t have long, and Ariana couldn’t bear the thought of his passing without getting to say goodbye. Running her hands through the hair she hadn’t bothered to brush or wash in the two days since she’d last seen the light of day, Ariana fought to pull it together. She forced herself—one step at a time—to walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower.

  She peeled off the clothes she’d been wearing for almost three full days, wrinkling her nose at the smell that wafted up from them. How had she let herself fall into this sort of funk, literally? She’d never been the type to sink into a depression that caused her to ignore her own personal hygiene. The hot spray on her body revived more than her normal scent. It brought her sanity back, reminding her of the reasons she had to live and the responsibilities she needed to take care of.

  As she dressed, Ariana regretted her actions over the last few days. She decided that, after she saw her father, she’d go back to the station and see about canceling her vacation, getting back on the job early. She wasn’t the type of person who did well isolated without a purpose. She had to focus on something, and the job did that for her. Besides, she hadn’t bothered to go to class, either, and she knew she was acting like a pouting child. It wasn’t okay.

  Feeling renewed, she dressed in a pair of light capris and a loose-fitting shirt with floral embroidery. She looked in the mirror, brushing through her hair and wincing at the knots that had formed in the last few days. Never again, she promised herself. When she was done, her appearance refreshed her. She looked young and freed of the burdens in her mind for a change.

  Squaring her shoulders, she slipped on a pair of flip-flops and headed out, determined to make things right—one step at a time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Vince couldn’t feel his body, but he stumbled into the middle of the clubhouse bar, falling on his side and laughing, as a wave of nausea threatened to drown him. His lungs heaved for air, but he was underwater, and his head spun viciously. “What the fuck is going on?” Pound’s voice cut through the fog, increasing the speed and weight of the jackhammer pounding into the part of his brain that seemed to control coordination—since his arms and legs flapped uselessly as he tried to sit up.

  “Christ Almighty.” Smack, smack. Vince tried to smile, but his cheeks wouldn’t move. In fact, he felt force against them, but the sensation didn’t match the sound of Pound’s hand on them. “Hey!” Pound boomed, and Vince tried to focus on his friends face, looming above him like some threatening predator. He was staring somewhere Vince couldn’t see, rage clear on his face even with the blurry haze coating Vince’s eyes.

  “You, and you! What did he take?” It was a demand, and Vince dry-heaved, his stomach twisting.

  “Nothing. He was stone cold drunk is all.”

  “Passed out before we got anywhere.”

  Both voices were whiny and scared. Vince didn’t recognize them, but the high pitch rang in his ears and brought his nausea to a head. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him forward, as he ralphed, the vomit burning as it exploded up his chest and through his mouth.

  “Aw, Vince, for the love of God.” Pound was complaining about something, but Vince couldn’t listen as his chest heaved again. This time, his lungs, his liver, and a couple of toes came with the force of it.

  “Jude! Get the truck ready! We gotta get Larson to the hospital.”

  Vince waved a hand. He was fine and didn’t need to go to the hospital. However, his hand didn’t move, only his gag reflex. Out came the hair and skin from his left leg. The fuse had been lit, and the fire was climbing its way to his neck—where his head was sure to burst when the dynamite struck.

  “Don’t even try to argue,” Pound grunted, and Vince realized he’d been lifted off the floor—though his skin still tingled as if his whole body was asleep and trying to wake up. He had the distinct impression he didn’t want it to wake up and that the severe pain would only make him sicker. “I can’t believe I’m carrying your ass to the truck, you suicidal son-of-a-bitch. How the hell much did you drink last night anyway?”

  Pound’s complaints fell on not deaf but certainly uncaring ears, as Vince’s stomach revolted at the jerky movements and swift turns of his body. “Pound.” The name came out as little more than a groan with drool, and Vince’s stomach clenched again.

  “Don’t you dare,” Pound warned.

  “Man, don’t put that in my truck. I’ll never get the stench of spoilt whis
key out of the seats!”

  Was that Jude?

  “Shut up and drive. We’re riding in the back, so I can hang his head over the side if he goes to hurl again.” Pound must’ve shoved him onto a hard surface because Vince felt a drop and heard a thump before the surface beneath him bounced and then rumbled. He moaned, rolling to his side, and Pound’s arms were around him again, lifting and shoving. Then, Vince felt cold air on his face and something digging into his chest.

  “Don’t you dare heave on me again. It’s not laundry day for another week, and I’m running out of shirts, dammit.”

  Vince tried to nod his compliance, but there wasn’t an ounce of energy in his entire body. In fact, he wasn’t sure there was any blood, either. Now that the air blew past him, he smelled the stench of liquor on him, and he was sure that was the only thing pumping through his veins. And, of course, pooling in his stomach—where it insisted on seeking exit in the wrong direction.

  He lost track of time, the world fading in and out and from black to a swirling, nauseating mix of colors. He fought the urge to just fall into complete oblivion. He was shuffled around again, and there were voices he didn’t recognize surrounding him, and the sound of machines beeping. He groaned internally. He was in the damn hospital.

  “Prep for a stomach pump,” a disembodied voice commanded.

  “I doubt he needs that,” Pound’s voice called above the chaos that threatened Vince’s sanity. “Can you see the fruits of his own procedure?”

  Vince had no idea what he was talking about, but after a long silence, the disembodied voice said, “Fine. Let’s get the IV going quickly, people. Set up a sonogram. I want to know if we need to move forward, and I want fluids flowing into this guy like Niagara Falls.”

  Vince wanted to curse at them, arguing over his treatment and what he needed. As far as he was concerned, he needed to spend the next week in bed, sleeping off the whiskey, and he’d be just fine. Screw IVs and stomach pumps and everything else. Let him suffer the consequences of his own stupidity, and then he’d get on with his life.

  However, he couldn’t speak, and moments later, after he felt the jab in his arm, his mind faltered, and he couldn’t think anymore.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Ariana watched her father’s eyes open slowly, as she stroked his head. She offered him a smile, as he fought for lucidity. She pushed back a need to cry, noting that in just the few days since she’d been here, her father had lost at least another ten pounds. He was so doped up, she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear he’d slept through his last four or five meals.

  “Hey, Dad, how are you feeling?” she asked, trying to sound bright—though her whole body was tense with the need to break down and sob. Once again, she’d found him alone, her mother and sister nowhere to be seen.

  He moved his mouth to talk and made a face. Ariana reached for the water on his rolling table and held the straw to his mouth so he could drink. It ran down his face, but he managed to swallow a little, enough to wet his tongue but not enough to help his chapped lips. Ariana’s chest ached.

  “I’ve been better, but I slept a long time. No one woke me up for hours.” His voice was hoarse, and while Ariana had avoided him for years, she missed the strong man with the deep, commanding voice.

  She glanced at the charts on the wall, seeing that he’d had his vitals checked less than an hour earlier. Either her father was losing time or was so doped up to ease his pain that he didn’t even know when the attendants came by anymore. Neither scenario was pleasant to consider. “Well, I’m glad you feel rested, at least. Are you in any pain?”

  His face twisted. “Not pain. Sore. Don’t move a lot. Back’s killing me. And dry.” He indicated his mouth with his fingers clamped together. “Don’t get to drink much. I can’t really hold the cup.”

  Angry at the rest of her family, Ariana decided that she wasn’t going to leave his side until she found someone who could take her place for a few hours, making sure he had the water he needed. In the meantime, she put the mug down and leaned to place her hands behind each of her father’s shoulders. “Come on, we’ll see if we can’t move you a little, get rid of some of that soreness.”

  She lifted him to sit straight, wincing at how feather light he was, and helped him twist from side-to-side. She took his arms and raised them over his head, forcing his body to stretch, even though he didn’t have the strength to do it himself. She put his legs through some exercises, and then she helped him back into a comfortable position, stuffing a pillow behind his back. He had developed a couple of bed sores, causing rage to surge through her. She was going to report mistreatment and see that they were doctored instantly.

  “Dad, I’ll be back in just a minute, okay? I want you to close your eyes and rest until I get back.” He nodded vaguely, his head already lolling with the exhaustion of her care. Ariana rushed into the hallway, looking for the appropriate person to level her anger on. She somehow didn’t see the wall of black leather until she slammed into it head on.

  Bouncing back and catching herself with one hand on the wall, Ariana’s eyes traveled up the massive barrier and stared in surprise. “Pound?”

  Pound gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, little one. Imagine running into you here.” He chuckled.

  Ariana rolled her eyes at the pun and started to move on, desperate to tear someone a new rectum. However, she stopped and frowned. She had a bad feeling settling in her gut. “Why are you here?”

  He scratched at the handkerchief tied around his head and avoided meeting her gaze. “Oh, you know, one of the brothers had a little issue. We take care of our own and all that.”

  He was purposely vague, and she narrowed her eyes. “What happened to Vince?” She wasn’t stupid. If it was anyone else, he would have just answered her straight up. Pound was a terrible liar, and he was worse at evading direct questions.

  His big shoulders fell, and he sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “He sort of had a little too much to drink, and I thought I’d get him checked out.”

  Ariana closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Alcohol poisoning.” She made it a statement. “Where is he?”

  “I’m not sure. They took him back in the emergency room pretty quickly, and they shoved me out after I told them he’d already pumped his own stomach and showed them the evidence.”

  Too late she realized he was covered in vomit, and she’d plowed right into it. That explained the odor that had begun to assault her senses. She wrinkled her nose. “Are you the only one here with him?”

  “Jude’s around somewhere, but I’m not sure where he went. He was sweet on some little candy striper type downstairs.” Pound smirked. “He’s so creepy sometimes. I don’t understand how he gets laid so much.”

  It was more than Ariana wanted to hear, and she held up her hand to stop the conversation. “Come with me. I’ll find some scrubs that’ll fit you so you can get out of those clothes. They reek.” She strode down the hall toward the supply room, Pound dogged her heels like his namesake, and she ducked inside, rummaging for a 3X. She passed him the set and pointed to the bathroom. As he started to walk away like an obedient child, she called after him, “Why are you up here anyway?”

  Pound stopped and turned around, and Ariana was amused at his blush. “I sort of knew your father was on this floor and wondered if you were around.” She frowned at him curiously, and he meekly told her, “Someone’s got to talk him out of his suicidal mission, little one. I thought maybe you could give it a shot.”

  He walked away, and Ariana clenched her teeth. She had to take care of her father first, perhaps getting someone fired for ignoring their duties; but, as soon as that was cleared up, she was definitely going to find Vince Larson and give him a piece of her mind for his stupidity.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Something soft touched Vince’s hand, and he started to pull away, not wanting to leave the fantastic dream where Ariana’s nipple was in his mouth as she rode him, stra
ddling him as he sat on his bike. The stroke was somehow familiar —and insistent. He came awake slowly, wincing before he even opened his eyes at the bright lights assaulting him.

  He groaned, and the voice of an angel broke through the nasty headache that was coming on like a sprinter towards a finish line. “What the hell were you thinking, you stupid son-of-a-bitch?”

  Despite the berating and judgmental words, the tone was soft and tender, and Vince’s lips tilted up at the corners. He would have recognized that angel’s voice anywhere. “I was thinking about you, actually.” His voice sounded like a steel toe boot on gravel, but at least he could form words now.

  “Really? And the thought of me made you so sick you had to wash it away with a gallon of liquor?” Sarcasm. It was as sweet as chocolate right now.

  “It wasn’t a gallon. I don’t even think I finished the bottle of whiskey.”