Kings of Anarchy

by Caroline Peckham

  "Take me to his car," I commanded as I moved back to the Mustang. "We hid it back by the road. We're going to need to keep pressure on that wound for the journey and there's no room in your piece of shit for that."

  "It's a classic," Monroe growled but he didn't voice any further complaint as we leapt into the Mustang once more and raced away to get Saint's car.

  Then all we had to do was drive to whatever off the books doctor Niall found for me and hope to fuck that Saint could pull through. But I wasn't going to give the alternative any space in my mind. Because Saint Memphis was as permanent as the rage in my soul and the violence in my veins. Besides, he'd never let some piece of shit nobody like that asshole be the death of him. He was far too proud for that.

  T he doctor had let us into a private clinic in some unknown town when we arrived several hours ago. I hadn’t been able to focus on where we were, I’d only been able to focus on Saint and how still he was. The man had taken him inside with a bunch of nurses, all of them wearing masks and gloves. They hadn’t let the rest of us into the building until they’d checked our temperatures and asked if we had any symptoms or been in contact with anyone we didn’t know recently. None of us mentioned the group of armed men we’d all just been fighting and getting way too close to, and I didn’t even want to think about the fact that we’d been put at risk of contamination on top of everything else. Or, I guess that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Because according to one of the many bombs that had been dropped on my head tonight, I was actually immune. But I just didn’t have the energy to think on that right now while I was so caught up worrying over Saint.

  I stood in a white-walled waiting room with fluorescent lights beaming down on us, so blindingly bright that they seemed to blaze right into my skull. Worry ate into my chest like locusts feasting on my insides. I was in purgatory waiting to find out if Saint would live. To hear how bad his injuries were.

  I found myself looking at Blake, Monroe and Kyan, their eyes locked on me like I was the centre of their world. I’d heard Monroe quietly explaining to them what had happened in the cabin, how Mortez had killed my dad and gotten a hold of me. And the way their expressions twisted at what I’d witnessed made me adore them even more.

  A whimper of need escaped me as I moved towards them and as one they closed in around me, their bodies crushing me into the middle of them as they held and caressed me and I sighed as I just let myself have this. I couldn't process everything that had happened yet, I just needed to feel their warmth surrounding me. But through everything, my pain and grief spilled over and tears washed down my cheeks as the loss of my dad cut into me so deeply that I could hardly breathe.

  The blood covering me was drying against my skin like a film. I wanted to wash and scrub every piece of my flesh until I revealed a new girl beneath it. But I was afraid of the one I’d find there when I did.

  After a while, I was drawn out of the group and found myself being pulled down into a chair, wrapped in Blake's arms as he held me against his firm chest, murmuring reassurances in my ear. I buried my face in his neck as he shared in my pain. He knew this grief, he'd lived it himself not long ago. And it seemed only right to fall apart in his arms because he was a mirror to my soul right now.

  Monroe pressed a hand to my back as he stood close behind me and Kyan's hand wrapped firmly around mine as he took the seat beside Blake. I cried until the tears wouldn't come anymore and my heart retreated into a hardened shell, my pain easing a little. I felt hollow and exhausted and somehow that was worse. Like I could feel the absence of my dad now. A new hole carved into my chest, widening the gap that Jess had left when I'd lost her. My entire family were gone. The memories of my childhood, of all the days we'd spent together now resided solely in me. There was no one left in the world who shared my past. No single person who would ever reminisce with me, who would know the jokes we'd shared, the fun we'd had, the life we'd led. It was mine to carry, to relive. Alone.

  I slid from Blake's lap at last and Monroe moved back a step as I passed him by and walked to the window, staring out at the paling sky. Dawn was coming. And I didn't want it to. I wanted to go back to the last time the sun had set and change everything. Make a thousand different choices. It seemed like when the sun rose, this night would be set in stone. But right now, it all just felt like a terrible nightmare I could still wake from, if only I knew how.

  The guys were talking in low voices, but I couldn't distinguish the words and didn't really try. There was a buzzing in my ears, a wall dividing me from the world as I retreated further and further into myself. I couldn't feel anything, not the wooden windowsill where my hand lay or the temperature in the room. I just felt...nothing.

  "Tatum," Monroe spoke and the word seemed to tear through that wall I was vanishing behind, bringing me back to life. I didn't turn to him, but I felt him move close behind me. The heat of his flesh called to me and as he closed the distance between us, I leaned back against him, realising I was frozen to the bone once his hands encircled me. "We have to stay here for forty eight hours to quarantine, then we can go home."

  Home. The word choice seemed so strange. Everlake wasn't home. Home was my dad, home was Jess, home was where my heart was content. Everlake wasn't any of those things. But...Monroe was.

  "Saint," I murmured, a note of fear in my tone.

  The doctor opened the door across the room and my heart jolted as I turned to him in panic. He kept his mask in place as he looked at us, his scrubs flecked with blood.

  “He’s stable,” he said and the strength went out of my body.

  "Fuck," Monroe breathed, but with no grit to his voice like I expected. Shouldn't he have been unhappy that Saint was okay?

  My shoulders sagged with relief then my whole body followed and I crouched low, taking in long breaths as that news washed through me. Blake clapped Kyan on the shoulder as the two them shared a relieved hug.

  “I told you that bastard was too stubborn to die, baby,” Kyan said, barking a laugh.

  "Can I see him?" I asked.

  "He's unconscious," the doctor explained.

  "I still want to see him."

  Monroe moved closer, pulling me to my feet and keeping a hand on my back.

  The doctor nodded. “You can see him shortly, the nurses are just cleaning up.”

  “What’s the prognosis doc?” Blake pushed.

  “He’s got a hairline fracture in his radius in the right arm and three broken ribs on the same side. The bullet didn’t go through, so we’ve extracted it from his shoulder and stitched him up and given him a blood transfusion, some antibiotics and some fluids. Frankly, he’s one lucky guy.”

  “Maybe if the bullet had been made of pure silver there’d have been more chance of it killing him,” Blake joked, jumping on Kyan in his joy and my heart lifted a little.

  “Yeah with a priest tossing holy water on him and casting him back to hell,” Kyan agreed.

  “Even then, he probably would have refused to die. His skin could have melted off of his bones, but he’d just have hung around as an angry poltergeist shouting at us whenever we fucked up his schedules,” Blake joked.

  Their teasing banter almost brought a smile to my face especially as I could feel the relief in the room like a physical thing.

  The doctor exited the waiting room again and I rubbed my tired eyes, leaning against Monroe for support as we waited to be allowed in to see Saint.

  The minutes seemed to stretch on and on, but the doctor finally returned, beckoning us in. “Two at a time,” he insisted.

  "Come on, baby. I'll take you." Kyan took my hand and I let my fingers trail over Monroe's arm in goodbye as he led me away.

  Kyan felt so strong, his body like armour. I wanted to slide into it for a while and pretend I was as unshakeable as him. But even as I drew on that strength in him, I knew it could do nothing to repair my shattered heart. Or heal the gaping wound left by the death of my father. Nothing could shield me from that.

  The
scent of blood still hung in the air as we entered the room, but it was dulled by a chemical tang that hit the back of my throat. Saint was shirtless, the wound on his shoulder bandaged along with his ribs and an IV was stuck in his left arm while a sling held his right against his chest.

  He looked so un-Saint lying there, his features soft in sleep, making him appear young, vulnerable. I pulled away from Kyan, leaning down to caress Saint's cheek and the tears came again as I remembered the stand this boy had made for me, placing himself in front of that car, the apology he'd spoken to me, though I didn't know what he'd meant it for exactly. I traced his cheekbone with my fingertips and sighed at the heat of his skin, the confirmation that his heart was beating even though it was clear from the beeping of the monitor in the room anyway. But I had to feel it too. I ran my hand down to his throat and his pulse thumped there almost angrily like it was determined to show the world just how alive he really was. And that almost brought a smile to my lips.

  "It would take more than a bullet and a car to kill Saint Memphis," Kyan growled in my ear, like he'd never been worried for his friend. But I'd seen the panic in him as clear as day. Kyan's heartless act didn't fool me anymore. He had a heart, and it held a deep and unwavering kind of love for his friends.

  When we’d all spent some time with him, the doctor offered to look over our cuts and bruises. Despite my body being aching and sore, I somehow hadn’t broken anything even when I’d jumped out of the car. In fact, no one had anything too serious and I had to believe that was nothing short of a miracle.

  We were offered a private ward with a shower and some scrubs to sleep in and time stretched out ahead of us for the quarantine period. Amongst all the fears I’d had tonight, I’d barely had time to worry that the Night Keepers could be infected. They’d exposed themselves for me, another risk which I could never repay them for. They’d faced death in every imaginable way for me and I knew it changed everything.

  ***

  I laid with Saint in his bed back at The Temple in cream pyjamas. His IV was set up beside his bed and a list of instructions from the doctor sat on his nightstand. It wasn't even close to ideal and the fear that something might happen to him in our care made me worry. So I’d stayed with him, never left his side for even a second since we'd gotten back here last night after the quarantine period was up. At least we’d evaded that one threat and I knew for sure that all of them would be okay. He was on a bunch of sedatives to give his body time to recover and he’d only stirred a few times in the night, but he was off them now, so it was just a matter of time before he came back to us.

  As the morning crept on, I curled up against him, keeping my hand on his chest, the rise and fall of it assuring me that I could rest for a few hours. I was desperate for him to wake up though, stirring at any movement he made so it was hard to relax. But just as I was about to drift off, he groaned.

  "Tatum," he said, his voice as soft as a whisper, his breath feathering against my cheek. We couldn’t get a shirt on him, so he just wore navy sweatpants and socks.

  I jolted upright, looking down at him and his dark eyes widened as his gaze dragged over my features, the bruises, the nicks and cuts, taking stock of all of it as I just drowned in the depths of his irises.

  "That asshole hurt you," he said darkly, venom in his tone.

  "He's dead," I said, lifting my chin a little.

  He sighed, relaxing, but he didn't take his eyes from the injuries lining my flesh.

  "You're okay," I told him. "You got shot and you've got cracked ribs and a fracture in your right arm, but you're alright, Saint."

  "Mm," he grunted like he didn't agree with that assessment and he immediately tried to get up, his brow creasing sharply as he jolted his ribs.

  "Lay down," I gasped, pressing my hand to his uninjured shoulder to try and stop him, but he kept going, sliding out of bed and getting to his feet. Except his legs didn't hold and he crashed to his knees instantly, making the IV jerk toward him on its wheels as he tugged it.

  "Saint!" I jumped out after him, trying to help him up. “You lost a lot of blood, and you’re on a lot of medication, you need to rest.”

  "I’m fine. I can get up by myself," he insisted, but it was clear he couldn't.

  "Just let me help," I pushed, but he continued to try and shake me off.

  "What's the time?" he demanded, panic in his eyes.

  I glanced at the clock behind me on the nightstand and frowned as I saw it was three minutes to nine.

  "Nine am," I said immediately.

  "Liar," he hissed, trying to crane his neck to look at it himself, but I moved to block his view.

  Footsteps came pounding up the stairs and Blake appeared in a pair of black sweatpants, his eyebrows jumping up as he saw Saint on the floor. He jogged forward, scooping him up and placing him back on the bed. "Here you go, buddy."

  "I'm not your buddy, get the fuck out of my way," Saint snarled.

  “Ohh, he’s an angry little buddy.” Blake grinned widely, clearly pleased as hell to see his friend awake despite his tempestuous mood.

  "You have to stay in bed," I demanded and Saint turned to me with his forehead lined. "Please. Stay. I'll get you what you need. I’ll do whatever you tell me to."

  His throat bobbed as he realised I was surrendering control to him, allowing him to boss me about, get whatever he wanted. The man had nearly died to save me after all. It was the least I could do to help him heal from his injuries.

  He jerked his chin once in agreement. "I need a piss."

  "The doc gave you a special gift for that." Blake hooked up the bedpan from the floor, waving it at him and Saint scowled darkly.

  "I won't be pissing in a plastic bowl. Ever." Saint swung his legs over the edge of the bed again and I shared a look with Blake, a nod of agreement passing between us as we moved to help him stand.

  He muttered curses at us all the way to the bathroom as we helped him walk there, the IV bobbing along on its stand as I brought it with us while he insisted he could do it himself before tugging it inside and kicking the door shut in our faces.

  I turned to Blake just as he reached out and traced his thumb over a bruise on my cheek. "How are you, sweetheart?"

  He didn't want the bullshit answer, I could tell. He could see my pain like it shone out of my eyes, so I gave him the honest truth. "Exhausted, heartbroken and sort of...numb too. None of it feels real. But it is...I know it is." I dropped my head, biting back the tears which threatened to spill over and Blake tipped my chin up to meet his gaze.

  "Whenever you wanna talk, I'm here. I've got you, Tate. Just say the word." He leaned down and kissed my cheek, but I turned into it, hunting out the heat of his mouth on instinct. He drew me closer by the waist, his gentle touches soothing my frantic heartbeat as he kissed me sweetly, saying a thousand silent condolences that helped stitch me back together. At least for a little while.

  We parted just before the door yanked open and Saint stood there clutching his IV stand looking pale. He gritted his teeth, moving forward as if to barrel through the middle of us, but we stepped back and each looped an arm around his waist before he could attempt it.

  "Stop fussing," he snapped, but mostly at Blake I noticed.

  We helped him back into bed all the same and Saint dismissed Blake as I helped prop him up with several pillows.

  “Just shout if you need help with anything, Cinders,” Blake said before heading off downstairs, rolling his eyes at Saint.

  When I was done arranging Saint’s bedding, I met his frustrated gaze and dropped down to kneel before him on the end of the mattress in a silent offering that said what do you need me to do?

  "I'll take a single day's rest," Saint said matter-of-factly. "You can wait on me today and then tomorrow things will return to normal."

  "Saint..." I sighed. Things weren't going to be normal for a long time for him. The doctor said his recovery could take weeks. He wouldn't be able to work out or play football or do any of his usual
activities until he was completely healed, or he could cause himself permanent damage.

  "Tatum," he growled in warning and I looked up at him with my heart in tatters. I realised I needed this too, I needed Saint to take over and tell me what to do right now because I had no idea how to put one foot in front of the other knowing my dad was no longer in the world. I didn't know who I was without him. I didn't know what the future looked like anymore or where I belonged. I felt trapped in an endless shadow that stretched out forever before me. And I couldn’t escape it.

  "Let's just focus on right now," I compromised, fisting my hands in the sheets as I tried not to let my thoughts slip too far into despair again, back to the moment Mortez had shot Dad, how he'd fallen beneath me and I'd seen so much nothing in his eyes. No amount of time would ever be enough to erase that image from my mind. "Tell me what to do. Please," my voice cracked and I dipped my head, lost. I was so lost. I was going to split apart into pieces if I didn't just do something. Anything.

  "Tatum...what’s going on?" he asked, his tone soft and thick with concern. It didn't sound much like Saint at all.

  "My dad," I forced out, trying to say it with detachment but I couldn't manage it. "Mortez shot him. He's...he's dead." Saying it aloud was far worse than repeating it in my head a thousand times. It was suddenly so suffocatingly real that I wished I could take the words back, force them down my throat and never utter them again. A couple of thick tears rolled down my cheeks and I wiped them hurriedly away.

  Saint was silent for the longest time. "I can't...imagine how you feel right now," he said in a measured voice like he really meant those words. "But if you need me to take control-"

  "I do," I said fiercely, looking up at him. This language was one we both understood, one we both got something out of. It centred us. Our lack of control in our current situations was debilitating and this answer was a gift to each of us.