by Ruby Dixon
Also, I’m throwing out every drop of that alcohol in the morning. “No, comfort her. Just don’t touch her neck.”
He nods and steps forward, and his arms go around Becka’s waist. “It’s gonna be all right, Becks. Locke and me, we’re gonna take care of you, okay?”
She presses her cheek to his chest, trusting, and sniffles.
It’s breaking my fucking heart, but I’ve got to be the bad guy in this. “I need to look at it, Becka.” Her hair’s a wet mess plastered to the back of her neck, and it’s impossible to tell what the damage is. She doesn’t move to acknowledge my words, but her eyes close and her face takes on this pinched look. I pull the wet strands away from her neck carefully, doing my best not to hurt her. They stick to her skin, crusted on, and I have to pull at a couple thick strands, hating every whimper she makes.
Epic strokes her back and makes soothing noises, a question in his eyes as I work to carefully uncover her wound.
Then I brush aside another lock of hair and see an L, scabbed over and leaking pus. The skin around it is blistered and red. Oh no. The more I uncover, the worse it gets.
Her neck reads LUC’S STABLE, the two words neatly stacked atop each other. Below, a third word is branded. CHERRY.
“That goddamn motherfucker.” I don’t realize I’m saying the words aloud until Becka gives a sobbing gasp and Epic shoots me a questioning look. I shake my head at Epic. We’ll talk about this later. For now, I need to find more out from Becka. “When did they do this?”
“The day you guys grabbed me,” she says with another watery sniff. “They made all the girls that were picked take a shower, and then dolled us up. They fixed our hair and make-up and then made us go to a back room and branded us.”
That’s fucking brutal. They fixed the girls up to ship them out and then branded them without realizing how much it’d hurt? Becka’s entire neck is inflamed and raw. I wouldn’t do this to a dog, much less a person. And branding her as a ‘cherry’ on top of things? The rage boiling in my gut threatens to blind me.
“What’s it say?” she asks softly.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I tell her. “But we need to sterilize it and make sure it doesn’t get infected, because you don’t want to go to a hospital or they’re going to ask questions you might not want to answer.”
She starts to cry again. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Probably.” I rub her shoulder, and my hand bumps against Epic’s. For some reason, that touch feels good. Like we’re all connected. “But it’s going to make it better. And me and Epic are going to take care of you.”
“Absolutely,” Epic agrees. “We’ll get you fixed up good.”
I grab a few more towels off the counter and then head back into the main room. There’re still a few inches of vodka in the bottle, and I grab it. Vodka works. I grab the butterscotch rum that she likes so much, too, because she’s gonna need a drink for what comes next.
Epic wraps his arms around her and guides her over to the bed while I raid the bathroom for additional first-aid supplies. There’re a few Band-Aids, one lone panty liner, and a fuckton of condoms. No antiseptic, no bandages, and certainly no burn cream. I’m gonna have to hit up a pharmacy tomorrow. I’d go right this fucking instant, but they’re both drunk and I need to protect them.
I hand Epic the bottle of rum and indicate that it’s for Becka. He screws off the cap and hands it to her. “Take a huge gulp, Becks. Don’t be shy.”
She nods and gulps at the bottle, and Epic encourages her to take another drink as I wet down one of the fresh towels. When she’s good and tipsy again, I have her put her head on Epic’s thigh, and he holds her hair back. I hate this next part. I hate her choked, pained cries as I pour the alcohol over her inflamed wound. I’ve done this a dozen times for buddies that have gotten shot out in the field, or a knife wound that gets too much debris in it. Hell, I’ve done it for road rash. Someone’s always got alcohol on them, and no one ever wants to go to the emergency room. But Becka’s broken little cries tear at me, and I can tell from Epic’s pained face that they’re hurting him, too. He grips her hand while I do the dirty work, and when I’m satisfied, I wash it gently with a warm towel, soak it with vodka again, and then use the Band-Aids to hold down the panty liner as a makeshift bandage.
Becka lies still, clutching at Epic’s hand, and just cries quietly. She’s brave. I’ve had wounds sterilized with booze before and it burns like three kinds of hell. We sit there on the bed, all three of us, with Becka in between us. No one gets up, and the party mood of the evening is gone.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Epic asks in a gentle voice, stroking her hair back from her brow.
“Because I h-hate it,” she weeps. “It m-makes me f-feel less than human.”
“We’re gonna get the bastard that did it to you,” I vow. I see Epic nod in agreement. “You have nothing to be ashamed about. You didn’t choose it, and we’ll destroy the fucker that touched you.”
“Good,” Becka says in a tearful voice, and then gives a little shudder, huddling closer to Epic’s thigh.
I rub her back. I wish there was some way I could comfort her, but a few pats are all I can offer. “Get some rest, Becka. It’ll feel better in the morning.” Well, probably not, but everything feels a little better on a good night’s sleep anyhow. Plus, if she keeps crying, she’s gonna make herself sick.
Becka reaches behind her and grabs my hand, squeezing my fingers. She’s still got her head on Epic’s thigh, but she’s holding his hand and now mine. It feels right, us connected like this. I tell myself it’s because we’re going to be in close quarters for the next few weeks, but it feels like more than that. Much more.
Epic shoots me a few looks as he strokes Becka’s hair, but we’re silent. I know he’s thinking the same thing I am—she needs to go to sleep so we can discuss plans. I’m almost afraid that Epic’s going to get twitchy or impatient, but he’s calm and steady as he pets Becka, and she dozes off a short time later, her shuddering breaths easing with sleep, her smaller hand going slack in mine. “So,” Epic whispers after a moment. “Who do we gotta kill?”
I consider this. Epic’s my brother in arms, and there’s no question that we’re on the same page. Our instructions were to rescue Becka, and that’s all we did. Of course, things have changed now that I’ve seen the brand on her neck. Those men running that flesh shop? They’re going to die, and they’re going to die by my hand.
Our hands. Because a Butcher never does anything without his partner. “We can take care of the goons at the stables,” I murmur, my voice pitched low and even so it doesn’t disturb Becka’s sleeping. “But the one who showed us around wasn’t Luc.”
“The fuckers who branded her will be there, though. They’re not coming out of this alive.” The look on his face is fierce. “I want their heads.”
I nod. It doesn’t matter that they’re pissants following orders from above. When you run with a gang, you accept that gang’s responsibility. I’d expect to take a bullet for any Butcher, and they’d do the same for me. So these guys? They chose poorly. They hurt the sister of one of the Bedlam Butcher presidents, and probably dozens of other girls. They branded them on their necks—a sensitive, hard-to-heal part of the body—and sent them on to customers without even a Band-Aid to cover up the mark.
For all of that, they’re going to die. But it’s not enough to clean house, peon-wise. “I want Luc,” I tell Epic. “He’s going down for daring to touch her.”
“We are in full agreement on that, brother. So we head back there and clean house?” He looks excited at the thought. “I can’t wait to put my fist through that stable master jackass’s face.”
“I don’t think he’s Luc.”
“No?” He looks crestfallen.
I shake my head. The name the guy gave us was Gary. And while that’s as white-bread as you can get, I’m also pretty sure he wasn’t French. Luc sounds French. “I think we’re going to have to look h
igher up the food chain. These guys are clearly running product with clubs, including the Eighty-Eight.” And damn if I hate thinking of Becka as ‘product,’ but the brand on her neck tells me that to her, that’s exactly what she was. “We’ll need to ask around. I’m torn, though. Everyone’s focused on finding Handlebar and Crash and now this Hard Nine shit…” Things are definitely ugly in our neck of the woods.
“We can go around the club,” Epic says. His hand strokes the sleeping Becka’s hair.
I frown, because that sounds dangerous. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we put out feelers to some other clubs. I’ve got a buddy that owes me a favor prospecting with the Hellfire Riders. Hooked him up with a few guns a while back, all nice and under the table.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll use my burner in the morning, give him a call and send out some feelers since we’re off the radar. Get some intel. See what he can find out for me. Once we know where this shitstain Luc is holed up, we can ride out and take him down.”
“He might be a higher-up in the Eighty-Eight for all we know,” I warn my partner. “We might be biting off more than we can chew.” The Eighty-Eight has a pretty far reach, and they’re a big club. Not that this is a problem for me, but I need Epic to understand that this might not be the safest venture. “Prezs might say no.”
“They’ll say yes. And I don’t care how big or bad this Luc guy is. I’m down for a boss fight,” Epic says with a grin. “No question about it. We just need to know who and where.”
I nod in agreement. It’s not a question of if we’re going to do it. I gaze down at the fingers curled in mine.
Becka’s ours, and we’re going to get revenge for the fucks that hurt her. More than that, we’re going to make sure no one comes after her ever again.
7
EPIC
Three Weeks Later
A hand taps my foot. “E, wake up.” Becka’s whispering from somewhere off to the side of the bed. “Where’s the corn?”
I rub a hand over my face and pull the blankets higher. “For fuck’s sake, Becks, you did not wake me up to ask where the corn is, did you?” I want to jam my pillow over my face, but I know that won’t stop her from just waking me up all over again.
On the other side of the bed, Locke groans and rolls over. He taps a sleepy hand on my arm. “Find her the corn so I can go back to sleep.”
“Damn it,” I whisper, and sit upright in bed, squinting at the windows. It’s barely dawn. No, not even dawn. Dawn took one look at how early it is and noped the fuck out. And Becka’s wide awake, grinning, her hands clasped in front of her nightshirt like it’s Christmas morning.
Aw, hell. She’s so damn cute like that I can’t even get mad.
“The deer are back,” she whispers, like the deer are gonna hear her or some shit. “And I can’t find the corn!”
I get to my feet, rubbing a tired hand over my face. The heart-shaped bed looks all girly, but it’s a shitty sleep, because my feet hang off the sides of the mattress and my end sags. Locke always says his side is the same. Miss Becka, who weighs all of ninety pounds soaking wet, gets to hog the middle, all cozy and protected by the two of us.
I’ve got morning wood, and I absently adjust it, arranging my dick while I try not to stare hard at Becka’s creamy thighs or the flashes of white panties that show under her nightshirt. She’s got tousled bed-hair, and her tits jiggle with every step she makes, but I force myself to ignore it all and head to the tiny kitchen section of our messy cabin, looking for the small bag of deer corn we got at a nearby feed store. Our place is a disaster, and I pick through a few noisy plastic grocery bags—ignoring Locke’s sleepy groan of protest—and find the corn.
“Gimme,” Becka whispers, making grabby hands. “They’re going to leave if we don’t hurry.”
“Please. Those deer are better trained than my last dog.” They show up every damn morning and stare at the back door of our small cabin, waiting to be fed. But Becka loves those damn things. She’s fascinated by them, and I’m fascinated by her, so we go through this routine every sunrise. I hand her the bag.
She gives me an impish look and opens the back door. I tuck my gun into the waistband of my sleep pants and trot after her, yawning. We’re safe here—it’s been three weeks of pure silence—but I never let down my guard, not since that first night we got drunk. I still feel guilty over that, because she needed me sober, and me?
I was kissing on my fucking ride partner.
I rub my mouth as she steps onto the porch and begins to throw handfuls of corn. She tosses a few and then crouches low, waiting. The deer hesitate, then pick their way forward, and it’s clear we’re not the first—and won’t be the last—to feed them. Becka smiles back at me, but I’m thinking about Locke.
Locke, back in bed with the sheets pooled at his waist.
Locke, who I kissed because of a dare, thinking it’d be no big deal.
Except…now I can’t stop thinking about it. Like, ever.
It’s been three weeks, and things haven’t been weird between us. If anything, we pretend like that night didn’t happen. Just like we made a pact to ignore the fact that we kissed Becka, there’s an unspoken pact that we’re ignoring the fact that we kissed each other, too. Most Bedlam Butchers don’t fuck their ride partners.
Least, I’m pretty sure they don’t.
I scratch my chin absently. I’m pretty sure that most just like to team up on their girl. When I patched in, it was explained kinda like Thunderdome—two men enter and all that shit. Just a kink that Gem and Dom were into and now everyone in the club has kinda been doing the same. I guess it stands to reason that a dude could also hook up with his ride partner, but it never crossed my mind before. Even tag-teaming was a little weird to me at first, but like any oddity, you get used to it over time, and now it’s as normal to me as anything. Makes sense, too. You have a buddy that watches your back at all times.
Me, I’ve got a buddy that watches my back and my backside. That part doesn’t bother me.
I guess the part that does bother me is that I never realized that I could be attracted to men. That’s the part that’s throwing my brain for a real loop. Like, how did I not know that kissing guys was as good as kissing girls? Or is it just kissing Locke? I’ve had gay buddies in the past and was never attracted to them or even questioned that I liked chicks. Now? Now I’m all messed up. Do I have some sort of protector fetish that I never realized? Do I want a leather daddy? Am I gay for the stay?
I mean, I’m usually pretty much down for anything as long as it’s fun, but I didn’t realize I was down for this. Never thought about it before, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.
As for me and Locke? We don’t talk about it. Kind of easy not to, since we’re not in the club environment. There are no parties, no panty raids, no fight nights, nada. There’re no girls around to flirt with us because we’re wearing colors. No jobs to be done. It’s just me and Becks and Locke. We play a lot of cards and watch the deer. It should be boring as shit…but it’s kinda nice.
It’s not gonna last forever, though. Something is bound to break at some point. Either the Hellfire Riders are gonna get us that lead on Luc, or Butchers territory will be declared safe enough to bring Becka back, and then we’ll pack up our shit and head home. End of story.
But I don’t like looking ahead that far. I’m a ‘live in the moment’ kind of guy, and right now, I’m just going to keep living in these moments and enjoying them. The stressful stuff can wait for later.
So I crouch next to Becka and put my hand out, my gaze on the deer nearby. “Gimme some of the corn.”
BECKA
When the deer finally wander away again, Epic and I go back inside the cabin. Locke’s awake at this point, standing in the kitchen with his back to us. I get a glimpse of his tight butt covered with even tighter white briefs, his back to me as he pours himself a cup of coffee. My mouth goes dry at the sight, and I have to turn away, only to see Epic stripping off h
is shirt so he can take his morning shower.
Living in a teeny tiny honeymoon cabin with two hot guys? It’s a hardship and a gift all at once. There’s no television, no phone (except for the burners that Locke and Epic have), no computers, and lots and lots of free time. I guess the couples that stay here are expected to go on nature hikes and use their private hot tub a lot. Us? We play a lot of cards and board games. And we talk. And talk. And talk. I sleep a lot, too. Not because I’m depressed, but because when I want to nap, one of the guys climbs into bed and cuddles with me, and it’s so nice that I find myself wanting to sleep all the time, just to get that cuddling in.
So, yeah, we’re living in a bubble at the moment. A very strange, sexually charged sort of bubble. I move next to Locke and bump his hip with mine as I grab one of the two coffee cups in the place. He smiles at me, warm affection in his sleepy gaze, and then goes to his spot by the window. He likes to drink his coffee there so he can watch the trail. It’s kind of become his spot after our first night here, whereas Epic claims the loveseat. We have our little routines set, and as I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot, I watch Locke out of the corner of my eye. He’s subtle, but I know his movements well enough at this point. His gaze slides over my legs as I curl up on the loveseat in Epic’s usual spot, and then he glances over at the bathroom door. I can just barely hear Epic start his usual off-key shower singing, and it brings a hint of a smile to Locke’s face as he takes another sip of his coffee.
I wonder when one of us is going to break. When all the stuff simmering below the surface is going to come to a head and the dam is going to burst. When we’re either going to scream at each other or all end up in bed together.
I shiver at the thought.
“Cold?” Locke asks, which just confirms how closely he watches me.
“I’m good.” Of course, now I’m a little aroused at his protectiveness, and my nipples are brushing against the front of my nightshirt, but ‘good’ is a nice, bland word. Sexually frustrated? Yes. Both excited and intimidated by my cabin-mates? Yes. But sure, ‘good’ works as the appropriate descriptor.
