“Not on your back. Just making sure you’re seeing things from all sides. Someone has to play devil’s advocate.”
“Devil’s got enough of those,” Sarge says. “He don’t need your ass.”
“Fair enough,” Reap says.
“Now that that’s done, I’m going to grab my recliner.” Sarge points to me. “Vlad, get changed. You need to rest and shouldn’t be left alone.”
“Ooh… a slumber party.” Reap claps his hands, using a high squealy voice that I want to punch him in the dick for using. “We braiding each other’s hair?”
“We aren’t doing anything, idiot, aside from watching TV. Can’t leave him alone.” Glaring between the two of us, Sarge starts for the door, pushing Reaper out of the way.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Lost a man to head injury,” he says. “Died in his sleep. I said I’m not leaving you alone. I. Am not. Leaving you alone.”
Whoa, when Sarge starts going down the dark path of his time in the military, I know not to push it. “Grab me some ibuprofen on your way back, would you?” I ask so he knows I’m giving in.
He looks to me and nods.
I pretty much pass out again as soon as I get the meds in my system.
One fuzzy eye pops open, the other isn’t sure if it wants to come out and play just yet and stays shut for the time being. Clearly, I didn’t die overnight, but I feel more tired today because it seemed like every damn time I dozed off, Sarge woke me up to check on my symptoms. ’Course, I can’t complain because it means he got shit for sleep, too, for looking after my grumpy ass. Like it or not, and right now it’s not, I heave myself out of bed at the same time forcing my lazy eye to open.
The continuous dull ache in my head hasn’t really eased up, but I’m not dizzy for the time being. My eyes still don’t want to focus the way they’re supposed to as I make my way to the shower. Shit, this is going to be a long day if these symptoms don’t subside soon.
It’s slow going getting undressed but the hot spray from the shower feels damn good. Sarge and his chair are gone by the time I leave the bathroom. I’d like to just let him sleep, but we’ve got business to get down to. Dressed for the day, I head for the common room, pounding on Sarge’s door along the way. He whips it open, showered and dressed. Fuck, nothing ever slows him down.
“We need to gather the brothers,” I say. “Some decisions to be made.”
“On it. Meet you in five,” he answers, annoyingly awake.
Between the two of us, we rouse the other four brothers and we gather in the meeting room. Every one of them has a seat at the table.
“How’s the head?” Reaper asks.
“It didn’t kill me,” I respond, drumming my fingers on the table because I don’t want to be talking about my head.
“What’s this about your head?” Dark asks.
Great. Squeezing my eyes shut to shut out the world for a second, I let out a breath. “Head’s fine. Had a small accident. More important things to deal with. Are we voting in a new president, doing the knights of the roundtable shit, or just going lawless wild west from here on out?”
“By roundtable, you mean we all have to unanimously agree all the time for shit to get done?” Cutter asks.
“That’s my understanding,” I answer.
“Never work,” Roughneck barks, and damn I wish he’d tone it down. I might have said the head’s fine, that doesn’t mean it actually is. “Too many opinions. Take too long to get shit done.”
My thought exactly, though I don’t voice it because I want the others honest opinions.
“Wild west would just end up a goddamn free for all. Without structure, we’ve got no club.” Can take the man out of the military, but can’t take the military out of the man. Sarge isn’t wrong, though.
“Right. Then we need a president.” Dark’s the one to put it out there. “Do we decide or put it in front of the rest of the club?”
Cutter nods his head as if he’s really considering the question. “We deposed Rage. We marched in here with the Lords saying go against us and die. Not one damn man spoke out. I think they’re good with us. I say we vote a new president in here. Now. The six of us. They’ll go along with whatever we throw their way.”
“Everyone nominating yourself?” I ask.
Sarge shrugs. “Nope. You started this, brother. I nominate you.”
“You,” Reaper agrees with Sarge.
“You,” Cutter says next.
“You.” That from Dark.
“You,” Roughneck says, pointing his thumb and finger at me like a gun and flicking his wrist as if to shoot.
“If you’re all nominating me, who am I running against?” Fuck, I’m not sure I even want to lead the club, but it seems I don’t have a choice.
Reap rolls his eyes at me. “She knocked shit loose in that brain of yours, didn’t she? No one’s runnin’ against you. We all just voted, Mr. President—”
“Don’t ever call me that again.” I look at each brother. “I’m fucking serious. But if you’re sure…”
“You asked. We answered. You’ve got the gavel now, brother. What are you gonna do with it?”
Hell if I know.
There’s one thing I do know, though. “Sarge, I want you as my right hand. I trust all the brothers at this table, but you know we work well together. You want me to take the gavel, then this is how it goes down.”
“Then this is how it goes down,” he says as his agreement.
“Reap, you up for first lieutenant? That’s the man-at-arms position. You’ll be our head enforcer. That bother you?”
The motherfucker cracks the knuckles on both of his hands. “Bring it on.”
“Dark, Cut, Roughneck, need you on the team. As lieutenants, you’ll do whatever shit we need done. You down?”
Dark nods. Cut flicks his two fingers in a salute and Roughneck says, “Works for me.”
“First order of business. We don’t own legitimate businesses like the Lords. But dealing in women is off the table. We’re not traders or pimps. No women. We agreed?”
Each man gives his version of “Yeah.”
“With that off the table, we’re left with production and weapons shipments. I’m good with continuing the shipments. We’ve got a good supply chain going. We’ve still got a good reputation despite the fuckups from Rage in the other areas.”
Sarge looks to the men. “I say we dump the production. It’s too dangerous and too high-profile for us now. Since that shit with Rodrick, we’re on DEA radar.”
“Guns gonna be enough?” Cutter asks.
“What if we go into growing instead?” Dark asks as his answer. “Since the legalization of pot in most states, it’s been regulated to death. I say we freelance. Grow it in quantities that’ll allow us to undercut other growers. Ship it when we’re moving the guns. It won’t give us the same payout as the other shit, but it’s a far fair safer for all of us.”
“What if we open the shop to the public?” Roughneck puts in his two cents. “We always got men working on bikes. Let’s open it up.”
“Our first legal venture,” Sarge replies. “I could get behind that.”
“It sounds like a solid plan. Any objections? Shipping, growing and distribution, opening the shop to the public.”
No one speaks up. I bring my hand down, smacking the table in lieu of an actual gavel, which I’ll have to buy. “It’s law,” I say. We’ll let other brothers in on the shop and the pot. The shipments stay between us. Safer that way. Need-to-know. “Time to inform the rest of the brothers that we’re going into business.”
8
Nicola
In that interim between sleep and awake, my dream begins to morph into me hiking through a swamp. Hot, sticky, and wet. The sensation feels odd and out of the blue. My eyes pop open. It takes me a second to clear my head, but once that happens, the dream makes sense. The bed is soaking wet. Greer’s hair has plastered itself to her head and her cheeks are a shade of pink
that I’ve only seen from sunburns.
I reach over using the back of my hand to feel her forehead, only to pull it right back again. She’s burning up. First things first, I jump from the bed, running over to the sink, wetting a hand towel with cold water, and fold it to place on her forehead. She’s so hot, the cloth turns warm almost as soon as I set it on her. Her moan of hurt, sick, and pain can be read as a ‘Help me, please.’
We don’t have a thermometer. I can’t take her temperature. Straight water doesn’t work. I try ice wrapped in a towel, gathering the ends up and securing it with a rubber band to keep the ice inside. That stays cooler a little longer. Long enough at least for me to call Hannah.
She doesn’t answer.
Next on the call chain, Blood. No answer again. Sunday morning, they’re probably in the middle of a sexathon and didn’t hear either of their phones ringing. If that’s the case, then Caitlin won’t answer, either. Sunday seems to be booty morning for the Lords.
The only one left on the list that I know and I know hasn’t tied himself to a woman is Vlad. I hate to call him after Greer almost killed him the other day, but what choice do I have?
None, Nic. You have no choice. I press his contact, praying he picks up.
On the third ring I get a, “Yo.”
“Vlad?” I ask stupidly because I don’t know how else to start this conversation.
“You called me.”
“This is Nicola.”
The teasing leaves his voice when he says, “Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Since we’re not girlfriends and I don’t call just to gab, it’s more than clear that something is wrong.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t get a hold of Blood or Hannah and Greer is really sick. She’s burning up with fever.”
“Can you get any ibuprofen into her?”
“I can try to crush it to get it in her that way, otherwise, no.”
“Right. Do that. I’m getting Caity.”
“It’s Sunday. Sunday’s fun day, if you know what I mean.”
“Don’t give a fuck, sweetheart. She can come with me now and come for Duke later.”
“Okay… Please, hurry. I’m really worried.”
We hang up in order for me to get down to the business of crushing up ibuprofen into a dust that I can coat my finger with and paint the inside of her mouth, soft palate, and gums. She moans again.
“I’m here, sweetie,” I say, trying to reassure the unconscious woman. The ice in the towel is melting too fast. Rather than waste the rest of it in another wrap, I put the remaining ice in a mixing bowl with water in order to continuously swab her forehead with icy water as I wait for Vlad and Caity to get to us.
I swear a year and a half passes before I hear the rumble of a bike and that of another vehicle pull in front of the house. “They’re here, sweetie, just hold on,” I whisper to Greer before running to unlock the door.
Caitlin’s vibrant red curls have been thrown up in a messy top bun and she’s in a ribbed tank and cotton shorts, like she had to dress fast. Vlad, of course, looks like a combination of sex and sin in his all black, but now certainly isn’t the time to think about Vlad, sex, or sinning—I turn away to run back over to Greer.
She walks in, full doctor mode despite her casual appearance, towing a rolling cart behind her. “Greer?” she says. “I’m Doctor Brennan-Ellis. I’m here to help.”
Greer moans again but doesn’t open her eyes.
Caitlin checks her out all over, stopping at one of the scabbed-over cuts Greer got hiding under the crawlspace. It’s super inflamed. “How did she get this cut?”
“She hid in the crawlspace when the safehouse was attacked. We cleaned her up, though. Used alcohol and everything.”
“Is it possible something got stuck inside the wound?”
“I mean, I suppose. Shit—we missed something.”
“If it got lodged deep, it would’ve been easy to miss, especially if it wasn’t bleeding enough to make it noticeable, but we have to get her to the hospital. My opinion, we’re dealing with sepsis. She needs IV antibiotics.”
“Can’t you just give her a shot?” Vlad asks. “It’s not safe to take her out.”
“One shot won’t be enough. She needs the continuous feed to clear it. She stays, she dies.”
“Take her,” I tell Caitlin. “I’ll deal with the consequences once she’s safe. I’ll get her out of Kentucky—shit, I don’t know. But you need to save her.”
“Vlad, help me get her to my truck.”
“Goddammit,” he grumbles, but he grumbles while picking her up. “She’s burning up.” It’s one of the scariest things I’ve seen, Greer’s head lethargically pressed against Vlad’s shoulder, her arm hanging limp at her side.
As Caitlin hefts her rolling cart into the bed of her truck, Vlad lays Greer along the backseat, then after gently shutting the door, he turns to me. “You’re on the back of my bike.”
I’m not exactly clear why, but he must have his reasons. Without arguing, after he mounts his bike, I climb on behind him. He hands me his helmet and once it’s secure, we take off, following Caitlin down the mountain to the closest hospital, which is apparently in Middlesboro.
At the end of the half-hour drive, we park at the emergency room, where Vlad carries Greer inside, with Caitlin leading the way.
“I’m Doctor Caitlin Brennan-Ellis.” She introduces herself to the receptionist. “I was called in for a wellbeing check on this woman. She has an infected wound, which has led to sepsis.” The receptionist makes a call and a minute later, two women and a man, all in scrubs, roll a stretcher into the waiting area. They take Greer from Vlad, laying her down, and offer for Caitlin to follow them back.
Vlad and I take a seat to wait. Three times in less than thirty seconds, his gaze darts past me to one particular location. When I turn to see what’s caught his attention all I see is a man in a Horde cut, like his.
“One of your brothers?” I ask.
His gaze narrows. “No. Tennessee chapter. What the fuck is he doing here?”
I really couldn’t answer that. The man himself could, which he might plan to do when he walks over to us.
“You’re a ways from home,” Vlad says to the man.
“Stopped in for a little hospitality on my way up north. Imagine my surprise when I find Rage ain’t the president no more,” he answers. “So now I’m confused, wondering where the Kentucky president is and don’t see the deer until it’s too late. I lay my bike down and needed to get stitched—nice patch, by the way, Vlad.” Nice patch? Don’t they all have the same patch? I take in his cut and there’s a patch above his name that reads, ‘President.’ They made him president? He wasn’t the president the last time we were together. I wonder when that happened.
“Find your way back to the clubhouse, we’ll put you up for the night.”
I couldn’t help notice how he emphasized ‘night.’ There’s some serious animosity going on here.
“Pussies should be there, they’re always down for fresh meat. Have a good time.” Pussies? Pussies? No. I have to remind myself that it’s their way of life. Those women show up voluntarily. It’s not the same as what happened to us. He wouldn’t be helping me and Greer if it were.
The asshole stranger runs his finger down the curve of my neck and over my shoulder, down my arm, and I stiffen under his touch. Do I say something? We’re trying not to call attention to me.
“Hands off,” Vlad orders, flicking the gross biker’s hand away, but I swear the guy takes it as a challenge. I see the glint in his eye.
“Come on, Vlad. Tasty gash, I bet I can make her real juicy. Let’s go,” he says to me. “Gorgeous mouth like yours, I want you to suck me first. Then we’ll get to fucking.” My eyes go wide as I look around to make sure no one heard him say such vile things to me. But as soon as the words leave his mouth Vlad shoots up from his seat, grabbing a fistful of the man’s shirt.
“She’s not gash. No one touches her and I’ll ser
iously mess up any man who tries. Now, I’ve offered you hospitality and you’re being a dick, obviously trying to piss me off.”
“You sayin’ she’s yours?” the biker asks.
“All mine. All fucking mine.”
I mean, I know he’s only saying it to get this guy off my back, but I don’t exactly know how to feel hearing those words come from his mouth. Stories of the Lords men claiming their women are legendary. Vlad’s Horde. They don’t have old ladies and would I even want to be an old lady? Do I think I could trust a man enough to ever consider the possibility of letting one into my life again? Even if just for sex, that’s a huge decision. Stop, Nic. He’s only saying these things to get this guy gone.
He doesn’t actually want me. Of course he doesn’t. I’m no Caitlin or Hannah. I’m the stupid woman who thought she’d take a walk on the wild side by letting a handsome stranger buy me drinks at a bar just off-campus and then agree to a quickie in a bathroom stall with him. He saw me coming a mile away while I never knew predators like him actually existed. Good-looking. Well-spoken. I was stressed from finals and my job, and what could it hurt? One night to take my mind off the rest of my life.
What I never realized that night was that it would cost me the life I knew. Stupid, stupid Nicola. Right—enough of that. He doesn’t mean anything by it anyway, so there’s no reason to relive any of that.
“Don’t mind sharing,” the biker says. Disgusting. I’m a one-man kind of woman, or at least I used to be. Now I’m a no man kind of woman, but even if I wasn’t, this guy would never make the short list for second. “There’s enough of her to go around.”
Vlad moves his entire body in front of mine, blocking me. “Get the fuck gone or I will end you right here.”
The man puts his hands up in the air in surrender. I don’t trust it. Neither, it seems, does Vlad, who begins walking forward, in essence pushing the man toward the exit until I can no longer see him. Thank goodness for small miracles.
Devil's Advocate: Vlad (The Bedlam Horde MC Book 1) Page 7
