by Cathryn Cade
Streak and Cooler got busy scrubbing up the kitchen, which looked like the scene of a horror movie.
Rocker walked out to the bar to get himself a stiff drink. But on his way back, he passed his bedroom, where Sara sat watching over Manda. He stopped, frowning in consternation.
"What the hell's wrong with her?" he asked Sara. "She faint? Didn't think she cared that much about T."
Sara gave him a dark look. "She didn't faint, she was shot! And I cannot believe not one of you noticed, since she was bleeding profusely!"
"Shot?" Rocker advanced into the room, feeling as she'd slapped him across the face. "Shot where?"
"The bullet gouged her arm." Sara demonstrated the path on the back of her own upper arm, clad in thin, black knit tee. "Her jacket and shirt were soaked, as were her jeans. She went down as soon as you hauled her out of the SUV."
The hardened ex-cop stood by Manda's bed, staring down at her pale, still form, at a streak of dried blood on her chin.
Guilt roiled in his gut. On top of the other events of the night, this was the final punch that left him feeling sick to his stomach.
"Fuck. She must've been creased by the same bullet that hit T. She jumped in front of him... tried to shove him out of the way."
"Fuckin' A," said Knife from the doorway. "She did that, she likely saved our brother's life. It was only a 22, but if it'd hit him in the heart, could've still killed him."
"What's wrong with her?" Rocker demanded of the medic. "Why's she still out?"
"Shock and blood loss," Sara said. "Webb says she'll need a IV."
"Knife, set her up," Rocker said instantly. "Whatever she needs."
Knife sighed. "Number two post-op cocktail service, comin' up."
"Good," Sara said. When he was gone, she looked to Rocker. "How is T-Bear? Anything I can do for him?"
"No," Rocker said heavily. "Not right now. He'll be out for the rest of the night, anyhow."
He set his hands on his lean hips and shook his head. "What a helluva night this turned out to be."
"I know you can't share details, but just tell me one thing—did you get whoever did this to them?" she asked.
His eyes narrowed with satisfaction. "Yup. And I reckon your man should be back soon, so he can tell you a bit more." Stick would tell her exactly as much as he wanted her to know. Rocker wasn't getting in the way of that.
"You want me to sit with her for a while, so you can go home?" Rocker asked. "It's near five am. Kick and Dash will be up in a couple hours."
Sara shook her head. "I'll stay. You go and be with T."
Rocker moved to do so but cast a last look back at the woman in the bed. He wasn't clear on her future with T-Bear, but whatever happened, they all owed her a huge debt for stepping in front of a bullet meant for their brother.
Fuck him, he was not looking forward to explaining to his brother T how they'd all ignored his woman, when in fact they should've been giving her a heroine's treatment.
But he'd do it and take the lion's share of the blame because that's what a club VP did. Came with the patch. He took the honor, he accepted the responsibility.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
* * *
Monday morning at sunrise, Stick Vanko pulled up to the front of the clubhouse and parked his old truck.
None of the Flyers had ridden into Spokane on their bikes, and they'd parked on different streets, so as not to have any cops or just locals wondering why there were suddenly a bunch of rigs parked at a derelict warehouse.
He'd driven the '78 Chevy he kept for hauling rocks, bricks and other shit a homeowner in the country occasionally wanted to move. Tonight, he hadn't hauled a thing except himself to the meet, or away again.
Faro, or what was left of him, had been rolled in a plastic drop-cloth and laid in the back of Snake's van under a pallet of Darlene's candles and shit. The cloying scent of fruit and flowers was still in Stick's nostrils.
Better that than the stench of death. Shot simultaneously by Stick and Cooler, the would-be pimp had gone down with bullets in his forehead, chest and gut.
There was also a cement block and a length of plastic cable in the back of the van. In a couple of hours, give or take, Faro would be sinking to the deepest part of Coeur d'Alene Lake.
He'd have plenty of company down in the lake bottom, an idea Stick found darkly humorous. The wanna-be pimp could swap stories with the other lowlifes who had tried to take out Flyers.
'Hey,' one of the other psychos tethered to cement blocks might call. 'Here comes company. What're you down for, man?'
'Oh,' Faro would reply. 'I tried to pimp out one of the Flyers' women, kill one of the brothers, and cut in on their trade. How 'bout you?'
'Who, me? I tried to cut and rape Vanko's old lady, and steal his kids as a bargaining chip.'
'Yeah, as for me,' another would say, 'I murdered my own brother, and stole a cool million from the Flyers, then terrorized an innocent woman.'
Quite a convo, they'd have... if the dead could talk.
But in truth, none of them would ever talk or do anything else, again. Not much left of them once the lake trout and other scavengers got through with them.
Stick swung out of the truck and walked into the clubhouse. Pete and Bouncer were slouched at one of the tables, a bottle of whiskey between them. Pete looked haunted, and Stick stopped to clasp his younger brother's shoulder. "Bratishka, how is T-Bear?"
"He's good, or so Knife says." Pete shuddered, and shook his head. "Man, I never wanna see that much blood at one time, ever again."
Bouncer nodded. "It was bad. But Knife says it coulda been a lot worse. Faro shot him with a little ankle-piece. 22 caliber round. Went through the muscle, petered out and stopped under the skin in T's back."
"Thank God for that," Stick said. The pimp could've been packing a bigger pistol loaded with cop-killers, rounds that exploded inside the body, and wrought deadly havoc on internal organs, bone and muscle. In which case, they'd be planning a wake for their brother. "I'll look in on him."
"Yeah, Sara's in with Manda," Pete said, and yawned.
Stick scowled. "Why? What's wrong with her now?"
Pete gave him a strange look. "Seems T's girl has more to her than any of us suspected. When she tried to shove T-Bear outta the way? Faro's bullet hit her first, then hit T. She likely saved his life."
"Nichega sebe," Stick muttered. "I didn't see that one coming."
Pete snorted. "Da, neither did T-Bear. Guess she likes him better than she thought."
Stick barked out a laugh. "I guess so."
He knew better than most that sometimes it took nearly losing someone to realize how much they meant. Only after Sara had nearly been raped and murdered while saving his sons had Stick admitted he wanted her at his side for good. His woman might look like a society queen, but she was tough when it counted, and true to the bone. She also got him hard faster than any other woman he'd ever known—and he'd known a lot. Then she followed through in a way that satisfied both of them.
His phone buzzed, and he palmed it, and listened. "Da. Spasibo."
"Good," he said with satisfaction as he shoved his phone back into his pocket, "Our two surviving friends are on their way to Seattle, courtesy of a long-haul freight truck. The driver will no doubt be shocked as hell to discover, tomorrow at the docks, that he has passengers among his pallets of fertilizer."
Bouncer guffawed. "Those two ass-wipes are in for a long, cold night. And a smelly one—that shit stinks."
"No worse than they do," Pete said. "They think they're tough, but by the time the rough side of Seattle is through with them? Not so much. Good work, brat."
He passed a shot of whiskey to Stick, who took it with a nod, and tossed it down.
"Just sorry I had to miss the party," Bouncer said, looking disgruntled.
"More important that you were here," Stick told him. "If our op had gone wrong..." he shrugged. The club would still have one officer on deck. Stick really should have
stayed here too, but sometimes a man wanted in on the fun.
He just hoped Sara didn't hear anytime soon that he also could've been shot tonight. He'd thought he could talk Manda's ex down, but honestly, if Rocker hadn't tackled the kid, he might've shot Stick. Not to say the shot would've hit him, with Garner's hands shaking so badly.
But you never knew.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
* * *
Monday
Manda woke slowly.
She looked around the small bedroom, with the black-and-white poster of a vintage biker on one wall, the bureau and the door open into the small bathroom.
Then she looked at Velvet, dressed up in lace-embellished jeans, high-heeled boots and a white sweater with shimmer lace covering a cutout across her chest, sitting in a chair by the bed, flicking through a People magazine with her long nails and occasionally sipping on a cup of coffee.
Manda felt the blood pressure cuff around her left arm, lifted it in confusion, and hissed with pain as the motion moved her upper body just enough to be felt in her right arm.
With a whimper of alarm, she reached with her right hand to knock away whatever was stabbing into her arm.
"Now, now, girl," Velvet said, tossing the magazine aside and rising to catch Manda's hand in hers. "Don't be pulling on that bandage. After all the work my man did on you, be a shame to mess it up."
Manda blinked at the older woman, an all too familiar sense of panic rising in her chest. For the second time, she'd awakened to find herself in pain and confined to bed. For a moment she'd thought she was back in the hospital, but this was the Flyers' club house, and the room where she'd stayed here. Why was she here? "Wha' happened?" she croaked.
"Well, now," Velvet said, her eyes lighting with what appeared to be pleasurable anticipation. "You don't remember?"
"Nuh-uh," Manda said, and tried to swallow. "Is there water, please?"
"Sure." The older woman handed over a familiar plastic cup with lid and bendable straw. "Here ya go. Now, what's the last thing you remember?"
Busy sucking down cool water, Manda thought hard... and got nothing but a jumble of impressions and sounds. A dark alley, bright lights shining in her eyes, Rezan menacing her... and T-Bear shouting at someone.
Her heart pounding, sweat breaking out all over, she dropped the cup awkwardly on the bed beside her. "I don't know. What day is it?"
Velvet rescued the cup, and sat again, opening her mouth.
"Hey, is she awake?" Billie appeared in the doorway, smiling. Behind her came Lesa and Sara. They clustered around the bed, biker babes dressed as if to go out on the town, although a bit more up-to-date than Velvet.
Billie wore a purple sweater with cutouts at the shoulders, snug skinny jeans the same hue as her glossy curls, and a complicated necklace of purple and green glass beads. Lesa was attired in a long, slouchy, peach sweater falling off one shoulder over cocoa tank and leggings. Sara wore black boot-cut jeans, a black-and-beige burnout patterned top with a low vee neck and sleeves that flowed from elbow to wrist, with bling at her throat and ears.
Manda couldn't see their feet, but she was certain they would all be wearing some version of sexy, kick-ass boots.
"Hi, girl," Lesa said warmly, coming to give Manda's left forearm a gentle squeeze. "So glad to see you're awake."
"Yes," Sara said with a smile that instantly brought warmth to her cool beauty. "And no one is more happy about that than me, since I helped nurse you."
Velvet moved impatiently in her chair. "Now hush, girls, I was just about to tell her what happened. And it's Monday evening, hon."
She went on—aided at several points by Sara, who had been here, and even by Billie and Lesa who had received the story from their men.
Able to do nothing but listen, Manda did so. And if she found that their telling jogged her memory in much darker, graphic detail than they knew, she kept this to herself.
"So," Sara summed up triumphantly, "The guys say you likely saved T's life, by shoving him aside right when Faro fired his gun!"
"At least a little ways," Billie added, "'Cause we all know a normal woman couldn't move T very far without a couple of professional wrestlers backing her up."
"Especially since you were wounded yourself," Lesa added.
Stupidly, Manda could think of nothing to say except, "So, I'm not in trouble anymore?"
"What? Uh, no!" Billie cried.
"You're the heroine of the hour," Lesa added.
Sara waved a hand like a good witch getting rid of an evil spell. "You need to ease your mind about Rezan blackmailing you to spy on the Flyers," she said, with the authority of a woman who had the ear of the club president. "You did what any of us would do if our families were threatened. And as it turned out, you fooled Faro and your dumbass ex by being stronger and smarter than they realized."
"Right," Billie nodded. "By helping our men instead of them. And, it all turned out right in the end, so there you go."
"Okay, but… where's T?" Manda asked. She needed to see him—just see him, touch his arm. Reassure herself he was really okay, or that he would be. "Is he at the hospital?"
The Flyer women looked at each other, and then to Sara. "Not exactly," the first old lady said. She pointed at the north wall. "He's down the hall."
"Flyer Nation Medical Center," Velvet quipped.
"I want to see him," Manda said. "Except no wheelchair." She winced—what a stupid thing to say. But at the hospital after her head injury, even though she felt fine when she left, they'd made her ride to the doors in a wheelchair. It had been embarrassing.
Sara nodded thoughtfully. "A wheelchair, good idea. We may want one when T's ready to get out of bed."
"Get the jumbo size, if you're going to put T in it," Billie advised. She and Lesa shared a grin.
"But can I see him?" Manda asked again. Was he in terrible shape, on the verge of death, and they were trying to distract her, so she didn't see him that way? "He's okay, right?"
Lesa's face softened, and she came to take Manda's hand in hers. "He will be, honey," Lesa said. "Honest. He's, uh, sleeping right now, but Pete said Knife's gonna bring him back up tomorrow. But everything went well so far—he's not running a fever or anything like that."
Manda breathed a sigh of relief, tears pricking her eyes. She closed them for a few seconds to recover, opening them to see Billie and Lesa smiling at her, like she was a cute puppy who'd done a trick.
"You can probably go see him after Knife checks you over," Sara said. "Maybe try to sit up first, see how that goes?"
It didn't go well. Manda thought she was going to pass out again when they helped her sit. But Lesa supported her, and Billie stuffed a couple more pillows behind her back.
"Oh, my God," Manda groaned, remembering. "I can't be hurt now. I have to go to work. Crap, what day is it? I'm gonna get fired from both my jobs."
Tears filled her eyes as the full import of her injury sank in. She'd lose both of her jobs, and her room at the Heights Motel—along with any chance to get ahead. Crap, this was just her luck. Just when things were looking up, they were going bad.
"No, no, it's okay," Sara said, taking her hand while Lesa handed her tissues. "I already let your boss at the Flying Bean know you're hurt—that you had a freak accident, and got cut by a broken window when you were helping a friend move furniture."
She winked at Manda. "You can remember that, right?"
"Right," Manda said slowly.
"Great. Dina says she'll hold your job for you till you can come back. And meantime, we have someone working your shifts. So it's all good."
"Really?" Manda struggled to take this in. "And they won't mind giving me my shifts back?"
Sara grinned. "No, believe me, that won't be a problem."
"Why?" Manda asked, when Lesa and Billie grinned. "Who is it?"
"Streak," Lesa said, wincing. "And he likes you, but he does not like serving lattes."
Billie giggled. "He has all the ladies in town l
ining up to buy lattes. They're all talking about the hottie at the Flying Bean."
"He does make that tee shirt look good," Sara said wickedly.
"Poor Streak," Manda said, imagining a string of older women ogling him from their cars. She giggled, then winced when the motion pulled on her stitches.
"Your janitor job, though," Lesa said, with a sympathetic look. "That's going to be too strenuous for you for a while, Manda. So we called in for you, but... you should maybe let that one go."
Manda nodded, her mood plummeting again. She'd just have to work hard at getting better, and then find another evening shift somewhere that didn't involve hauling heavy stuff.
"Well, you certainly are a hard worker," Sara said. "You won't have any trouble finding a full time position if that's what you want. And we'll put in a good word for you."
"I heard you did really well helping out at JJ's," Billie added with a twinkle. "I bet you can talk the guys into hiring you there."
"I don't think that offer is open anymore," Manda said, her heart aching along with her arm.
"Then you'll have to re-open negotiations," Sara said. She raised a brow, her blue eyes serious. "If you have the guts, that is."
"But right now," Billie said, jumping up and brandishing her phone. "I'm going to go take a pic of T for you, so you can see he's really okay."
"Great idea," Lesa agreed.
Manda thought so too.
But when Billie came back with the promised photos, looking at her big biker man lying so still and pale made Manda cry, this time for real. And she didn't get why this made them all smile at her again.
"He'll be fine, you'll see," Sara said softly. "Flyer men are tough."
"And so are their women," Velvet said. "You're gonna fit right in around here, honey."
"Oh, she so is!" Billie agreed. Lesa nodded happily.
CHAPTER FIFTY
* * *
Tuesday
Rocker’s appearance in Manda's hospital-slash-bedroom was a surprise.
Manda looked up from Billie's tablet on which she'd been watching a movie. A rom com, her favorite, except it was hard to concentrate with her head foggy.
