by Rayne, Sara
Beauregard waved his hand and his guys backed away from Pretty Boy, keeping their guns on Shep and looking to their boss. "I believe I mistook you for the voice of reason in your little organization. Always a little more reasonable, more patient, a little clever than the rest. I even heard you was a man of God once." He steepled his hands in a mockery of a prayer.
"You'll find I may have wandered astray of the straight and narrow." Shep moved a few steps back. "But some of the Good Lord's teaching stuck after we parted ways. I was always particular to the bit about wrath, if you take my meanin'."
"Astray of the straight and narrow?" Beauregard leaned forward, lowering his voice so his words stayed just between them. "How's the rest of the old MC feel about that?"
"I've got no idea what you're talking about," Shep said flatly, forcing his eyes away from Pretty Boy.
"I could use a man of your—how did you put it? Devotion?" Beauregard smiled. "I would reward your loyalty without judging you."
Shep shook his head. "I'm a Horseman till I die. And certainly until you die." He smirked. "'Specially if you keep yammering."
"Such loyalty. I wonder if you'll feel the same when you see how quickly they drop you." He raised a brow. "Once they know your little secret."
Shep tried to keep his face blank. The rumor that Beauregard's great granddaddy had sold his soul for that moonshine recipe was horseshit. The Beauregards were the devil’s spawn. "I’d mosey on outta here if I were you. My trigger finger's gittin' awfully itchy."
Beauregard's smile deepened and he didn’t seem a bit concerned about the pistol aimed at him. "Just remember, you always have a place with me."
"Trust me, I gotta real special place for you, too." Menace crept in his soft tones. "With lots of sun-bleached bones and coyotes to keep you company."
The bastard tilted his head and smiled wide, calling to his thugs, "C'mon boys, we’ve got more work to do. And it looks like we've overstayed our welcome."
Shep kept his gun trained on Beauregard until his SUV roared to life, then dropped to his knees next to Pretty Boy, who sagged against him. "Knew you’d … come for me, he choked out.
"Shut up." Shep checked his pulse and began checking his torso for injury.
Pretty Boy hissed in pain and wheezed, "Careful … ribs … broken …"
Shep sat back on his heels. "Which one?"
"Don’t know. All of 'em?" His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into Shep's arms.
"Pretty Boy? Noah? Noah!" Shep's heart pounded in his chest as he shifted Noah's weight to one arm and dug out his phone with the other to call 911. It never even occurred to him to call Duke and see if he thought he could handle it. "Hang on, ok? You're going to be ok."
Shep cradled him until the paramedics pried him out of his arms, certain of only one thing. Beauregard better pray that Noah was okay. Or Shep would come down on him with the fury of God's own fury, consequences to the club be damned.
Chapter Twelve
We take care of our own. Period.
~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook
* * *
Pretty Boy glared at the man in the blue scrubs looking at him expectantly as he thrust forward an ugly, bleached wheelchair. "Abso-fucking-lutely not."
After four nauseatingly frustrating hours of arguing with hospital interns and tearing into anyone who dared look at him sideways, Shep finally got all the releases signed to take Pretty Boy out of the hospital. The guys and Eddie had all dropped by, sneaking him better food, giving him shit to stay occupied for the night. Eddie had left flowers. It hadn't been hell, and okay, so he'd kind of soaked up the attention and let himself be taken care of for a bit.
But that didn't mean he was riding out in one of those fucking things. And the asshole could stop looking at him like he should've known this was coming. Living poor didn't leave room for insurance—he was used to the 'treat and street' routine from doctors. He'd never had anyone pay his bill in full by the time they'd gotten the IV in before.
Hospitals sucked. Having brothers—family—that gave a shit? Worth the broken ribs.
Shep ducked his head in the room, twirling a pair of keys around his thumb. "Hey. What the fuck is the hold up?"
"I don't need no wheelchair." Pretty Boy crossed his arms, only slightly wincing.
"Sir, you have to, it's hosp—"
Shep didn't even wait to hear the nurse's riff on hospital policy. He grabbed Pretty Boy's hips, lined him up with the wheelchair and shoved him in it. "I don't have the patience for this. Shut up and let's go home."
"Sorry," Pretty Boy muttered, a little lightheaded. Shep had never been so touchy with him before. But then, it had been a long time since he'd seen the poor bastard this strung out.
On the ride home, Pretty Boy stared out the car window and sighed. "So, Coyote's just letting anyone drive his truck these days?"
Shep frowned. "I didn't even ask. They said you were ready to go and he handed me the keys."
Pretty Boy snorted. He lit a cigarette and cracked his window. "Christ that's good."
Shep shot a sideways glance at him. He was dressed in a pair of Shep's worn jeans with blown out knees and his faded Johnny Cash t-shirt. Pretty Boy shifted in the loose clothing. Usually he hated wearing other people's clothes. He'd dived through too many dollar bins at the Goodwill for it to ever sit quite right. Ever since he'd started earning on his own, his guiltiest pleasure was a brand new shirt off the clearance rack at WalMart.
But Shep's clothes? It felt good. Intimate. Comforting.
He cleared his throat, flicking his ash out the open window. "So, I was just thinking about it. No one asked me where I was going to stay."
"You don't have to worry about that." Shep turned to look him in the eye for a minute before focusing back on the road.
"No, I know," he whispered. He'd pieced it together while he was waiting on the paperwork. His default was to start working on a series of couches to crash on, who owed him favors, who might need something he could provide. When the going got tough, the tough got hustling.
But Crash had just looked at him like he was stupid and told him his bed was already made over at the VP's place. They'd cleaned it that morning. He didn't have shit to figure out. They'd taken care of everything. Shep had taken care of everything. "They didn't ask because they all knew where I was staying already. Didn't they?"
Shep grabbed his smokes out of his pocket and lit one. He didn't say a word.
"You're letting me stay with you?" His throat ached.
Shep swallowed. "This happened on my watch. They came after you because of the extra work I assigned you with Eddie."
"I would have done it anyway." Pretty Boy rolled his eyes. "Like I wasn't going to help Eddie."
"I wanted to kill him," Shep confessed, voice too soft. Too raw.
Pretty Boy's hand twitched, like he was going to reach for Shep, but he jerked it back. He fisted his hands on his knees. "I know."
"I failed you."
"Never." Pretty Boy shifted sideways in his seat, facing Shep. "There was no way you could have known. I expect you to have my back, not be psychic."
"Yeah, well. If you want to apply logic to the situation …" Shep shrugged.
"And why wouldn't we apply logic to any situation?" Pretty Boy teased.
"Because there's nothing logical about how I feel right now." His voice had dropped an octave, breath harsh in his words.
"Shep …" Pretty Boy wet his lips, his stomach dropping. The sound of Shep's raw, rasping tone digging into his bone marrow, filling up the hollow places inside.
"I didn't—I'm not … I shouldn't've… fuck!” Shep banged his fist on the steering wheel. "Fuck me, it's true. I'm barely holding my shit together right now."
Pretty Boy shifted as his cock hardened. Seeing Shep come apart? Over him? He'd never be able to explain what that meant to him. "Thank you. For coming for me."
Shep shot him an eyeful of what the fuck else was I going to do?
> "I've never had people visit me in the hospital before. Bring me clothes. Sneak me food." Pretty Boy flicked his cigarette out the window as they pulled into Shep's driveway. He climbed out right away, not looking at Shep for even a second.
Shep got out of the truck, hit the lock button and automatically started to look for Pretty Boy's bags. But he didn't have any. Didn't have anything to put in a bag if he had one.
Didn't have a damn thing left to his name, aside of his bike.
He hustled inside, closing and bolting the door locks, like he had demons to keep out. What the fuck did he think a lock was going to do? But it made him feel better.
But once he turned around, he realized he hadn't really thought this plan through. Hadn't thought past getting Pretty Boy home and safely tucked behind doors where Shep could keep an eye on him and his mending ribs. Shep just knew that he'd been in danger, had lost his home, everything and there was no other fucking place Shep was going to let him go.
But now they were alone in the house. And there was no air left in the room.
Pretty Boy looked around, cracked his neck and his eyes focused on Shep's with laser precision. "Got me all to yourself now."
Shep closed his eyes and swallowed. He held Pretty Boy's gaze, the silence stretching tight between them. All he had wanted for days was to put his arms around Pretty Boy and feel for himself that he was alive, breathing, heart beating. He needed the fucking physical reassurance, not doctors rolling their eyes and sighing as they read clipboards to him. Shep rocked back and forth on his heels, stuck between should not and want so bad and it fucking sucked. His hands fisted. "Fuck it."
He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Pretty Boy, one over his shoulder and one around his waist. Shep yanked them tightly against each other, pressing his face into Pretty Boy's shoulder. He breathed in Pretty Boy's scent like it was home. He felt the younger man tense, a pained breath rasping against Shep's neck, but it must not have hurt too bad, because he held on just as tightly.
"I thought … for a second, when you passed out, I thought …" Shep gritted his teeth.
"I'm fine. I'm right here, Shep," he whispered into Shep's hair.
Shep shuddered, finally stepping back. "Here, I had Fetch pick up your prescription." He handed him a crumpled paper bag, then ducked into the kitchen to return with a cold bottle of water. After Pretty Boy had taken his pain meds, he said, "Come on, let's get you in the shower. Wash the hospital off you."
Pretty Boy grinned. "Trying to get me naked already? Thought you'd dig your heels in a lot longer than that."
"We're not going to—" Shep broke off, actually blushing. Horsemen didn't blush. He breathed deeply, pinching his nose. Finally, he caught Pretty Boy's wrist. He flipped out his pocket knife and cut the impossibly strong paper hospital bracelet. It fluttered to the floor. "I'm going to take care of you. Get you cleaned up, re-bandaged and settled for the night."
"Shep," Pretty Boy breathed.
Shep's hand tightened on his wrist. "This is not up for debate."
"Yes, sir." Pretty Boy winked at him. He turned to head for the bathroom, but paused as the movement wrenched something in his side.
Shep slid his arm behind his back and they walked together towards the shower. Despite the mischief on his face, his movements were stiff and slower than usual.
The bathroom felt a lot smaller than Shep remembered it being once they were both closed inside. Pretty Boy leaned back against the sink, bracing his hands behind him. He watched silently as Shep reached into the shower and turned it on hot, then grabbed some towels from a rack in the corner and piled them on the closed toilet.
Shep met his gaze.
Pretty Boy's lips turned down with a self-deprecating sweep. He rotated his shoulders slowly, wincing. "I'm going to need your help."
"What do you need?"
"You to take my clothes off," Pretty Boy said wryly. "And I'm not even being dirty right now."
Didn't seem to matter to Shep's dick. He swallowed hard, looking Pretty Boy over from head to toe. He could do this. His hands shook as he reached out, grasping the hem of Pretty Boy's t-shirt—of Shep's t-shirt—and pulled it up, slower than he meant to. He slid his hands under the whisper soft fabric as he swept the shirt up. His fingers traced over the ridges of Pretty Boy's six-pack abs and he hissed as Shep grazed a bandage.
Shep took a steadying breath. "Sorry."
"S'ok." Pretty Boy's eyes were screwed shut, his throat working. "Pain meds are fixing to kick in."
Shep gently moved the fabric around the shoulder that had been dislocated and carefully maneuvered it over his head. As he pulled it off, Shep's fingertips dragged down Pretty Boy's arm. He tossed it to the floor. Gingerly, he removed the bandages, piling them in the small trashcan. "They did a number on you."
"It's not so bad." Pretty Boy squinted at him. "Bruises look nastier once they start healing."
"I know." Shep held his gaze for a minute, trying to find the nerve to do what came next. His hands rose to Pretty Boy's belt buckle. They shook.
Pretty Boy's sharp inhale sounded obscenely loud in the echoing room.
Shep bit his lip. He needed to hold it together. He forced his fingers to move, unbuckling the belt and sliding it from the loops. Not daring a glance at Pretty Boy's face, though he could feel the stare boring into him, Shep watched his hands undoing Pretty Boy's jeans, sliding down the zipper. He could hear how ragged his breathing had become, but he couldn't do anything about it.
He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Pretty Boy's boxer briefs, sliding them and his jeans down in one fluid movement. His fingers skated over the cut lines of Pretty Boy's hipbones. Pretty Boy let out a choked sound and kicked the clothes away.
Shep rocked back on his heels and couldn't help but stare, gaze slowly travelling up and down Pretty Boy's naked body curved against the sink. Shep tried to focus on looking for injuries. He was supposed to be taking care of the man, not getting turned on.
Pretty Boy didn't have a lot of bulk, but he was all lean, tan muscle. His shoulders bulged enough that they'd stretched the arms of the t-shirt Shep has just stripped off him. Shep remembered the constellation of faint white scars on every limb. But deep purple bruises stuck out along his lower ribs, radiating out in shades of yellow. His knuckles held some angry red scratches. He had two stitches in his hairline, further disarranging his constantly tousled hair.
Fuck Beauregard in the ass with a cactus.
Shep swallowed, making himself look Pretty Boy in the face. His jaw held the faint promise of 5 o'clock shadow. And his full lower lip was currently caught between his perfectly straight, white teeth, while his eyes seemed to plead with Shep for … something.
"Don't look at me like that," Shep whispered.
"Or what?" Pretty Boy laughed softly. "You'll beat me? Cuz, I think someone got there first."
"Story of my life." Shep sighed. "I'm so sorry."
Pretty Boy tipped Shep's chin up. "Make it up to me. Don't feel sorry for me. Help me feel something else. Something other than …"
Shep watched helplessly as a tear rolled down Pretty Boy's cheek.
He dragged in a breath, swiping at his face with his good arm. "I know you don't want to talk about this thing between us."
Shep clenched his hands, wondering why there wasn't more oxygen available. "Look, Pretty Boy—"
"Say my name. My real name." He leaned back against the sink, watching Shep intently.
"Noah." Shep swallowed hard. The word came out more reverently than any prayer he'd ever dared to utter.
Pretty Boy's eyes closed and he sucked in a breath. "Shep, we either got to talk about this or you got to stop lookin' at me like that."
"What are you talking about?"
Pretty Boy looked at him like he couldn't believe Shep had said something that stupid. "I know what you want." Warm breath fanned across Shep's face. His stomach fluttered, raw want winding its way through him like the snake in the garden of Eden
. "I don't do anything about it, because god knows you deserve someone better than me."
"Don't talk about yourself like that." Shep's jaw flexed. "You don't base your worth on what assholes think. Remember?"
"Same back at you?" His grin was a little sad.
"Point taken." Shep ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't even know what we're talking about right now."
Pretty Boy raised an eyebrow. "I think you do, but I'll spell it out. I'm having a hard time knowing you want me and I want you. And doing nothing about it."
"What do you want to do about it?" Shep asked softly. He held perfectly still, feeling his control slipping through his fingers. He desperately reminded himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t do this. The reasons he couldn't do this. But they all seemed so distant right now. Somehow, he was a breath away from Pretty Boy, the heat of his body soaking into Shep. It never even occurred to him to back up.
Noah wet his lips. "I almost died tonight."
"I know." Shep could feel the anger darkening his face.
"And all I could think was, why in the fuck was I going to die without trying to go for what I really want?" Noah leaned against him and Shep could feel his body pressed against him knees to shoulders. "What we both want."
"This isn't going to happen," Shep whispered. His rough tone sounded uncertain to his own ears.
"Why? Because you're scared? Fuck that." Noah held his gaze. "Fuck anything that stands between us. It's been you and me forever, Shep. What else matters? What else is more important?"
Beauregard's words haunted him. Such loyalty. I wonder how you feel when you see how quickly they drop you once they know your little secret. Just remember, you always have a place with us.
The Horsemen had saved his life. If he hadn't joined them, he would have given up the ghost long ago. Shep knew that. He also knew they'd never accept who he really was. What he was. Not the way Pretty Boy would. Everything he'd done to protect Pretty Boy. All he'd wanted for as long as he knew what wanting really was, was Noah Blake.
And he was standing right there. Just waiting for Shep to accept what he offered. He felt like an alcoholic who'd just been handed a pint. Sure, he could put it on a shelf. Pretend he didn't want it, wasn't going to drink it. But the result was inevitable. And once you knew you were going to give in, what did a few more days—hell, a few more minutes mean?
