by Rayne, Sara
"Naw, I got it." Pretty Boy stiffly maneuvered into the boxers, then crawled on top of the bed. He yanked the covers down as he pulled himself up and slowly rolled between the sheets. "Fuck that's good."
"You've been saying that a lot tonight," Shep said softly. He flicked off the light and climbed into bed, folding one arm behind his head as he lay back. He grabbed a smoke from his bedside table and lit it, hitting the power switch on his outward facing window fan.
"Can I bum one of those?"
Shep started to toss the pack at him, but unsure if he could maneuver without panging his injuries, instead he passed him the one he'd already lit and fixed himself another. He moved the chipped, plastic ashtray to the middle of the bed between them and tried not to think about how intimate the gesture felt. He was just being practical. No sense in Pretty Boy wrenching his arm trying to lean over Shep or getting ashes on the floor.
Pretty Boy exhaled slowly. "So, Shep. How many guys have you fucked?"
"I like the casual way you said that," Shep said idly. "Like I didn't you hear you take a breath and gear up to ask."
"At the moment where I'm sitting in a bed, smoking a post-orgasm cigarette with a person, it feels like a reasonable question." The room was dark, Pretty Boy just a silhouette in the muted moonlight of the curtain, a red, glowing dot in the black as he smoked.
"I’m clean," he said, tone flat.
"No, I believe you. I am, too. And I can show you the test results if you want," Pretty Boy said, voice a little too careful. Like people regularly assumed he wouldn't be.
"I've seen 'em. You leave your shit everywhere." Shep snorted. Suddenly, he wondered if Pretty Boy had wanted him to see those papers. He shrugged off the thought.
Pretty Boy coaxed, "Tell me."
"You only care about the guys?" Shep drawled.
"I ain't seen you with a woman you were taking serious since you broke it off with Amy." Pretty Boy shifted, the fabric of the sheets whispering against each other. "And I know you didn't fuck her."
Shep cleared his throat. "We were waiting."
"You were engaged." The flick of his cigarette seemed pointed.
"That's not actually where the waiting's supposed to stop." Shep smirked a little. "Look, I ended things with her when I …left seminary. And no, there hasn't been a single other woman I've taken serious like that since."
"But … you've been with guys." From the dip in mattress and change in his voice, Shep put together Pretty Boy must have turned on his side to face him.
Shep stubbed out his cigarette, cracked his knuckles and lit another. He took his time on the inhale, wishing there was some way he could dodge this conversation. Not like there were a lot of sides of himself he talked to other people about, but this sure as shit was not one of them.
His throat worked, mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally managed in a dry whisper, "Yes."
Pretty Boy's breath hitched.
His chest tightened and even though he knew it was too dark to see anyway, he closed his eyes. "The way you were coming at me, I kinda thought you'd worked that out already."
"I always assumed. Guess, I just didn't ..." Pretty Boy paused. "Wasn't sure I'd ever hear you admit it."
"There was a time when …" Shep trailed off, muttering curses. "You were doing thirty days in lockup for something stupid like assaulting livestock—"
"Assault with a domesticated farm animal," he corrected. When Shep didn't reply, Pretty Boy added, "I threw a chicken … maybe a bit harder than intended."
Shep chuckled.
"The chicken was fine by the way. Missing a few feathers maybe, but you know—intact."
"And the guy you threw the chicken at?" Shep couldn't help asking.
"Pissed." Pretty Boy sighed. "Apparently."
Shep swallowed. "Anyways, my dad died and I stayed out in Memphis for two weeks making funeral arrangements and getting his estate settled and stupid, lawyer bullshit like that. Ended up drinking at this dive bar, doing an open mic night."
A non-committal hum came from Pretty Boy's direction.
"The bartender I'd been glued to all night got up and did this knockout cover of an old Dusty Springfield song. I think I just forgot where I was, watching him sing. Drunk off my ass, when he got through I asked him to have a smoke with me out back." Shep put out his cigarette, exhaling towards the ceiling.
"Picking up the bartender, huh? Not bad." Pretty Boy's tones were even and edged with approval.
"Anyways, you don't need the gritty details. But I saw him a few more times after that, once in his apartment." Shep could feel his face burning, again thankful for the cover of night.
Pretty Boy moved the ashtray to his bedside table from the sound of the clunk. Shep felt the bed dip and bend, as he settled closer. "And he was your first?"
"Yeah, I guess." Shep cleared his throat.
"You fucked him?" he asked him softly.
"Yeah," Shep whispered, leaning back against the pillows and lacing his fingers behind his head. He could still feel the weight of the wet night air in Memphis, the slow rhythm of a city with blues. "I can't explain what happened. I was so far away from here and my father was fucking dead, and what I did … just didn't feel like it mattered. Like I was in some kind of haze."
He had drank beer and eaten barbecue, alone in the crowds. No one recognized him. No one needed anything from him. He was dealing with fucking awful shit concerning his dad, but knowing that tirade of judgement was never coming his way again had lifted an anchor from his shoulder.
Shep shook his head. "Like I was free."
"Damn." Pretty Boy whistled lowly. "That's a helluva first time. Did you only top?"
"Yeah," Shep said too quickly to pull off casual. "I've never … the guys I was with, I didn't really trust them like that, you know?"
He moved around on the bed and Shep thought he had crept closer. "I was bottom first time. And his girlfriend was watching, so I don't think I can say I relate. But I hear what you're saying."
"How old were you?"
"Seventeen? Or just about." The sharp shift in the pillows might have been a shrug. "They both hit me up a few years later and we had a thing for awhile. I'm really not all about the two at once thing, but fucking around's a nice distraction."
Shep took a deep breath. "What's your number?"
"My …? Oh." Pretty Boy squirmed around a bit. "Sixty-eight."
He choked, finally pounding on his sternum with his fist to get things situated back in breathing order. Weakly, he tried for a smirking tone. "And how many of their names do you know?"
"All of 'em." Pretty Boy nudged his shoulder and Shep suddenly realized how close he'd gotten. "I have a fantastic fucking memory. That's how I made PIC."
Shep laughed. "You earned it."
A comfortable silence fell between them. Shep's brain played alternating scenes of Pretty Boy getting beaten and of the two of them in the shower. There was no way he was fucking sleeping. He was about to get up and offer to make them some eggs when Pretty Boy started to snore. Shep was pretty damn sure there was stupid fucking grin all over his face right now.
Pretty Boy rolled, fitting against his body and nuzzling his forehead into Shep's shoulder. Shep should get up. He should go to the guest room. He just couldn't bring himself to move.
He settled into the mattress, angling his shoulder so Pretty Boy's neck wasn't at such a sharp angle and closed his eyes. The last thought he remembered having was that he was never gonna be able to fuckin' sleep with all this shit on his mind.
Chapter Fourteen
Nobody fucks with kids.
~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook
* * *
When Pretty Boy woke up, he felt like he'd slept for a hundred years. He was seven kinds of sore, but his body was on the mend. The grey light of morning drifted through the pale curtains. Shepherd sat on the edge of the bed, blinking sleepily into the dawn. It was oddly intimate. Pretty Boy had imagined waking up next t
o Shep more times than he could count.
The reality, while under more innocent circumstances, tightened his chest. A pit of dread opened in his stomach, like another shoe could drop at any moment, but he pushed it aside. He was here with Shep right now and that was all that mattered. He planned on enjoyin’ the moment.
Damn, he was beautiful. All gilded and tawny, outlined in sunlight. Everything Pretty Boy'd ever wanted shining right there in front of him.
Shep cleared his throat, standing and shuffling into his jeans from the day before. He exuded every fuck this awkward morning cliché Pretty Boy had ever seen.
"Morning," Pretty Boy said softly, trying not to spook him.
Shep closed his eyes and wet his lips. "Morning. Coffee?"
"Please." He barely got the words out before Shep was gone. There's that other shoe.
He took his time, picking through Shep's closet and drawers to find some clothes that might fit him a little better than the last set. He ended up in Shep's incredibly worn Crossroad Crows t-shirt—limited edition, the band had made them for the club—and a pair of sun bleached wranglers just barely hanging on to their blue with blown-out knees. He heard a motorcycle pull up as he headed into the bathroom and by the time he padded out into the kitchen, he could hear Duke's voice echoing through the small house.
Most of Shep's face was hidden by his upended Dr. Pepper can when Pretty Boy spotted him, posted up at the breakfast bar. Duke was helping himself to a cup of coffee and his medical bag was on the kitchen table.
"I'm fine. I just got out of the hospital," Pretty Boy protested before anyone else said a word.
"Club rules. You get injured, Duke checks you out. End of story." Shep gave him the I ain't budging look.
Pretty Boy sighed and pulled off his shirt, letting Duke poke and prod, then flash lights in his eyes. "Y'all get that they wouldn't have let me out of the hospital with a concussion, right? Not without telling you?"
"Shut the fuck up and put your arms out," Duke barked. "This'll go faster without you bitching."
The man was efficient, even if he did come off as rather unfeeling. He finished examining Pretty Boy with clean, precise movements—not quite gentle, but not tweaking his injuries either. Duke might not give two shits about Pretty Boy as a person, but he was obviously a skilled doctor.
When he was finally through, Duke exchanged some kind of loaded expression with Shep and the two of them got up and walked outside without saying shit to him.
Fuck that.
Pretty Boy trailed to the front door, catching it just before it close and set his ear against the crack.
" …your boy looks fine, Shep. A little worse for wear, but they did a good job setting his ribs, considering the past injuries. He should be good to go for Revelation." Duke's low baritone echoed up the driveway.
"Appreciate you taking the time, bro." Shep's whiskey tenor.
"Look man, I know what you're going through right now." Duke's voice barely carried to Pretty Boy's ears. It was the kindest tone he'd ever heard from Duke.
"I seriously doubt that," Shep said wryly.
"I know what's going on with you and Pretty Boy," Duke said exasperated.
There was muttered cursing and the sound of what had to be Shep's soda can splattering on the pavement.
"Motherfucker!" Shep shouted.
"Calm down, bro—it's just a soda. I’ll buy you another."
Pretty Boy muffled a snicker.
"Look, you're all kinds of fucking over-protective and it's obvious if you know what you're looking for," Duke explained patiently. Pretty Boy would give his left nut to see Shep's face right now. "Saw it in the military all the time."
He was literally biting his thumb ring to keep the laughter in.
"Yeah?" Shep managed to make the word sound bedraggled.
"Yeah, you get a set of new recruits in, take some rookie under your wing and he goes and does some dumbass shit and the asshole gets shot. Now you feel responsible, because you're his CO … happens all the time," Duke said.
"Right. All the time," Shep repeated woodenly.
Pretty Boy bent over, grasping his knee with one hand and holding his poor, abused ribs with the other, silently laughing so hard, tears slipped down his face.
"Don't let it get to you. A man's gotta be responsible for his own fucking self. Getting’ his back and being his babysitter are two different things." Duke's Harley purred to life. "Look, we got church in a few. See you there?"
"You got it. Just got to … clean this up," Shep muttered, his voice coming closer.
Pretty Boy hustled back over to the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he was contemplating drinking the rest of Duke's coffee. Shep stomped inside and headed straight for the sink, washing the soda off his hands. Pretty Boy raised a brow.
"Don't ask," Shep muttered.
"Don't tell, actually—from what Duke was saying," he snickered.
"Heard that did you?"
"I'm a snoop." Pretty Boy shrugged. "You headed to church, then?"
"Yeah, fixing to head that way right now." Shep wiped his hands on a bleached dish towel. "Make yourself at home. When I get back, we'll go get you some clothes to hold you from the time being."
Pretty Boy nodded, trying not to let the knot of charity souring his stomach show on his face. Shep would just tell him get the fuck over it and stomp out. "You goin’ to ask them to vote on that thing for Etta?"
Shep glowered. "Are you fucking kidding me? You think you're in any condition to pick a fight? Let alone finish one. Answer's no."
"Look, I get things are rocky as shit right now—"
"You think? Eddie's warehouse did not exactly go quietly into the night and neither did your trailer. The FBI's on our ass, the rally fast approaching, but you want to go provoking the Raptor's fucking President into a prize fight? Under the cover of, 'sorry officer, we're just mischievous' and a winning smile?" Shep glared at him, looking a little winded.
"You done?" Pretty Boy sighed. "I get all that, I really do. But this isn't exactly the sort of thing that can ben penciled in when we get to it. That kid is living in that house with him every day. We could do something make his life just a little less of a living hell."
Shep stared at him.
Time to pull out the big guns. "It's the right thing to do and you know it. I'm just asking you to propose the vote."
"Fine." Shep threw his hands up in the air. "But, hear me. If Duke says you're not in a condition to fight that night, you better have a plan B. Because I will fucking chain you up if I have to. But you won't be fighting."
"Thank you." He grinned.
Shep shook his head, grabbed his helmet off the counter and slammed the door behind him.
"Well, I think that went well." He lifted Duke's abandoned cup, toasted the empty room and drained it. Smacking his lips, he said, "Cheers."
Chapter Fifteen
The Pale Rider patch is given only to a brother who has killed on the orders of the MC.
~Four Horsemen Charter
* * *
Once upon a time, Shep had thought he'd have his own congregation. A crowd of lost and lonely souls he could comfort and guide. Be there for.
Now, church had a different meaning. It was held around a beaten table in a room with bullet scars; his congregation consisted of rough and unruly bikers riding the razor's edge of unlawful. But it was still his church.
And it was still holy to him.
His plan had been to propose Pretty Boy's plan to save the Raptor's kid today. He didn't really want to, and he'd already decided to just not bring it up and tell Pretty Boy he was in no condition to fight. And every time he’d convinced himself to shelve it, Pretty Boy asking, how long would you have let me stay there? made him realize he had to ask. But the mood was all wrong for a risky move like this today. Something just felt off in the room.
With uneasy eyes, he watched Cap at the head of the table, staring at them like it was the last time he'd look around
the room. When he banged the gavel, it sounded hollow. Like the final note of a funeral dirge. The others were nattering away, but Shep knew in his gut something was real bad wrong.
“Brothers!” Cap said.
They shut their traps and turned to face him.
“This is going to go a bit different today. I think you’d consider it some old business. It’s been gnawin’ at me for a couple of decades now, keepin’ me up at night, so I might as well get it all out in the open. I’ve been lyin’ to you. For years.”
Nobody moved. They froze in place. Something like dread clawed its way up Shep's throat. Whatever Cap was about to confess had to be what had been brewing between him and Eddie a couple nights ago when Cap had called Shep and sent him over to look after her. When he’d arrived, she’d been drunk and hollering her frustrations at the moon. And it had to be more than either of them had bothered to clue him in on. A little cheating wasn't the kind of thing you confessed in this church.
“So, what the fuck. I'm callin’ it a day. Doin’ what I gotta do. I need to tell you somethin’ about the RICO case.”
Shit. The stuff between Cap and Joker. The look of betrayal in Eddie's eyes. The anchor of guilt weighing Cap down that had gotten so heavy it showed in his every step. Shep thought back to the night in the desert they had crushed bones together and finally pieced together the skeleton Cap had really been trying to hide, seconds before it all came tumbling out.
“Back in the day, before the RICO case, I’m the one who tipped off the FBI. The Feds were crawlin’ up our asses, looking for a reason to bust us, and I gave them one. I called the tip line and told them the location of a meet. We were runnin’ coke from Mexico to Las Vegas and we had a meet set with our distributor. They hadn’t been able to pin anything on us until I tipped them off.”
Holy. Shit.
Well, to fuck with new business, then.
Shep glanced around at his brothers, waiting for the first reactions before he decided how he needed to proceed.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” Duke finally asked.
Cap wore weary like a crown. “There were a lot of reasons, but I wanted to protect the club.”
