by Jc Emery
I take my position beside Ian and behind Trigger, who’s taken the lead—and nobody was willing to argue with him about that—as we walk very quietly to the side door. Grady, Wyatt, Bear, and Jim follow behind us. They’re all good with a gun, but Jim likes to have his sharpest shooters in front.
All of the windows are covered or boarded up, and the thick concrete walls make it difficult to know what’s going on inside, if anything. I stalk around the corner and find a man in a black suit with slicked back black hair holding a gold gun. He turns from side to side, but not enough that he’s able to see me watching him. I pull up the AR-15 with the suppressor and super sonic ammo, click off the safety, and center it on his skull. Just as he turns and catches sight of my gun gleaming in the darkness, I pull the trigger. The bullet hits him at the corner of his temple, and he crumples to the ground. I give him a quick look then turn back to my brothers and give them a nod.
Trigger lifts his hand and gives two swift knocks on the door just as I get back in formation. The door opens but a foot or two when Trigger pops two shots into the guy’s skull, using his suppressor. Ian stands by and catches him as he falls to the ground to avoid making a sound, then drags him out of the way. We walk through the door as silently as possible. The warehouse is dark as fuck, and I can’t see much of anything with the exception of some agricultural equipment in the center of the room we’re in, which is far smaller than the building is. The warehouse must be broken up into several rooms. Trigger leads us through the room, careful to keep us in shadows. A skylight on the roof provides enough light to cast a slight blueish glow over the space the farther we move into it. All I can hear is heavy breaths and the occasional scuffle of a boot. Up ahead on the right are two more guys who stand shoulder to shoulder with their backs toward us. I breathe a slight sigh of relief that Mancuso didn’t send his top team, but if he did send his top team then this is fucking sad. These guys are fucking jokesters if they don’t know better than to turn their back on the only entrance to the warehouse aside from the boarded up dock in the back.
I look over to Ian and nod at the guys. He squints and nods in confirmation that it’s not Michael, who we have orders not to kill unless we have to. We train our guns on the backs of their skulls and, with near perfect aim, shoot. Both of their skulls break apart at the point of contact, and blood shoots out as they tumble toward the ground in unison.
“You would turn your back on your family for them?” a voice with a thick east coast accent says. His words are clipped even in his fury. We move past the two dead bodies we just put down and into the second room. It’s empty, but in the expanse beyond the room we’ve just entered is another room, which appears to be much smaller. Where the two larger rooms are without any lighting, the small room in the back has a single light bulb hanging overhead, which gives us a decent line of sight to see what’s going on.
“No, I’m protecting my family,” Princess screams angrily. In front of me, Trigger picks up his pace at the sound of her voice. Less than thirty feet away now, and I can see her. She’s tied to a chair, which is on its side. The kid standing over her can’t be any older than her, even though his size begs to differ. The longer I look at him, the more similarities I can see between he and Alex. There’s absolutely no doubting that he’s her twin. Fuck.
He tightens his fists at his side and delivers several swift kicks to her stomach. Trigger jumps to rush at the guy, but he’s got a gun in his hand, so I reach out and grab him before he can get too far and make any noise. He turns his head, glaring at me, but I don’t care. I’m not going to let his temper get Princess or Junior killed. I don’t think Ruby would survive either loss—Junior because she never got a chance to meet him, and Princess because she just barely got a hold of her.
The kid delivers blow after blow to her stomach before he stops. She’s on the floor, her face is bruised as fuck, and she’s got drool coming out of the side of her mouth. Dried blood dots the other corner of her mouth, and her clothes are dirty as all fucking hell. My throat tightens at the sight. Keeping a close eye on Trigger and moving forward as quietly as I can, I train my gun on Junior’s skull. I hate this part of the job—when shit gets personal—but if Junior kills her, he’s going to die regardless of who his mother is. If I let Ryan at him, he’s going to die a slow and miserable death. It’s better that I do it. I’d rather he die mercifully so I can tell his mother he didn’t suffer.
“Please pick me up,” she says, and her voice sounds so fucking pathetic. Junior pulls at his hair and curses a few times in what I assume is Italian, then he leans down and picks up the chair with one hand. In the other, he’s got that gold gun that all of Mancuso’s men seem to have.
“Are you going to tell me where they are?” he says, leaning down and pulling her head back so she’s forced to meet his eyes. Her head flops, and her eyes squint then widen like she’s struggling to see him clearly.
“I love you,” she says in a sincere voice. She waits a beat and then her lips form a thin line. “No,” she says in a much stronger voice than I expect she’s easily capable of. But Junior isn’t having any of it. He slaps her across her temple so many times that I think Trigger’s gonna lose his shit and pop a cap in the kid’s ass right here and now. If it were Nic… I can’t even go there or I’ll do it myself.
She blows out a heavy breath and takes each blow like a fucking champ. I don’t know many men who could have the shit beat out of them like she’s getting and to keep fighting. In a moment that I’ll never forget, she rights her head and narrows her eyes at her brother—someone who’s supposed to love her and protect her—and she pushes against the next blow to her head. Steeling herself, she yells at the top of her lungs, “Keep hitting me!”
The words fall out in a jumbled mess, but the show of strength is what imprints itself on my soul. The girl has balls—big ones—and if I wasn’t already so fucking stupid over Nic, I might have fallen in love with Princess right then and there. “I won’t hurt them.”
It’s just a moment that everybody stops moving as we watch this small person with guts as big as any of the men behind me as she takes on someone twice her size with only her words to fight against the beating he’s giving her. I promise myself from this moment forward that whatever Princess needs, Princess fucking gets. I shoot a quick look back to Grady, who’s still so blinded with rage that I’m not sure he can really appreciate what’s happening here. If this isn’t a sign of loyalty to the club, then I don’t know what the fuck is. But that moment passes way too soon, and Junior’s face turns bright red. He shoves his gold gun in his pocket and clamps his hands around her neck. With her arms and legs bound to the chair she doesn’t have a fucking chance of making it.
“Tell me where they are!” he screams into her face. His eyes are wild, and he squeezes her poor, thin neck as he shakes her back and forth. I want to just call a time out and throw in the towel and be done with this shit. I’ve killed enough men in my time, and I’ve seen enough men put down for a variety of reasons. I stopped counting long ago. I’ve even seen a few women be beaten, and I’ve seen the aftermath of what happens when we’re too late to stop the beating. But this shit is too fucked up. If Princess isn’t okay after this, then Trigger won’t be okay, and I won’t be okay, either. If I’m not okay, then I can’t be okay with the club or this life.
I squeeze my index finger around the trigger of my .38 and focus on finding the right shot, but I’m too late. Junior’s body hits the floor, and it’s only then that I realize that Trigger’s put his gun away and charged at him. He’s on top of Junior and delivering blow after blow to the kid’s face. I put my gun in the holster and run into the small room. I move to help Princess, but Trigger jumps off Junior and scampers over to her and cuts off her bindings to free her from the chair.
“They’re in here!” I shout loudly and send Bear to get the rest of the guys. Ian moves over to Junior and stares down at him. I don’t move out of respect for this moment. Near my feet, Trigger�
�s got Princess as she’s slumped into his lap. Tears have pooled in his eyes and fall down his face. There’s only a few of them before they’re gone and he stands with her in his arms.
“I got you, baby,” he says to her in a voice so fucking soft that I wouldn’t have known it’s him if I hadn’t seen his lips moving.
“My brother,” she screams and starts to fight against his hold on her. Even after everything he’s done to her and she gives a shit about him? Jesus, that’s love.
He says, “He’s alive,” and holds Princess tightly to his chest. Though the tears have dried, the pain that shows in his features cuts me deep. Slowly, he walks out of the small room with his girl in his arms. His lower lip quivers just once before he rights himself. I turn and watch them leave. For a guy who doesn’t show much emotion, if any, he’s letting the club see him in a very vulnerable place. When he passes Grady, he stares him in the eyes and lets his lip shake one more time, then he keeps going. Jim places a hand on Trigger’s back and gives it a pat as he walks out. Jim fights to keep his expression neutral, but the daggers he’s shooting Grady are obvious as fuck. Jim’s the club president and all, but he’s a father first, and he’s never let his men forget that. The sorrow that shows on his face at seeing his only blood child carry the girl he’s begun to consider a daughter to safety is palatable.
In the corner, Ian has finally moved. He’s bent down placed his boot over Junior’s neck. He’s got that gold gun in his hand and is waving it in front of Junior’s face. I signal at Bear and Fish, who rush over and pull Ian off of him then grab a hold of Junior. He kicks and fights like hell, but Fish leans in and pops him across the face, which knocks him out. I grab Ian, who still stands motionless in that fucked up place as he stares down at his half brother.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly to him and give his arm a shake. With a pale face and wide eyes, he looks at me and shakes his head.
“He beat her,” he says in astonishment. I nod sadly. We all knew this shit was going to be tough for him. These may be his siblings, but he barely knows them. His entire life’s been fucked up since he was a kid because his mom hooked up with Mancuso. I wait until Bear and Fish get Junior’s limp body out of the room and close to the side door we came in before I let go of Ian’s arm.
“You need a minute?” I ask him. He nods and turns away from me. More than any of us guys, this is personal for Ian. Even more personal than it is for Trigger and Jim. Trigger told me once that Ian remembers Ruby being pregnant with the twins, and he remembers them being born. And as fucked as it is, he remembers the day Mancuso took them away, which is the same day he got that scar that runs from his ear to the corner of his eye. I wait in the middle room with my back to Ian to give him some privacy.
Screaming, he kicks and hits at the walls in the room. I can hear the chair cracking and a frustrated grunt. I peek back just a second to make sure he’s okay, and when I do I find him on the ground with his head in his hands. He’s taking deep breath after deep breath, willing himself to calm down. Another minute passes and he stands. I look back at the side door as he approaches. He clasps a hand over my shoulder and strides out in front of me.
I rush to catch up to the guys and slide into the back seat of Ruby’s Suburban. Trigger’s in the middle with Princess curled up in his lap. He’s whispering sweet things to her as I slide in. Her eyes are all fucked up, and she can’t see much of anything. “It’s just me, Princess,” I say and shut the door as quietly as I can.
Ian sits on Trigger’s other side and says, “It’s Ian. You’re safe.”
Jim’s already in the driver’s seat. He looks back in the mirror and winces at the sight before him. She’s seriously fucked up, that’s for sure. It’ll be a fucking miracle if she doesn’t have any internal bleeding.
“You’re okay, kid,” Jim says and clears his throat. He may be a dick of epic proportions at times, but there’s no doubt that he loves his family. Jim’s expression changes in the mirror, and he smiles just slightly with his eyes cast down. I look at Trigger and Princess to try to figure out what he’s seeing. Trigger’s got his pinky wrapped around Princess’s, and damn if it doesn’t feel good to see that.
“It’s just a scratch,” Princess mumbles. I can’t help but laugh, because if I don’t I might cry like a fucking bitch.
“Shit, you got balls, babe,” I say. Trigger turns to glare at me, and I just smile at him. As fucked in the head as he is, I think he’s going to be okay. He’s got the one thing I want that I don’t have—he’s tied to someone now. He can bullshit about it and say whatever he wants. Princess has balls all right, and now she’s got Trigger’s, too. For the first time in hours, I breathe a sigh of relief. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I pull up NIC in my contacts and start typing on the touch screen.
TKNG CARE OF CLUB SHIT. NEED 2 C U.
She doesn’t respond, but I don’t give up hope. I hold the phone in my hand and keep checking it for a message I might have missed. But no message, no phone call—absolutely nothing—comes in. I force myself to ignore the panic that creeps in and stare out the window as we pull down the long driveway to Jim and Ruby’s house, where Doctor James’s white Lexus sits parked by the garage.
Chapter 18
I stare at my phone, worried as all get out because he hasn’t responded in the last two days. I guess it’s payback for the bullshit I’ve been pulling the past few weeks—I just didn’t know what else to do.
U OK? I text to Duke, and, like an idiot, I wait with the phone in my hands, for a response that won’t come.
It’s the sixth message I’ve sent. I just want to know that he’s safe and he’s fine. I’m halfway to not even caring what he’s doing. At least if he’s on a pussy bender, I can be pissed at him and end this. But he’d be safe and I’d know he was safe, and I wouldn’t be freaking the hell out over his safety. We talked a few days ago for all of two minutes. He said he was taking care of some bad shit and would be out of town for a few days, but I needed to talk to him. Karma is one mean bitch, and I have this coming to me.
After the night he crawled into my bed and made love to me—because there’s no mistaking that’s what it was—and I’d realized we hadn’t used a condom, I began thinking back to the other times we’d had sex. I could only remember us using a condom twice, and now I’m not even sure about that first time. I had every intention of getting Plan B at the pharmacy, but the fifty dollar price tag was too much for my bank account to take, and after I’d flipped out on Duke, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for the money.
I’ve always tried to be diligent about my birth control pills, but usually rely on condoms just in case because my schedule is so hectic that I never seem to be able to take the pill at the same time every day. Lost Girls fuck up all the time. It’s the nature of the lifestyle—you get fucked up and then fuck. We should probably get some kind of group rate at Planned Parenthood or something.
I call his cell, but he doesn’t answer. It goes to his voice mail on the first ring, so his phone is off, and the mailbox is full. Shoving the useless goddamn device back in my purse, I look out the windshield of my car and blow out a heavy breath. Starting the car up, I pull out of the parking lot of the restaurant I met Darren and drive home at a snail’s pace. Dinner ran later than I wanted it to. He had little information on my dad and spent way too long talking about how we were in high school. I tried to gently guide him back on topic, but it was hard. As much as I want to believe the club is taking care of my dad, I can’t be sure. When I mentioned his parole being denied, Duke didn’t say shit about it. It was like he didn’t care. So, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to hear what Darren had to say—well, it could hurt—but helping my dad is worth the risk. Or it was.
Because now that it’s been a week since I’ve seen Duke and every good intention I had for the last week completely fell apart, I’ve slipped into a hole that I don’t think I can get out of. Aside from waiting for Duke to let me know he’s okay, I’ve been waiting on my pe
riod that’s two weeks late. And like a fool, I’ve yet to give up hope that either are going to show up sometime soon. But because I’m a pessimist, I picked up a test at the store after work last night. I’ve just been too scared to take it yet.
Pulling up to the house, I push all of my fears aside. Right there in front of the garage is Duke’s bike. He hasn’t been home this early in weeks, so this is unexpected. Good, but unexpected. Despite the potential major life-changing problem I’m avoiding, things have been really good between us. It’s probably that really good that’s led me to where I am now. We’ve been reckless a number of times, and the times I try to be on top of things, Duke only half complies. One time he even took the condom off halfway through, but my mind had been so jumbled by that time, and he felt so good and so bare, and him wanting to be that close to me made me a fucking idiot. And I didn’t make him stop.
I put the car in park and cut it off. Without thinking about it, my hand finds its way to my stomach and I let my head fall against the back of the seat. I can’t feel anything but my flat stomach. Not that I expect to feel something. Shit. My brain is so totally messed up over this crap that I barely know if I’m coming or going anymore.
Feeling like a moron, I crawl out of my car and walk up to the house. The front door is unlocked, which is abnormal. After that night, weeks ago, when Duke surprised me in the middle of the night by coming in and making love to me, he had Jeremy make him a copy of the house key. Inside, the house is dead silent and pitch black. I hold tight to my keys just in case something’s wrong, and I close the door as quietly behind me as I can. Slowly, I walk past the living room and the kitchen and down the hallway to my bedroom. The door is closed, which makes sense if Duke’s home. And he is. His bike is outside. My imagination is just running wild.
