“What’s his name?” Tank asked, shrugging out of his kutte and handing it to the bouncer named Tom.
“Won’t say. Won’t say anything, actually.” Thomas was grinning as he answered. It wasn’t because he’d enjoyed what happened. He was just looking forward to what came next.
“Wait, we need to know if he’s with anyone,” Fritter was suddenly reminding him, at his arm and pushing a hand into Tank’s chest.
“I’ll find that out,” Tank muttered.
“Get him out to The Stall at least,” Fritter said, stronger, stepping right in his way. “Easier clean up, no one overhearing us. The ambulance will be here soon.”
Tank had to admit the suggestion had merits. With a head jerk he bade the guards to lead the asshole through the club by way of a back entrance that deposited them in the clubhouse kitchen. From there it was a short jaunt to The Stall.
In the meantime they were rolling Rose out to the waiting ambulance. She’d stopped screaming, but the look in her eyes as she caught sight of him before the paramedics slammed those back doors was a kick to the groin with a steel-toed boot.
Tank’s neck tingled, his jaw was tight and his hands were clenched in fists that hurt. The pain was the only reason he even noticed how his body had tensed in the short walk back to The Stall for the “interrogation.”
While Fritter and Tiny took over from security, bidding them thanks along with a “Get the fuck out of here, tell them he escaped,” Thomas and Gus vanished.
While his brothers tied the asshole to a metal chair, Tank studied him. He was slight, a string bean really. Dark hair, shaved close to his skull. Big dark eyes, hooked nose. Clean-shaven jaw, deep olive skin. Certainly not European in descent.
“Who are you with?” Tank asked, leaning over with his hands braced on his knees. He was easily four times this guy’s size, he could break him in one hand. But the punk met his gaze, steely and resolved. “Don’t wanna talk? Well, you will.”
He meant to work the guy slowly, really he did. But once he started throwing fists, breaking open an eyebrow, then a lip, he couldn’t stop.
The blood made it okay, somehow. He was hurting this prick back, hopefully worse than Rose was.
The thought of that gorgeous woman and what he’d seen in that room returned, making him roar inside and out. It wasn’t like the guy was even trying to talk, trying to save himself. His eyes were dead, and Tank suspected he might be on something to keep him level.
But that didn’t matter. He busted the asshole’s nose open, blood spraying the floor and Tank’s clothes, not to mention the flood of crimson down the kid’s white shirt. Still he made no sign that he intended to open up in any way.
The color of blood was perfect for the mood Tank was in. It was like blood in the tide with a Great White in the vicinity. Tank blacked out, went away for a while. He came to when Fritter was wedging his hand under Tank’s neck, likely the best way to get his attention because Tank was hard to move, hence his nickname.
He nearly took Fritter’s head off as well, coming around just in time to stop from throwing his brother across the room by the neck. He was panting, blood ran up his forearms in weird, gravity-defying rivulets, and every breath was burning his lungs. In front of him a torso was upright only by the ties around his chest and the back of the metal stacking chair. His face was open, a mass of bloody pulp and skull. Tank’s fists were suddenly killing him, and it was a conscious effort to open his hands, loosen his fingers. They ached, his skin was worn raw from hitting bone and teeth despite the few rings he wore.
He’d beaten the asshole to death.
Tank turned away from the sight, his stomach rolling, catching the expressions on the faces of his assembled Red Rebels. Jayce looked cold, a thousand-yard stare that seemed par for the course lately. Fritter and Tiny looked shocked.
Tiny recuperated first. “Get to a shower, big guy. We got him. Fritter, grab a tarp.”
He’d made a real fucking mess. The blood was all over the concrete, harder to clean up this way. Stupid, really.
“Sorry, guys,” he growled, flexing his hands to try and loosen them up.
“Dude,” Fritter said low, moving closer and clasping his shoulder with one hand. He looked serious, and for Fritter to look this way Tank knew he must have pulled a real fucking freak show. “You a’ight? I mean, shit man. I’ve never seen you go stone-cold homicidal before.”
Tank exhaled, and it was shaky with emotion. “It was Rose,” he muttered, like that should explain everything.
Fritter nodded, patting his arm roughly. “Got it, big guy. Go ahead and hit the showers. Try not to let too many people see you, yeah?”
He dropped his clothes on the outside of the tub in his dorm room. He got under the blistering-hot water, scrubbing at his hands with a fingernail brush. On the walk from the clubhouse he’d become aware of blood splatter drying on his face, too. He scrubbed everything with that nail brush, his skin sensitized from the hot water. Or maybe from the horrifying realization of what he’d actually done.
He pulled on fresh jeans, a T-shirt and flannel that still smelled okay. He wasn’t sure how his kutte had gotten into his dorm, but he put that on, too. Once his boots were back in place, Tank headed right for his bike, not a word said to anyone. Actually, the lot was totally silent. Even the Rebel Circus was quiet, shut down for the night, no doubt.
The ride on his Fat Boy was a blur. He was pulling to a stop in the hospital parking lot with no recollection of the ride. He strode past the admitting desk, knowing the hospital well from countless injuries, accidents and incidents suffered through club business. At the third floor nurse’s station he found out which room Rose was in.
The shift supervisor was a tough old battle axe, which meant she pointed out it was past visiting hours, but she was also local, so she didn’t raise a finger to stop him when he headed towards Rose’s room.
The bandages were so stark on her skin. She’d been staring at her hand, suspended over her face. He didn’t know her well enough to know what the expression on her face meant, but it looked like she was contemplating something heavy. She stayed that way for a long time, so he cleared his throat to get her attention, then felt bad when she jumped. And then she started crying, and he really felt like shit.
They argued about him being there. There was no way in hell he was leaving her here without someone watching out for her. If she didn’t want him he’d just call someone else, but she’d have to tell him to fuck off first.
He’d missed some blood in his shower, and she caught it right off the bat. He tried to hide it like a caught toddler, but she wouldn’t let it go, and then she spoke those words that cut to the quick as she realized he might actually be a monster.
“Maybe you should go.”
He felt that in the stomach, too. Stubborn to a fault, he shook his head. “No way, English. I don’t know who did this, I don’t know if it’s directed at you or us. I ain’t leaving.”
She bit her lip, hands fidgeting at the top of her blanket. “Well, you won’t find out now, will you?”
He swallowed, staring at his feet. “I guess. But I wouldn’t take it back. He hurt you, Rose.”
She winced when he said her real name.
“I’m here, Rose,” he said softly, leaning in and taking that soft hand in his again. “I’m not backing away. I’m seeing you through this.”
She tried to untangle from his hand but he was stronger and not in the hospital.
“So just get used to it and let me,” he continued, kissing the back of her hand, then turning to the wood and vinyl chair in the corner. He pulled it closer, parking his ass in it with a long exhale, catching her watching him with water in her eyes again. “And no crying,” he added. “I can’t stand it when women cry. Please don’t do that.”
Chapter Ten
“This looks promising,” the doctor mumbled to herself softly, peering into the burn on Rose’s arm with professional interest. Her crystal blue eyes were c
alculating, intent. It was a relief that no one was staring at her like she was the main attraction at the carnival side show.
Rose settled her head square on the hospital pillow, looking at the far wall while the young woman in a crisp white suit shone a light into the wounds she’d just flushed for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past three days.
It was annoying at first, but finally Doctor Tracey Webber explained to Rose the reason for it. She’d been burned with sulphuric acid, and they kept flushing the wound to ensure it didn’t start healing with any of the acid underneath. They also had to be certain it hadn’t been absorbed into her blood stream, but so far she’d been okay on that front.
Now the doctor was here to tell her that they could use skin from the back of her thighs for the grafts so the color would match, which was a relief. Rose has initially been wary of random skin being patched into her, knowing she’d be a tough “match” to make. Now, watching the ragged edges as the gaping sores were washed out she just wanted it to be smooth. Not so obviously torn and ripped, melted. Having it the same color was a tremendous relief, even if it was difficult to see the bright side.
The hospital itself was getting to her, too. It was quiet, sterile, and she couldn’t sleep for shit here. Then again, that might be due to her nocturnal security detail. Tank had been at her bedside every night since she’d been admitted, somehow managing to fall asleep propped up in that vinyl and wood chair that was standard issue in the Markham Medical Center. During the day there was a rotating detail of men in the same leather vest as Tank waiting in the hallway outside her room.
No one questioned them, asked them to leave. It was as though they were staff here, which was ridiculous. Surely they could get in the way, impede the work of the medical personnel. And yet everyone passed them by as though they couldn’t even see them.
Rose had to evaluate how much the town of Markham let the Red Rebels into their business, how much they either feared them or felt they owed them.
At that moment the kid in the hall—and he absolutely looked like a kid—was playing around on his phone. She could see it, angled like she was towards the door. He looked like a teenager, but he had the full club name on the back of his vest. She’d seen some that simply read “prospect,” which she knew meant they were auditioning for a part in the group. This wasn’t the first motorcycle club she’d been around, after all. This kid was all-in, so he must have been older than what she suspected. He had a black beanie on his head, white tank under the vest so his arms were on display. His tattoos were impressive, a collage of styles that didn’t really follow a theme but melded into each other like they were meant to be. Colorful, too. She’d noticed that all of Tank’s ink was black and gray, and she wondered if that was by design for the older members; whatever was in style when they joined.
None of the guys in the hall had introduced themselves to her. Some of the club members were regulars at Rebel Circus, so she knew them, but this kid wasn’t one of them. So she left him to his phone and turned her head to the doctor as she heard the woman removing the latex gloves she’d been wearing.
“So … if the tissue will work when will that be done?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“Tomorrow. We only have so much time to work with it,” the doctor answered with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I know the plastic surgeon that will be coming in from Bakersfield for this. He’s very good, you’ll get the best hands on it. I promise.”
Rose swallowed. “I don’t think I can afford the best hands,” she joked, her throat too dry to laugh along with it.
Doctor Webber cocked her head. “I thought Jayce said the club was picking up the bill for you. He told us to get the best there was.”
Rose frowned. “No, I don’t want them spending all that. I can’t pay them back.”
The doctor set to picking up all the paper wrapping that came with treating and dressing an open acid burn, sterile wrapping on swabs and the like. “One thing I have to advise you on that,” she said wryly, eyebrows high. “Don’t fight them on it. They’ll just do it anyway, and you’ll be wasting energy better spent on healing.”
“Do they have this entire town in their hip pocket, or is that just my imagination?”
The doctor’s smile grew indulgent, hands resting just inside the pockets of her coat, standard doctor pose. “There are plenty of checks and balances in Markham. Some come from our Sheriff’s department, but law enforcement is hardly a federal prerogative, and they’re understaffed and underfunded. Where they can’t step in, we turn to the Red Rebels. They’ve helped a lot of people and kept a lot of shit out of this town. Some people are okay with turning a blind eye because of that.”
Rose’s hands fidgeted, hearing what she’d already suspected confirmed by an outside source. She checked on her bodyguard, but he was still locked onto his electronic diversion, so she turned back to the doctor. “What about you? Are you okay with it?”
Doctor Webber also checked the doorway then nodded. “I am. I’ve seen what they risk for each other and this town. I know how much they mean to each other, and it’s an admirable devotion. And they keep this town in mind in everything they do. So yeah, I’m okay with it.”
“What do you think will happen to the guy that got me?” Rose asked carefully, since she already knew the answer.
The doc shrugged. “He’ll be wishing it was the cops that caught him,” she answered plainly, then patted Rose’s shoulder. “Rest up. Surgery tomorrow.”
Rose nodded as the woman left her to her thoughts, eyes catching how the kid in the hall turned to look her way once the doctor was gone. Rose felt as though she’d been caught doing something wrong, but then he nodded as though she’d appeased him in some way before returning to his phone.
Rose sighed and closed her eyes to try and follow through on the doctor’s orders, not sure she’d fall asleep again until she was out of this blasted place.
Markham, that is. Not just the hospital but the town itself.
-oOo-
“There you are, beautiful. How you feeling?”
Rose nearly choked, her throat so dry swallowing felt like working sand down her gullet. She coughed a bit, which made the throbbing in her head protest painfully.
“Take a sip, English. Got a straw right here.”
She felt the plastic tube against her lips. Sluggishly she got them around it and took a pull, cold water washing into her parched mouth like a heavenly elixir before rushing down her throat in a most glorious flood of relief. She sighed, then took another deep pull, never having tasted water this delicious in her entire life.
“Easy there,” that deep and musical voice chuckled. “You’re supposed to drink it slow.”
The straw was pulled away and she made a sound of annoyance.
“Just relax, English. There’s more. Let that settle first. How you feeling?”
She hadn’t opened her eyes. Why was this taking so long to figure out? She had to fight to make it happen, her lids feeling weighted somehow. As soon as she got them open the light rushed in harsh and intense, making her squeeze them shut again with a cry. “Fucking bloody hell—turn off the fucking lights,” she moaned, wanting to cover her eyes but her limbs weren’t moving any better than her eyelids had.
The chuckle came again, and that had a pleasant effect on her supreme annoyance. She slowly blinked a few times, getting used to the brightness gradually. That didn’t help her head any, either, but as a terribly handsome face swam into view she had to sigh, feeling a slow smile spread across her face.
He was lovely. So very lovely. Who was this? She wanted to touch his beard, his jawline. And he was a big fucker, too. She wasn’t scared, though.
Quite by surprise she realized she’d moved her hand, her nails trailing through the hair on his chin. Coarse, straight, it made a lovely scratchy sound and feeling on her fingertips. He just held still, that curious smile in place while she touched him.
He must know her, le
tting her touch him like this. But who was he?
“You’re handsome,” she informed him, hearing the slur to her words. “I think I like you. Where’d you come from?”
He outright laughed, capturing her hand in one of his own big paws. Oh, that was nice, too. Warm, dry and rough. “Been right here waiting for you to wake up, English.”
She frowned. “My name is Rose.”
“I know it is, beautiful.”
“You keep saying I’m beautiful.”
“You are.”
She scoffed, tugging her hand away from his grasp. “You just want to get laid. Flatterer.”
He laughed again and she thought the laugh might be his best tactic to do what she’d just suggested was his motivation. “Maybe I do. Once you’re feeling better. We’ll give that a try again. I’d be happy to.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “We slept together?”
He just nodded, clearly finding her amusing.
She blinked a few times, trying to sort out her head. It was like she had cotton between her ears, not much else. “Damn,” she muttered, eyeing him up again. “Was I able to walk afterwards?”
The laugh got outright boisterous, then he leaned in and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes, breathing him in. Oh yes, he was lovely and this seemed somewhat familiar. But it was like piecing together a nonsensical dream the next morning after waking up. “You are adorable on the goofy juice,” he informed her, keeping his face close as he stroked her temple.
“Thank you,” she eventually said, because it had gotten quiet. She let her eyes linger on his dark-blue ones, liking how warm his gaze was making her feel. It wasn’t disorienting. It was so comforting and she felt so safe.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said softly, kissing the tip of her nose lightly. “Before you get straightened out, I just want to tell you that I care about you, Rose. A lot. More than I thought I did. It was a surprise to me how much you meant.”
Well, that was heavy. Rose blinked a few times, feeling terrible about asking it but she did any way. “What’s your name?”
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