Rebel Rising: A Rebel Storm MC Romance

by Tahlia Gold

  “Slow down, Viking. The goal is to not talk to the police.”

  “Sorry,” Viking says. “I’m just amped up. This thing with Road Dawg is not good. You pointed a gun at him. He’s not going to forget that shit. What if they’re following us?”

  “You’re right,” I say. “But he has other problems right now. He can’t worry about me when there’s an entire MC trying to figure out how to put him down.”

  Viking shakes his head. “This is fucked man. Prez is dead. Road Dawg has gone off the deep end. I’m not going to be able to go back there. He knows I’m helping you. That man will not forget this.”

  “Let me worry about it,” I say.

  Viking shakes his head again, mutters something under his breath.

  He’s right though. Everything is fucked. I try to take a deep breath but it hurts like hell and I stop half way. If Prez were here, he would know exactly what to do. But he’s not here. He’ll never be here again. My eyes start to water up a bit but I hold it back. Now’s not the time for that.

  Everything is fucked and I need to un-fuck it.

  My thoughts are swirling around, trying to figure out what went wrong, how to make it so things are back to normal. All roads lead back to Road Dawg.

  It’s only a matter of time before he tries to take me out. He won’t ever forget what I did. And he’s not the kind of guy that will let you point a gun at him twice. It’s just a matter of priorities for him at this point. He’ll rally the guys, go after the Soul Crushers, and if he wins that, then his next job will be me. And he’ll have the entire force of the club behind him. I can’t stand up to that.

  Maybe I just need to get the fuck out of town, go out east somewhere, lie low, maybe join a different club. What the fuck am I thinking? That’s not a solution. If I’m gone Road Dawg will one-hundred percent go after Jess. Revenge will be on his mind and he knows that’s the best way to hurt me. Hell, even if I do stick around, and he manages to get me, he’ll still go after her. The old school guys know not to fuck with the civilians but he’s not old school. He doesn’t know honor; all he knows is hate.

  No, I can’t leave. I have to stay and I have to win. Losing isn’t an option. I have to take him out. He can’t be president. Prez would hate that. His body is still warm and already I’m thinking about tucking my cock and getting out of town? That’s fucking disgraceful.

  Jess is rubbing my arm. “Hey,” she says. “Your fists are all clenched up. Relax a little.”

  I look down at my hands. She’s right, they’re clenched and when I open them there’s blood in my palms from my fingernails cutting into the skin.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just thinking about what I need to do.”

  “Right now,” she says, “you just need to concentrate on living. All the bullshit will be waiting for you after you’re better.”

  It’s true. Staying alive is the first step. If I die from this gun shot, Road Dawg is still going to kill her. He’ll kill Viking too. That’s just how he is.

  I need to get better, then put him down. Put him down like you would a dog that’s too sick to keep living. I’m almost positive it was him that shot Prez in the back. The fucking prick. My stomach is churning thinking about it. That’s what he wanted all along. Take out the president so that he’d be number one. Start a fucking war to get the guys around him. Nothing breeds loyalty like a war. Politicians know it too.

  So what to do?

  We pull up at the vet’s office. There’s a bunch of cars in the parking lot. It’s broad daylight. This is not ideal. I sit up a little to see if there’s anybody watching and I instantly regret it. My nerve endings are screaming out, saying, ‘Whatever you just did is wrong, do not fucking do that.’

  I ignore the pain.

  There’s a lady in the car next to us talking to a giant French poodle in the front seat. I slink back down so she doesn’t see me—blood everywhere—and freak out and do something stupid like call the cops.

  “Pull around to the back,” I say.

  First, I need to get healed up a little. Jess is right. I can’t do anything in this condition. Road Dawg won’t be able to finish the war in the next few days. He’s good at fighting wars but even he won’t be able to finish off the Soul Crushers so quickly. It will take some time. And time is what I need. Jess will be safe at least until the war is over.

  I could go after him directly. Just fucking take him out. Show up at the clubhouse, sneak in, and put two bullets in his skull. But then the club would turn on me. You don’t take out a club member like that without group consensus—even if he did kill the president. Nobody else knows about that and they probably wouldn’t believe it if I said it. There’s no proof.

  Proof is what I need.

  Prez pops back into my head. What would he do? That day we were in his office and he was talking to me about being president after him… He was telling me about how it is to be a leader. How you have to use your head. How I have the potential to do that. What would he do? What would he say? I go into an almost meditative state trying to figure out what kind of advice he would give me. The pain fades away, and we’re back in his office. He’s sitting there in front of me, clear as day. He’s saying you need to use your head Dylan, not your fists. Your best weapon is your brain.

  Finally, I open my eyes. The pain is back. We’re in the alley behind the vet’s office. Jess is holding the door open for me; she has a concerned look on her face. I smile at her, trying to reassure her that everything is going to be okay—even though I don’t know that. I don’t know that at all.

  But now I have a plan.

  29

  Jess

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. We help Dylan out of the car and he almost passes out when he stands up. We help him into the back door of the vet’s office. There’s a dog barking and whining in another room. He sounds like he doesn’t want to be here. I feel the same way, buddy.

  We’re in the back, it’s some kind of supply area. A short, bald guy with glasses comes in.

  “What the hell is this?” He’s trying to keep his voice down, but he’s not happy to see us. “It’s fucking daylight man.” He looks over his shoulder, closes the door behind him. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re not supposed to come here in the daylight. He looks like he’s about to die. If he dies here I’m going to be so fucking pissed.”

  Viking puts his large hands on the vet’s shoulders. He’s towering over him. “Relax. If you can play along, your debts are paid.”

  The vet’s eyes open wide; his face lights up. “I’m in for ten grand, man. You’re saying we’ll be square?”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Viking says. He’s speaking slowly, deliberately. “Now, are you saying we can’t be here?”

  “No, no,” the vet says. He runs his small hand over his slick, bald head—a habit probably left over from when he had hair. I can see the gears turning in his little brain.

  Finally, he says, “You can be here but I can’t take care of this.” He points at Dylan. “Was he shot? I’m no fucking surgeon. My partner handles all the animal surgeries. He’s not here—which is actually a good thing because he would flip his shit if he saw this.”

  Then his beady eyes come to me. He takes in my white coat, then my badge with my name on it.

  I rip the badge off and stuff it in my pocket. There’s no way I’m going to let this little degenerate asshole know who I am. A gambling addict not afraid to skirt the law? That’s the last person I want to know I’m here. It would be too much leverage. He doesn’t look like the type that would try to blackmail me but you never know what someone will do when they get desperate. And he’s obviously desperate right now or else he would send us packing.

  “You have a chest tube?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes, of course. But it’s in the exam room. We can’t use it. I have patients coming in all day.”

  “Guess what?” I say. “You’re closing early today.”

  He shakes his head—the fat
around his neck shakes with it. “No, I can’t do that.”

  Dylan chimes in for the first time. “You can do whatever the fuck she says, you understand? Right now we’re offering you the carrot: you’re going to have your very substantial, very irresponsible gambling debts wiped clean. That’s a pretty damn good offer. Way more than you deserve. But if the carrot doesn’t work, I have no problem using the stick.”

  Dylan pulls the bottom of his jacket to the side to show him the pistol in his waist band.

  “No, it’s fine.” He drags his hand over his shiny head again. He’s thinking, his eyes darting back and forth. “Okay, give me ten minutes.”

  “That’s more like it,” Dylan says before he collapses down into a chair in the corner, still watching the vet the whole time though. He doesn’t trust him. Neither do I.

  It takes longer than ten minutes, but our friend—I’ve started to think of him as the pot-belly pig because of the rolls of fat around his neck, his bald head and his pink complexion—comes back and announces that it took quite a lot of doing but he managed to clear the clinic and cancel the rest of the appointments. He’s acting like he’s very put out. I think he’s angling to get more money out of the deal but I think he should consider himself lucky that he’s getting what he is. I’m not going to say anything though.

  We get Dylan into the exam room and up onto the table. His legs hang over the edge of the stainless-steel top. It’s not ideal but it’s the best we have right now.

  The chest tube, luckily, is exactly the same as we have in the hospital. I guess animals are similar enough to us in that regard. The thing that is different from the hospital is if I fuck this up there’s nobody to have my back. I wouldn’t trust Mr. Pot-Belly farther than I could throw a Band-Aid and they aren’t setup to deal with any fuckups anyway. Worst-case scenario, I mess up the tube, and Dylan bleeds out right here, in a vet’s office, like a goddamned animal.

  I put those thoughts aside. This is a relatively simple procedure. I’ve done it successfully many times now. I know how to do it. There’s no time for doubt. In the ER you do your job; there’s no time for insecurities. We get into this business because we can handle the pressure. Well it’s time to put on my big-girl panties and step up to the table.

  I’m a fucking ER doctor.

  “Are we going to put him out?” Pot-Belly asks?

  I ignore him. There’s no need to put him out but I am going to give him a shot with a local anesthetic.

  After I get the syringe ready, I go to Dylan’s side.

  “Holy shit,” Dylan says. “that’s a big needle.”

  “This is just to numb you,” I say.

  He grins at me. “Maybe you should put it into my head.”

  “I don’t think you need it there. You’re obviously not thinking straight by letting me do this to you in a vet’s office.”

  He grabs my free hand. “I have total confidence in you.”

  Once I give him the local and we wait a couple minutes for it to take effect, I get the tube ready.

  “Try to relax yourself,” I say. “The shot will help but it’s still going to hurt.”

  I feel almost painfully focused as I lay out all the materials on the sterile field, checking about fifty times that I have everything. Ok, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. Do not let him die.

  I take a deep breath and, scalpel in hand, smile at him weakly. He looks back at me with steady eyes and in that moment I know he trusts me completely. He has no fear for his life. No concern that I will mess up. He gives me a little nod and it’s like he transfers his mood to me. I have no more insecurities or little nagging voice in my head. I smile for real this time.

  I make a confident incision in just the right place in his left chest and easily open the tissue down to the rib cage. I carefully push the Kelly clamp over a rib and into the pleural space.

  Blood splatters on my face but misses my eye luckily. I somehow forgot to put a mask on. It doesn’t matter though.

  Viking and Pot-Belly are watching closely. It looks like they’re holding their breath.

  My finger rotates in his chest, clearing any tissue and then I effortlessly insert the tube, guiding it to the lung apex. I connect the tube to the collecting container and the wall suction. I’m watching the tube. Finally, blood starts coming out.

  Pot-Belly gasps like a little girl. “Fuck!” he says.

  I sigh in relief. Tension floods out of my body. “That’s a good sign. That’s a very good sign.” It worked. I finish by suturing it in place and taping it down. Perfect. Take that Dr. Webber.

  Dylan smiles at me. “Good job babe. You’ve got nerves of steel.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I wipe the blood off my face then kiss him softly on the lips. There’s not much power to it, but it’s soft and full of life and everything I want.

  My phone has been ringing in my pocket for the last fifteen minutes but I’ve been ignoring it. I have a feeling it’s the hospital wondering where the hell I am. I did leave in the middle of my shift and until now I haven’t had a moment to think about the repercussions.

  So I clean my hands off and reluctantly fish the phone out of my pocket.

  There’s five missed calls from Madison.

  And there’s a text message.

  Madison: You need to come back STAT. Webber is pissed. The police are asking questions. I’ve just been saying I don’t know over and over. I think they know I’m lying. Help!

  Damn.

  “I gotta run, okay? I’ll be back tonight to check on you.”

  Pot-Belly starts to protest but I think he realizes it’s pointless.

  I stare at him. “If anything starts to look wrong, you have Viking call me.”

  He just nods, and mutters to himself.

  Before I go, I kiss Dylan on the forehead.

  “So you knew the deceased? Joseph Meyer.” The cop shows me a picture of Prez.

  The image of him lying on the table in the ER with blood leaking out of bullet holes flashes into my head. “I met him once before,” I say. “Once before today.” I don’t want to lie because I don’t know how much Webber told them.

  We’re in the same exam room that Dylan and I were caught fucking in. How poetic. Now that I think about it I bet Webber set them up here on purpose, to mess with me. She tried to come in with them but they told her they wanted a private interview.

  “Yeah?” The same detective is talking still. He’s putting on a nice guy voice that’s trying to say, ‘Listen to me, I’m your friend. Tell me everything.’

  But I don’t offer anything else. Even I know the less you tell the police the better. Especially when you’ve committed a crime.

  He waits a little while. Probably wants to see if I’ll start giving up info on my own but when he realizes I’m done answering he starts in again. “Where did you meet him?”

  I think for a moment before answering. Everything I say needs to be weighed. “I met him at a motorcycle enthusiast’s club.”

  The other cop laughs sarcastically. He’s playing the bad cop. Or maybe he’s just naturally a dick. I haven’t decided yet. It’s like a TV show with the good cop/bad cop routine. I always wondered if it was a real thing and now I know: it is. I wonder if they trade off. Sometimes one is the good cop, then they change it up the next day. Or maybe they just get comfortable in their roles, like an actor that’s been type-cast: they learn all the tricks that make it work then just keep going that way because it’s what they know. The bad cop has a huge red nose—busted blood vessels that are the telltale sign of an alcoholic. It’s probably the job that makes him drink.

  “Motorcycle enthusiasts club?” The bad cop with the red nose is talking. “It’s a criminal enterprise. A motorcycle gang. Do you like motorcycles, Ms. Bell? Are you an enthusiast?”

  “They’re alright.” Actually, I do love motorcycles. But I don’t want to tell him that for some reason. I just want this to be over.

  “They’re alright? So, tell me: wh
at were you—an aspiring physician, an ER doctor, who is still in residency—doing at this club full of criminals, if you only think motorcycles are alright?”

  I don’t care about any of this. I realize now they can’t touch me. And it seems like their hearts aren’t really all that into it. The police and ER doctors have a pretty close relationship, actually. I’ve gotten to know a few by name since working here. We work with them when they have to bring in a bad guy. Somehow the criminals know that if they’re going to jail, they can delay it by claiming to have a sudden bout of chest pain. So then we, the ER doctors, get them out of the hospital and on their way as soon as possible. And when one of the cops’ buddies gets shot up chasing a bad guy, we fix them up good as new and get them back out on the street to try and dodge more bullets.

  For that reason, I think they aren’t pushing me too hard. That and I’m putting on a pretty smile for them.

  The one playing bad cop tries one last tactic though. “Your boss outside? She’s pretty upset with you, you know?”

  I freeze. Did she tell them I stole supplies? She has no proof. What if she did? Would she have me arrested? Docs have an unwritten code to stick up for each other no matter what. Would she cross me like that?

  Of course she would. She hates me.

  I do my best to not let on that my heart is knocking against the inner wall of my chest cavity.

  The good cop picks up the line of questioning with his fake nice voice. “If you give us something to go on, anything, we can take care of her for you.”

  “Officer, I’m sorry but I really don’t know anything. I made a stupid mistake going to that club but when I realized what it was, I left immediately. I really don’t know anything. I haven’t done anything wrong. Why would I need you to take care of my boss for me?”

  “I don’t know; you tell me.”

  They’re both staring at me. The thought to give up Dylan doesn’t even begin to cross my mind. It makes no sense, but I’m willing to lose everything for him.