Down & Dirty_Jag

by Jeanne St. James

  Now he was raring to go.

  Diesel was taking point with Pierce following up at the rear as they entered the dive bar. Dex spit on the rusty metal sign out front that stated, “No colors allowed.”

  He doubted the Warriors removed their cuts before going inside, either.

  The pub was narrow but deep. Not a lot of room to move if shit got ugly.

  And it was going to get ugly. Guaranteed. Because of how narrow the bar was, Jag couldn’t see shit with Hawk and Diesel’s massive bodies taking lead.

  But Jag didn’t miss when the two men tending bar ducked for cover.

  Smart.

  Jag, Dex, and Zak kept their heads on swivels, eyeing customers sitting at both the bar and at a few of the high tables along the dark, dank walls.

  “Warriors?” Jag heard Diesel grumble.

  “Upstairs,” someone said and then rushed past them to escape the upcoming mayhem.

  “Probably know we’re here by now, not good to head single file up those narrow steps. Could pick us off one at a time,” Zak said, his hand planted on Hawk’s shoulder.

  Without looking behind him, Diesel grunted. Jag figured D was ready to run upstairs and take on all eight of their rivals single-handedly. Though, they might end up with a dead enforcer.

  “D, think hard on that,” Hawk said to his brother.

  Diesel grunted again.

  “Smarter to wait an’ let them come down those steps. Be at an advantage. Can’t wait up there forever.”

  Jag waited for D’s answering grunt, but surprisingly none came. He must be considering Hawk’s suggestion.

  “How ‘bout I go up there an’ throw them down the stairs one at a time.”

  That would be effective, too. As long as the Warriors didn’t plug him full of holes first. Diesel was tough, but he wasn’t tougher than a bullet.

  None of them were, so they had to play it safe.

  Diesel swung a meaty hand out toward the swinging door behind the long bar. “Dex, make sure there’s no other way down.”

  Dex nodded and made his way through the door, disappearing. He was back in less than a minute. “Nothin’ back there but roaches an’ shit I wouldn’t feed a dog.”

  More patrons pushed past them in their effort to escape the pending conflict. The next few minutes pretty much cleared the bar. One guy was passed out in the corner, his hand still wrapped around what looked like warm, flat ale.

  Diesel went over and unplugged the old jukebox that was along the back wall by the stairs. When he straightened up, he raised his face and bellowed, “Ain’t waitin’ all day, motherfuckers! Bring it!”

  As one, his brothers’ spines stiffened, their shoulders straightened, their stances widened. There was no mistaking the stomp of biker boots rushing down the old, creaky wood steps.

  They were coming in hot.

  Amazing how a man as large as D could flatten himself against a wall and make it look easy. As soon as the first Warrior hit the landing, Diesel’s hand snaked out to grab the older, beer-bellied biker by the neck and he flung him in a half circle until the man’s head cracked into the corner of the jukebox. Blood ran over the glass and onto the floor as the guy’s forehead split wide open. With an elbow to the kidney, Diesel took him down as easy as swatting a damn fly.

  Jag smiled and so did the others, Hawk met the next one before the bottom of the landing. Both of them began to grapple and they tumbled onto the pub’s filthy floor, rolling and getting in a punch whenever and wherever they could.

  Pierce rushed up the two steps to the landing, then ducked as he shouted a warning. The shot made them all flinch and duck for cover as one bullet, then another struck the wood panel too close to Pierce’s head.

  Pierce leapt off the landing and hugged the wall, his chest heaving as he sucked in oxygen. He pulled a revolver from under his cut at the back of his jeans and glanced down at the heavyset biker that Diesel was finishing off with a few kicks to the ribs.

  Stools crashed to the ground as Hawk and the Warrior continued to roll across the floor, bumping into the high tables, knocking over abandoned beers, mugs shattering as they hit the floor.

  Diesel paused, looked up, held up a hand, signaling them all to wait and not rush in.

  Jag pulled the switchblade from his back pocket, engaging the blade. He got close to Pierce.

  He tried to push past the urge to slice their president’s throat right then and there. But it wasn’t worth it. They had a bigger fish to fry in this fight. They could deal with Pierce at a later date that didn’t involve bloodshed.

  With a last glance at Hawk and the now bloodied Warrior grappling on the floor, Jag took a flying leap on top of the jukebox and waited for the gun to appear near the stair banister. And predictably, it did.

  Jag kicked the banister, crashing it into the gun and the hand holding it. The gun bounced down the steps, Dex ran to snag it and cleared the stairway in a flash. He checked the clip, then pointed to the ceiling, his eyes on Zak. Z nodded and everyone, except Hawk, who was still wresting on the floor with a Warrior, covered their ears as Dex shot up into the ceiling.

  Even with plugging his ears with his fingers, Jag’s head rang from the close shots. But shooting up through the floor had the remaining Warriors running down the steps. Dex clocked one of them in the back of the head with the Warrior’s own handgun, knocking him down and out on the stairway which tripped the next one, bringing him to his hands and knees. Jag snagged a nearby heavy beer mug and clobbered the Warrior over the head, knocking him out cold. He gave him a good kick to the gut as he waited for the next one to come down the steps.

  He tackled the next one, slugging the guy in the face, but before he could do it again, he received a kick in the ribs from one of the downed, but apparently, not out, Warriors. He grunted in pain, elbowed the first guy in the ribs, then punched him in the face again. The guy went down like a bowling pin.

  Jag shook out his hand and glanced toward Hawk, who was now wiping at his bloodied nose with the sleeve of his shirt and straddling a knocked out Warrior beneath him.

  Five down, three to go.

  “Get the fuck down here,” Diesel shouted up the steps.

  “Go fuck yourself,” came the answering shout.

  “You gonna pussy out?”

  Diesel got no answer.

  “Yep, you gonna pussy out. Jump outta window if you ain’t gonna face us head on.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Diesel grinned and slapped a palm to his chest. “Wounded by that.”

  Zak and Hawk chuckled.

  “Think 5-0’s en route yet?”

  “Probably,” Diesel grunted. “Gotta finish what we started before they get here.” His eyes swung to Zak. “You’re on parole, need to get the fuck outta here.” He moved his gaze to Jag. “Go. Take Z. Leave Abe with the sleds. We’ll clean up here.”

  Cleaning up didn’t mean with mop and bucket. It meant leaving a mark on any Warriors who still stood vertical. And maybe even some that didn’t.

  D or Hawk wasn’t going to leave without making sure the job they came for wasn’t completed.

  “Sure?” Jag asked. He hated to miss the rest of the fun. He still owed them a lot more for his bike being totaled.

  “Yeah. Fuck up their sleds on the way out.”

  Jag smiled and nodded. He’d enjoy doing that for sure. “One more for good measure, though.” He said as he heard another warrior coming down the steps slowly and trying to be quiet, though the old steps were nothing but.

  Diesel’s arm snaked out again around the broken banister, snagged the unseen as of yet Warrior and pulled him down the remaining steps, flinging him in Jag’s direction. “There you go.”

  The Warrior couldn’t stop his momentum before Jag clocked him in the eye, then the chin. He kicked him in the shin, taking the biker down to knees where Jag kneed him in the face. Blood spurted from the guy’s nose and split lip and before he collapsed like dead weight to the floor. Jag booted him in the ches
t, making the now unconscious biker smash into a table.

  “That’s what you get for fuckin’ up my sled, motherfucker.”

  Jag wiped his bloody hand off on the Warrior’s cut and then straightened, meeting his cousin’s gaze. “That’s for Sophie, too,” Jag muttered under his breath. “Let’s get the fuck outta here before you get busted for violatin’ parole.”

  “Wish we had one of Rig’s rollbacks with us so we could plow their bikes over.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t,” Jag said, a last look at the brothers they were leaving behind as they made their way to the front door.

  “Stay safe,” Zak yelled, flipping them a two-finger wave over his shoulder.

  Jag pushed through the pub door and sucked in the fresh night air. He could hear sirens screaming from a distance. “Don’t gotta lot of time, let’s do this.”

  They both kicked at the end bike and watched it topple into the one next to it. And one by one they fell like dominoes. Their actions wouldn’t do enough damage to the Harleys, not nearly like the damage done to Jag’s bike, but it made them feel better. A few scratches and dents were better than nothing.

  It was more of a message than anything else.

  When the last one fell, Zak and Jag looked at each other and nodded, then hightailed it back to their bikes and Abe.

  “Stay here. Call me if shit goes sideways. Got me?” Zak told him.

  Abe nodded. “Got it covered.”

  That boy would make a good fully patched member one day.

  If it was up to Jag, he’d patch him in before Rooster or Weasel, even though he had been a recruit for just a fraction of the time.

  “Saddle up, brother. Let’s ride,” Jag said to Zak. The roar of their straight exhaust pipes rose into the night and they rode back to Shadow Valley.

  Ivy flung open her door and stepped out, meeting Jag on the landing outside. “You know what time it is?”

  Jag gently chest bumped her backwards into her apartment. “Shut up, woman. Get in the house.”

  Luckily, the man’s tone didn’t match his words. And he wore a shit-eating grin. So he was lucky.

  Very lucky.

  She noticed the blood splattered all over him once he stepped inside and into the light.

  “Don’t need you harpin’ like a nag if I’m out takin’ care of shit.” He laid a sloppy kiss on her lips as he pushed past her deeper into the living room.

  She spun, hands on her hips. “What kind of shit involves blood? I’m assuming that isn’t yours?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “What happened?”

  Jag cocked an eyebrow in her direction.

  “If you tell me ‘club business,’ I’m going to throw you right back out of here, you hear me?”

  “You’re yellin’ in my ear, so I hear you, woman.”

  She helped pull his cut off his shoulders and tossed it onto the couch. She circled, inspecting him. “Are you hurt?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  She grabbed his hand and lifted it, looking at his busted and bruised knuckles. “In a fight?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ice rushed through her veins. “Were you by yourself when this happened? Were you jumped?”

  He headed back toward her bedroom. “No, baby. Shit went down with the Warriors, that’s all.”

  The Warriors?

  She jerked into motion and followed him. “That’s all?” she echoed as he sat on the edge of her bed and started to unlace his boots.

  “Yeah. Need a shower.”

  He needed more than a shower.

  “You’ve got blood on your jeans, you’ve got blood on your shirt. And what are you going to wear after you shower?”

  He lifted his head to stare at her. “Shoulda went back to church first.”

  But he didn’t. His first instinct was to come here which made her belly warm, but her next thought turned her cold. “Are the cops going to be knocking at my door?”

  “Hope not.”

  “Not sure though?”

  “Nope.”

  She sighed and planted her hands on her hips. “This is not a way to convince me to become your ol’ lady.”

  He ignored that. “Ace downstairs watching the store?”

  Ivy tilted her head. “He called me and said he’d be down there doing paperwork. That’s not normal on a Sunday night. Figured he just needed to get away from his mother for a bit.” Then it hit her. “This all had to do with whatever went down with the Warriors, didn’t it?”

  “Baby.”

  “Fucking Jag.” She shook her head. “It’s this shit... This... And everyone wondered why I would date anyone but bikers. Seen this shit all my life, Jag. Seen your father and my grandfather go to prison. Seen Zak go to prison. D’s been shot at several times. Don’t know if I can handle this kind of stuff happening to a man I allow in my bed. Allow in my heart. Actually considering having children with. I don’t want to be a mother raising my kids on my own because their father is in jail or dead. I can’t do it, Jag. I can’t.”

  “You’re DAMC, would never raise our kids on your own.”

  “Oh, well, that makes it all right then,” she said bitterly, swiping at a lone tear that ran down her cheek. It was stupid to cry over children they hadn’t even had yet. “Long as I have DAMC raising my kids, everything will be all right then,” she said, the sarcasm thick in her voice.

  “They’re fuckin’ family, Ivy. You know it. Family takes care of each other.”

  “Yeah, like Mitch and Axel. They have Zak’s back, now don’t they?”

  “Different, baby.”

  Maybe so. But she saw how Zak’s exile from the rest of his immediate family wounded him deep. He might not admit it out loud, but she’s known him all her life, and they had always been close. Watching him hurt made her hurt for him.

  “Speaking of family...” She grabbed her cell phone off her nightstand.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Texting Dex to bring you a change of clothes.”

  “Dex is busy, don’t bug ‘im.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Baby,” was all he said, shaking his head and yanking one boot off then the other, tossing them to the side.

  “Jag.”

  “Dex ain’t bringin’ me clothes,” he muttered.

  “Why?”

  Ivy moved directly in front of him and after he yanked off his socks, he straightened up, meeting her gaze.

  He grabbed her hips and pulled her in between his spread thighs.

  “Was he involved in this, too?”

  When he didn’t answer, she realized more than a couple of the brothers had been involved in whatever went down tonight.

  She pulled away from him. She needed distance. “You have to be honest with me, or this isn’t going to work,” she warned him.

  He sighed, leaned his elbows on his knees and wrapped his hand around the back of his neck.

  “Baby...”

  Ivy raised a palm toward him. “Fine. I’ll let what I just said sink in. I’m going to go run you a bath. If you were in a fight, you’re going to be sore. You’ll need to soak.”

  With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room. She hit the hall bathroom, turned on the spigot and tested the water until it was the perfect temp. She closed the drain plug before heading back into her bedroom where Jag was now sitting on her bed only wearing his tattoos.

  Every time she saw him like that, she lost her breath. But this time, it was due to the bruise that was starting to bloom over his ribs, darkening the tattoos in that area.

  “Shit,” she muttered. Then her eyes dropped to the switchblade and brass knuckles he had thrown on her dresser. “Jesus, Jag.”

  Those were the same ones she had discovered under his mattress back at church.

  “Takin’ care of business.”

  “Right.” She swung an arm toward the door. “In the bathroom. Now.”

  He blinked at her bossiness. But she didn’t care.
>
  “Now,” she repeated when he hadn’t moved.

  With a groan, he stood and pushed past her, heading for the one and only bathroom in her apartment.

  The tub was half full when she followed him in.

  “Before you get in there, let me see your hand. I don’t want you soaking in blood.”

  She turned on the warm water in the sink and grabbed both his wrists, guiding his hands under the running water.

  He hissed at the sting she was sure he was feeling.

  “Don’t be a pussy.”

  He tugged his hands, but she tightened her grip on them as she washed away the crusty blood, seeing how bad the actual damage was.

  “I guess you didn’t use those brass knuckles,” she stated.

  “Didn’t get a chance.”

  “Maybe that was a good thing. Anyone dead?”

  “Not when I left.”

  Ivy’s head jerked up, she caught his gaze and held it. “When you left? Who did you leave behind?”

  “Baby...”

  She shut off the sink faucet. “Oh, fuck that. Get in the damn tub and start talking.”

  Jag frowned, but looked toward the tub. “You gettin’ in with me?”

  “You’re way too big for me to fit in there with you.”

  “Can sit on my lap.”

  “Right,” she said sarcastically.

  “Haven’t taken a bath since a little kid.”

  “Get in.” She squeezed past him and shut off the water.

  He reluctantly climbed in the tub, acting as if soaking in bathwater wasn’t manly and he didn’t want to do it.

  But as soon as he sank into the warm water, he sighed and closed his eyes. “Fuck yeah,” he groaned.

  Ivy squeezed some of her shampoo into her palm. “Slide down and get your hair wet.”

  His eyes popped open, he glanced at her hand, then slid down the tub far enough to dunk his head. When he resurfaced, he leaned back against the tub. His eyes just followed her as she dropped to her knees, leaned in and began to scrub his hair.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, his eyes closing as her fingers worked his scalp. She smiled.