Craving Me, Desiring You

by C. M. Stunich

  While I sit and wait, slumped in the dark, in the back of the house, I think about how we're going to deal with the aftermath of this crap. There will be blood – lots of it – and bodies most likely. In the past, all we've had to do was run and keep running. That's the good part of being nomadic. Right now, our choices are much more limited. We're going to have to clean this up and quick, before anyone gets it in their heads to come check this out. In some places, the cops have it in for any motorcycle club that crosses their path. They will look for ways to bust them. Here, it's the opposite. They tend to look the other way. That's a good thing, but it doesn't last forever. Just because they can't interfere in a major firefight doesn't mean they won't come later. My only real hope here is that we're far enough away from the neighbors that we can wrap this up fast. Tease tells me Tax has a thing with cops, that he knows some folks higher up and can guarantee they'll leave us be, but I can't count on that. Besides, there's always a price for that kind of thing, and I don't know what Tax's might be.

  Guess we'll figure things out when we get to 'em.

  The sound of hogs roars in the distance, echoing loudly in the dead silence of our clubhouse. Nobody moves, but I feel tension rippling the air, turning the already hot room scalding. My fellow Triple M'ers have been waiting some time to take their anger out, and now's their chance.

  I take a deep breath.

  Amy puts her hand on my wrist and we exchange a long look, one that's filled with love and understanding, one that promises that even were we to die here today, that we could never really be separated. It's exactly what I need. I raise my hand and gesture with loose fingers, pulling a select few of my guys along with me: Beck, Joel, Bryan, Kimmi, and three others. Everyone else waits in this room, one up from mine and Amy's. It's filled with furniture that lines the walls, makes this our best hope at a safe haven if it comes to heavy fire while our enemies are in the house.

  Amy makes a small sound as I go, but we both know the plan, that I'll be right back here after the first wave of assaults. We've got this.

  I don't ask if everyone knows the signal – they do. When I shoot, they shoot. That's it. Easy as pie. I swallow any last vestiges of fear and burn them away. There's no time for that.

  Branded Kestrels pulls up on their bikes, not bothering to hide their approach. When I glance out the windows, I see why. I count maybe eighty men before my stomach dips. And there's probably a good two dozen or so more where I can't see 'em. At least, if these fuckers are smart there should be. We're going to need Seventy-seven Brothers' help, but only if we live long enough for them to get here.

  “Austin Sparks.” It's the man from before, with the dark hair and eyes, the one with the goatee and the bad motherfucking case of hubris. I guess he's their new Pres, maybe their Sergeant at arms. Whatever. I don't give two flyin' fucks. He's the first one I'm going to aim for. I raise my gun to the small hole in the plywood. I know it won't give us much protection should these sons of bitches start using the M16s they're pulling out and leveling on us, but at least it makes our position almost impossible to determine from the outside. “Last chance to surrender. If you do, we'll take what we want, you'll leave and never come back. It's that or you die here today.” The man pauses and a ripple of anger pauses through his still form. “You burned down a very important relic the other day and now we've got some folks that would like to see you make an even trade. Give up the clubhouse and come out, no weapons, no smart ass attitudes.”

  I take aim. I figured that there'd be at least a moment or two of jaw flapping before the violence got started. I'm going to cut that down to thirty seconds. I look down the row, at the other seven folks standing with me, seven folks who are all too aware that we could very well die within the next few seconds.

  I put my finger on the trigger, close my eyes and breathe.

  When they snap back open, my gun goes off and so do the others alongside me. My shot goes a little wide, missing the President but hitting another man square in the chest. He drops to the pavement, taking his gun along with him. I see a few of the other bullets find their marks, and then we all take another shot. We only have time for two before the Branded Kestrels realize we're on the second floor and decide to pepper it with holes.

  I don't bother to duck, but rather dive, rolling behind the row of furniture we put here just for this purpose. It won't stop all the bullets, but at least we've got something between them and us. I don't check to see if anyone's been hurt – I can't do that until after this is all over or I might not make it through. Instead I focus on crawling back towards the hallway, lining crawling into the room closest to the stairs and taking aim through yet another set of holes drilled in the wall here. Our poor house is going to need a whole fuck ton of repairs after this crap is over.

  Chapter 38

  Amy

  I hear the shots and bite my lip until it bleeds, praying to the gods of motorcycles that Austin will make it out of this okay. I squeeze my hand over Christy's, looking back at her with a gun in her small hand and her body shaking with fear. We had about ten minutes to figure out how to use these guns, taking a crash course with Kimmi in the backyard. I don't know how good of an aim I'll be, but at least I have it for close combat. As long as I can protect my person and keep the majority of Branded Kestrels out of this room, I'll be of assistance to the group.

  Mireya keeps her gaze out the window, on the grass below, searching for anyone that might try to sneak in from the back. Her shoulders are tense, but her eyes never stray from that single purpose, not even when we hear the doors being kicked in and shouts echoing through the house.

  “You fucking cowards!” I hear the screech, but I ignore it, focused solely on the doorway into this room. I have to be careful not to engage in any friendly fire, but also to stop any enemies. There are seven of us in here. That's not a lot, but we've got a small group and a big plan. I hear the swearing and cursing, slamming doors, a few stray shots, but there's nobody down there, at least not inside anyway. We have a few scattered folks hiding out back, but that's it.

  It takes a moment, one that seems to stretch into forever, before we finally hear boots on the stairs. Another wave of gunfire follows that sound and there are thuds, bodies probably, crashing sounds that echo down the stairs. More shots come and then fade again as the Branded Kestrels try to figure out what's going on. Austin Sparks has done well. I liken our battle to the American Revolutionary War. On a much smaller scale, of course, but there are similarities.

  “Amy, I'm scared,” Christy whispers, but I can't offer her any comfort. All I can do is stay focused on this. The footsteps continue up the stairs and then there's the sound of doors being kicked in as the men search for us. They're going to find mostly empty rooms, unfortunately for them. A few moments later, another round of gunfire. The third wave shoots through the holes we drilled in the wall, firing on the men in the hallway. Different sounds follow that as the Branded Kestrels figure out where some of the Triple M'ers are hiding. Grunts and the crack of weapons replaces the sound of guns.

  My breathing slows and becomes heavier as I hear Austin give a shout from the other room, drawing his friends with him, and exploding from their room in a boom of sound. I cringe, waiting for the sound of machine guns, but the quarters are too tight in here, too easy to hit one of your own and too difficult to find a target. More footsteps hit the stairs and a minute later, I see my first unfriendly face. A shot hits the man squarely in the head – definitely not mine. My first bullet goes wild, burying itself into the wall as more bodies crowd the door, flowing inward, pushing their comrades forward in a rush to overwhelm us. I start shooting then, emptying my revolver into the crowd. I hit some of the men, I think, but the feeling isn't a good one. I don't want to be doing this. I'd rather not. But I'll do whatever it takes to earn this life and my freedom, whether it's right or wrong.

  I remind myself of what these men wanted to do to me, what they did to Mireya, the drug trafficking, the forced prostitution
, the fight at the warehouses. I absorb everything Austin's told me about them and use it like a cloak to shield myself. I may never be the same after this, but growth is bought with change and not all change is painless. The entrance into the room and the maze of furniture we've built slow our attackers enough that the tide doesn't turn, instead evolving into a standstill, with them on one side of our makeshift walls and us on the other. Nobody moves.

  I hear the scraping of boots, the reloading of guns, some cursing, some whispers. Down the hall another battle rages, but I block it out, trying to narrow my focus on this. I'm starting to crawl towards Mireya, who's since moved from the window, when a shaft of sunlight breaks across my skin, slicing sharply through the shadows. I glance over my shoulder and find a group of men climbing into the window, swelling through the opening like monsters. With them is the only woman that I've seen on their side thus far – Margot Tempe.

  She sees me and raises her gun, faster than I can, and I just know then that I'm going to get shot. Time slows down and a second later, her blood is spraying the wall behind her, her body dropping like a puppet with no one to hold the strings. I glance over at Christy, breathing hard, hands quavering on the gun. She saved my life. She looks over at me for just a moment, before we're being assaulted from both sides. Some of the men coming in the window slump over the edge, shot by our members in the backyard, but there are still a lot of them, too many it seems.

  I struggle to reload my gun, but I'm sloppy and ammo goes rolling across the floor. A man lunges at me, apparently also without his gun in proper use, and we collide. My body slams into the wall with a grunt and a knife slices up and through my arm, cutting deep but not maiming. I scream and fumble at my belt, sliding free my own knife, one that Austin gave me just this morning. If this man had wanted to kill me, he probably could have. Instead, he grabs me by my hair and drags me forward. I don't know what his intentions are – to knock me out? Take me hostage? Rape me? – but it doesn't matter. If I hesitate, I could lose everything, destroy Austin, and ruin my baby's chance at a good life, all in one fell swoop.

  I stab my knife into his gut and twist. The feeling of the blade slicing through flesh is disgusting at best, disturbing at worst, but at least he lets go of my hair and stumbles backwards. I look up and find myself face to face with the barrel of a gun.

  Chapter 39

  Austin

  I was right: close quarters means less gunfire and more hand to hand action. I know my Triple M'ers can swing a hammer like nobody's business, so I fight with a grin on my lips. It's not a grin of happiness, but more like a feral growl. I feel like a wolf fighting to defend his pack. I use a wrench and take up the rear, skirting around the outer edges of the scuffle and stepping up to swing my weapon at the backs of enemy skulls. The less dead folk here, the better. And I don't intend to kill everyone, just most of them. My real goal is to find the President. I bet after that first shot, he stayed back from the melee. Now I just have to find him.

  When I decide that we're on the winning end in here, I move away, skirting down the hallway and coming to the door of Amy's room just in time to see a gun pointed at her face. My own gun comes up and out of its holster, and I fire a shot. The man collapses onto the floor, bleeding from the neck. Amy looks up at me and even with all the bullshit swirling around us, we lock eyes.

  I move into the room and help Mireya and the others take out the last few stragglers.

  “I've gotta find their Pres,” I say without preamble. No time for that shit. “Let's go.” The Triple M'ers that are left in that room follow me without complaint. I don't get time to count them all, but I hear more than just my friends' footsteps behind me as we descend down the stairs. I glance back, just once, to see Amy, Mireya, and Christy on my heels. When I hit the first floor, Gaine is waiting for me.

  “There's a small group outside.” Gaine purses his lips. “With their M16s at the ready, of fuckin' course.” I move past him and peek around the window. The plywood in the front is still in place, so I gesture for everyone else to wait while I scoot forward and take a look out the narrow slat. The President of Branded Kestrels is still standing there, but he looks nervous. As I watch, he climbs on his bike and gestures for the remaining members of his club to follow. There're about a dozen of them, but that's alright. I wait for them to put their guns away and start their engines. As soon as they turn to head down the street, I pull the group forward with a wave of my hand, step out onto the porch and take a shot.

  The Pres' back tire explodes and his bike swerves, crashing to the ground in the spin of wheels and the sound of screeching metal. A few of the other guys go down, rolling off their bikes and landing in painful crashes on the ground not two houses down from us. To the detriment of their honor and credit, the last few remaining members don't stop but keep riding, disappearing into the distance. I figure we don't have to worry about them anymore.

  “My fucking leg!” The man is screaming, writing in agony under this trapped bike. Without waiting for the others, I move over to him, listening as the sounds inside the house go still, and more Triple M'ers begin emerging from the shadows. As I stand over the man with the dark hair, the one who made a fatal Goddamn mistake by coming here, I hear the sound of motorcycles. Seventy-seven Brothers.

  I gesture at Gaine and he helps me pull the man out from under his ride, disarm him and stand him up to face the growing crowd at gunpoint. I wait until most everyone is out here, Amy by my side, my friends reunited with their lovers, and Tax standing proud by his sister, his men a vast sea of color in the background.

  “Triple M has never been a particularly large MC, or an influential one, but we're held together by the hearts and the determination of our members.” I look down at Amy, at her soft hair billowing in the breeze and her beautiful half-smile. “We won't be bullied, disrespected, or fucked with. We won't be kept down or pushed out of sight, and we won't give up.” I reach down and squeeze Amy's hand, hating what I have to do but knowing I'm going to do it anyway.

  I look at the President from Branded Kestrels, the motorcycle club that only lasted a minute, and I don't care that I don't know his name or where he's from. All I know is that this is my ultimate act as President, my chance to show my strength, and be the leader my friends want me to be.

  “You sir, have committed so many wrongs here today. You've dishonored yourself and your brotherhood with your cowardly actions and your failed chance at escape.” I hold my gun to his head and watch as urine soaks the front of his pants. My finger pulls the trigger but nothing happens. It's not an accident that my gun holds no ammo. This here was done on purpose. “But I won't shed another drop of blood today, not one extra driblet of red in this squabble. Now get your ass out of my territory and go. If I ever see you again, I might change my mind.” I put my gun away, nod at Gaine, and we both watch as the man stumbles in his terror, limping through the neighborhood with nothing and no one at his side.

  I look down at Amy and find her eyes filled with tears. My hands come to rest on either side of her face, and the breath between us heats with fire just an instant before our mouths touch. In the background, I hear nothing but the sound of cheers.

  Amy Sparks

  Epilogue

  Happily ever after.

  It's a phrase you often find in the end of books, but not in real life. Happily ever after is a hard thing to determine because every day is new, bringing with it fresh challenges and hard-earned triumphs. But sometimes, you just know that no matter what happens, you won't regret the moment you're in right now, the perfection of the present, the enjoyment of a single second that feels like it should stretch on forever. That's how I determine that I'm going to have my happily ever after.

  I look down at the ring on my finger and then up at the backyard. It's more like a park really, a winding pathway dotted with bushes, trees, the bodies of old motorcycles laid to rest. Flowers grow in circles around them, like they're statues, presented in this mess of green as decorations, testaments
to who we are and where we come from.

  “Look at you, my lovely little pregnant wife.” Austin Sparks appears next to me, drenched in sweat, covered in spots of oil. He leans down, his leather jacket creaking as he kisses me full on the lips, searing me with heat and cutting through straight to my heart, blinding me with the lingering taste of love that rests on his lips. “Enjoying the weather?”

  “Trying to get in another few rays of sunshine before this baby comes.” I touch my fingers to my swollen belly while the sound of laughter rings in my ears. Children come winding up the path, flying across the gravel with their shoes crunching on the rocks. Four of them in total, not all mine, of course. Only one of those is mine, the little girl with the sandy blonde hair and the bright blue eyes. Then there's Beck and Tease's redheaded little twins, and Gaine and Mireya's surprise. “Is Christy feigning a headache again?” I ask as Austin slides into the seat next to me and holds his hand out for mine. We got married back here, you know, so this is a special spot for us.

  I set my eReader aside, pausing at a very dirty passage in my book, so that I can enjoy the moment. It took Austin nearly a year after we moved into the clubhouse to propose to me, but he did it right, on the back of a motorcycle in the club's colors, with a grin on his crooked mouth. I squeeze his hand and smile.

  “She is,” he replies, leaning his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes. “She says she doesn't want to watch this birth anymore than she wanted to see the last. My guess is that she's going to have a continuous headache until after the baby's born. If she's too sick to go, well, you know.” He chuckles.