Wrecked & Reclaimed (Sacred Sinners MC - Texas Chapter Book 5)

by Bink Cummings

  Any day now, Sniper. I need to get to Kade.

  On cue, the cowboy hat wearing dipshit is sent on his merry way with a bullet straight through an eye socket. To ensure he’s good and gone, another pierces the hollow of his throat, and down he goes.

  Remind me never to piss Sniper off.

  Lifting a hand in silent thanks, I carry on with my mission.

  Eight down, eight to go.

  Next stop, barn.

  Rounding the rear of the cabin, time slows as pain like I’ve never felt before explodes in my arm. I fall, my sails swept right out from under me. Hitting the ground hard, I lose my breath. It hurts like a bitch, but I don’t make a single sound. Pain is nothing more than weakness leaving the body. Clutching at my chest, I force my lungs to draw air. Instincts I’ve honed for years slam to the forefront, severing the receptors from bicep to brain as blood pours down the arm of my jacket, coating everything from wrist to fingertips. I don’t have time to waste.

  A second bullet hits the earth beside my head.

  Asshole. You’re gonna wish you didn’t do that.

  Knocking my night vision off, I knife up on the grass and seize a throwing star from inside my jacket. Less than ten yards away is a tall, lean man dressed in black, holding a naked girl by the hair, forcing her onto her knees. His gun is aimed at me.

  “Don’t move, or I will kill you, bitch.”

  Talk is cheap. Screw him and the self-righteous horse he rode in on.

  Refusing to die tonight, I twist out of the way as yet another bullet hits the soil where I once was. Crouching at the corner of the cabin, I prepare for the fight of my life. Gun versus Rosie. Dick-for-brains versus broken bitch. Who will win? I don’t know, nor do I get a chance to find out as a telltale whistle finds its home in the man’s arm. Letting years of experience guide me, I strike when the iron’s hot. As the gun falls from his useless fingertips, I release a star into the side of his throat—a perfect vein puncture.

  The woman scrambles out of his hold to grab the gun and unloads three bullets into the center of his chest. The dead man’s mouth opens to cry for help. Yet nothing reaches the air. She shoots him again and again until he’s nothing more than a mangled piece of flesh on bone.

  Ripping my belt from its loops, I make a tourniquet around my arm before I lose any more blood. That bastard took more than a swipe at me. There’s a hole. Not a lethal one, but I’ll be the owner of a fancy new scar, should I survive the night.

  “Hey,” I speak softly to the female, who’s shaking like a leaf.

  She whips around as if just now realizing I’m here and aims the near-empty gun at my head.

  I raise my good hand in surrender. “Hey. I’m here to help.”

  The brunette’s eyes narrow as she covers her exposed vagina, gun lowering. “Are you Swan?”

  “Yes. How do you know my name?”

  “Your man’s in the barn. He said you’d come.” Her eyes latch on to the building closest to us, where a spotlight bathes the grass in a yellow glow.

  Shit.

  “Is he hurt?” I take a step closer, not wanting to spook her. But I need to get to Kade. Now.

  A sad nod. “Yes. They’re trying to keep him alive. He killed them all. They were raping us. And he just killed them all,” she sobs, then crumbles to the ground, her knees giving out as if she can’t take this life another minute. Wrapping arms around her knees, her chin rests on them as tears rain down her dirty face.

  My heart aches for her as it does them all. Every mission I go on, every woman I save, no matter the circumstances I always wish the world was a better place. That I could siphon their pain and take it as my own. To lift the burden from their shoulders. Unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way.

  Taking four large steps toward the outbuilding, I ask, “Killed who?”

  “Six men.” A pair of shaky palms rub up and down her shins.

  Good God, Kade. Ya always gotta be the hero.

  Leaving her to fend for herself, I race into the small opening in the barn door and come to an abrupt halt at the sheer number of women packed inside like cattle.

  Pushing the huge door open with my back, I usher the women through the doorway, so I can get to Kade. “You’re free. Go outside.”

  My pocket vibrates with an incoming call.

  I retrieve it as the group of naked women and girls in all shapes and sizes rush to freedom.

  “Is it done?” Bonez asks from the other end.

  “If the man by the road is dead, then yes.”

  “Sniper took him out first. Is Kade—”

  “We need medical. Lots of medical. He’s been hurt. Tell Whisky to bring the clothes and blankets. There are more prisoners than we thought.” Disconnecting the call, I hurry past the few remaining women to find three others kneeling on the dirt beside my man. His face is ashen. A small pool of blood has formed beneath his shoulder, turning the soil to a muddy paste.

  I drop down to my knees beside him.

  His baby blues are open, staring at the rafters, a grimace pinching his handsome features.

  Needing to make sure this is real, that he’s still alive, I cup his blood-speckled face. It’s warm to the touch. “Kade. I’m here.”

  His gaze swings to me, a lightness sparking there. “Swan?” he croaks as if he hasn’t spoken in decades. Then my brave, hot biker boy tries to smile. But it doesn’t make it far before morphing into twisted agony that has me wanting to murder those dickheads all over again—slowly, Kade style. If he wanted me to place them into jars to keep, I’d do it. For him.

  “They got him in the shoulder and side of his ribs,” one of Kade’s saviors whisper as I lean in to kiss his cheek.

  “Thank you,” I express with the deepest sincerity I can muster without crying. Now’s not the time. Not when he needs me to be strong. “Thank you for helping him.”

  Murmurs of “you’re welcome” are their replies.

  I pull back to assess his damage, which is hard to see with all these clothes on. The women have shoved what looks to be blankets in his wounds to staunch the bleeding. As far as I can tell, it helped.

  “He got them all.” A thick blonde points to the far wall, where a stack of mutilated corpses lay beside a single bale of hay.

  “Babe?” Kade props a hand on my knee and squeezes.

  Not wasting another second on those dead men, I turn all attention to my dark prince as we wait for the doctor to arrive. “Yes?”

  “You’re hurt.” Leave it to him to notice I’m not doing so hot either. The adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet, so the pain is minimal. It won’t last long. Never does.

  “I’m fine,” I reassure.

  Is it just me, or do we need a vacation? A long one. I’m thinking someplace tropical.

  A half-smirk hooks at one corner of his mouth. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

  This man. Bleeding on the floor and he still finds a way to make me smile.

  I place my hand on top of his, fingers slotting together. “Yeah, we do, honey. That we do.”

  “Guess that means you gotta marry me then.” Kade winks.

  My stomach dips at the amount of hope swirling in those gorgeous eyes.

  Well… Isn’t he full of surprises?

  Leaning in, careful not to touch his injuries, I press a simple kiss to my man’s lips. “Guess I do.”

  “Fuck, yesss.”

  ‘Til death do us part, dark prince. ‘Til death do us part. And today’s not the day.

  The End

  Want a bonus scene of Rosie, Kade, and their family?

  Click The Link Below

  https://dl.bookfunnel.com/5bklla01lp

  AUTHOR LETTER

  Sisters,

  Thank you so much for reading Rosie’s Wrecked duet. It means the world to me you were brave enough to take the dark and crazy journey with her. When Rosie first came to me in the HOPE Trilogy, I wasn’t sure what would come of her story. Not until she showed me the light and walked me a
long the path to get where she is at the end of Wrecked & Reclaimed. It was an emotional expedition for me to bring her to life. Lots of crying on my part. Her scene with Johnny in particular, when he committed suicide, because that is much like my how my step-son died.

  I’m thrilled she’s finally happy with her choice of man. Kade has and will always be a favorite of mine. His dark and twisty parts mixed with his humor is enough to make any girl swoon.

  I’m sure you’re wondering what’s in store for the Texas Chapter next. Honestly, I have a few ideas up my sleeve. Only time will tell if they come to fruition or not.

  Again, thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading these books. I couldn’t do what I do without you. Can you believe I’ve been at this for almost four and a half years at this point? It doesn’t seem possible. But it is.

  Sending you lots of love.

  Happy reading… whatever it is you pick up next.

  Peace, Bink.

  P.S. If you have the time, I would love it if you’d consider posting a review. It’s always greatly appriciated.

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  SAMPLE CHAPTER OF MC CHRONICLES : VOL 1

  Monday, September 2, 2013

  Today’s the day I start writing to you, and let’s just hope I can do at least this right. My birthday was last week. Last week I turned thirty; last week my life changed into another decade. A decade I swear that I’m going to do better. Considering I spent my entire 20’s bed-hopping from one bad boy loser to the next and never having a damn thing to show for it. No ring, no happiness, a big fat nada. Except maybe the extra ten pounds I’ve gained since high school. Ok, I realize you are probably rolling your eyes at me right now. Yes, ten whole pounds. All of it created by stress eating mass quantities of chocolate and all of it ending up in two places, T&A—need I say more?

  Now… When I stare at myself in the mirror, I see boobs. Boobs is all I see. Or how my mom so delicately puts it, I’m ‘One Big Tit.’ A medium sized woman with boobs too big for her body. I’ve considered having them lopped off a time or two, but then where would my sporadic nipple orgasms go? I can’t jeopardize those, not when they make my toes curl and I’m clawing at whatever man is sucking them, nearly suffocating him in these giant bad boys. I’m a size six. Don’t hate me, I can’t help it. And if I gain weight, I fear I might topple over as my breasts will undoubtedly get larger, they always do. I have a hard enough time buying bras at it is. A size 34 DDD, yes, I said it… Three D’s…I’m not stuttering.

  My hair…it’s always been the same color, different styles, and lengths, but I refuse to dye it. It’s blonde, Goldilocks blonde, and it’s short, at least for now. I wear it close to my jaw now; I chopped off the majority of it after my last loser boyfriend and I broke up. My eyes are blue…Why the hell am I’m spouting this shit to you? No damn clue…but I’m at a loss of what to say or what the hell I’m supposed to even write… Just deal? Will ya? Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m talking to a diary now. Pathetic, huh? Yup, I’ve stooped to an all-time low. Okay, maybe not low-low, but low enough that I am sitting here in my living room, my laptop in my lap, the TV is on with some infomercial, and it’s five a.m. I am due to my second week of work at eight, and I can’t sleep. I can hardly ever sleep. A few hours here or there, and I’m lucky if I get that.

  Glancing up from my computer screen, I scan my apartment with my eyes, taking in my life. Trying, in some way, to fathom how I’ve gotten nowhere fast. Landing my eyes across the room on the full bookshelf is the entire reason my life has been this way. Why I am the way I am. A picture of my parents rests there in an ornate silver frame, their eyes staring knowingly at me. Like they can see my deepest, darkest secrets, or some shit.

  I guess, since I’m sitting here, staring, and reminiscing…and I don’t see any shuteye in my near future, I’ll explain a little more about myself. Since eye color really isn’t of any importance.

  My name is Eva, or that’s what’s on my birth certificate. I can’t remember the last time anyone has ever called me that. To everyone else in the world, to all my family, and friends, I’m Bink, Bink Cummings. The daughter of Rodney ‘Steel’ Cummings. Who goes by Steel or Daddy, when I speak to or about him. My father is and has always been a badass, no-nonsense man, who just so happens to be the VP of the Motorcycle Club, Sacred Sinners. That’s how I grew up, surrounded by men in leather, drinking beer or liquor, fucking whores and bitches in front of me, smoking God knows what, and cussing so much it would make your grandma’s grandma blush. Those same men ride hogs; that’s what we call motorcycles, not those prissy bitchass crotch rockets made of plastic for men who have less balls than I do. No, big metal machines that make your pussy clench when you ride on one. And yes, I own my own little slice of heavy rumbling metal that I hold between my thighs and have to think of anything else than the orgasm that always consumes me when I’m on Black Betty, my pink and black vintage Harley. She was a gift from my daddy and his club Prez, Big Dick, when I graduated college a few years back with a bachelor’s degree in business management.

  I’m a third generation biker. Both of my parents’ parents were in the Sacred Sinners. Pap-pap still is, going on eighty and still rides his Harley and hangs around the club on occasion. My mom’s folks passed on before I was born. My mom’s nine years older than my dad and had already considered him hers once he turned fourteen. Kind of gross when you think about it. A twenty-three-year-old broad getting wet for some kid. That’s my parents, though. Happy as ever, in love, and perfect for each other. Although I must admit, I’m not my mother’s biggest fan, nor my two sisters, for that matter. Yeah, there’s a whole damn litter of us. Two boys, three girls. Guess where I fit into all of this? The middle. I’m the middle child, the black sheep. My sisters both married off and moved away; both of them despise the MC and married some metro-sexual motherfuckers with tiny cocks and fat wallets. My brothers fell in line right behind my father—leather, bitches, hogs, and the whole gambit. I’m a strange mixture of both worlds.

  Glancing up again from my computer, I catch a glimpse of Pretzel’s tail awakening.

  “I know you’re up,” I tell him, and that whip of a tail goes wild as he rolls to his side, his eyes landing right on me. Yup, I’m a sucker for those puppy dog eyes. I love this damn dog. Got Pretzel almost two years ago, after another one of the club’s pit bull bitches had a litter and he came out the runt. Big Dick sold a few of the pups and when all was left was Pretzel and the two other dogs they were going to train, he’d pulled me to the side one evening at the club.

  “Hey, Bink,” he’d boomed over the crowd, with a jerk of his chin, alerting me that he wanted to talk. The club was packed as usual. Which meant half-naked club whores, zero old ladies, and all the leather clad bikers that were patched into the club or prospects who wanted to join. I just happened to be dropping by to deliver some cookies I had baked for the men to munch on and was ready to leave. Once you’ve watched dozens upon dozens of men in your life, literally take a bitch over the bar, a chair, or wall in front of you or force a whore to suck his dick, you kind of become numb to it. Once you’ve seen one dick, you’ve seen them all. Well…sort of. You catch my drift.

  As I approached Big Dick, his smile widened, and the whore between his legs kept up her desperate and failed attempt to fit his cock in her mouth. Pitiful sight. I knew he loved every single time a woman attempted the impossible. I’d heard as much over the years.

  “I have a runt.”

  My eyes narrowed, trying to understand what the hell he was even talking about.

  “Huh?”

  “Punta’s runt, nobody bought ‘em. Can’t keep ‘em. He goes to ground or you find him a place to rest his tiny head.”

  This wasn’t the first time a runt hadn’t been bought, bu
t it was the first time I’d ever been offered one.

  “Big, you know I can’t afford one of your dogs.”

  He shook his head, his long dark brown hair that was tied back with a rubber band swayed slightly. “He’s yours if you want him. He’s a cute pup—”

  I grinned and had to hide my need to laugh when he said the word ‘cute.’ It just didn’t suit coming from the lips of a man who was properly road named Big Dick, who also happened to be approximately six feet eight inches tall, and pushing three hundred pounds of tight, hard muscle, with tattoos that littered his scarred, tanned flesh.

  “What?” He stopped his sentence, realizing my expression had changed.

  I shook my head, dismissing my need to laugh. He’d probably go off the hinges if I had even chuckled at him.

  A growl, a deep, murderous, Hellhound growl snarled from his lips and my eyes went wide. Fuck! He was scary when he got like that.

  “Tell me, Bink.”

  I bit my lip, as he ordered again, more agitated this time. “Tell me, Bink.” His giant hand went to the whore between his legs, who was still trying to suck his fat cock. Gripping her hair, he yanked her off his erection, and I about fainted. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. I had heard about his dick. It was a legend. I just hadn’t seen it in person. As the whore, who I recognized as a newbie, fell back onto her ass, he grabbed between his legs and stroked his length. Holy. Hell. I went light-headed as all the blood rushed out of my brain and landed firmly between my thighs, instantly making me wetter than I had ever been.

  “You can’t suck my dick for shit, whore. Get out of my sight.” He sneered at her in palpable disgust and she shrank away, mortified. Straight into the crowd of leather, sex, booze, and loud rock music she went.