Fallen (Redemption Reigns MC Book 3)

by Juli Valenti

  “What did the asshole do? I’m just finishing up with something here at the club ... Call me back and let me know if you want me to come get you.”

  The time stamp coincided with the first time her phone rang, when she’d first gotten into the back of the police SUV with Officer Corbin. The second message could only be the second call, right before she’d been given to transport.

  “Sarah ... I’m ... concerned. You’re not answering my messages, or your phone. I’m getting the bike now and heading to you. I’ll see you in a few - take care of yourself until I get there.”

  She cringed, knowing her thoughts had been spot on, when Artist told her he’d shot out in a rush. He’d gone to her, to help her, to save her. She tapped the messages button next, finding texts from both Lukas and Vinny.

  Lukas: What’s going on? Are you ok?

  Lukas: Sarah? I’m worried.

  Lukas: I’m on my way. Please be there and please be okay.

  Vinny: Babe, do you need a ride home?

  Vinny: Call when U R out. I’ll come get U.

  Lukas: Call me, baby. Call me... You’re not home and I’m worried fucking sick.

  Her first instinct was to call Luke, to beg him to come get her, but she didn’t. Instead she dialed the number she’d memorized the night before, the one that would connect her with the Hells Redemption clubhouse. There would be time later to make sure he was okay; first, she needed a ride. And, since she’d asked Artist to pick her up, it was fair for her to call her first.

  The line picked up after the third ring. “There you are, jailbird. About damned time, too. According to what Speare found online, you were arraigned hours ago.”

  “I know,” Sarah answered, breathing deeply as she followed the sidewalk she could only hope would lead her far away from the jail. “They take their sweet ass time.”

  “You know, you’re starting to sound like the rest of us,” Artist said, a smile in her voice. “Ready for a lift?”

  “Yes. Please, yes.”

  “Awesome. I’ve cleared my schedule today so you’ll leave that place in a cloud of exhaust and pipe roars. Think you can get to Jake’s pizza? I think it’s only a couple blocks down. Didn’t figure you’d want to sit outside the jail, feeling more pathetic than you probably already do.”

  “Um ... yeah. I think you’re reading my mind because that’s exactly how I feel,” she told her honestly, already clearing the first block and catching sight of the restaurant sign.

  “I’ll be there in ten. Hang tight, little lady.”

  Clicking the phone off, she walked faster, doing all she could to keep herself together. She knew if she stopped moving now, she’d collapse, running on sheer strength of will and adrenaline. It’d been over twenty-four hours since she’d been arrested, and forty-two since she’d gotten any kind of sleep. She also hadn’t eaten other than the half a burger the day before, and the couple bites of the sandwich the state of New Mexico had been so kind to provide her. It was a miracle she was still running, though the tank of fumes was running low, she could feel it.

  Usually the heat in the desert bothered her, the oppressive warmth sucking the life out of her. Now, as she walked, she reveled in it, soaked it up, and as she made it to the parking lot of Jake’s Pizza, she allowed herself to lean against the building and closed her eyes. Taking her first full breath since the day before, she took her phone out once more and called Luke. When there was no answer, she texted him.

  Sarah: I’m ok... are you? No answer on your phone and Artist said no one could reach you yesterday. Please call me when you can. I’m worried. And I want to hear your voice.

  Sarah: ... I miss you.

  The unmistakable roar of a Harley pulled her gaze up, only to find Artist pulling into the drive, Tonka and Cyrus behind her. Their expressions were ones of determination, with a hint of anger, their leather cuts stark against their skin in the heat. Sarah watched as Artist slowed to a stop, killing her engine and climbing off before approaching her. As the woman came toward her, gently enfolding her in a comforting embrace, she couldn’t keep the tears from springing to her eyes. She hated them, the weakness she was portraying in front of the strong bikers around her, but they wouldn’t stop. Instead they silently trailed down her cheeks in a steady stream, and, while she could’ve pulled away, Artist merely held her, occasionally rubbing her back and whispering soothing words.

  When she finally stepped back, she wiped her eyes and hid her gaze from Artist. “I’m so sorry. I promised myself I’d keep my shit together until I was alone.”

  “It’s completely okay. We all have our moments. Feel better?”

  Sarah nodded as large footsteps approached and a meaty tanned arm extended something in her direction. She took in the white and green paper cup and could’ve cried again, but managed to smile instead. “Thought you might need some liquid fuel.”

  “Bless you. Thanks, Tonka,” she said, accepting the gift and taking a large swallow of the warm caffeine. “How did you manage to ride and bring me coffee at the same time?”

  “I’m magic, babe. I’m magic.”

  “He has a backpack with a spot for a drink,” Artist whispered as she threw an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to her bike. “Hop on, hold on to me, and do not spill coffee on me while we ride. Got it?”

  Inclining her head, she waited until Artist lifted a leg over the bike and did the same behind her. She settled herself on the small seat at the back, resting a hand on her hip. It wasn’t the first time Sarah had been on the back of one of their motorcycles, having ridden with Lukas often. The roar of the engine as it came to life pulled her lips into a grin. With the wind in her face and the beautiful coffee offering, suddenly her day had brightened significantly.

  Chapter Four

  She’d expected Artist and the boys to ride to the clubhouse, but they surprised her by taking her to her apartment instead. Panic immediately set in, the judge’s voice ringing in her ears about having zero contact, direct or indirect, with the “victim.” If she violated that, it was back in the slammer for her, which was exactly the very last place she wanted to be.

  As their bikes rolled to a stop and they dismounted, she remained frozen in spot, clinging to the leather of her seat for dear life. It must’ve shown on her face because the three of them came to stand in front of her, peering down on her.

  “We figured you’d need to get some of your shit?” Tonka said without preamble, the lilt at the end of his word a hesitant question rather than a statement.

  “I can’t be here,” she whispered, so softly she was unsure if any of them heard her. “I can’t be near him.”

  “He’s not home,” Cyrus informed her confidently. “We’ve got Frame keeping an eye on him. We can’t take much, we don’t have the time, but each of us brought a backpack.”

  Which explained the backpack Tonka’d been transporting her coffee in - something he never wore or carried. It’d looked out of place on the man, but she just figured he needed to carry stuff; she hadn’t realized it had been her things he was preparing to pack.

  “We don’t have much time, so let’s get in and out. Get the things you need, the things you can’t live without. Most everything else is replaceable.”

  Nodding, she gathered the courage to climb off the bike and walk toward her no-longer apartment. Using the keys Officer Corbin had so kindly ensured she’d taken with her, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The place that had once been her home, her safe haven and escape from the horrors of the emergency room, was now a horror of its own. Sure, it still looked the same, the furniture mostly in the same place except for the coffee table, which looked like a fist had gone through it. But it was no longer what it was. It was the place that sent her to hell for a night, the place that had plunged her into her worst nightmare for over twenty-four hours.

  Following the instructions Cyrus had given her, she moved from room to room, gathering things she couldn’t replicate. She grasped child
hood photos and the single picture album she’d compiled with smiling images of old friends and family. The basic necessity of clothes were next - scrubs for work, a couple pairs of jeans and tops, along with pajamas and under clothes. Her tiny collection of jewelry was next, and toiletries.

  As she was moving things into a pile, the others worked as a well-oiled team, each folding and packing the items she compiled into backpacks. If it had been up to Sarah, she simply would’ve thrown it all in and stuffed it down until the bags zipped. Them, though? No. Everything was put together neatly, like puzzle pieces, the bags closing with no issue.

  The final items she threw in the pile were chargers, along with her laptop and iPad. She wasn’t sure if she needed them, but she wanted them, not wanting to give Vinny the satisfaction of keeping them. Turning in a circle, deciding she didn’t want anything else in the house, she started to speak, to tell them she was ready, when she glanced down.

  Her scrubs smelled like jail, like handcuffs. They smelled like ultimate betrayal and shame, of things she wanted to forget. Decision made, she pulled her top over her head as she made her way back to the bedroom. Throwing it on the floor, never caring if she wore it again, she rummaged through her closet and snagged the first shirt her fingers touched. The moment she put it on, she felt better. Her pants were next, replaced with a pair of perfectly fitting jeans. Finally, she shed the TOMS she’d always worn, swapping them out for a pair of sandals.

  Sarah’s reflection caught her eye, halting her steps in front of the mirror, her mission to leave the apartment quickly abandoned. The face in the mirror, she knew, was hers, though it looked nothing like her. Her usually shining chestnut hair was stringy and limp, falling around her in ragged strands. Dark eyes, usually slightly too large for her, were haunted and red-rimmed, the whites overpowered by bloodshot. She looked older, tired, strung out even, as if she’d done drugs and had been on a two-week bender.

  Never had she wished she could shower more than she did in that moment. Inwardly, the strength and adrenaline keeping her moving was waning. Her knees were trying to buckle and the urge to put her head between her legs was fierce.

  Taking several deep breaths and tugging the hem of her tank top down, Sarah turned away from the dismal girl staring back at her. This was not the time to fall apart; this was the time to get the hell out of dodge. There would be ample opportunity for that later - preferably when few were around to see the after effects. Because, when she fell apart, it was going to be something Oscar worthy, complete with tears and the possibility of throwing things.

  “Sarah?”

  Turning, Sarah saw Artist stood in the doorway, her expression soft though her body language gave her away. She was rigid, fingers gripping the molding tightly, her knuckles turning white.

  “I’m ready,” she answered, her feet freezing her in place.

  “The asshole is on his way back. We need to get gone - do you have everything you need? We could probably cram some more into your car, and we can carry the backpacks while we ride...”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, I’m good.”

  “Okay ... well, anything you need that you don’t have, you know the club’s got your back. We can replace stuff for you, no problem, okay?”

  Nodding, she said nothing in answer. The small ounce of kindness the biker was showing her would unravel her if she wasn’t careful. Forcing herself into numbness, she followed Artist out of the room, expecting to grab a bag or two on her way out, but they were already missing from the living room. Confused, she looked around and shrugged, figuring they’d already taken the things to her car. Sarah let her feet lead her out the door, stopping for only a moment as she left her house key on the entry table before she walked away. She didn’t look back.

  “Artist...” Sarah said hesitantly, her head craning to take in the building she’d been led to. “I thought a Motel 8 would be fine ... you know, they leave the light on for you?”

  “This is nicer,” the other woman replied simply.

  It was true, the Casa Blanca Bed and Breakfast was nicer than a seedy motel, but that was part of the problem. Not only was it nicer, it was also one of the places in town people took their loved ones to for long weekend vacations, or romantic getaways. It was pricey, or so she’d heard from the other shift nurses she hung around, and it wasn’t really in her price range. In honesty, not much was in her price range at the moment, but that was beside the point.

  In the few moments she’d allowed her mind to process what was going on, she’d planned on draining her savings account. Granted, that wasn’t saying much - she had maybe enough to keep a roof over her head for a week or two ... at the motel. The B&B? Well, at least she’d have a place to stay for a night or two.

  “I can’t...” she started, sighing and taking a deep breath, the internal debate of being logical and asking to go somewhere else winning over her pride. “I can’t afford this. I just ... no. I have to go somewhere else.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tonka remarked from behind her.

  Swinging around to face him, she pinned him with a hard stare, her fear and pride blending into anger. “Don’t worry about it? I have to worry about it, Tonka. I. Can’t. Afford. This. What part of that sentence implies that, ‘oh, yes, Sarah, you really can afford this. Don’t worry about little details like gas and, wait, eating. Who needs to eat.’”

  “Sarah —”

  “I mean, sure, all of you know my financial situation better than I do, don’t you? Of course I can pay to stay anywhere in town - hell, I should buy a condo in Manhattan with how loaded I am. Maybe I’ll just live here forever, forgo rent somewhere else forever. Regardless of the fact that I was barely making it where I was, and that asshole drained all the money I made, and saved, faster than I could bring it in. Sure ... let’s just stay here,” she continued, on a roll. “While I’m at it, I’ll just buy the place. Paint it pink and purple with green polka dots and call it Sarah’s nut house, because, let’s face it, that’s what it’ll be if I stay here.”

  She was breathless when she finished and, when she took in the three sets of confused and hooded eyes taking her in, humiliation set in. They were there to help her, when they didn’t have to, and she’d just gone off on them. Not only had she ranted, but she’d raved, losing herself entirely in the few moments it’d taken her word vomit to take place.

  Opening her mouth, she closed it again, unsure what to say that could make the last two minutes disappear. Or herself disappear.

  “I —”

  “It’s okay,” Artist jumped in, rescuing her for a second time. “You’ve had a long day. You spent the night in jail over a completely bogus fucking charge because of the pussy you were living with. I’m fairly certain you’ve eaten nothing in this time, and, you’re in desperate need of a shower - no offense.”

  “But —”

  “And this, is on us,” Tonka chimed in, his usually cheerful face clouded and unreadable after her rant in his direction, though his voice remained friendly.

  “But —”

  “No buts,” Cyrus added. “The club’s got you. It’s what Fallen will want.”

  Hearing about her missing-in-action boyfriend made her heart clench and all thought of protests left her. She knew he was right, and that it was futile to argue with them any further. It was one situation they were clearly going to remain firm on, especially judging by the bags they’d pulled from her trunk and were already lugging onto their shoulders, leading the way into the B&B.

  Sarah followed them up the walk way and inside, remaining quiet. She allowed them to get her a room and take her things into it. Adrenaline had mixed with exhaustion, leaving her fragile. Whereas before during her rant, it’d felt good to blow off steam, now she was afraid to speak - if she said anything there was a good chance she’d fall apart. It was bad enough the others had seen her irrational; she refused to break down ... again.

  Once all her bags were in her room, the others slowly said goodbye, telling her
to call if she needed anything. Cyrus patted her on the shoulder and Tonka, who was clearly still slightly unhappy with her, gave her an awkward nod. Artist went last, wrapping her smaller arms around her and enfolding her tightly.

  “Shower, first. The owner’s going to bring food up in forty-five minutes; eat it. Then sleep. It’ll be a whole new world tomorrow. Call if you need us.”

  With that, she was gone. And, with the other woman’s words running through her head, she started toward the bathroom, though she didn’t make it. Instead, she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands. What started as silent tears coursed her cheeks, before she broke into loud, echoing sobs, unable to keep it together any longer.

  Sarah cried for herself, for the loss of a part of herself. Not for the woman she generally thought of herself as, but for the girl she felt like. The girl who had been thrown in jail, of all places, scared and alone, with criminals. She cried for her loss in faith for the justice system - that the police had arrested her, her of all people. That she’d called them, and instead of protecting her, they locked her up. She cried for her desire to see Lukas, to feel him hold her and tell her it was all right.

  And, lastly, she cried for the loss of the last inch of innocence she had.

  Chapter Five

  St. Agnes Memorial Hospital was quiet, something Sarah was usually grateful for. It was a change of pace, one she desperately looked forward to each night when the lull of patient intake took place. But, after the events of the prior day, it was downright miserable. She found herself wishing something bad would happen, hating herself for the thought, merely so she could stop replaying the last forty-eight hours in her head.

  For a small town in New Mexico, the amount of emergencies never failed to blow her mind; everything from car accidents, to domestic issues - like hers, only worse - and even gunshot wounds and more extreme violence. When she’d moved south from Seattle, Washington, Socorro was not what she had imagined at all. In her mind, the quaint town was slow moving, less rushed in daily life, and, best of all, lacking in the massive amounts of rain. At least she’d been right on one account - rain was definitely sparse.