Fallen (Redemption Reigns MC Book 3)

by Juli Valenti

  “I want to dedicate this song right here, not only to my President, the bride and her groom, but also to my beautiful girlfriend ... because you’re so fucking special.”

  Fallen’s words pulled her attention back to the stage, the crowd ‘aww-ing” and glancing her direction. She couldn’t help her answering grin as he began strumming the intro to Creep by Radiohead. It was one of her favorite songs; one that made her equally happy and sort of sad at the same time. To her, it was truly a representation of their relationship sometimes, when her self-doubt got in the way.

  “I want you to notice, when I’m not around. You’re so fuckin’ special ... I wish I was special.”

  Sarah was lost in the music, lost in Lukas’ eye contact with her. It was as if he had her under his spell, and she never wanted to break it. But reality had other ideas.

  The sound of gunshots tearing through the tented area pulled her from his gaze. Something slammed into her back and before she could turn to see what was going on, the world went black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fallen

  “I want to dedicate this song right here, not only to my President, the bride and her groom, but also to my beautiful girlfriend ... because you’re so fucking special,” Fallen said into the mic, his eyes meeting Sarah’s as his fingers began to play Creep.

  It was one of her favorite songs, he knew, though he hated the why of it. One thing the girl didn’t realize was just how special she really was to him. She was beautiful, in a way she couldn’t see. Whatever she saw when she looked in the mirror wasn’t what he saw; they’d had many discussions about it. Sarah was unassuming, naturally gorgeous, and that she was unaware only amplified her beauty.

  She often told him how the song was how she felt about him. That he was special and she couldn’t figure out what the hell she was doing there.

  Ugh, he thought, adjusting the pick in his grip. She’s the fucking special one. What the hell is she doing with me?

  Keeping his eyes glued to hers, he did his best to pour the emotions he felt for her into them, willed her to feel them. She needed to know that he was the lucky one to be with her, not the other way around.

  Women had never been in short supply for Fallen. Add in his SIA status within the club, and his penchant for guitars and rock ‘n roll, he could get pussy wherever he wanted. He wasn’t even arrogant about it - it was a mere fact. The guitar alone was a magnet for every fan girl, band girl hopeful wannabe. They hung around the bars, hoping any musician who may have some sort of clout in the area would sniff up their skirts and want a piece of their ass. Same with the club girls, though their agendas were only slightly different - their hopes were for the ride on a back of a bike and protection. Some days he couldn’t decide which was worse.

  Sarah, though. Sarah was so different. She wasn’t a band girl. She was merely a girl who just so happened to be dating a dude in a band. She wasn’t a club chick ... She was just a girl who accidentally got involved with a club member.

  The first time he’d seen her, his tiny nurse after he’d been shot on a run - a hit he’d taken in lieu of his president, which he hadn’t known at the time - he knew he’d wanted her. And not for a night. But more for like every. Fucking. Night. For the rest of every fucking nights. When Poet had slammed the brunette against the wall outside his door, Fallen having heard every word, he’d been certain the girl would never come back.

  Seeing her face the next day had been ... words failed him. She had balls, and gumption. Sarah’d held her head high, regardless of the big-ass club bodyguards outside his door, and done her job. She’d been sweet to him, wiping his hair away from his face. She’d snuck him extra Jell-O and brought in movies for his room in case he got bored.

  “Anytime you need to change the movie, you just press that red call nurse button,” she’d whispered, winking, clearly giving him a reason to call her back into his room. It had been innocent and charming. When he’d seen the movies she’d brought him - a plethora of Disney princess movies - he’d laughed, hurting his stomach in the process.

  During this whole wedding, watching Poet walk down the aisle in a gorgeous white dress, looking every bit as beautiful as the princesses that had been in those stupid fairy tales, all he’d been able to think of was Sarah. How she’d look on the day he made her his.

  “Exactly what I said. One day, I’m going to marry you. Get over it.” The words had just slipped out, surprising him, but not. He meant them. She would be his wife, he was going to marry her. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. And maybe where.

  He was pulled out of his reverie by the sound of gunshots. It was a sound that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else - nothing ever rang through his bones the way they did. If his band hadn’t been playing their one and only slow song, they may have missed them as well. And if they’d missed them, he wouldn’t have watched his beautiful woman slipping from her seat, her back blooming with red.

  In a heartbeat he’d tossed his Dean ML Switchblade to the ground of the stage, not giving a damn if the instrument would be damaged. The only thing that mattered was getting to his woman.

  Gunshots still rang through the reception tent, the guests dropping to the floor. It was out of place and downright wrong that none of the brothers were shooting back - but Poet had demanded peace, had demanded that no one be packing heat at her wedding. In her words, “No one would be stupid enough to take on both clubs.” But apparently they had. And the only people who had any sort of defense to them were the hired security and the cops who’d stayed down the street.

  “Where the fuck are those fucking cops?” he yelled as he jumped from the stage, moving carefully but beelining for Sarah.

  “I’ve fucking called them. Who thought it was a good idea for us all to go fucking vanilla?!” Artist screamed back, inching toward her table.

  “It sounded like a good idea at the time, damn it,” came Poet’s voice, loud even amongst the chaos of the crowd. “Jesus where is it, I know I had a couple taped to the bottom of this - ah! I found them! Fallen, Artist, catch!”

  Fallen couldn’t help his arched eyebrow at the proper-looking bride. For a half a second, he’d almost forgotten she wasn’t the typical woman getting married; she was the president of Hells Redemption. And while she could demand no one else to be packing, of course she would make sure they had access somehow.

  He put his hands up and caught the .9mm as it flew through the air, but Artist shook her head, having reached her table and pulling her own piece from the purse she’d had resting on the ground. Poet must have mirrored his own expression because the woman said, “You didn’t think it was just you, right? Come on ... my brother, your husband, is President and you’re my President. I ain’t going anywhere unarmed.”

  “Ain’t? You’re starting to sound like your man!” Poet shot back.

  “She ain’t soundin’ like me. Lots of people say ain’t.” Shakespeare appeared at Poet’s side, carrying his own gun, followed by Titan, Train, and then even Teagan, all of them holding their own weapons. They shrugged when she looked at them as well, and a large grin spread across the female president’s face.

  “Now it feels like a real event!”

  Fallen knew Poet well enough that she meant her words. Hell, normally he’d relish in the idea as well. But, his entire thoughts were zeroed in on the fact that the woman he loved was currently laying, unmoving, on the ground at the table he’d left her. He had to get to her.

  “Poet!” he shouted over the noise and when she met his gaze, followed his, seeing Sarah lying lifeless on the floor. She swore, and barked orders to the others, but Fallen wasn’t listening. He was standing, walking tall, not giving two shits if a stray bullet was aimed for him. His only purpose in those moments was to help the woman who’d kept him alive - in more ways than one.

  Reaching her, he knelt, the blue of the back of her dress turning a deep purple as it absorbed crimson, the color running down to stain the white fabric of the skirt. He could
n’t see exactly where it was all coming from and lifted her gently. A small hiss escaped her lungs as he did and he could have cried - he was terrified she was already gone. Judging by the amount of blood, if he didn’t find the wound or wounds, she would be.

  “Hang on, baby. You’ve got to hang on, okay, my little Leaf? You have to hang on,” he murmured to her, tearing the zipper down her back, revealing the skin of her usually perfect back. This time, though, it wasn’t flawless. It was marred with a half-inch dark spot, a bullet wound, blood seeping out of it. Pressing a hand to it, he shifted slightly to force her top away from the front, finding a second, slightly bigger hole the other side of her chest.

  “Call a fucking ambulance!” he yelled, panic rising in his throat. It was good that the bullet went clean through, but it went straight through her chest. He could feel her heartbeat when he searched for it, though it was weak, but at least it was there. She hadn’t been shot in the heart. Her breathing, though, was labored, and when he bent his head to her chest to listen, he could hear the gurgle of fluid in her lungs. “Teagan!”

  He thought back to the many medical shows Sarah often had on the TV. Usually she was doing something other than watching it, keeping it on for the idle noise - something he’d discovered she did from having worked in the hospital and being used to the sound. It didn’t bother him, and he rarely watched them himself, but he knew enough that he had to find a way to release the air pressure building up around her lungs.

  “What can I do, Fallen?” came Teagan’s soft voice, worry evident in her tone.

  “I’m pretty sure the bullet went clean through, but got her lung. Judging by the sound of it, it collapsed the lung and she’s got fluid building up. You’re studying to be a nurse, right? We have to get the air pressure off, so the fluid will stop building and she’ll be able to breathe.”

  The redhead nodded. “Yeah. We need something hollow, and ... and something sharp.”

  His head snapped to her and she put her hands up. “We haven’t covered this yet. But I watch Gray’s Anatomy ... We need to put a pen or a straw or something into her lung, give it an outlet to leak the fluid and relieve the pressure.”

  This time he nodded, patting his jacket but not finding anything helpful. She stood and starting walking away, talking hurriedly as she moved. “Train has a pocket knife on his key ring - I’ll grab it! Look for something hollow. Check the purses. Someone has to have a pen or something that’ll do.”

  Fallen did as she instructed, something he normally wouldn’t do. No way would he take orders from club ass ... even from Teagan. It was common knowledge she once warmed his bed. Sarah knew it, too. But he wouldn’t take any woman’s degrading his masculinity like that, with the exception of Poet because she outranked him. Yet, if that fiery hooker could keep his love alive, he’d damn near walk on hot coals.

  Digging through purses of every different shape and color, he finally found a plain ink pen and made quick work of tearing it apart until he had only the hollow barrel. As he was finishing, throwing the unneeded parts away from the area, Teagan returned, with Train in tow.

  The other man knelt beside Fallen and Sarah, carefully maneuvering her to her side, a sharp look on his face when Fallen began to protest. “I’m a paramedic. We have to lay her on her side - gravity will be on our side and will keep the lung open, rather than closed. The blood and air pressure are collapsing it further and further the way she is. I’m going to take this knife,” he said, holding up his pocket knife, “and I’m going to cut about a half inch hole between her ribs, just here, and when I say, I need you to gently insert that pen barrel.”

  Fallen took a deep breath and nodded, putting his trust into the Bishop he didn’t know. A lot like with Teagan - he didn’t care how it happened, what pride he had to put aside, as long as she survived, he’d be fine. If she died, however, he’d kill the bastard; and he told him so.

  Train waved him off, speaking to Teagan next as he used a hand sanitizer first on Sarah’s ribcage, his knife, the pen barrel, and then his own hands. “Babe, I need you to put pressure on the front wound, here. Her lung is priority but we need to try to stop some of this bleeding.”

  The Redemption Wing crawled between the two men and around Sarah’s body, her hands moving determinedly to apply pressure on the woman’s chest wound. The Bishop nodded and turned to Fallen once more. “Are you ready? We’ll know it works when we hear a hissing sound, okay?”

  Fallen couldn’t speak and merely nodded. He watched as the other man held his knife steady and, before any objections could be raised, drew a line across Sarah’s perfect ivory skin. Blood wasn’t new in their line of work, neither were scars or wounds or even trips to the hospital ... but it was worse seeing on his innocent girlfriend’s body. Guilt began to set in but Train derailed his thoughts. “Now.”

  He did as he was instructed and inserted the pen barrel between Trains fingers as the other man guided it inward. Fallen held his breath, waiting for the successful hissing sound of air pressure, his heart almost stopping when it finally came.

  “Okay, good. Now,” Train continued, grasping Fallen’s hand and placing it around the tubing. “You need to try to make a seal as best you can. Don’t jostle the pen, but try to keep any additional air bacteria from going into it - she already runs the risk of infection from doing a field op like this.” He grabbed napkins from the nearby table, shaking his head, disgusted at the remnants of food and a happy reception left on them.

  “I’ve got to get something to staunch her bleeding. Don’t move her.”

  With that, the Bishop stood and strode to the side, inspecting tables. The loud echo of glass breaking filled the air and Fallen looked up, noticing he’d pulled the linens from the tables, sending the centerpieces Sarah’d found so beautiful to the ground. He also realized, in that moment, that the gunshots were silent. A cursory look around found Poet and Titan walking back into view, blood staining the front of her now not-so-perfect princess gown, matching stains on Titan. Artist and Shakespeare followed. The women were clearly not happy about something, both looking to fight back tears.

  Poet’s eyes bore into his, moving from his face to Sarah and back, questioning. He could only give a small, pained shrug; he just wasn’t sure. When he arched an eyebrow back to her, her bright blue eyes seemed to dim, even from their distance away. Her mouth formed one word. Reagan. Alarm filled him and he looked around, finding Cyrus just at the edge of the tent, his wife in his arms, his back folded against her, his shoulders shaking.

  A part of his heart froze at the sight of his brother mourning the loss of his love. And, what made it even worse, was all he could do was pray and hope he wouldn’t be suffering the same.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fallen

  It took the ambulance and paramedics fifteen minutes to reach them. Nine hundred long seconds of Sarah’s chest barely rising against his hand, of barely any breaths coming from her chest, but plenty of blood pooling around the three of them.

  Train and Teagan never strayed or left him alone; the two traded out napkins and tablecloths others brought to them, hoping to keep the bleeding under control. Fallen kept his hand pressed firmly around the tube helping her breathe, agonizing about it. He didn’t want to have to keep his hands still. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to touch her face. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her just what she meant to him and how he felt, and beg her to stay and not to go wherever the fuck the bullet that struck her thought she’d go.

  But he didn’t. He stayed rooted exactly as Train had instructed. When Poet and Shakespeare came to confirm that Reagan, Cyrus’ wife, had indeed been shot and was gone, the same guilt filled him. The same bargains and leggings to god continued - his praying that she wouldn’t go, that he wouldn’t lose her too.

  When the ambulance finally did arrive, he allowed the EMTs to do their job, and, rather than insisting on riding along like he wanted to, he demanded that Train go - he was trained for that work, and th
e more medical knowledge, and experience, the group had, the better. The doors closing, with Sarah on a stretcher and four men doing what they could to keep her heart beating, did a number to him.

  And, because he was who he was, rage filled him the minute she was out of sight. No longer was he feeling emotions of love and worry. No, this was downright, red-sighted anger. He was going to find the motherfuckers who hurt his woman, and he was going to kill them. And it was going to be slow. It was going to hurt like a bitch. And he couldn’t fucking wait.

  Approaching Poet, he waited for her to finish her conversation with Shakespeare, and, when she turned to him, she shook her head. “No, Fallen. Not today, you can’t.”

  “Who the fuck was it, Poet? I respect and protect you with my life, I’ve never asked anything of you for myself. All I want is for you to tell me this very second, who did this if you know.”

  His president sighed. “We got a couple before the others took off. It looks like it was a mixture of Static Law and...”

  “And who?” he demanded.

  “Vinny. We saw Vinny run back through the woods but he was gone before we could catch up.”

  “Vinny?” Fallen asked incredulously. No way could that pansy-ass piece of shit have done this, he didn’t have the balls. And when he said as such, Poet just nodded.