Stripped: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Brook Wilder

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Prescott woke up in the morning knowing that this was it; the section’s first attempt to destroy Al. There was no backing out now, one of the snitches he and Shaft had planted at the clubhouse had already begun spreading word around that Al was responsible for Charles’s murder. Prescott peered in through the window of the safe house, and when his eyes landed on Shaft, who had been seated by the bar, chugging down a beer, he stepped inside, locking the door behind him as he entered.

  “Prescott,” Shaft said, getting down from the stool and walking towards him. “We need to get the meeting started,” he continued. Prescott couldn’t sleep at all last night. He was up thinking about the conversation with Della, how she thought he was going to get himself killed. As much as he loved to deny it, as much as he wanted to believe that everything would turn out the way he wanted it to, he couldn’t promise her a thing. And that realization scared him. What if anything were to happen to him? Was he just going to leave her to raise their child alone? So much was at stake, but then again, there was no way he was going to adopt that line of thought if he wanted to avenge his father and restore his rightful position at the club. He had to get it together, and a part of that was to stick to his plan on enacting a coup.

  “Brothers,” Prescott said, pulling out a chair. “We need to catch up on our current progress,” he continued, eyeing the men as they retreated from the bar edge and sat down at the table.

  Shaft joined Prescott. “Do any of you have news to share?” he asked, searching the men’s faces.

  “Some of the news is already out,” a big bellied man said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s stirring up some trouble at the clubhouse,” he continued, a smirk on his face.

  “Exactly what we want,” Prescott said, nodding.

  “The info’s being leaked bit by bit,” one of them said. “It’s a gradual process, but it’s going to deliver our message, and when that happens, all hell will break loose, and Al will be the target,” he continued, taking a sip of his root beer.

  Shaft nodded. Everything was going as planned. The brothers were beginning to doubt Al’s loyalty to the club, some of them beginning to conspire against him. Prescott was playing a dangerous game, but he knew that those men sitting across from him would stay loyal to him, no matter what. They would do anything for him, even if it cost them their lives.

  “We’re all in this with you,” one of the men said. Prescott leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the place. He was proud of what he had accomplished, a part of him just wanting to soak up this moment if it were the last thing he would do.

  But he thought too soon.

  Suddenly, the door kicked open, the rattling of machine guns echoed everywhere as Prescott dove under the table and pulled out his gun. It all happened too fast. Prescott could see legs scampering around, the rest of his men pulling out their guns and preparing for stand-off. But nothing could prepare them for the number of men breaking into the safe house. More and more of them barged inside, slipping from doorways and corners. It was like they were converging from all directions, firing bullets into the air as they tried to plant terror into the men’s hearts. Under the chaos, Prescott could hear the sound of glass shattering as the attackers fired stray bullets. His brain was on overdrive. He was ducked under the table and images of his men being shot and bleeding to death flashed across his mind. He couldn’t let this happen, he couldn’t let the enemy win again. Prescott aimed his gun at one of the men who had broken in and fired a bullet at him. He collapsed with a sucking, bubbling neck wound. The familiar stink of death rose in the place, Prescott catching glimpses of his men as they hesitated, sending glances back and forth. Attack or retreat?

  Prescott knew this was his time to step in. There was no time to think, it was do or die. He shot up from under the table and pointed his gun at no one else but Al. In his peripheral vision Prescott could see one of his men skip back, clutching a long shallow cut on his arm. It was like the world had stopped, the sounds of groans and blood splatter going around him in slow motion. Prescott forced his mind to focus, to anticipate his attacker's next move. Al held his gun out, his lips curving to a smile as he pointed it at Prescott. The two of them stood face to face, eyeing each other like hungry lions. Al fired a bullet. Suddenly, Prescott’s surroundings turned into a haze as he dove to the ground next to one of his men, who had launched himself at him and took the bullet, instead.

  “Billy, Billy, wake up!” Prescott yelled, clutching at the man’s clothes. He opened his eyes in terror as Billy lay in a pool of his own blood. The man had taken a bullet to the head, he was gone. Prescott felt the world around him spin. In no more than a few seconds, the enemy had barged in and hunted down his men, one by one. Something told him he was next.

  “Well, well, well,” Al said, raising an eyebrow at Prescott, who shot up and held a shooting position. The men had stopped firing, and it seemed as though Al had given them clear instructions before they broke into the safe house. The club was plotting against Prescott, and the more he let that sink in, the weaker he felt. “What do we have here?” Al asked, a smug look on his face. Prescott felt a fire shoot up inside him. His entire body was shaking, although he tried hard to stay collected in the face of the enemy. He did not see this coming. The last thing he would’ve expected was for Al to find out about the coup, and right now, he knew his life was in danger.

  “What are you doing here?” Prescott asked, his eyes darting from Al, to the faces of the men around him, and then to Al again.

  “What am I doing here?” Al chuckled. “Buddy, you have it all wrong. What are you doing holding secret meetings behind our backs?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Prescott, who just glared at him. For the first time, he didn’t know what to say. A part of him wanted to shoot Al right then and there, but he knew that, if he were to do that, he would be a dead man. The truth was, Prescott’s men were highly outnumbered, even more outnumbered than he and Shaft had anticipated. “What? You didn’t think I’d find out?” Al asked, his jaw clenched. An electric charge sparked through the air. The room was divided into two parts, either part ready to open fire at any second. What was once a room plagued by gunfire had now turned into a vacuum, the silence lingering in the air was almost torturous. If you listened quietly you could hear the sounds of men panting, their sweat dripping down their foreheads and collecting on the floor.

  “Everyone knows what you’ve done,” Prescott said. “You killed my father, you took what was never yours,” he continued. In his head, he realized the magnitude of what he was saying, and, in the back of his mind, he could see Della, tears rolling down her cheeks. He could see her cursing herself for ever choosing to be with him, for ever keeping their child. If he were to die that day, then he would gladly strip himself of all the manhood he ever thought he possessed. He didn’t come all this way to back out now, to accept defeat. He started all of this to avenge his father, to bring justice to his death, and he was going to stop at nothing until he took back what was rightfully his, and that is his position at the club.

  “Well, it’s too late for that now, is it?” Al asked, the smug look plastered to his face.

  “You think that just because you’ve outnumbered us then you’re going to take over this club?” Prescott said, resting his pointer finger to the trigger. He had to be careful not to make any sudden moves; with that gun in his hand, Al could take him out in a second.

  “I think we both know we don’t have time for this,” Al said, his arm falling limp to his side. But Prescott wasn’t buying it. He didn’t move, his gun still pointed at Al. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, stepping closer to him. “It’s either you and your men surrender...” He stepped so close to Prescott that his face was only inches from his. “Or you die.”

  Shaft nodded to one of the men standing to his side. In one collective move, Prescott’s men opened fire on Al and his followers, the sound of gunshots ringing everywhere as Prescott ducked his head down low and
retreated with his men from the safe house. One of Al’s men had covered him, the two of them rolling under the table as all hell broke loose. Prescott turned around, firing gunshots at the men who were now chasing him outside the safe house. Two men fell to the ground, biting the dust. Al was still inside. Prescott looked around, his eyes darting frantically as he tried to find Shaft. Where was he?

  “Go in that direction, I’ve got you covered,” Shaft said, appearing from around the corner. It appeared as though he had snuck out the backdoor from the safe house. The two men headed north, not looking back. Prescott felt his lungs inflate with cold air as he retreated farther north, his most loyal partner at his side. Suddenly, he felt more powerful than ever, like a burst of energy had run right through him and he was able to breathe again. He felt like he could conquer the world, like his father had been with him this entire time, guarding him, watching over him. But he had no idea what was coming. A rifle shot. Prescott thought for a second he felt pain. He was sure it was just a stab in the gut from his nerves. Not, as he first imagined, a bullet. Prescott cocked his pistol, his eyes darting around frantically until they landed on Shaft, who was hunched over, howling in pain as he clutched at the fabric of his jeans.

  “Shaft, Shaft, are you okay? Just hold on, hold on,” Prescott said, catching Shaft around the waist and hauling him up. “Move with me,” he said and the two of them scurried away as Al and his men came after them with their guns. Behind Prescott were his men, firing shots back as they tried to get him as far away from the danger zone as possible. Prescott felt the Adrenaline gush through him. He helped Shaft onto his bike, the two of them riding off in the distance, the rest of the pack following them like armor.

  “Are you okay, brother?” Prescott asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

  “I’m fine,” Shaft yelled, his hand clasped in his lap. He was in pain.

  Prescott swerved off the side of the road, driving into a remote area to disappear from Al’s sights. “That should get ‘em lookin’ for us,” he said, a smirk on his face.

  “We off the radar yet?” Shaft asked, looking behind him. Prescott’s men had their back. Some of them could still be heard firing shots on the main road.

  “We lost them,” Prescott said as he made several turns and eventually braked at an area far away from the safe house. The two men were left gasping for breath, and as soon as Shaft’s foot made contact with the ground, he found himself howling in pain. “It’s okay, I’ve got ya, I’ve got ya,” Prescott said, wrapping his arm around Shaft’s back and helping him back onto the bike. “We’ve got to get you some gauze for that,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “Nevermind that now,” Shaft said, his forehead wrinkled. “I’m surprised we even made it out of there alive,” he continued.

  “There’s so many of them,” Prescott said, his eyes scanning the place. He never knew when Al’s men could pounce next. “It’s a fucking disaster.”

  “Damn right, it is,” Shaft said, flinching at the sight of blood seeping through his pants. “They won’t find us here, though.”

  Prescott’s hands were balled up into fists. He was angry, angry that so many men had betrayed him. He thought about his father, and how that contrasted with the smug look of victory on Al’s face. Well, today, Al wasn’t victorious. He’d be stupid to think he could get to Prescott that easily. It was only just the beginning. He clenched his eyes at the thought of his brothers dying for him, and he knew that, if he let that thought sink in, he wouldn’t be able to get through the day. And he knew he had to push through. He couldn’t bear to think about Shaft taking a bullet for him, but he also knew that, without his supporters, he was nothing. Declaring war was the only way Prescott could ever avenge his father. He thought about Al’s next move, because, deep down, he knew he had to be prepared. Al was ruthless, and he would do anything to get to Prescott, even if that meant hurting the people around him, the people he loved. Prescott felt a lump rise in his throat at the realization. He felt his stomach churn, his heart sink and his face grow hot. “Shaft,” he said suddenly. “We need to get outta here.”

  Shaft turned to him, his eyebrows furrowed. “We do,” he said, slowly helping himself onto Prescott’s bike.

  Prescott took off like a flash. “Shaft,” he said again.

  “What?” he asked, peering over Prescott’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with ya?” Prescott didn’t answer. He was driving like a madman. “What?” Shaft asked again.

  “Get Della on the phone,” Prescott said finally. “They’re gonna get Della.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Della stepped into the living room, letting out a sigh as she slumped down on the couch. She had been home all day, doing nothing but hang around in her maternity pants, munching on snacks. Boy, did she love those pants. They were the most comfortable thing in the world. She had bought them when she was with Prescott--he hated what they looked like--but she didn’t care, really, because those “parachute pants,” as he liked to call them, were the most maternity friendly pair of sweatpants she had ever owned. Della looked down at her belly and smiled. She could see the weight she gained, but she didn’t really care. She loved her curves, and, if anyone was going to make her feel good about herself, it was Prescott. Della never pressured herself to lose weight, instead understanding that she should be eating for two people. So she got up, made her way into the kitchen and decided she was going to make herself a sandwich. The house was unusually quiet, not that Della was complaining. She really needed the peace of mind. Things had been hectic lately, especially with the way Prescott had been acting; mysterious, secretive, sort of distant, come to think of it. But she shook it off, tossed a piece of cold turkey between two slices of toast and squirted mayo all over them. She picked up her plate and stepped back into the living room, slumping down on the couch and picking her phone off the coffee table.

  Let’s see what’s new, she thought to herself, unlocking her phone and beginning to browse for anything new, anything to get her out of the funk she was in. She smiled to herself as she scrolled through her pictures with Kate, thinking that getting close with her again was the best thing that had happened to her in a while. She wondered about Prescott and what he had been doing--she thought about calling him--but then decided against it. He could be doing anything, and she still wouldn’t know. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn, but she took in a deep breath, trying to calm herself down by starting a chat conversation with anyone she knew, anyone she hasn’t spoken to in a while. But as soon as she opened the messenger app, her phone started to ring. Della squinted, Prescott’s name flashed across her screen. He never called her at a time like this. He was usually too busy.

  “Hello?” she said, her eyebrows furrowed.

  “Della, listen to me,” Prescott’s voice sounded at the other end. His voice was distorted, like he was calling from a remote area with little to no cell phone reception. “Listen to me,” he said again, his voice distant. She could hear a rustling noise in the background, like he was caught up in some kind of storm.

  “Prescott?” Della said. “I can’t hear you very well, what’s wrong?” she asked. Her heart was beginning to race. Something was telling her she needed to get up.

  “Della, Della, can you hear me?” he asked.

  “I can hear you now, yes,” Della said, already pacing the room.

  “I need you to run,” Prescott yelled. There was a crackling at the other end, but Della was sure she heard right.

  “What, why?!” she demanded. “What happened, talk to me!” she continued, her eyes darting back and forth. Immediately, she closed the drapes and started to scan the room for lurking strangers. Was somebody in the house? She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, sweat dripping down her forehead and adrenaline rushing through her veins. “Prescott,” she said again. “Answer me!”

  “No time for that now,” he said. “Just get out of the house.”

  “Hello? Hello?” Della screamed into her
phone. Silence. Had something happened to him? Where was he? And what was he trying to warn her from? Della was going crazy. She was pacing the living room still, going around in circles trying to figure out what to do. Her mind kept going to Prescott, and how he could be in trouble. She never once stopped to think of what would happen to her if she didn’t make a run for it like he told her to. Suddenly, she heard the door creak open. She cocked her head to the side.

  Prescott?

  She put her phone in her pocket and rushed to it, breathing a sigh of relief as she conjured up the image of Prescott standing at the doorstep in her head. “Oh my God,” she said suddenly, stumbling a few steps back. She blinked a couple of times before realizing it was Simon standing at her door, a smug look on his face.

  “Hello,” he said, stepping closer to her.

  Della could feel her heart jump out of her chest. She stared at him, a look of horror in her eyes. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her hands spread out in front of her.