Beauty and the Bad Boy

by Scarlett Dupree

  I was feeling pretty good. I hadn't gotten scared, only pissed, and Tiffany and I had dispatched the problem readily. But the black rage I saw on Jake's face gave me reason to be worried. He was visibly vibrating. Dixon didn't look any calmer. These scumbags we'd already handled were about to get severly beaten from our enraged, be-ringed men–and they knew it. They looked terrified... and then I saw a group of similar douchebags who looked like they were just figuring out what had happened to their friends. I put my hand on Jake's back. "Jake. You're about to start a riot. Think."

  I watched as reason fought with rage and won. "Get. The. Fuck. Out." Jake spat each word through clenched teeth, and then put the douchebag down. Dixon put his douchebag down, too, and they both made haste away.

  We stayed and finished the round we'd ordered, but Jake and Dixon were distracted and angry. Jake kept looking around the bar and would not take his hand off me. He rested it on my back, my knee. He held my hand. He draped his arm around me. He was on possessive-protective high alert. Dixon was just as bad.

  Finally, Tiffany said, "Okay. Anyone else feel like our great date ended a while ago? Ready to head back?" All in agreement, we headed out. Jake led, his hand firmly around me. I sighed but let him do his macho thing.

  Just before we got to our bikes, two trucks sped around us, kicking up gravel from the lot. The trucks skidded to a stop on either side of us, and about ten angry guys came jumping out. Jake tried to pull me–as I was near one of the trucks–behind him, but I was yanked away. I heard him bellow my name as I spun to disengage myself and fight.

  I felt a bright burst of pain in the side of my head. Then everything in my world turned to darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jake

  Heros Clan… "Dakota! Dakota!" Fuck! Before I could get between these fuckers and Dakota, one of them had grabbed her and yanked her hard away. At the same time, two different guys grabbed and held me. Then… he slammed her in the side of the head with a massive fucking chain. Jesus. Fuck. Dakota! She dropped like a stone.

  I took a hard hit to the gut from yet another motherfucker and doubled over. I had to get to her. She was all that mattered. I relaxed into their hold until I felt them ease up a little. I reared back up, using all the power I could muster to pull my arms forward, dragging both guys holding me. Driven by a rage and panic almost too big to feel, I fought, trying to work my way to Dakota.

  I took one of my assailants down right away with two monstrous right crosses to his head, and then I stomped him in the head to keep him down. The guy who had Dakota had thrown her into the back of the truck and climbed up in there with her. I was going to rip every one of these fuckers into little pieces and feed them to their mothers. The one who had Dakota was going to eat his own flayed cock first.

  Behind the deafening white noise that had filled my brain, I could hear Dixon. I didn't know what had happened with Tiffany. I couldn't worry about that. I couldn't worry about Dixon. I could only think of Dakota.

  I felt something hit the back of my head. My head jerked hard with the impact, but I barely felt it. I turned and grabbed the 2x4 in one hand, then shoved it hard longwise into the guy's face. The guy dropped, and I drove the board straight down, into his gut.

  I turned back and stalked towards the truck where Dakota was. I was tackled around my legs, and I went down. I felt a hard kick to my back. I rolled over and grabbed the foot as it came back for a second impact. I held on and twisted until I heard it break. Then I threw it and the body it was attached to away, and stood back up.

  Just as I did, I saw Dakota on her feet in the truck. I could see her clearly in the harsh glare of the parking lot lights. The side of her head that was plastered with blood, was running with it. Her top was torn. I bellowed wordlessly. I didn't see the guy who'd hurt her. As I finally–finally–reached the truck and jumped in, I saw that she was turning the fucker into soup. She was screaming hoarsely and stomping the high, slender heel of her boot into his crotch over and over. He was a bloody, shrieking mess. I didn't think there was any cock left for me to flay.

  I grabbed Dakota and held her, pressing her hard against my chest. She fought me hard at first, landing a pretty solid upper cut to my jaw. When recognition dawned, she collapsed against me, sobbing, her hands clutching my shirt. I tried gently to take a look at her head, but she hissed and flinched away.

  I heard sirens. I looked over her head at the scene. Dixon was sitting on the ground against a tire of the other truck, holding a crying Tiffany. Both were bloody. Every one of the fuckers who'd attacked us was disabled or unconscious. The whole tableau was ringed by a crowd. None of whom had gotten into the mix.

  The crowd had been good for one thing: There were enough witnesses to attest to what had happened that we weren't even being brought in for questioning. The Stockton PD and the EMTs were being very solicitous of Dakota and Tiffany, and even of me and Dixon. Biker gang members didn't usually get much love from the law, but the stories of how we'd fought for our women seemed to have struck a nerve. Not to mention the stories of how Dakota had fought for herself.

  None of the motherfuckers were dead... yet. Dakota had come close to eviscerating the guy who'd hurt her. His package was nothing but ground meat, and she'd done some serious damage to his actual innards, too. Even with all that, there was no talk of the beating she gave being anything other than justified. And she had the battle wounds to prove it. A gash in the side of her head, a concussion, and lots of bruises–bruises in places that made me want to get myself to the hospital and finish gutting the fucker.

  That was still on the agenda. If he survived Dakota's vengeance, he damn sure wouldn't survive mine. This was not over.

  Dixon had done the damage to Tiffany's assailant. She, too, had been knocked cold–hit in the forehead–and by the time she came to, Dixon had pulled him off her. I didn't know what the fucker had done to Tiffany besides opening a gash on her forehead and knocking her out, and it wasn't my place to ask. But Dixon had bashed his face in good. Most of the bones were shattered. They'd had to trach him at the scene. He was alive, but I figured that one way or another, he wouldn't be breathing much longer, through any orifice. Dixon had work to do, too.

  The other attackers had broken bones and concussions, mostly. They'd all been carted away to the hospital already. In a paddy wagon. They were due some payback, too.

  Dixon and I... well, we'd been in one or two bad fights before. My head hurt like a son of a bitch, but the blow I took didn't even break the skin. My back hurt and I felt I had maybe a bruised rib. My knee was a little gimpy from getting tackled, but I could tell it was nothing more than a strain and wouldn't keep me off my bike. And my jaw was a little sore from Dakota's punch. Dixon had a hell of a shiner, a split lip, and probably some bruised ribs. Our knuckles were swollen and bloody, Dixon's especially. Nothing new there.

  Dakota and I were sitting together on the back of an ambulance. I had gotten her jacket out of my saddlebag so that she could cover herself. She was holding a compress to the side of her head. Dixon and Tiffany were sitting on the back of another. The EMTs were arguing hard for at least the women to be seen in the ER. Dixon and I agreed–both needed stitches–but Dakota would not consent, and Tiffany wouldn't go without her.

  I could see Dakota was about at her limit for being fussed over. She was pale and drawn and looked shockingly fragile to me. But she still hated people trying to make her do things she didn't want to do, and I could see the fire rise up in her eyes. I was glad of it; she'd been withdrawn and too docile since the fight ended.

  She jumped down from the ambulance and tossed the obligatory blanket off her shoulders. "Enough. I'm fi–"

  She collapsed to the ground, seizing. Once again, I bellowed her name.

  ***

  Dakota was in surgery to ease bleeding and swelling in her brain, and I was pacing the waiting room. Every once in a while I'd rake my hands through my hair and come up short, with a hiss, when I hit the lump on the bac
k of my head.

  Dixon and Tiffany were sitting together on a couch nearby. The gash on Tiffany's forehead had been stitched, and she was holding an ice pack on her elbow. Dixon had one to his eye and another on his knuckles. There was a box of snap-activated ice packs on a nearby table. A nurse had brought us each one pack, taken a good, long look at us, and then gone back for the whole box.

  Stockton PD had been to the hospital to ask more questions. They apologized and explained that they were trying to get as much done with us as possible right away so we wouldn't have to be bothered again later, but I just couldn't. I couldn't think. I couldn't talk. I couldn't not kick the shit out of anyone between Dakota and me. I'd literally roared in one cop's face. The guy had unsnapped his holster in response. Dixon had pulled me back and taken the cops over to the far side of the room to talk with Tiffany and him. Then they’d left, expressing their good wishes for Dakota.

  The rest of the gang arrived about half an hour later. As soon as I saw Ron, I pulled him aside. I had made some decisions. I wanted the fucker who'd done this to Dakota to die hard, but I didn't want any blowback on Dakota–which meant none on me, either. It galled me to farm this out, but Dakota was my only concern, so I needed Ron to do this. I explained what I needed, and Ron readily agreed. I had no idea who the fucker was, but I knew he had to be in this hospital, and I knew Mickey could figure it out.

  Mickey and Ron left the waiting room, and Dixon and I made eye contact. We held the look for several seconds, and then Dixon nodded once. I went back to pacing.

  Weston came up to me. I moved up close to his face and muttered, “Why the fuck are the Heros Clan attacking us?”

  “I don’t know, Son,” Weston replied, shaking his head. I didn’t believe him. But now wasn’t the time. Dakota was all that mattered. Weston placed a hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged him off. I was glad my family–Dakota's future family–was here, but I wanted nothing of comfort. I wanted my rage and my worry.

  I raked my hands through my hair and came up short on the lump again. I grunted, and Tiffany stood up and brought an ice pack over to me. She snapped it and reached up to hold it to my head. I flinched away. I was much taller than she, so my head was out of her reach, but she just stood there, one hand on my arm, the other holding the pack as close to my head as she could get, waiting patiently. She just looked at me; she didn't say a word.

  Finally, I took the pack and pressed it gingerly against the lump. I let her lead me to sit down next to Dixon. Then she kissed the top of my head. That was it. I dropped my face into my free hand and wept silently. Tiffany sat next to me and put her arms around me.

  It was several hours before the surgeon finally came out to the waiting room. He sat down with me, and explained that they were able to go in and stop the bleeding and draw off the blood that had pooled in her brain, and the swelling was sufficiently retarded that they didn't think they’d have to remove any part of her skull.

  But she was in a coma and probably would be for a day or two, at least until the swelling had gone down. Until she was conscious they wouldn't be able to be sure that there'd be any long-term damage. The laceration from the chain had taken twenty stitches to close.

  "Okay, then. If you don't have any more questions, I'll leave you with your family. A nurse will let you know when she's out of recovery." He looked around the room filled with bikers. "Just close family tonight. It's late, and she'll be unconscious." I nodded.

  The surgeon left, and Tiffany sat down with me to explain in more detail what he had told me. She filled in the hard parts that doctors often leave out. It was important for Dakota to wake up quickly; the longer she was in a coma, the less likely she would recover completely. Or at all.

  I jumped out of my seat and stalked away. The thought that she could be dying right now, the thought that I wouldn't see her beautiful eyes or her bright smile.... I put my hands against the wall and dropped my head between my arms. I yelled and punched the wall, leaving a smear of blood behind.

  The nurse came in with the information about Dakota's bed in the ICU. Tiffany, Dixon, and I went; everyone else waited.

  I stopped in my tracks when I saw her. I moaned and doubled over, my hands on my knees. I was dizzy. I felt Dixon's hand on my back. I took several breaths and stood back up.

  She was so pale, so small. Her huge life force just seemed... gone. Her head was wrapped in a turban of bandages, her hair pulled to one side. She was on a respirator. She had dark purple bruises under her eyes. There were tubes and wires and beeping machines everywhere. Only hours ago she'd been wrapped around me on my bike, feeling me up on the open road, ninety miles per hour. "Tiffany… What… Tiffany, please, what…" I didn't even know what I was asking.

  I felt Tiffany's hand on my arm, and I let her lead me. She put me in a chair next to Dakota's bed and took down the rail on the side of the bed so that I could get close. Then she squatted down next to me. "No one looks good after surgery. People look like crap even after minor surgery, which this wasn't. She's pale because everything slows down in the OR.

  "The black eyes are mostly from her pallor and partially from the trauma. She got hit with a heavy chain and had bleeding in her brain. That's trauma. Remember, at the scene her eyes had gone red and she'd blown a pupil. All of it is from the bleed and swelling."

  She didn't say anything for a bit, but then took one of my hands in both of hers. "The thing that causes me the most concern is the respirator. It means she's not breathing on her own." My stomach folded in on itself, and I moaned. "She was when we brought her in. I'm going to talk to the surgeon and get some more information about what happened in the OR." She kissed me on the cheek, kissed Dakota on the forehead, and headed out, pulling Dixon out with her.

  Alone with my baby girl, I sat and stared at her chest, watching it rise and fall in time with one of the noises in the room. Her hand lay on the blanket; I picked it up and let a sob erupt from my chest. Her sweet hand was so cold, so fragile. It felt like it might crumble to dust in my rough paw. "God, Dakota, please babe, please God. Oh God, come back to me." I laid my head on the bed next to her shoulder and sobbed.

  For nearly two days, I did not leave Dakota's side. I wouldn't leave the room when she was examined, and I was too big to force out. I wouldn't eat. I only drank because Tiffany kept pushing water down my throat, threatening to have me zipped up to an IV.

  Every passing hour that Dakota didn't wake up increased my anxiety a hundredfold. I'd learned that she'd already died once, going into cardiac arrest on the operating table. She hadn't breathed on her own since. Fear was corroding me from the inside out.

  The gang had been going in rounds to be with me. I didn't want them there. They–we–were the reason she might be dying in the first place. But I knew that they loved Dakota, too, so I just ignored them. Ron came in early on the first morning. He stood at the foot of her bed and said simply, "It's done, brother." I looked at him and nodded, then turned back to Dakota. I felt no satisfaction. I'd wanted to put my hands in that fucker's insides and make him watch while I pulled his guts out inch by inch.

  Tiffany sat with me most of all. She kept me from really just losing my mind. She knew when I needed her to talk, to explain what the doctors and nurses were doing when they came in to poke and prod at Dakota. She knew when I needed to talk. She let me express my self-blame and regret without trying to make it better, understanding that I needed to blame myself. And she knew when to be quiet and just sit with me.

  She was there the late afternoon of the second day, when I thought I noticed a change in some of the sounds in the room–a steadier beep than I'd been hearing–and when I thought Dakota's color looked better. She checked the machine–the heart monitor–and told me that yes, her heartbeat was stronger and yes, she too thought her color was improving. Those were both good signs that Dakota might wake up soon. So I'd spent the next five hours staring at her face, willing her to open her green-diamond eyes and see me.

  And then she did.
She opened her eyes and at the same time tried to take a breath. But the respirator was in the way and she was choking and heaving and then her hands were up on it and she was yanking. I hit the red button on the wall over her bed and yelled for help. Three nurses and Tiffany and Dixon came flying in.

  She was disoriented and fighting, but they were able to get her calm enough to help her get the tube out of her throat. It came out bloody, but once she was breathing unassisted, she slowly relaxed and looked around. She saw me and smiled weakly. I grabbed her hand, and she squeezed back. I could feel the tears running freely down my face, but I didn't care. For the first time I didn’t care about my gang reputation. I only cared about Dakota.

  "Oh, babe. Thank God. I love you so much. Thank God." I leaned over and kissed her gently and rejoiced to feel her kiss me back.

  She tried to talk, but she couldn't get any sound out. She grabbed at her throat and grimaced. Tiffany stepped up, "Dakota, honey, don't try to talk yet. The tube that was down your throat is going to make it sore and hard to talk for a while. Getting it out just now was a little harder than usual, and it looks like you're probably pretty raw. You can hurt yourself more if you try to talk. I'll get you a pad and pen until you feel better, okay?"

  A generic resident on night rounds came in and did some kind of testing on her reflexes and looked into her eyes with a light obviously too bright for her. I could see that the asshole was causing her pain, and it was only Tiffany's hand on my arm that kept me from bodily removing me. The blood was receding from Dakota's eyes. The right one, which had blown, still looked pretty bad, but the left was almost back to normal.

  Dakota faded into sleep, and I watched her breathe for the rest of the night.

  When her neurosurgeon came in very early in the morning, he woke Dakota up to test her. God, I hated hospitals. He ran the same tests I’d seen others do, including asking Dakota to write down words and draw shapes in sequence.