Devil's Claim: Apaches MC

by Claire St. Rose

“Anyway.” Sparky coughed, clearly wanting the conversation to resume its course. “Rose wants me to take her to the hospital now, but I told her I’m not doing anything until I have some coffee.”

  “And you want me to come with you,” Luke inferred. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry than this right now, Sparky.” Namely one very greasy fish named Anthony Blake.

  “I know.” Sparky sighed. “But it’s early. I’m cranky. And I don’t want to have to be alone with two teenagers all day. If you’re here, I can drop her off in Holly’s room for a bit and you and I can sit outside and conduct some business.”

  Sparky was implying that the business they would conduct would benefit Luke too. And maybe it would. He could use Sparky’s help in figuring out what to do with Anthony. It had been days and he still had no solution. That was unlike him. He was usually able to think his way through a problem like this.

  Granted, the solution was usually violence. And the consequences weren’t usually so dire.

  But this situation was quite dire, and any mishandling of it could mean his and Shayla’s downfall. So he agreed to meet Sparky at the hospital so that they could meet Holly and figure out what to do about his fish problem.

  Sparky drove Rose in his truck, which explained her sullen face when Luke pulled up. She was still arguing with him about whether her clothing was protective or not until Luke dismounted beside the truck, shooting the leaning figures a look of confusion.

  He looked over Rose’s attire—a long black dress and denim jacket, and shook his head. “Listen to him, kid.” He balanced his helmet on the bar of the bike. “You’d get thrashed if you hit the pavement like that.”

  She blew a strand of her long hair from her face, her darkly lined eyes narrowed at him. “I’m wearing boots.”

  It was a weak defense and she seemed to know it, so she didn’t press any further. Luke just grinned in a bemused fashion and stared at Sparky, shaking his head. “Let’s go see who has risen from the dead, huh?”

  The walk into the hospital was silent between the three of them. Holly was still in the same room as she’d been in previously, so Rose led the two burly bikers there easily. They got some stares in the hall, which was likely another reason Sparky had wanted Luke with him. Because of course, it was much less potentially disgusting for a teenager to be wandering around with two rough and tumble older men than just one. But at least Sparky wasn’t bearing the judging looks alone.

  They turned the corner and Rose stopped, Luke and Sparky nearly slamming into her from behind. Before they could accost the thin girl, though, they assessed the scene. And what a scene. Down at the end of the hall, presumably in front of Holly’s door, was a boy who looked not much older than Rose. At first that was all Luke saw. It took Luke a moment to recognize the angular, proud jaw of Chester Smith beneath the hood of the sweatshirt.

  Chester was about twenty-five now, but unlike his brothers, who had rough-hewn features, Chester was as baby faced as Paul McCartney or James Dean. He’d look like a teenager even when he was old and wrinkled. Once, Luke had witnessed Chester being ID’d at a bar. The kid had nearly upended a table, he was so furious.

  Chester didn’t look furious now. He hadn’t seen the trio yet, his gaze too focused on the door to Holly’s room, and his mouth was a determined line. He looked uncomfortable and irritated, but he was clearly trying to rein in everything on his face to look more pleasant. If Luke had to guess, he’d say that Chester had been told to come here by his dad. Maybe old Herman thought he could smooth Holly’s ruffled feathers in the hopes that she wouldn’t take on the mantle of Rose’s vendetta.

  He was about to get a surprise.

  Sparky reached out and grabbed Rose’s shoulder, yanking her back just as she was about to speed down the hall to confront Chester. Her fists were balled up at her sides, crushing the bouquet she’d bought at the gift shop for her friend, her face murderous.

  “Hold on there, tiny demon,” Sparky said in a hushed whisper. “There are sick and miserable people here. If you want to yell at him, better take it outside.”

  Rose laughed mirthlessly, turning on her heel to gaze at Luke and Sparky with calm eyes. “I don’t want to yell at him,” she said sweetly. “I’m just going to ask him politely to leave. Can you please hold my flowers?”

  Sparky gave Luke a look, but Luke merely shrugged. He was having a hard time not tearing the shithead limb from limb where he stood. Rose had been waiting for this very moment. Who was he to deny it from her?

  Sparky took the bouquet from Rose’s trembling hands and watched as she spun and marched toward Chester. Catching sight of her, his face lit up in a handsome grin. Presumably he was hoping she would fall for the “innocent youth” act he was trying to portray, too.

  But he was wrong.

  Rose hauled back and punched him across the nose, and the impact reverberated down the hallway. Sparky and Luke hissed through their teeth, though both could barely contain their smiles.

  “That was one hell of a cross, Sparky,” Luke commented. “She didn’t learn that at one of her emo concerts.”

  Sparky shrugged. “She said she wanted to learn self-defense. Hope to hell she remembered not to tuck her thumb.” They watched Chester as he threw the flowers he’d brought down to the ground, caught sight of Luke and Sparky, and stormed away in the opposite direction, clutching his bloody hand to his face. “First real punch I threw wasn’t that good.”

  Rose bent over the discarded bouquet and picked them up neatly, carrying them back over to her companions with a calm smile on her face. “No sense putting these to waste,” she said, in reference to the colorful package in her arms. “Man, do I feel better.”

  Sparky shook his head, but a proud smile was on his lips. “You’re something else.”

  She shrugged and gestured them to follow her as she walked up to the closed door to Holly’s room. She knocked, and was greeted by a pair of suspicious eyes peering through a crack in the doorway.

  The eyes widened, and the door opened to reveal a small middle aged woman with a floral shirt and jeans, who gave Rose a warm hug. “I thought it might be that boy again.” She stroked the back of the girl’s head. “I think he’s been waiting for us to leave. I don’t trust him.”

  Luke glanced over the embracing figures to the bed, where the thin and sunken form of Holly rested, dark circles under her eyes but a thin smile on her lips.

  “Mom wouldn’t let me even see who it was,” Holly croaked, reaching out toward her friend with spindly fingers. “Please tell me it was Curt Reynolds from P.E.”

  Rose snorted, taking her friend’s hand and placing the flowers on the bedside table. “It was a different dork from school, but I didn’t see his face well enough to place him. Total weirdo by the looks of it.”

  Mrs. Masterson’s tongue clicked approvingly. “I told you he was no good. You need rest, not the affections of some boy from school you don’t know.”

  Holly glared at her mom. “I’ve been doing nothing but resting, Ma.” She chuckled, her voice hoarse. “What do you think a coma is?”

  Luke and Sparky took the opportunity to slide into the room in the space left by Rose, handing the bouquet of flowers to Holly’s mother with a gentle nod. Her eyes darted up and down the men, but she didn’t say anything to expel them.

  Rose beamed. “I’m glad to see you’re back to your old self.”

  Holly nodded. “More or less. My throat hurts. Everything hurts. I sleep all the time. Nod off in the middle of…” Her voice trailed off and her chin dropped towards her chest, but after a moment, she picked it up and winked. Rose giggled. Then, Holly seemed to see past her, and her expression crossed over to weariness. “Who are your friends, Rose?”

  The implication was clear: Holly saw only their leather jackets and rough exteriors. No doubt they reminded her of Chester and the reason she had been in a coma.

  Rose was quick to dismiss her fears. “They’re good guys. They’ve been helping me...get through everything
.” She looked back at Sparky and smiled, then turned back to her friend. “We’re getting you justice.”

  Holly’s face grew solemn. “I still can’t believe how stupid I was.” She looked over at her mom, her eyes threatening to spill over with tears. “I just don’t know what got into me.”

  Rose squeezed on her friend’s hand. “It was a mistake, but you were also manipulated into making it. Have you talked to the police? Told them what happened?”

  Holly nodded. “They came already and took a statement from me, but I’m going to have to provide a longer, more detailed statement later on.” She shook her head. “The doctors want to observe me some more, I guess, but I can go home soon.”

  Sparky walked over and put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “We’re going to head out kid. Seems like you need some time with your friend.”

  Holly’s mom nodded at Sparky. “We can drive her home. I’m assuming you brought her here.”

  Sparky gave an affirmative jerk of his chin and removed his hand from Rose’s shoulder. She turned and gave him a parting smile, though Luke knew it would be far from the last time that Rose would made her presence felt in Trojan life.

  With all the excitement regarding Chester’s presence, Luke was halfway home before he realized that he’d forgotten to ask Sparky his opinion on the Anthony Blake problem.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Shayla woke up with a pounding headache, her temples beating in agony. She cursed and rolled onto her side, glaring at the little clock by the wall. It was still early, though if she went back to sleep she knew she wouldn’t wake much before noon. And Shayla had work to do.

  It felt odd for her life to continue on, the world still spinning, even though the night before she’d been threatened by Anthony Blake with the exposure of something that could tear her world to shreds. It didn’t make sense. Nothing felt the same now. That night with Luke had been wild and amazing, and now she felt such shame. She tried to push it off, tell herself that she didn’t deserve to feel bad about a consensual act, but Anthony’s accusation had changed everything. And then, of course, she had agreed to his blackmail. Which made her just as repugnant as he was.

  She’d been up half the night vacillating over whether to tell Luke or not. Part of her knew it was the right thing to do, and that she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for sleeping with Anthony and still seeing Luke like nothing had happened.

  The other part of her feared Luke’s rage. Not that he’d be angry with her; she was confident that he’d understand why she needed to say yes in the moment to get away from Anthony. But she wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t beat Anthony to a pulp for daring to suggest such a horrible thing. She could even imagine Luke being so enraged that Anthony died. And either way, he’d end up in prison. Being honest with herself, Anthony looked to all the world like a fine, upstanding citizen. There were no witnesses to what he’d asked of her. If she tried to – what, defend herself? She’d be crucified in the court of public opinion. She knew how these media circuses went. There was a freaking sex tape and everything. So she couldn’t tell Luke.

  So even though Shayla had spent the whole night tossing and turning, imagining scenarios and wondering what she’d done to deserve this turn of fate, she had come no closer to deciding what to do. Was she actually going to sleep with Anthony? It seemed like she had to. And maybe she could handle that, if she had any faith at all that it was a one-time thing. But a trash-fire like Anthony would use this like some kind of get-laid-free card. It would hang over her head forever. And thinking about that future, where she had nothing to look forward to and no way to get out, made her stomach twist. She’d run to the bathroom twice in the night, once throwing up dinner, then later, bringing up nothing but bile.

  What in the world was she going to do?

  Running her tongue over her chapped lips, Shayla sat up in bed and stared down at her feet, blinking until her eyes adjusted to the early morning gloom. She couldn’t believe that she was going to have to get into bed with that snake. And would that stop him, in the end? Or would he continue stacking the deck against her until she submitted to every wish and command he could dream up?

  The prospect caused the familiar feeling of nausea to wash over her for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours. She was getting tired of constantly feeling like a bobblehead, swollen and full of regret. But today, as she reminded herself, was still a normal day. And normal days had stuff that needed to be done.

  She rose and stepped into the kitchen, her bare feet wincing at the chill of the floor. The pod from yesterday’s cup of coffee was still sitting in the machine, and her favorite coffee cup was still dirty in the sink. She put in a fresh pod, filled the water reservoir in the back of the machine, and then carefully washed her cup. She put in a fresh pod and pressed brew while she looked over her phone for messages. She’d gotten a few emails in the night, as she usually did, but nothing out of the ordinary. Just another normal day, then. With sexual assault disguised as blackmail disguised as dinner with a coworker. God, she was going to throw up again if she couldn’t stop thinking about this.

  Once the coffee was brewed, Shayla sat down at her table and drank it black, grimacing at the dark, hot flavor. It felt right, and she wasn’t sure she could handle cream and sugar in her twisting stomach anyway. She needed to go down to the station like Amy had said. She needed to meet with Mr. Putnam and Mr. Green, getting their input from last week's show. Then she would come back home and decide once and for all what the hell she was going to do about Anthony Blake.

  Once her coffee was finished, Shayla rose and walked over to her bathroom, setting the shower to the highest temperature she thought she could stand and climbing in. Her body ached in response to her restless night, but the hot water soon worked out the kinks and strains of her muscles, easing her tension and replacing it with a fuzzy warmth. She wished all things in life were so easy. How wonderful it would be to be able to get into a shower that erased all the horrid things that were happening.

  One moment she could have Anthony Blake glowering down at her, too-white teeth in a horrid grimace as he showed her the video of herself wildly rutting with Luke, and the next it could all be washed away. Insignificant. Gone. And what would be left? A feeling of well-being and general happiness.

  If only life were so easy.

  But life wasn’t easy, and as Shayla turned off the shower, she scowled and forced herself to remember just that. There were things that she had to do tomorrow that she wasn’t going to enjoy. One of them was sleeping with Anthony Blake. The other was dealing with it.

  At least she could expect her morning to be a little bit less horrible. She knew that Putnam and Green were impressed with her performance, so she could at least count on their kind encouragement to rally her up into a position of better mental well-being. Then maybe she’d have the overall strength to do what was right and tell Luke.

  If she decide that she could risk the consequences.

  She applied her makeup and did her hair, settling on a high, blown out ponytail that swung behind her merrily as she walked. She put on a pair of professional black slacks and a flowy heather gray top, keeping things drab but elegant enough that Putnam and Green wouldn’t think she’d gone off. She wanted to impress them, but she didn’t feel much like putting on a dress or a skirt. It seemed that she’d be better off in what she wore.

  The drive to the station was punctuated by ads on the radio stations and the occasional bopping pop song. Shayla didn’t feel much like singing along today. When she arrived at the station, she asked the receptionist to let Putnam and Green know she was there, and then took a seat in the waiting area.

  She wondered if her office was still unoccupied during the day. She supposed it probably was, as that whole hallway seemed to be cordoned off specifically for people who worked the night shift, but then again KTMA never failed to surprise her with the thin stretch of their budget.

  When Putnam and Green came to get her, their fa
ces alight with pleasure at her presence, Shayla felt only the slightest lifting of anxiety from her weary shoulders. At least she had made someone happy, and from the looks of things they were very happy.

  “Ms. Queene,” greeted Putnam. “Thank you for stopping in. Let’s go to the conference room.”

  They led her there with little chatter or fanfare, which suited her nervous mood. She glanced into the offices as they passed and wondered how many of the people there would see Anthony’s video if he decided to post it. She also wondered how many of them might have gotten in a similar situation with the slimy anchor. It hardly seemed like it was his first time blackmailing someone. He did it with such ease of conscience that Shayla found it hard to believe he hadn’t done it at least once, if not many times, before.

  In the conference room, Shayla settled down across from the two executives and put on what she hoped was a convincing smile, trying to not notice the beads of sweat beginning to gather at the base of her neck and forehead as she thought about what her future might hold if things went wrong with Anthony.