Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1)

by Fanetti, Susan

  Finding herself without a ready argument to the contrary, and feeling a happy peace in the image of what he wanted, she said, “Okay. We can do it together, right?”

  He grinned and leaned in for another kiss. “Absolutely.”

  ~oOo~

  That evening, Sid pulled her Thing into her driveway, feeling exhilarated and terrified. It had been a huge day. She’d gotten Tucker and Demon back together, at least as a start, and she’d quit her job, slamming a two-sentence resignation letter on Harry’s desk, after filing a complaint with Allison about his conduct. She’d sauntered out of the office feeling powerful and victorious, even though she didn’t have a job and had no idea what else she could do.

  And she thought she’d kind of gotten engaged—the biker version of it, anyway.

  Definitely a big day. Muse had said he wouldn’t be too late, so Sid had stopped at the grocery and picked up some champagne and strawberries. She had no idea if Muse would drink it with her, but she felt champagne-y tonight.

  Dinny had gotten trapped at a light or something and still hadn’t caught up with her, so she hooked her purse and briefcase on her shoulder, stacked the grocery bag on top of her box of desk stuff from her ex-job and muscled it all up to the front door by herself.

  Leaning the box on the stucco wall, she unlocked the door. A vague feeling of disquiet stole over her, and she looked around. Everything was calm, though. Her neighborhood looked like it always looked. Shrugging off that weird feeling, she let herself into her house and set the box down against the turret wall and put her purse and briefcase on top of it.

  She kicked off her pumps, then took her short, red trench coat off and draped it over the seat of the chair she kept for people to sit and take off their shoes. Then she picked up the canvas grocery bag and headed toward the kitchen.

  About halfway there, about half a second before she saw the thing that would bring the point home with a vengeance, it dawned on Sid what was wrong. Cliff. No Cliff. And Muse had his Knuckle, so he hadn’t taken the dog to the clubhouse. He did that every now and then, but when he did, he drove his pickup.

  Just as she had that thought, she’d gotten close enough to the kitchen doorway to see the back door and the floor leading to it. Cliff was lying on the floor, his back to her. Not moving.

  “Cliff? Buddy?”

  He didn’t move. A pane was broken out of the back door. There was glass all over the floor.

  Before her awareness of trouble could become full understanding, a huge hand went around her throat and yanked her backward, gripping too tightly for her to scream. She felt a heavy ring digging into the tender skin under her chin.

  “I told you I’d make you pay, you cunt.” If Sid hadn’t already known who had her, the voice gritted in her ear would have done it. Kevin Green. Was in her house.

  “They took my kids away for good last week. Did you know that? He tightened his grip around her throat. He had her back against his front. He was a huge man, well over six feet, and really wide—she knew from their previous encounter that his was the kind of build that looked fat and out of shape but was actually powerfully strong. He had one arm locked now across her chest and the other hand at her throat—painfully tight, not quite so much that she couldn’t breathe, but tight enough for the threat of it.

  Worse than any of it, he was erect. It was digging into her back.

  He shook her. “Did you know?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “I know.”

  “You did that, you cunt.”

  How had he gotten in here? How had he found her? Where was Dinny? She tried to think, she tried not to panic. But then his arm around her chest moved, and he tore open the buttons on her shirt.

  “I wonder what you got that I can take,” he snarled.

  No. One time in her life was enough. No, no, no. Pulling all of the things she knew, all the things she taught in self-defense class up to the fore, she let the adrenaline have her. Whether it was panic or rage or determination, she didn’t care. She discarded all the advice about giving in to avoid being hurt, and she kept all the knowledge of fighting she had.

  She stomped his foot—but he was wearing boots, and she was barefoot.

  She threw her head back—but he was much taller than she was, and she landed on his breast bone. It made him grunt, but hurt her more than him.

  He had her arms locked at her sides, so she couldn’t throw an elbow.

  He was just too goddamn big for anything she knew. All those stupid moves were stupid. Useless. He had her. And he knew it.

  Laughing, he let her try. And he jerked her bra up and grabbed a breast, pinching savagely. “I like a fighter. Keep it up. I’ll give it all back to you.”

  When his hand left her breast, pulling so hard she thought he might take her nipple clean off, and moved between her legs, she screamed. She didn’t have much air to work with, but she screamed as loud as she could, and he let go of her neck to cover her mouth. Before he could get a good grip, she bit his palm, tearing skin, taking a hunk out of his hand, rejoicing and retching at the same time when her mouth filled with his blood.

  “AGH! You BITCH!”

  As she spat out the hunk she’d taken, he backhanded her in the temple with that fucking ring. She spun and hit the floor, cracking her head on a small table and bringing it to the floor with her. She lay there, the world gray and dull, and knew in a far off place in her head that he was opening his jeans and telling her she was going to pay double for all of it.

  She couldn’t get clear. She knew she needed to think, to fight, but her mind and her body and been knocked apart somehow by the blows to her head, and what muddled thoughts she could make wouldn’t travel to her limbs and let her move. She lay there while he pushed up her skirt and grabbed at her. She could feel his stupid, thick, dirty hands clawing at her, grabbing the crotch of her panties and yanking them down her legs. She could feel blood from his wounded hand smearing on her skin.

  “That’s it, you stupid whore. Just lay there like the whore you are. I’m gonna give it to you good before I rip your goddamn head off.”

  She turned her head, not wanting to see. Seeing was making her head more chaotic, and she needed to try to make sense.

  The first clear thing that made sense was a souvenir. When she was eight, she and her parents had gone to Nepal to meet her father’s family. It was the first of only two trips she’d ever made to her father’s home. Her grandmother, who spoke no more English than Sid spoke Nepali, had given her a pretty incense burner, the kind with a lid. It was shaped like a lotus flower. Through hand signals and facial expressions, she had made it known that it would bring happiness if Sid burned a cone in it every day. Or, that was what Sid had thought she’d tried to tell her. At any rate, she didn’t really like the smell of incense, and she’d already felt inundated by it, because her father burned it when he prayed. Sid had used the lotus flower maybe a half-dozen times in all the years she had it.

  But it was pretty, and it was from family she hadn’t had much chance to be better connected to, so she’d always kept it out on display.

  It had been on the table Sid had toppled when she’d fallen. It was metal, burnished brass. The top of the burner had an elaborate spire in the center.

  As Green lay down on her and she could feel his dick pushing against her, fighting against her dryness to penetrate her, her brain and body came back together. She grabbed the lid and, shouting with incoherent rage, slammed it into his face. Her aim was perfect; it went right into his eye, and he reared back, bellowing in pain and clutching his face.

  Sid scooted back and pulled her legs up, then pistoned them both as hard as she could into his chest. Air left him in a huge woof, and he fell backward, still trying to yell despite his lack of breath.

  She scrambled to her feet.

  Fuck! He was lying, writhing, between her and the front door—and her purse and shoes. There was glass all over the floor between her and the back door, and she was barefoot. She was still
trapped with this son of a bitch.

  Where the fuck was Dinny?

  Green had pulled the brass lid out of his eye and was struggling back to his feet. “Oh, I am going to fuck you to DEATH, you stupid chink cunt.” His eye was nothing but an open wound, pouring blood down his face. But he turned to her and smiled.

  She ran for her bedroom and closed the door. There was no lock on the door, but in this room, she had her landline phone and her .38.

  She got her gun first and turned to go around the bed for her phone when the bedroom door crashed open, and he was on her again, tackling her to the floor. Fuck this stupid, tiny room!

  Though she lost her breath when she landed on the floor with him on top of her, and her head went wonky again, she got the gun between them and tried to fire. But she’d forgotten to cock it manually, and the trigger was stiff as hell when it wasn’t.

  She was better than this! She knew how to defend herself! Why the hell was she making all these goddamn mistakes?!

  When she went to cock the gun, he hit her in the face again and tried to pull it out of her dazed hands, but she held on. While they struggled for it, she brought her knee up and tried to get his goods, but he was too big, and all she caught was thigh. But his eyes took on a whole new kind of crazy.

  “I’m gonna hurt you every way I know how to do, cunt.”

  One hand still wrapped around the gun and both of her hands, he hit her again. And again. She could feel her grip loosening on the gun and on everything else.

  Where was Dinny? Where was Muse? Why was she alone?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Muse pulled into Sid’s driveway and knew right away that something was off. Dinny’s bike wasn’t around. If the shithead had bailed, then Muse was going to rearrange his limbs for him.

  He hoped like fuck that was what it was, but Muse had lived outlaw too long not to be cautious. He backed his bike next to Sid’s Thing and pulled his piece out of his saddlebag. His knife was already strapped to his thigh and his switchblade was in his pocket; since the meltdown at the casino, all the Horde were carrying again as a matter of course.

  Tucking his Beretta into the back of his jeans, Muse went to the door. It was unlocked—not unusual when she was home. This neighborhood’s idea of crime was a smashed pumpkin on Halloween. He opened the door quietly and stepped in.

  And was assailed immediately by signs that Sid was in real trouble. Cliff wasn’t around. The little mosaic table that held knickknacks was on the floor, and the knickknacks were scattered. One of her canvas grocery bags lay in the middle of the floor, a carton of strawberries spilling out. A bottle of wine or something lay near the kitchen doorway.

  Sid’s panties, white with little flowers, were wadded on the rug.

  They were bloody. Fuck, there was blood everywhere.

  And then Muse heard them.

  Sid grunting, crying.

  And a male voice, rough with anger and exertion, growling, “I’m gonna hurt you every way I know how to do, cunt.”

  A grunt and the sound of a fist making impact.

  Coming from the bedroom.

  It took Muse no more than a couple of seconds to process all of that input, and he pulled his gun and ran.

  On the floor next to the bed, a massive man had Sid pinned beneath him. His pants were undone, dropped below his wide ass. There was even more blood in here. They were struggling with something between them, and as Muse arrived at the doorway, the man punched Sid on the side of the head.

  They didn’t know he was there, but Muse’s gun was useless. He couldn’t take the risk he’d hit Sid. He shoved it against the small of his back and unsheathed his knife instead.

  And then he vaulted forward, landing on the bastard’s back, and sank his hunting blade into that thick neck.

  The man reared backward, gagging and clawing at his throat. The movement threw Muse off his back, and he took his blade with him. When the knife left its seat inside the man’s neck, the wound became a geyser, showering Muse and Sid in blood.

  And then the room exploded with the sounds of screaming and gunfire, and Muse was sprayed with brain matter as well as blood. The guy fell, so hard the room rattled.

  Sid had shot him in the face; it was her .38 they’d been fighting over. Still screaming, she turned her gun on Muse, and he threw his hands up, his knife still in his fist. “Easy! Sid, it’s me!” His ears rang from the blast in this small room, and everything sounded like it was coming through cotton padding.

  Her scream cut off, but her expression didn’t change. She seemed frozen, sitting against her bed, her battered face a rictus of terror and fury, her arms locked with the gun pointed at him. She was blood from her head to her feet. Her left eye was swelling shut. Her shirt was torn open, showing her bra bunched up above her tits. The skirt he’d only hours before lifted so he could sink deep into her at Hoosier’s house was badly ripped.

  “It’s me, hon. It’s me.”

  She blinked, and the gun dropped an inch, then two. He eased his hands down. “It’s okay, hon. It’s over.”

  Her arms relaxed onto her thighs, but she kept her grip on the .38. “Where…were you?”

  At that question, Muse’s heart just collapsed. “I’m so sorry.” He crawled to her and eased the gun out of her hands. “I’m so sorry. Fuck, hon, I’m so sorry.”

  When he tried to touch her, she recoiled. Then she threw herself to the side and vomited.

  Muse turned and sat, giving her a few inches of space. With a moment to spare now for making sense of events, rage filled him. So much rage he felt drunk with it. His heart roared in his ears.

  He took in the scene. Her bedroom was drenched in blood. The three-hundred-pound body of her attacker, one eye a gory mess, a hole below the other, his dick still half-hard, took up most of the floor space. And Sid had been covered in blood before Muse had severed his carotid.

  He turned to her and took her hand, holding on when she pulled back. “You’re hurt. Tell me how he hurt you.”

  Staring at the body, she only shook her head.

  And then he heard sirens.

  Fuck. The gunshot.

  The gun at his back wasn’t registered. He had to find a place to hide it.

  He stood and bent down, holding out his hands. “You gotta get out of this room, hon. Can you walk? Or will you let me carry you?”

  She turned her head creakily and looked up at him. Without responding in words, she struggled to push herself up, ignoring his offered hands. She stood and then walked, her steps jerky and uncertain, around the body and out the door. Muse followed her to the living room, and she sat on the little chair near the turret.

  “I’ll be right back, hon. I’m just going into the other room.”

  She didn’t acknowledge him. Muse turned and ran down the hall to her small spare room, which she used for storage. He maneuvered around stacks of boxes, trying to touch as little as possible with his bloody hands and clothes, and found a place to hide his gun. Then he came out, closed the door, and called Hoosier.

  “Yeah,” the President answered.

  “Hooj. It’s Muse. I need you. And Bibi, too. Sid was attacked. Neighbor must’ve called it in. Sirens are just about on us.”

  “I hear ‘em. This Castillos, you think? Or her own trouble?”

  “Don’t know.” He fucking hated that he didn’t know. He’d never gotten a name for the guy who was after her. Club business had kept their intel guys busy, and Sid’s problem had been ignored. All he’d ever gotten was ‘Gr…’ and he didn’t even know if that was the start of a first name or a last name.

  He wasn’t sure which would have been worse—if the body in her bedroom was the guy he’d known was after her, or if it was a Castillo. Either way, Muse knew this was his fucking fault. He’d let her down.

  The sirens were right out front now. “Gotta go, Prez. Sid needs Bibi. She won’t let me touch her.”

  “Fuck. She’s right here. We’re on it. Keep me in the loop, if you can.
”

  If he could. If he wasn’t in lockup.

  And where the fuck was Cliff?

  As he went back out to the living room, the deputies pounded on the front door, shouting “SHERIFF! OPEN IMMEDIATELY OR WE WILL ENTER FORCIBLY!”

  Moving like a robot, Sid stood and took a step toward the door. At that moment, Muse turned to look out the back door and see if they were coming in the back, too. And he saw Cliff on the kitchen floor.

  “Oh, God!” He lunged toward his dog.