Rush: (Retribution MC Romance) (Carolina Bad Boys Book 5)

by Rie Warren

  Pain killers, several antidepressants, an anticonvulsant. The drug names I’d read about in those fancy college psych classes danced before my eyes as I picked up each bottle.

  This shit was the real, heavy medicinal deal. Whatever was wrong with Shy that she had so many prescriptions, it became immediately clear she wasn’t just a self-medicating junkie.

  Something was way the fuck weird about all of this.

  Returning the last pill bottle to the shelf, I shut the door, its magnetic snick locking everything inside like Shy had, apparently.

  And me, too. Many, many years before.

  The balcony doors were open when I returned to the front room. I heard the assholes out there talking about me. That was fine. As long as their smack-talk didn’t revolve around Shy I was all good.

  “Handsome is as handsome does,” Brodie quipped.

  “What does that even mean?” Tail glugged more beer.

  Cole leaned his elbows on his knees as he sat forward. “Not a freakin’ clue.”

  Glass shattered behind me, and I spun around at the sound to see Shy leaning over the sink in the kitchen.

  I hustled to her like my ass was on fire. A glass had splintered all over the sink, and Shy stood there, shaking like a leaf, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned bone white.

  “You okay?” I pulled her away from the counter, drawing her up against me. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  Chapter Seven

  Handsome Is Not As Handsome Does

  SHY LOOKED TIRED. PALE. Wobbly.

  I picked her up in my arms and carried her to the sofa.

  With her in my lap, I frowned down at her. “Seriously. Are you okay, Shy?”

  “Just wiped out, that’s all.”

  She covered her legs in the long dress, curling toward me like a kitten kneading a sleeping place.

  Her trembling stopped and she released a long sigh.

  I wrapped one big hand around the back of her neck. “You don’t have to play hostess, ya know? They’re happy to help, and it’s clear they need no one to serve the drinks, babe.”

  “Babe?” Her eyes flipped up to mine.

  Fuck.

  Ignore. Ignore.

  Slip of the tongue and all that.

  I cleared my throat and smoothed my hand down her back.

  “How’d you get into this building anyway? I’m surprised there’s not a doorman.” I masterfully changed the subject.

  “With my key code.” She laughed, and her color came back as she cuddled against me.

  “Very funny.”

  Somehow, Shy’s lips slid against my jaw—just a glance of warmth and wetness—before she rested her head on my shoulder.

  “Inheritance from my grandmother. I used it for the shop and this place but donated most of it to MUSC Children’s Hospital.”

  “That’s generous.” I angled my head to peer down at her.

  Shiloh averted her face as she moved to the other side of the couch. “Not really.” She was silent for a few moments, sitting with her lips pressed together, before she said, “Remember Sinclair? Sinclair Chatham?”

  “Yeah. ’Course.” I’d noted her house that night I’d dropped off Shy. “The pretty blonde? Your other neighbor on The Battery?”

  “Mm hmm.” Shy finally looked at me again. “She heads up the family’s philanthropic ventures. She was working on a fundraiser for the hospital, so I thought . . . why not?”

  Why not? Why not give up what probably amounted to a fortune at her ripe old age of twenty-four?

  “I still think that’s pretty generous.”

  A half smile curled her lips. “What difference does it make? I don’t need much. And anyway, look at you. You never cared about the money.”

  “Oh yeah. Look at me. Not exactly a shining example of how to lead a successful life, Shy.”

  She gazed at me, and some emotion I couldn’t quite read darkened her deep gray irises. It wasn’t censure, which was what I was used to from the people I knew from back in the day. Looked more like . . . longing.

  “I like it when you call me Shy.” Her teeth bit slowly into the pillowy pout of her bottom lip.

  I was suddenly very glad she wasn’t sitting in my lap anymore. Her tone of voice—low and thrilling—did strange and totally unwanted things to my insides. And definitely to my groin where the hard shape of my cock started forming and filling.

  The tense silence between us lengthened, the air almost stilling around us. Shy blinked, a slow fluttering of eyelashes that left her irises hidden half-mast.

  “Hey, Shiloh!” Brodie barged in.

  I hadn’t even realized I’d been leaning toward Shy, intent on . . . kissing her. Snapping back so fast I think my back fucking cracked, I wedged myself firmly in the corner of the couch.

  Brodie looked from me to her to me again, and I knew the epic dicktool was barely refraining from waggling his eyebrows.

  He took a long chug of beer then swiped his forearm across his mouth. “We’re headed to Isle of Palms for a swim. Come to the beach with us? Night surfing. The waves are up.”

  Shy’s gaze swept to me and locked in quickly before she glanced away. “I can’t. Too much to do.”

  “C’mon. I bought Ashe a bikini to show off her bodacious baby-momma-body. Cat and Nicky will be there with little Danny. You should meet the whole crew.”

  Rising to her feet, Shy clasped her hands in front of herself. Her expression again looked longing . . . wistful.

  She shut that down, though, shaking her head. “Not tonight. But thank you so much for asking, Brodie. That’s very sweet.”

  We tromped through her condo after cleaning up the empties and the mess on the deck, and left on the elevator.

  I’d hugged her with a safe amount of distance between us, keeping my hands on her shoulders even while her light perfume drifted over me.

  And she stood outside as the doors slid shut, leaving her alone.

  Two seconds later, and the dudes started in:

  “She’s so ready to join the Cult of Handsome.” Tail held out his fist for a bump that wasn’t coming.

  Instead I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “Are you blind or somethin’? Shiloh is into you, my man.” Brodie knocked his boot against my foot.

  My jaw clenched . . . hard.

  “Hey”—Coletrane lounged back—“if you’re not going after her then I might—”

  Unleashing a snarl that came out of nowhere, I cranked my forearm against his throat and leaned in. “Shut the fuck up, Cole. Warned you once already. Not gonna do it again.”

  Cole’s eyes weren’t the only ones to pop out of his head. I felt Brodie’s and Tail’s shocked stares, too.

  I was seriously pissed off, and it showed as I shoved my thick forearm even harder against Cole.

  I never lost my shit. Not like this. Not with a friend.

  The elevator dinged. The doors opened. I let Cole go.

  Stepping out first, I expected Cole to come right back at me with a punch or a tackle—the man met me muscle for muscle, and it would be a fight for the centuries—but he clasped my shoulder in a bro move instead.

  “Hey. Didn’t mean to disrespect your lady,” he apologized.

  Spinning around, I knocked his hand off me. “She is not my lady.”

  “Got it.” With his hands held up, he nodded. “And I won’t mention her again.”

  The ride back to Mt. Pleasant found Brodie and me trapped in the tense silence of my making inside the goddamn U-Haul.

  “Brah, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’ve never seen you lose it before—and you’ve gone a little serial-killer-scary twice over Shiloh now. You can talk to me if you need to, you know?” Brodie broke the edgy atmosphere, but his words didn’t alleviate a single bit of my sudden frustration.

  “Just drop me at Retribution so I can get my bike. Not in the mood to hang tonight.”

  Nice. Alienating my buddies over a girl I shouldn�
�t want and definitely couldn’t have. Psychology degree? What a waste of good fucking paper that was.

  I took the fast ride to my house on the back of my 1959 Harley, letting the breeze cool my face, cool my . . . what? I didn’t even fucking know anymore.

  The memories Shy had dredged up were pale shadows of past wrongdoings that hardly haunted me anymore.

  Something else.

  Something I didn’t want to process. What a fucking pussy word that was.

  I chuckled to myself, turning into my driveway—hoped Bo had enjoyed processing his shit with Doc Ronnie today because he’d missed my very own fuck-up.

  I hit the kickstand, killed the engine, tugged off my helmet. Then something prickled along my spine, and I slowed my movements.

  Unstraddling the motorcycle, I pivoted around, pulling my bowie knife free at the same time.

  “Hey, Rush.” Diablo the asshole ambled in front of me from the curb.

  He’d taken the throne of Satan’s League after the final time I’d been arrested.

  I’d come up with the name of the street racing gang because ha ha the opposite of Ivy League, where I was supposed to go to college. When I still had money to throw around and a reputation to destroy.

  You know, before I grew up.

  “What the fuck do you want?” I flashed my blade at the dude whose smile didn’t reach the corners of his lips.

  Chapter Eight

  Better the Devil You Know?

  DIABLO WASN’T UNARMED. THE gun at his hip flashed like his snaky grin. “Rush. Or are you Handsome now?”

  I grasped the leather hilt of my knife. “Asked you a question, fuckhead.”

  “Saw you today. Downtown. Looks like you got a sweet hookup goin’ on.”

  “You’re fucking following me?”

  “Nah. Just hang outside your folks’ now and then when the mood hits.” He slid closer. “They got nice digs. So does your girlfriend. Shiloh Lockhart, ain’t it?”

  And that right there was the boiling point.

  I strafed toward him, shaving up the side of his neck with my bowie knife. I twisted the blade, the sick-sharpened edge reddening his skin, on the verge of drawing blood.

  “You want a murder rap, pendejo?”

  “I want you out of my fucking face and my life once and for all.”

  “That’s where we got an impasse or whatever.” Diablo lifted his chin to alleviate the pressure of my blade against his neck.

  I pushed closer, breaking skin, little drops of his blood slickening the fine-honed metal.

  “All it’ll take to keep everyone safe, including that Shiloh of yours, is some cash.”

  “Why now?”

  “Why not?” Dickbreath would’ve shrugged if his carotid wasn’t in danger of getting sliced wide open.

  “I don’t have that kind of cash anymore.”

  “I bet someone does.”

  “You know what? There’s a cemetery right . . . across . . . the . . . road.” I pulled a thin red line across his neck.

  D’s hand swung to my wrist. “And there’re a lot of thugs ready to retaliate. Not against you, bro. They’ll start with your parents. Fuck your girlfriend. Screw your sister. And kill everyone else in their way.”

  With a last guttural growl grinding from my throat, I jerked the knife away. “I do this, and you do not go near Shiloh or my family again.”

  “You always had the brains, Rush.”

  “And you always were a complete cuntface. Seems some things never change.” I feinted toward him just to watch the waster flinch.

  I sneered. “How much.”

  “Just one hundred big ones.” Diablo strolled away. “But I’ll give you a couple months.”

  Fuck.

  ****

  Fucking fuck.

  A hundred thousand large.

  Like I could get my hands on that kind of cash, not unless I turned over the savings for the brewery I wanted to open. Or I paid the bastard with the blood money from my dad, which I swore I’d never touch.

  Two months, though? I could work with that. Maybe convince my parents and sister to leave the country after I—ya know—made amends after seven years of silence.

  Then there was Shy. On the Satan’s League radar just because she was my friend.

  I needed to make sure she was safe.

  I needed to make sure she would never be anywhere near me ever again.

  This stupid shit had started when I was a junior at Bishop England.

  My goddamn rebellious streak.

  Meeting up with older guys in North Charleston, Summerville, and even farther out in the boonies. I had a sweet ride back then—and not just the supercharged cars, either.

  Money, money, money.

  I was always good for a fast race and a hefty bet. And I always won.

  I was simply known as Rush. High speeds. Late nights. Lotsa laughs.

  I raced my way to the top during the spontaneous Friday night runs so fucking different from the usual Friday Night Lights at the football fields.

  Pure octane. Until the drugs. Then it became about a different kind of speed, and smack plus upwards of 100 mph in ripped cars inevitably equaled a dangerous combo that ended in an explosive head-on collision.

  Both drivers died on impact, and when the cops converged I probably could’ve done a runner like Diablo, but it was time to grow up.

  Man up.

  Pay my dues.

  But I couldn’t get over how my folks had paid me off then written me off . . .

  A week after Diablo’s ultimatum I was still spinning wheels in my head. And here I was, tanking a pool game against Tail, and he didn’t even razz me about my loser-fail probably because I’d been scowling all friggin’ night long.

  None of that mattered when Ashe bolted inside Retribution, bawling her eyes out, her hands wrapped around her big baby belly, her MPPD badge still hanging from her waist.

  We all stood, slack-jawed, watching as she fled down the hall before shutting herself inside the office.

  “APB Brodie now.” Hunter—on the Vice squad with Ashe—advised.

  About five minutes later, Brodie rushed inside. “Where is she? Is she okay? Is it the baby?”

  “Dunno . . .” I cornered him. “She’s locked herself in the office. Don’t think it’s the baby. Did you do something stupid? Like not fucking marry her yet?”

  “What?” Brodie dashed down the hall. “Gave her a ring, didn’t I? And I adopted Cara because of love.” He rattled the doorknob. “Fuck.”

  I handed him the keys before he just plain busted the door down. “You gonna make it right with her?”

  He keyed open the lock. “Yeah. Of course, man. You stay here and keep watch against nosy fucks.” Cracking the door, he peered back at me. “Think she might take her baton to me?”

  “’Fraid so.” ’Cause someone sure as hell needed to knock some sense into the man.

  Boomer had talked to Brodie. Tucker and Cat had too. Had never thought the idiot would be commitment-phobic, not after how hard he’d fought for Ashe’s love, not to mention her life.

  “Shit,” he uttered before slipping into the room.

  I took up my station, peeking inside.

  Brodie made a beeline toward Ashe, who lay sideways on the couch, cradling her stomach—the mound that grew bigger every day.

  “Ashe?” His face whiter than I’d ever seen it, Brodie cautiously approached his woman. “What’s wrong, babe? Are you okay?”

  “I’m f-f-f-ine. The baby’s fine. I just want to get m-m-m-married!”

  Done told him so.

  That was my cue to clear completely out of the vicinity, but Brodie saw me shutting the door and frantically shook his head at me as he kneeled beside Ashe.

  “Ashe, babe, I didn’t know you were that upset . . .” He folded his hands around hers on the fertile hill with their baby inside.

  He kissed the highest point, rubbing his face against her.

  “I didn’t get to do it ri
ght when I had Cara. I was all alone.” Ashe hiccupped. “I just thought this time it would be . . . different.” She wailed.

  Climbing onto the couch, Brodie held her, cupping her face, kissing away her tears.

  “You’re not alone. I’m right here. I can’t wait to make you mine. We’ll get married tomorrow if want to. Please don’t cry, babe.” He hid her face in his neck. “Don’t cry anymore.”

  She kicked up with more pitiful crying. “I don’t want to waddle down the aisle eight months pregnant looking like a cow!”

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  “I’m fat.”

  “I love your baby belly. Your fuckin’ sexy pregnant, and I can’t wait to do it again.”

  “Why don’t you want to marry me? Why didn’t you marry me earlier?”

  “Aw, shit.” Brodie’s pause was . . . well . . . pregnant. “You got knocked up so quickly—”

  “I thought you wanted it!” Her voice rose to a hysterical edge.

  I almost felt sorry for Brodie, but the asshole had brought in on himself against all advice, good, bad, or otherwise.

  Yup. Not feeling sorry for him at all.

  Schmuck.

  I shook my head then heard a shuffle of boots at the top of the hallways as Cole, Tail, Tuck, Kinkaid, et al stuck their faces around the corner, shooting me expectant looks.

  “Fuck off,” I mouthed.

  Meanwhile, I turned back to hear the latest. Their drama was way more interesting than mine, and to tell the friggin’ truth, I kind of wanted to see if Ashe would kick Brodie’s ass.

  “I do want the baby! You know that. Jesus, Ashe. Let me explain.” Brodie paused, tilting her head to his. “After you got pregnant, well that fuck Hunter stole our thunder—getting hitched to JB. Then all the stuff with Rayce and Boomer. And . . .” Brodie dropped his voice. “I kinda wanted to wait until this little one was born so we could—I dunno—have our whole family at the wedding. You, me, Cara, the baby. My family.” Clearing his throat and blinking rapidly, he croaked out, “Lame. I know.”