The Rush: The Hell's Disciples MC (The Hell's Disciples MC Series)

by Jaci J

  I debate on whether or not to ignore it.

  But tuition is due.

  Rent is coming up.

  “I am?” I ask, turning the screen on my phone off.

  Remi nods, smiling. “Yeah. He’s usually a moody asshole. I’ve never seem him so happy.”

  “Oh,” I mutter, looking at the floor, suddenly feeling guilty. I never meant to change T. I wasn’t even going to do this with him, and when I decided to, it was just going to be fun. And now? Now people are seeing something else completely. “We just like to have fun.”

  “More than fun,” she smirks.

  I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.

  Walking to a hall in the back of the club, she nods toward doors at the end. “The bathroom is down there. And for what it’s worth, I like you with him.”

  “Thanks,” I answer, disappearing into the bathroom.

  Leaning back against the door, I pull out my phone.

  I’m in town. I want to see you, Coco.

  Yeah? And what are you going to do for me? ;)

  I always make it worth your while. Are you going to make it worth mine?

  Always.

  Scrolling through my camera roll, I find a picture I took a while ago, one where I’m naked and in bed, my body on display.

  I attach it.

  I send it.

  I hate myself for it as soon as I do.

  I use the bathroom and wash my hands, refusing to look at myself in mirror. I can’t stand what I know will be reflected in it. A woman who cares way more than she should. A woman falling even more in love than she already was.

  Walking out of the bathroom, Remi nowhere to be found, I make my way toward the door we came through, only to be stopped by a man in a suit lingering near the entrance. He’s a man I know well.

  Victor.

  My boss.

  “Well, look what we’ve got here. It’s my lucky day. Hello, Coco.”

  His hand wraps around my upper arm, catching me.

  “Victor.”

  “And to think, you had me convinced you didn’t know the Disciples well, and here you are, at a fucking party of theirs. Color me surprised.”

  17

  T

  “BAILEY AIN’T BAD,” Bish tells me, swigging his beer as soon as the girls walk into the club.

  “That’s because she’s not one of those slutty cum buckets he usually fucks,” my sister snorts and walks off, but not before tossing me a knowing look as she disappears into the crowd, King hot on her heels.

  “Jesus, was she born like that?” Bish asks.

  “Since birth.”

  “Sorry, brother.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, me too.”

  I love my sister, but I hate her just the same.

  My old man is sixty, and we’re celebrating it. It’s been a damn good time. My club, my brothers, my family, and my fucking girl.

  Couldn’t ask for better shit.

  “You making Bailey your old lady?” Rocky questions from next to me.

  Bish pipes up first, “Good fucking question. Been spending a lot of time with her.”

  “Fuck, man, I don’t know.”

  Taking a drag off my smoke, I mull over the question, rubbing at my neck.

  Am I going to make Bailey my old lady?

  In my thirty-five years, I’ve never given that title to anyone, and never fucking wanted to.

  My brothers have old ladies.

  My dad has had an old lady.

  That shit was always for other motherfuckers.

  But Bailey is different.

  I can see my patch on her back.

  I can see her wearing the title of my old lady.

  I can see her on the back of my bike and in my bed.

  I can see my life with her.

  “T! Hey, T!”

  I turn, looking over my shoulder at my name being shouted through the crowd.

  Remi is running toward me, her arms waving frantically for me to come to her.

  I look at Bish, who looks concerned.

  “Yeah?”

  She shouts out, “There are some guys here, and one of them grabbed Bailey—”

  “What do you mean, they grabbed her? Who? Where is she?” I shout, panic building in my chest.

  Someone grabbed her.

  Someone grabbed her at my fucking club.

  Remi reaches me, her eyes big and scared, breathing hard. “She was in the bathroom. A prospect asked if I knew where more spatulas were in the kitchen. I only walked away for a second,” she rushes out, sputtering.

  Fuck.

  “Rock. Bish.”

  They both follow, jogging after me when I take off toward the club.

  Running through my mind is a list of motherfuckers I might be killing tonight, and none of them are who I find holding onto Bailey.

  The fucking Russians.

  I don’t stop moving until I’m plowing a fist right through the fucker’s face who’s got a hand wrapped around Bailey’s arm and her back shoved up against the side of a car.

  No fucking questions asked.

  No fucking exceptions given.

  I don’t give a fuck who he is or what business we have together. You don’t come into my club uninvited, and you don’t touch my girl.

  The Russian sways on his feet, his head snapping back like a goddamn rubber band.

  Bailey stumbles and Rock catches her, moving her out of the way.

  I hit him again.

  And again.

  He’s eating gravel if it’s the last goddamn thing he does tonight.

  He grins, wiping blood from his face with the sleeve of his slick ass monkey suit. “That’s not how you greet someone you do business with,” he sneers at me.

  “We’re not doing business, motherfucker. You asked for our help. This isn’t some mutual fucking thing. You stepped over the line coming here tonight, and then you ran a fucking mile over that line when you touched my girl.”

  The Russian snarls at me, nodding at the guy behind me.

  I know the asshole pulls a gun on me, because I hear the click of the safety and the sound of Bailey gasping, scared for my life.

  The Russian is grinning, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. He’s smiling because he thinks he’s got me.

  He’s fucking wrong.

  Bish rounds on him, his gun cocked and aimed.

  Poncho does the same, pulling a gun on the motherfucker who thinks he’s slick having a gun on me.

  “Looks like we have an old-fashion standoff.”

  The Russian’s eyes narrow, his lip curling.

  He fucking knows.

  “You might kill me, but remember, none of you are fucking leaving here alive if you take me out.”

  “Tyler,” Bailey calls out, desperation in her voice.

  I look at her, and she looks scared, for me and for herself.

  The Russian nods his head and I know, without a doubt, that my words got to him. He knows I’m not playing.

  I might die.

  But I won’t be the only one.

  “What the fuck’s goin’ on?” ,y old man roars, walking out into the gravel lot out front of the club.

  “Danny-Boy,” The Russian greets, wiping at his face again. “I was just delivering when your son got a little handsy.”

  “Don’t do me any fucking favors,” I growl. “I let him give my fist a little fucking kiss.”

  My pops doesn’t say anything, he just looks at me.

  I tell him all he needs to know with one fucking nod.

  Shit ain’t good.

  BAILEY

  “Tyler,” I found myself saying, not realizing it.

  I don’t remember caring about anyone’s life more than I cared about T’s in that moment.

  Everything, every moment between us, flashed before my eyes.

  A gun to the back of his head, inches from his skull. I saw it all and it scared me.

  His face impassive.

  He didn’t give a shit.
r />   My face terrified.

  I care way too damn much.

  Way too much.

  I barely register the hands on my arms, firm, but friendly, until I’m trying to shrug them off, desperate to get to T.

  “Stay here,” Rock grunts near my ear.

  And everything changes the moment T’s dad walks out.

  Rock lets me go and my legs move on their own. Right into T I fall, his arms wrapping around me.

  I can’t keep doing this.

  I’m falling even harder and even faster.

  T will ruin me.

  And I’ll let him.

  But in this second, I don’t care.

  I just need him.

  “Take her inside,” T’s dad snaps, looking directly at me. I’ve never met the man formally, only in passing, and I get the distinct impression that he’s not a fan of mine.

  Grabbing my hand, T takes me inside and through the club, walking me out back and to his room.

  Inside, he puts his hands on my body, pulling my shirt over my head, his hands skimming along my sides, looking me over.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him when his eyes meet mine.

  “I’m not,” he growls, his hands tugging at my jeans, pulling them down my legs. “I need inside of you, Bailey.”

  “T—”

  “Now.”

  Fuck. I need him just as much.

  When did this turn into so much more?

  Desperate, T crouches down, pulling my panties off before standing up, his body looming over mine.

  He doesn’t touch me again, he only looks.

  “Touch me.”

  When he does, nothing else in the world matters.

  That rush, the one only T can give me, consumes me.

  _______________

  My head on T’s chest, my fingers twist the ring around his finger, my mind playing through what happened earlier.

  “What was that earlier?” I ask, even though I know I probably shouldn’t.

  “That was club business.”

  “It’s my fault,” I say, feeling guilty. Everything was so perfect moments before.

  “Wrong place, wrong time, Bailey.”

  “He was going to shoot you.”

  “And?”

  “And that was fucking intense.”

  “Club business.” He shrugs, dragging his hand across the stubble on his cheek.

  “That can’t be your answer for everything.”

  “Can be when it’s club business, Doll Face.”

  Sitting up, I crawl onto T, my knees on either side of his hips, my hands on his chest. “That scared me, that gun pointed at you.”

  “Won’t happen again.”

  “Won’t happen or will happen, and I won’t see it?” I ask, hating the idea.

  T sits up, his back against the wall behind the bed, his hands on my hips. “Like I told you, I’ll tell you what I can, but not this time.”

  “This time has to do with me, though.”

  “Won’t happen again.”

  “T—”

  “No, baby, that’s it,” he tells me, his voice firm.

  I open my mouth to speak, and as soon as I do, T’s phone rings from the floor.

  Reaching down, he pulls it out of his jeans and answers it.

  “Yeah?” he answers, and I watch his face, the way his jaw goes rigid and his eyes go hard. “Fine,” he huffs before hanging up.

  “Stay in bed. I’ll be right back,” he tells me, lifting me off of him and setting me back on the bed.

  I watch as he pulls on his jeans and his tee, his cut going on next, and then his boots. At the door, he stops and looks at me, his blue eyes bottomless. “Don’t leave this bed, you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good,” he growls, pulling the door closed behind him.

  18

  T

  “WHAT THE FUCK was that?” my old man growls, slamming his beer on the bar top. The muffler bunny at his side jumps, a squeak escaping her red lips.

  “That was me doing what any one of these motherfuckers would have done. They showed up here uninvited.”

  That shit was going too far.

  “Maybe, but fists and guns? For fuck’s sake.”

  I refrain from pointing out the fact that the piece of shit had his hands on Bailey, because my old man doesn’t give a shit. Her life is unimportant to him. She’s nothing to his club.

  “Do you even know what they wanted?” he questions me.

  I shake my head no.

  I wasn’t in the mood for talking.

  I wasn’t in the mood for a goddamn thing.

  My old man cuts a quick look at me. “Jesus, that’s gonna make this deal that much fucking harder.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s on you, Mr. Superhero, to shoulder that shit. The club doesn’t feel your acts of bravery, you got me?”

  “Fine,” I snarl, grabbing the bottle of Jack from behind the bar.

  What he means is, if the Russians make us jump through hoops, then it’ll be me doing the jumping.

  “Good. Now, if you’re done stirring shit up for the night, I want to drink and fuck for my birthday. Cool with you?” He’s not asking. He’s telling me if there’s any more drama, it’s my ass.

  “Cool.”

  Getting off the stool next to me, he wraps an arm around the neck of the little thing next to him, laughing when she squeals like a pig again, his face in her tits as he hauls her off.

  My old man might be sixty, and he might be an asshole, but the women love him.

  Getting off the stool, I head toward the rooms out back, through the party.

  People stop me, wanting to bullshit and catch up.

  My head isn’t in it.

  My head is in the room with Bailey.

  _______________

  “Good?” I ask the prospect standing outside my door.

  He nods. “She asked for a pop about thirty minutes ago.”

  “You get her what she wanted?”

  He nods again.

  “Good. Go, enjoy what’s left of the party.” Which is winding down. Bedrolls have been rolled out, tents have been pitched, and motherfuckers are starting to settle down for the night.

  Turning my back on the party, I open the door and walk in, pulling it closed behind me.

  The room is dark, the only light coming in through the curtains that look out onto the property, the giant bonfire throwing off a little light.

  Bailey is in my bed, asleep.

  Lying half on her side and half on her stomach, the curve of her body’s displayed perfectly under the old, thin sheet covering her.

  I stand there, staring at her.

  Fucking beautiful. She’s goddamn perfection.

  Every inch of her a piece of fucking artwork.

  And I stuck my neck out for her.

  I went against my club, against everything I stand for, because the Disciples come first, always.

  Scrubbing a hand down my face, I can’t help but shake my head at the idea.

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  I wasn’t.

  Clearly.

  I saw the look on Bailey’s face.

  I saw his hand on her body.

  I fucking snapped, lost my goddamn mind.

  I’m not me around this bitch and that’s scary. It’s going to get me killed.

  Bailey rolls over, the sheet falling from her body, and it’s like a knife to the gut because I know goddamn good and well this won’t be the first or last time I stick my neck out for her. It won’t be the last time I do something I know I shouldn’t because of her. It won’t be the last goddamn time I put my life on the line for her.

  She’s got me wrapped around her finger. She has for the past year.

  Bailey owns me.

  Pulling off my cut, I toss it on the chair in the corner. Kicking off my boots, I pull my shirt over my head and jerk my jeans off.

  I should clean up and shower, but I’m too fucking t
ired.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I drop my cell on the nightstand.

  “T?” Bailey’s sleepy voice asks.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Go back to sleep.”

  Bailey doesn’t go back to sleep. She sits up, scooting toward me. At the edge of the bed, behind me, she wraps herself around me, her front pressed against my back. Her legs wrap around me and her arms hook under mine.

  “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Sticking up for me.”

  I nod.

  What else was I going to fucking do, let him touch her? Not fucking happening.

  “Next time, though, don’t.”

  “Don’t?”

  She tugs on me, pulling me back with her onto the mattress. “Let’s go to sleep. I’m tired. You’re tired.”

  “Am I?” I challenge, laying down next to her.

  I am tired, she’s not wrong, but she’s also to blame.

  She fucks with me.

  She fucks with my head.

  Never in my life has a bitch had me running in circles in my head the way she does, confused as fuck as to where we are and where we stand.

  Placing her head on my chest, she throws her leg over mine, cuddling up next to me.

  “Goodnight, T.”

  “Yeah. Night, Doll.”

  I listen as she falls asleep, her breathing evening out again, and the last goddamn thing on my mind is sleep.

  BAILEY

  T’s watching me, his arms crossed, frowning.

  I woke up alone in his bed just an hour ago, his side cold and empty.

  I got up at one in the afternoon, the latest I’ve slept in years.

  I’m still tired.

  My body’s sore, my brain fried. I’m exhausted.

  T fed me a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, and coffee. He brought it to me while I sat on the stairs of the old motel.

  Standoffish this morning, it’s morphed into something completely different now that I’m leaving. Two hundred and sixty pounds of pissed off biker, and it’s aimed right at me.

  But after last night, I realize that I can’t let myself get sucked in.

  I have to do what I always do, and that is to take care of myself, even when I want to let T do it. Even when I know he would.

  He stuck his neck out for me, and I wish he wouldn’t have. It only complicates things.

  “I know you don’t want me to go,” I tell him evenly, not looking for a fight. I don’t want to go, but I have to. I have to do it for myself. “If it was a normal night at work, I might just stay here with you, but it’s not, and I need the money,” I hear myself say, part of me knowing I mean it, and the other part of me disappointed that I do.