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

by Jaci J

  She’s fucking terrified.

  I’m fucking terrified.

  “Let her go,” I tell him calmly, trying to defuse the situation. “Your beef is with me, with my club, not Bailey. Let. Her. Go.”

  Victor sneers, “Now why would I do that?”

  “Any fucking chance at all of you leaving here alive.”

  “I like my odds.” He laughs, touching her cheek, almost lovingly.

  I take a large step toward Bailey, desperate to get my hands on her. Victor tsks, pulling a knife from inside of his jacket, the blade long and serrated, pushing it against Bailey’s soft skin as a warning. “Think carefully before you come closer, Disciple,” he warns, his hand shaking slightly.

  “T…” Bailey pleads in desperation and fear, her voice damn near above a whisper.

  Victor pushes the knife into her neck enough for blood to leak from under the steel.

  My vision narrows, everything centering in on Bailey and that knife pressed against her neck. I can see the metal blade shoved into her skin, giving into the sharpness while blood oozes down her throat.

  “Bailey,” I growl, looking into her eyes and trying like a motherfucker to keep my voice even for her. I need her to understand what I’m saying without having to say a goddamn thing.

  She’s shaking, tremors wracking her body. Trying to stay calm, she sucks in air, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her gaze finds mine and locks onto it.

  I try like hell to convey how fucking serious I am without opening my mouth.

  Her eyes are glassy and she starts to cry.

  I feel fucking helpless.

  “She’s very pretty,” Victor tells me, his voice even and cool. “She always was.”

  I’m having a hard time not charging him, shoving my hand down his throat and ripping his fucking vocal cords out so I can strangle him with them.

  “Would be a shame to ruin all this beauty.”

  “What do you want,” I snap, my hands up and in front of me. I’m trying not to come off as confrontational, but it’s fucking hard when all I want to do it rip him apart and watch him bleed to death. If I say something, do something to provoke him, he’ll hurt Bailey, and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her.

  “What’s that saying?” he asks, laughing softly. “My cake and to eat it too, yes?”

  “You want your product and your money,” I say, knowing exactly what it is that he wants.

  Tapping the knife against Bailey’s neck, he grins. “Knew you were a smart man, Disciple.”

  “What do you fucking want me to do?”

  I know. The deal is fucked between us, it was fucked weeks ago, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something he wants that I can provide.

  “Money.”

  The money I lost him.

  These fucking Russians had us running product for them, using us. We’d run product and they’d steal it back, blame it on us, blame it on everyone else, and shot up our club, so I cut that shit clean off, ruined it all.

  Fucked, that’s what I am.

  “How much money?” I ask, wincing when he jerks on Bailey’s hair. I watch her reach up, trying in vain to ease his grip on her hair.

  “Stay still,” he growls, his mouth near her ear.

  Bailey nods, tears falling freely.

  Fuck.

  “Double what you cost me.”

  Two hundred thousand.

  “When?” I ask, my voice even and cool. Inside, I’m fucking raging, tearing the motherfucker from limb to limb and feeding each inch to him as he chokes on his own arms.

  “Twelve hours.”

  “Leave Bailey,” I seethe, keeping my eyes on her.

  Tears rolling down her cheeks. Tremors wracking her body. Teeth sunk into her lip, trying not to make a noise.

  Victor laughs, his head shaking like I’m stupid. I might be, but I had to fucking ask. “You must think of me as stupid, Disciple.”

  “Had to try.”

  “Try a little harder and she might make it out of this alive.”

  “She lives, or everyone you love and care about dies. Slowly.”

  “Get me my fucking money and product and we’ll see.”

  I meet Bailey’s eyes and I see everything I don’t want to—hurt, betrayal, worry. Everything. “You’ll be okay, Doll,” I tell her, meaning it.

  Nothing will happen to her.

  It can’t.

  Victor laughs louder, leaning in and putting his lips near her ear. My stomach knots when I see his tongue touch her skin, exactly where my tongue had been earlier. “See what love gets you, Coco?” he taunts, jerking on her hair, her head snapping back. “What did I tell you all those years ago? You’re just like your fucking mother.”

  When I get my hands on Victor, I’m going to make him wish he were dead.

  BAILEY

  I stare at T, unblinking through the tears.

  I feel numb.

  I know I’m scared, terrified, but the only thing I feel is nothing, a void—an emptiness.

  Every limb tingles and my heart hammers against my chest. On the inside, I’m falling apart, panicked. But on the outside, I’m numb.

  “You’ll be okay, Doll,” T tells me, his voice so sincere, I almost believe him. And for a moment, I do. A single, solitary moment, I forget where I am and who’s got me. I almost forget.

  “Coco,” Victor sneers, pushing the cold blade into my skin, jerking on my hair and pulling me back. I stumble, but Victor doesn’t catch me, he only grips my hair tighter, keeping me from hitting the floor.

  My scalp is on fire, my skin burning and aching.

  Dragging me back toward the door, Victor taunts, “See what love gets you, Coco?” He jerks my head back, making me look at T again, and I see him, his face fucking stricken, and that hurts worse than Victor’s hands in my hair. He’s scared for me. “What did I tell you all those years ago? You’re just like your fucking mother.” His words don’t sting, not like the look on T’s face does. His eyes? They hurt worse than anything Victor could say to me.

  “Fuck you,” I choke out through the tears and fear.

  My voice is weak, but my words are strong.

  “What did you say to me?” Victor growls, pulling on me.

  “Fuck you.”

  Victor jerks on me so hard he twists me around, and when he does, he slams his fist into my mouth.

  My vision blurs.

  “Fuck!” T roars, his voice fighting with the ringing in my ears. “Touch her again and you’re done!”

  “Oh, am I?” he sneers, his words taunting, the blade of his knife at my chest, pushing into the skin below my neck, cutting a small, deep slice into my skin.

  It stings and burns before going completely cold and numb.

  I look at T, and I don’t know what I expect to see, but tears in his eyes aren’t it. I can’t stand to see him hurt. If he’s scared, then there’s a reason for me to be too.

  “Stop,” I plead, my voice wavering. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re never sorry, you stupid little bitch.”

  “I am,” I cry, nodding my head vehemently, desperate to have him believe me. “I won’t say anything else.”

  “You won’t,” he growls, jerking my head back to look at him. “Because the next time you do, I’ll cut out your fucking tongue.”

  Without moving, I look over at T. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I know Victor thinks it’s meant for him, but it’s not, and T knows it. Shaking his head, he looks down at his feet for just a second, and in that moment, I know it was all worth it. He was worth it. I might die now, or I might die in sixty years. I might die rich and I might die poor. I might die happy and I might die lonely. Whatever happens, it’s all been worth it. T was worth it all.

  “Let’s go,” Victor growls, his hand wrapping around my arm, dragging me from the house.

  I don’t look at him, and I don’t look at where he’s taking me.

  I can’t break eye contact with T.


  Standing in that small kitchen, T’s never looked more broken. He’s never looked more unlike himself. He’s never looked more helpless.

  Before he’s out of view, I mouth, “I love you,” before I’m shoved into the back of a van, the door closed on me and the lights turned out.

  35

  T

  THE RIDE BACK to the club is the longest fucking ride of my life.

  I’m fucking lost.

  Numb.

  Sick.

  I make it back in a little under an hour and a half, and in that time, I only get angrier, antsier, and more fucking vengeful.

  I’m fucking mad.

  I’m fucking sick to my stomach.

  Bailey is gone, and I don’t know what to do…until it hits me.

  The club’s got money.

  _______________

  I’ve lied to my club and lied to myself in the fucking process, convinced myself I could and should do this shit alone. I still feel that way, but as I walk into the club at two in the morning and no one around, I feel like I’m fucking drowning and no one is here to throw my dumbass a life ring.

  I need money.

  More money than I’ve got sitting around.

  Two hundred thousand dollars is no fucking drop in the hat, and Bailey’s life depends on that money. Hell, my fucking life depends on it, because if something happens to her, I’m not surviving it.

  I do something I’m not proud of. I walk in to my old man’s office and go for the safe bolted to the floor behind his desk.

  The club’s money.

  Twisting the dial, I unlock it and pull out a bank bag stuffed with hundreds.

  This money belongs to my club, to my brothers. This money pays bills, feeds kids, benefits my club, and helps local charities. It’s not my money to take, but fuck, what else am I supposed to do?

  My back is against the wall.

  Should call my old man. Should call in the club. Should ask for fucking help.

  I’m not going to.

  This shit is my goddamn fault. It’s my problem to fix.

  I pull out a couple bags of cash and close the safe before heading for the door.

  Guilt sits on my chest as I walk out, weighing me down. Guilt for doing this shit behind my club’s back, and guilt for putting Bailey in the middle of my bullshit.

  My bullshit.

  Ain’t that funny.

  And I thought her bullshit was bad, but it doesn’t compare to mine.

  Nothing compares to what I’ve put her through.

  Out in the lot, at my bike, I hear boots on gravel behind me.

  “The fuck you doin’ here this late?”

  Rocky.

  “Needed somethin’,” I retort, stuffing the bags of cash into the saddlebags before he can see them. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Working on that bike that’s goin’ to the lot tomorrow.”

  I nod.

  He walks toward me, grease on his hands and jeans. “You good?”

  “I’m good.”

  Dragging a dirty hand through his hair, he looks me up and down. “You sure about that?”

  He doesn’t believe me.

  Fuck.

  “Yeah. Just fighting with Bailey,” I lie. I lie like it’s my goddamn profession and I’m good at it, always have been. Doesn’t mean I like doing it to my brother, someone I consider family, but what fucking choice to do I have? I’m not about to pull Rock into this shit any more than he already is.

  “Yeah? Damn, thought you were out at the coast with her.”

  “Was. Bailey wanted to come home.”

  “Fuck, she really is a pain in the ass, huh? You sure this bitch is worth the headache?” he chuckles.

  As he says that, I fight the urge to knock him on his ass, but he doesn’t know. He’s only looking out for me.

  I force the words from my mouth and reply, “Yeah.” I get on my bike and turn it over. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, have a good night, brother.”

  I nod again, pulling out of the club’s lot and onto the highway.

  I drive, no real direction, waiting for the call.

  Not acting out of impulse and anger is near fucking impossible. I want to tear the town apart. I want to question everyone, rip them limb from limb to get the answers. I want to come out of my goddamn skin at not being able to do anything.

  I feel fucking broken.

  I drive to my place, empty and fucking dark, and walk inside with the bags of cash in my hand, dumping them onto table in front of me.

  Grabbing a bottle of bourbon from the counter, I sit down and start to count.

  I make stacks.

  And it’s not long before I’m running out of bills and booze.

  “Fuck!” I shout, coming out of my chair.

  I don’t have enough.

  Goddamn it.

  Checking my phone, I look at the time.

  I’m running out of hours.

  Fuck.

  BAILEY

  When I was little, around eight or nine, I lived in a trailer. I slept on a pull-out couch in the tiny living room. Above my bed was a vent, the piece covering it missing. I could see the sky through the hole. Vividly, I remember lying there, home alone, watching the stars and the moon, wishing I was anywhere but in that trailer park and on that hard, uncomfortable bed, alone and hungry.

  I wished I was at the beach.

  I wished I was at a mall.

  I wished I was at a theme park.

  I wished I was in a nice house, in my own room.

  I wished I was anywhere other than where I was.

  And I promised myself that someday I would get out, I’d get more out of life—I’d be more in this life.

  I’d wish on those stars, night after night, even as shit fell apart in my young little life, wishing for a different one. Any life that was better than mine.

  I knew it, even at that age, that it was only a matter of time before my mom came home, high or drunk, reeking of cheap cologne and sadness after hours of fucking for a handful of cash. She’d stumble in and see me in the living room, on the only bed in the small twenty-two foot camper trailer and start to cry. She’d apologize. She’d tell me to do better, to not to be like her and that she wanted more for me. She’d beg me to promise her that I’d be more than her. I remember loving her in those moments—her tender moments.

  It never lasted, though.

  She’d wake up with a nasty hangover and a deep-rooted hatred.

  She’d rant and rave about her shit life. Bitch and complain about what she had to do to care for me, her unwanted child. She’d berate and belittle me, telling me to do better, to use men, to take everything they had to offer because I was smart, but too fucking stupid to know it myself.

  As I lie here now, in the back of a box van, no windows and no idea where I’m going, I wish more than anything that I was in T’s bed, or hell, even back in that fucking trailer. I’d take being on that pull-out couch, alone and hungry, than being where I am now.

  My arms are bound and I’m on my side, my body starting to ache from the position. My scalp burns and my mouth stings.

  I’m a fucking mess.

  But as the tears from earlier dry up, I feel an anger boil up in my chest. I can’t pinpoint what I’m mad about exactly, but the culmination of every fucking thing has got me well and truly pissed.

  I’m mad that I met T and fell in love with him.

  I’m mad that I’m not with him, back in that bed at the beach.

  I’m mad that I ever stepped foot in Victor’s club.

  I’m mad that I became my mother in a way, desperate and stupid, years ago that had me using men.

  I’m mad at T for dragging me into his shit.

  But in the end, I’m fucking mad at myself.

  The box van I’m in bumps and rumbles down the road before I feel it roll to a stop.

  I’ve been back here for a few hours, alone.

  I wait for something, anything.

&nb
sp; I hear the doors in the front open and close, and then I hear nothing.

  My heart races.

  My body shakes.

  At the back of the van I hear the door, the handle rattling.

  Rolling onto my back, I wait.

  Taking a deep breath, I hold it, watching as the door swings open, and as it does, I bring my legs up, ready to fight. As soon as Victor comes into view, I kick my legs out and connect with his stomach, my feet knocking him back a step or two, giving me enough room to roll out of the van and onto the ground. My knees hit the dirt and I stumble, trying to get up.

  I make it onto my feet and a yard away before someone catches me.

  Tackled from behind, I hit the ground again, hard, the air knocked out of me.

  Large arms drag me onto my feet, a hand around my throat, holding me up. “Stupid fucking bitch,” the man spits, his accent thick and angry near my face.

  His hold on me is tight, the air being squeezed from my lungs.

  The man drags me back toward Victor, and when he does, he drops me to the ground. As soon as I hit, Victor kicks me, his shoe hitting me in the stomach with hate-filled force.

  I double over, pain exploding through me.

  My vision swims.

  My breathing halts.

  Wheezing, I clutch my stomach, rolling away from Victor.

  I don’t make it far.

  Crouching down next to me, Victor grabs me, his hand wrapping around my throat as he pulls me up onto my ass, and at that moment, I realize where I am. We’re in the parking lot of The Pink Cat, back where it all started.

  “You really are a beautiful little thing,” he growls, his voice low and menacing as he touches my face. “I’d hate to have to ruin it. Kick me again, you’re going to wish you were fucking dead. You understand me, Coco?”

  I’m either stupid or desperate, because I find myself spitting in his face before I have the chance to think twice about how goddamn dumb it is.

  As soon as the spit lands in his eye, he’s hitting me, knocking me sideways.

  And he hits me again and again.

  Everything on my body hurts.

  I moan in pain, rolling on the ground, taking hit after hit when Victor stops, looking down at me with pleasure radiating from his eyes as he pulls his phone from his pocket.