Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1

by Manda Mellett

  “Fuck, Swift.” His eyes roam from my head to my toes. “You really okay?”

  Why, I have no fucking idea, but my traitorous body makes my eyes water. Maybe the pollen is high today? Or, maybe it’s because now, I know I’m really safe. I hold up my hand which will never be the same as it was before, and simply reply, “Apart from this, I’m fine.”

  In my SAS training, I was treated as an enemy captive. I was sleep deprived, I’d been left hungry and thirsty and subjected to interrogation using methods the Geneva convention would frown upon. I survived and came through with flying colours. I didn’t want to curl into a ball and pray that someone would rescue me. I endured whatever was thrown at me with strength and resolve.

  This is the first time I’ve been challenged since losing my hearing, and that’s what floored me. I’m not weak, I’m strong. But my confidence has taken a knock.

  Pip’s eyeing me carefully. “Who’s left alive?”

  “Kincaid and Dean someone or other. Weston and the man who could be Christian McGregor are dead.” I clear my throat and say again more firmly. “They’re restrained in the basement. Follow me—”

  “No, you’ve done enough.” Pip moves his gaze from me to Road. “As have you. I want you both to get back to the compound. Doc will be there and waiting.”

  “I don’t need a medic.”

  Road protests at the same time as I tell Pip, “I’ll stay here. I want to be in on this.”

  “No. That’s an order,” Pip says firmly. “Your hand needs looking at Swift. Can’t reattach the finger, it’s been too fuckin’ long, but you’ll need antibiotics. Same goes for you, Road.” Pip’s eyes linger on the bandage on Road’s arm which is reddening, showing his wound hasn’t closed up.

  Road lets out a deep sigh. “Okay. Did you see my bike? They might have moved it.”

  Pip rolls his eyes. “Gears is here with the truck. You’re not fuckin’ going back on the bike.”

  Part of me is pleased he said that as I haven’t got mine, and the only option would be to ride up behind Road. It’s not the principle, it’s the thought of having to be so close to him, to have my arms around him for each one of the fifty miles he said we’d need to traverse.

  “I can ride.” Road’s face darkens with displeasure.

  Pip snorts. “You’re shirtless and have a bloody bandage wrapped around your arm. Swift is wearing sleep shorts and a tank top and has an injured fuckin’ hand. You don’t think the cops might think that strange?”

  Put that way, Pip might have a good point. Knowing he’s won the argument, Pip turns and signals, and the truck approaches. When it pulls up beside us with Gears behind the wheel, Igor jumps out.

  “Hey, Road, you got the key for the ZX14R?” Igor looks excited, so I expect he’ll be riding it back.

  Sparing a moment to glare at Pip, Road pats the pockets of his jeans. “Nah, they must have taken it.” He looks disgusted.

  “Find the bike, it might be with it. Or, I’ll get where it is out of them.” Pip’s eyes flare with anticipation.

  “Grinch will probably have a spare.”

  As Pip acknowledges my comment, Road’s already walking toward the truck. He doesn’t look happy, he’s favouring his leg hard, and his shoulders are hunched. Prez is right to stop him riding. I watch as he pulls himself into the passenger side. He winces as the action pulls on his chest.

  I follow, sliding into the back seat. I refrain from making any observation.

  Taking the driver’s side, Gears wastes no time getting moving. I’ll be happy when there’s distance between me and this house where nightmares become real.

  As the truck proceeds down the drive, it’s the first proper time I’ve seen the outside of the house and the position it’s in. I’m not surprised that this pretty location had been thought unlikely to hide a kidnap victim within its walls. Well, however pretty it is, it’s not somewhere I’ll ever want to spend a vacation.

  As we exit the driveway, in the distance I see the lake where Road must have spoken to the fisherman. Then, when we get out on the freeway, having no interest in looking at anything more, I lean back, closing my eyes for the first time since I’d been taken. Feeling safe, I quickly drop off to sleep and just as fast startle awake again. In my dream, I’d been whimpering. When I open my eyes to find Road looking over his shoulder at me, his eyes softened with concern, I suspect it wasn’t only in my sleep I’d been making sounds of distress.

  “You’re safe,” he tells me, his voice dark and deep, washing over me like velvet. “And you’re fuckin’ exhausted. Get some rest. You’ll soon be safe back in your own bed.”

  Safe in my own bed. That’s where they got me.

  I’m tired, I’ve had no sleep for thirty-six hours. That must be why I’m shaking, that must be the reason all my training has escaped me and my weakness taunts me. Will I ever feel safe again?

  Now worried if I drop off to sleep I’ll start dreaming again, I don’t allow myself to give in to my tiredness. Instead, I let everything play through my head, an internal debrief of my mission. What had I done right? What had I done wrong? What could I do to prevent this happening again?

  I should sell my house, turn my back on my piece of independence. Question Pip as to whether there are any more skeletons in his cupboard that could rise from their graves and take me. I grow angry thinking I was targeted just because I don’t happen to have a dick, and that Kincaid had assumed I was a whore because I lived at the club. Pip would have gone to the ends of the earth to rescue any of the brothers, just as Kincaid had wanted revenge for the loss of one of his blood. Yet I was taken as I was thought a weak female.

  I’m not angry at Pip, it’s not his fault I’m returning minus a finger. It will be inconvenient—typing will be hard as unlike most of my brothers who only use two fingers, I use ten. But I’ll live, albeit with the everlasting reminder I haven’t a ‘P’ finger anymore. I hadn’t been raped, though that was only because Road had appeared in time.

  I hate that after everything I’ve done, getting a place in the SAS and proving I was good enough to join an MC, I was taken because I was female.

  I wish I was there to question Kincaid, yet trust Prez to get the answers I’m seeking, as he’ll want to know the same ones as well. How did they know how to get into my security? And, how did they find Pip in the first place? Have we got a breach?

  As the truck covers the miles, I notice Road turning occasionally. Each time he sees I’m still awake, a little frown plays at his lips. The prospect drives carefully, not risking being pulled up by the cops, not with two injured people as passengers—one with their finger chopped off, and one with an obvious bullet wound.

  I hug my arms around myself, suppressing a shiver. Road leans forward, turning the heat on his side up. Gears has the air conditioning running full blast, no wonder I’m cold. Road’s top half is naked, and my sleep attire is flimsy.

  As we drive on, I realise I’ve never felt as vulnerable as I now am, and I really dislike the feeling.

  29

  Road…

  I’m worried about Swift. She hadn’t expressly told me, but it was clear she’s had no rest since she was taken. She’d have been unable to relax in case someone crept up on her and would have forced herself to stay alert. But even now she can’t turn off, even with her hearing aids and in the safety of the truck with me and the prospect to keep watch over her.

  It’s knocked her for a loop. Probably the only reason I was able to take advantage and steal a kiss. Wow, I turn to look out of the window to hide my grin. What a kiss, short though it was. She had fitted into my arms as though she was made to be there. The memory of her taste, the feeling of her soft lips against mine, that brief gliding dance of our tongues, has my cock swelling. I’ve kissed women, sure I have, they seem to expect it. But before now, I’ve wanted to get it over with fast so I could get down to the real business. I can’t remember enjoying it for anything other than a prelude to sinking my dick into whatever or
ifice the woman was happy for me to use. I wasn’t fussy, their cunt, mouth, or on an exceptional occasion, their ass.

  I’ve had more women than I can remember, would probably be unable to identify who exactly I’d fucked and who I'd not were a number of them lined up. Anonymous faces of which I hadn’t taken much notice. Even if I could pick them out, it wouldn’t be any kiss I’d remember.

  But Swift? I think our brief intimacy is now ingrained on my psyche. Her, I’ll never forget. It makes me more determined to repeat the experience, and who knows, take it further if she’ll let me.

  Fuck her to get her out of my system? I don’t think that will work. Make her mine? What a joke, you don’t tame someone like her. The most I could hope for is that she’d make me hers.

  Now I’m a selfish bastard thinking just of myself. Swift’s got more issues than a potential relationship with me to worry about.

  Will she ever feel safe in her home again? Somehow, I doubt it. Even if we set up a secondary system to kick in were the first to be taken out, she’ll have difficulty turning off and sleeping. How can I make it so Swift feels safe at night?

  My first thought is that I could stay with her, hold her in my arms and act as her ears. My cock again perks up at the thought of being so close to her.

  But no. Pip might think I fucked up by getting caught, decide I was less resourceful than he had thought. I certainly hadn’t demonstrated common sense or intelligence. As a result, he may rescind his invitation to join the Utah chapter, and I’ll be returning to Tucson. Or if Drummer discovers the truth about Utah and knew I withheld that information from him, he could send me out bad from the club as I lied by omission. I groan inaudibly as I remember that last conversation with my prez, wishing he hadn’t called right then. I was hurting, still fired up and unprepared.

  If Drummer discovers Pip doesn’t ride, it’s unlikely he could retain control of the Utah club. If by some chance, he wasn’t removed, if I was out in bad standing, he’d lose the Satan’s Devils charter were he to give me a place in it. I’m no fool. I’m a grunt with nothing particular to offer. I wouldn’t be the reason Pip blew his operation apart. So, even if I wanted to stay every night with her, and she permitted that liberty, I might not be able to fulfil that promise to her.

  There must be an answer.

  I don’t have to hear it from her lips, I already know she’ll never trust any system again.

  At least she can stay at the clubhouse. There’ll always be someone around who can watch out for her. But who’ll comfort her when she has flashbacks and nightmares? Or when she’s trembling when the PTSD takes hold?

  Gears is driving competently and safely, so I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes. It might be because I’m letting my mind drift, but an idea suddenly appears. I start to get excited, wondering if my thought has legs, or if Swift would ever go for it. It wouldn’t hurt for me to check it out.

  I doze. It’s only when Gears cuts the engine that I awake, wipe my eyes, and roll my shoulders. I hear the door behind me open and know Swift’s already getting out. I do the same and breathe in deeply as soon as I’m outside the truck and immediately regret doing so as a sudden pain shoots through my bruised chest.

  It might only have taken ninety minutes or so to get back, but I’ve stiffened up. Maybe because I’m back at my temporary home, and I’m no longer on high alert, but I realise I hurt. My arm stings like fuck, and my leg from having twisted when I was pushed down the stairs, I suspect I’ll find my hip is bruised when I get out of my pants. My neck too feels like I’ve got whiplash, and now it’s stiffened up.

  I’m no stranger to pain. My last crash was the worst, but I’ve come off my trials bike too many times to count, so am used to bruises and sprains, or pulled muscles and the occasional, but luckily rare, broken bone. Now I realise my body’s been pushed to its limits and I’d like nothing more than to collapse into a bed.

  I glance at Swift in time to see her mouth wide open in a yawn. Sheepishly, she covers it with her hand when she sees I’m looking. “Best get this over with. When Prez says the doc’s waiting, well, he’ll be here now.”

  “Where?” I eye the clubhouse wondering where we’ll be heading. While I’d prefer to just sit somewhere and rest, I doubt there’s any point in arguing.

  “Medical room,” she replies.

  They’ve got a medical room? In Tucson, we use one of the crash rooms if necessary. Of course, cleanliness can’t be guaranteed, but hey, if your arm’s falling off, you’ll take anything in an emergency. Anyway, nowadays it’s normally one of the kids has fallen off their bikes, and they just get a Band-Aid and kisses from Mom which seem to make it better.

  “Lead the way,” I request, stepping forward and holding the door open for her.

  Brute’s on reception duty. He raises his chin and wordlessly presses the button to open the inner door. Swift walks down the hallway leading to the gym, but peels off before getting there, entering a smallish room with stocked shelves along one wall, and the type of bed you find in your doctor's office in the middle of the room.

  There’s a man propped against a table, an open magazine in his hands. He closes it and puts it down as we enter.

  “Who’s the patient and what am I dealing with?” he immediately asks, stepping forward, expert eyes examining us. “Ah,” he pronounces, as his eyes land on my still bare chest. “I take it you were wearing body armour?” I nod, looking down myself at the blossoming red and purple blaze across my skin. “It will be painful, but I doubt anything’s broken. Lie down,” he points to the bed, “and let me take a look.”

  “It’s nothing.” I send a pointed glance toward Swift. “She needs attention first.” Which she’s clearly trying to avoid, as she’s holding her bandaged hand behind her back.

  “Swift?” His brow creases. “What’s wrong with you, Swift? You’re normally the one causing trouble, not the one I need to stitch up.” I grin at his comment. Though seeing the state Stormy was in after their time in the ring, I can believe that.

  Swift hesitates, then turns to me. “You want to wait outside?”

  “Not unless you need me to.” She’s hurt. I’d like to know how bad it is, and know what to do to help her look after herself.

  Her lips press together, but she turns back to doc, reluctantly raising her bandaged hand. “I lost my finger,” she explains.

  “Lost? That was careless.” The doctor’s words sound casual, but he gives her a cautious look as he bends his head and starts unwrapping the bandage.

  Seeing Swift’s face turn away, I move closer to her, not touching, but allowing her to feel my warmth at her back.

  I hadn’t spent much time staring at her hand, if any at all. Now I notice it’s small and elegant, with long fingers like that of a concert piano player. Her nails are unvarnished and cut short. The side opposite to her thumb though is red and swollen, and the tiny stump, all that remains of her fifth digit, is swollen and angry looking and still oozing blood.

  Swift’s other hand fists and she places it to her mouth and refuses to look at her hand. I grit my teeth. She might not have been raped, but they’d taken something from her without her consent. Not a serious injury in itself, inconvenient and painful but with no particularly difficult long-term disadvantages, except that stump will forever remind her of how she was unable to protect herself.

  The doctor is professional, asks no questions and confines himself to his medical opinion. “It’s a clean cut, but it’s been left too long for any surgeon to put the finger back, even if you have it. I’ll prescribe painkillers, and you need antibiotics. One needs to be applied directly to the skin and some for you to take. There’s already some infection setting in, and that’s what we need to stop. Dressings will have to be regularly changed.”

  “Can I shower?”

  “Yes. Keeping it clean is best, but make sure you apply the ointment and bandage it again after.”

  She shudders, and I know I’m going to offer to help
with that.

  “Any other injuries?” When Swift shakes her head, the doctor’s attention turns to me, his eyes landing on my bandaged arm. “Now, you. Please, lie on the bed.”

  This time I do, sucking in air as the doctor feels around my bruised chest. He pronounces, as expected, he doubts I’ve got broken ribs, though I wish he hadn’t prodded and poked so hard to prove it. He then unwraps the bandage Swift had applied in the house. My arm starts bleeding profusely, and he keeps dabbing gauze to mop it up.

  “Bullet wound?”

  Dismissively I tell him, “Just a scrape.”

  “Yeah, lucky for you there’s no bullet in it. It does need a few stitches, and I’ll prescribe antibiotics for you too.”

  A local anaesthetic, a needle prodding my skin, then a few minutes later he pronounces me good to go.

  The doctor washes his hands a final time as I sit up. He hands us both prescriptions, telling us to go get them filled, then comments about sending his bill in. He’s obviously a fairly regular visitor, I muse, as I watch him go.

  “I’ll get Gears to go and get these filled,” Swift tells me. “Then, I want a shower, put on some clothes, then get some food. I’m starving.”

  When she walks toward the reception desk, I hang back and wait. Shower then food sounds pretty good to me too. I’m looking forward to putting a shirt back on, as I’m getting pretty bored with walking around displaying my chest, although I’ve noticed it does attract Swift’s eyes, so maybe I should do a rethink. But it’s not overly warm in the clubhouse and I’ve no further excuse to go around with bared skin. I’m loathed to change her view though. Sometimes there’s shared pain in her eyes as they land on the purple skin over my heart, sometimes they become heated as they settle lower, looking at my taut stomach and the definition of my muscles. Or that could be wishful thinking on my part.

  As we walk toward the elevator, the mention of her hunger worries me. “They feed you?”