Scotch: Unraveled (Brimstone Lords MC Book 4)

by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  20.

  Frankie

  I’m in the throes of my breakdown when a face peeks inside the room and I scream, jumping from the bed and tumbling to the floor because I put weight on my bad leg. As I fall, I see a finger shush me and that’s when I begin crying all over again, though for a completely different reason. Rory. My Rory. The most beautiful man in the world shines his gloriously blue eyes at me. His thick, ginger hair shines like a beacon for me. He’s here to lead me home.

  “Frankie.” he shouts my name in a loud whisper as he darts into the room. Strong arms wrap around me, pulling the top half of my body up off the floor. “Mo leannan…” He kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry, baby…” he manages to get out between kisses. “So damn sorry…” He moves to my cheeks next. “Gonna get ya safe.” His lips finally fall to mine, giving me all his fear as I give him mine in return.

  “The girls,” I whisper, my lips still pressed to his. “They need to see you.”

  The indecision clearly shows across his face as he looks to the bed and back to me, knowing he needs to go to them, wanting to go to them, but not wanting to let me go, either.

  “I’ll be all right. Get the girls,” I order. Elise’s husband, Boss, reaches a hand out to me and as I grasp it, he pulls me up gently from the floor by wrapping his other arm around my waist. Once on my feet, he hands me off to Blue, who lets me lean my weight against his solid frame. I rest my head on his shoulder, watching my man shower love on his girls.

  “Ya protected ’em, didn’t ya?” he asks, twisting his head to look between me and the babies. “Red bums and they’re needin’ some food, but other than that, not a hair outta place.”

  I smile the best I can. “Mm… me and Brighton.”

  “Got her. She’s in bad shape, mo leannan, but she’s with Crass, who won’t put her down.” I gasp at that news. He won’t put her down? “Crass’s a good man. No one’ll take care of our Brighton the way he will.”

  “But—” I begin to protest.

  “She got a brother in her bed, she’s got the club’s protection. It’s the best place for her to be.”

  “I… The Lords scare her. Biker life scares her. Brighton’s not… She’s a…” I trail off without finishing my thought because he’s right. Until the Horde threat is neutralized, putting a burly, sexy biker named Crass in her bed is absolutely the safest course of action.

  Another good thing about the club is the other brothers who just seem to get it. Whatever that it happens to be at the time. In this case, Blue must sense the mood shifting because he changes the subject and I could kiss him. “How do you know they need food?” he asks.

  “I’m their da. Know their hungry faces.” He then bends in to kiss Mollie on the head. “Yar daddy’s here, lass. Keeping ya safe.”

  Stupid tears rim my eyes seeing him so gentle with his daughter. I feel a tug on my shirtsleeve and turn to Boss, standing next to me. “You know Gun, right?”

  I wipe at my eyes with my okay hand and smile. “Yeah.”

  “Full name Gunner. Named after the man who almost bought it savin’ my woman. Gunner ‘Crass’ Duncan. When Scotch says he’s a good man, he means it. Your girl’ll be safe with him. He ain’t about hurtin’ a woman—ever. You get me? Got my promise on that. You didn’t see the way he looked at her, like she was a shining light through the darkness, and you didn’t see how she looked at him, either.”

  “How’d she look at him?” I ask.

  “Like he was her savior. We were all in the room with her, but it was him she focused on, him who kept her shit together. Him.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Right. Now we gotta get you and them little sweethearts outta this hellhole.”

  I smile once again at Boss, thinking not for the first time that Elise found herself a good man, too.

  When I look back to Rory, he’s got Macie, kissing her head. “Right, lass. Daddy’s got ya, too. Getting ya out and getting ya home.” Then he kisses her again and I know exactly how that feels. I needed to kiss the girls as many times as they’d let me when I finally saw them again for the first time.

  “Best bet,” Blue says, speaking up, “is for two of us to take a baby and one of us to help Frankie.”

  “How you wanna play this, brother?” Boss asks Scotch.

  “You and Blue each take a babe. Frankie’s my woman; I gotta get her out.”

  “Understand,” Boss answers. I don’t fully get it, but it has to do with respect. Boss has a woman, so unless there’s no one left to help, he doesn’t touch me. Yes, he helped me up and I’m leaning against Blue, but that falls under “unless there’s no one else” with Rory seeing to his girls. Blue doesn’t have a woman and I belong to Scotch. Which means from this point on, Blue doesn’t touch me, either, because you don’t touch another brother’s woman. It’s archaic, bordering on barbaric. But that’s the way of it. And really, if they bothered to ask me my vote, I’d vote Scotch. It’s selfish. I know how selfish I’m being, the babies being away from their dad for so long, but I love him and down to the smallest cell in my body, I know nobody would protect me the way he would.

  “Carriers are too bulky,” Blue announces, pulling me back to the here and now. “It’ll draw less attention if we carry them, yeah?”

  Okay, well that worries me. I’d feel better if they were in carriers and what about driving us home? How will we get them out of this godforsaken bedsore on the ass of this country? But when I hear Rory say, “Right, yeah,” I know that’s what they’re going to do because as much as I love them and as much as I think of them as my girls, legally, they aren’t. They’re all his and he has the final say.

  Rory fastens the clean diaper I’d had each girl sitting on around their perspective bums, kissing first Maisie and handing her off to Boss. Then kissing Mollie before handing her off to Blue.

  Then Boss walks, supporting Macie with a hand to her neck, spanning the back of her head, and one at her thighs, to peek out around the corner, scanning the warehouse. He uses his chin to gesture to Blue that the coast is clear and Blue, holding Mollie exactly the same way, steps behind Boss. The men bend low and run.

  “Girls,” I sort of whisper-cry.

  “I trust my brothers with their lives, baby. They’ll be good.” Then Rory scoops me up into his arms and I get the impression that he’s planning to carry me out. He can’t carry me out. If baby carriers are too bulky and will garner too much attention, then what’s a full-grown woman being carried through a warehouse going to attract?

  “Put me down. I can walk.”

  “Baby, you can hardly stand. There’s no way you can walk on it.”

  “I have to. We have no chance of getting out of here unseen with you carrying me and you know it.”

  He peeks out the door, then back over to me several times, then grunts. Taking my hand, he tugs. We crouch low, well as low as I can crouch with a bum leg, and I hobble behind him, biting my bottom lip to keep the sound of my crying down. A tight squeeze of the hand he’s holding lets me know he gets my pain.

  “Lean into me, baby,” he whispers. “Keep the weight off that foot.” He drops my hand to wrap an arm around my waist. I drape an arm around his neck and lean in. We move together as one unit. He moves. I move.

  We’ve dropped behind the first crate when we’re almost caught by several scowling bikers. Moving fast, Rory pushes me down around the side of the crate out of view and he ducks to drop around the other side. It looks like he’s preparing to take them on.

  My heart is beating ten miles a minute. Thud, thud, thud against my ribcage. It kills to breathe so hard. When will something go right?

  “Where you goin’, cunt?” Sonofabitch. Whenever that something right will come, it’s clearly not right now. Not with Rodrick standing above me, calling me a cunt.

  I stare up at him. Swear to the good lord above, I’ve got nothing left. I can’t outrun him. I know it and by the ugly smirk on his face, he knows it, too. Instead of trying, I shr
ink into a ball, pushing against the wall of the crate, wishing beyond anything that I had the power to fuse myself with the wall of the crate in order to disappear from his line of sight.

  So when he lifts his foot, I don’t even flinch. I knew he was going to lift it probably before he did. And when that metal toe makes contact with my chest, I lose my breath, gasping for air. Unable to even cough. The kick was to distract me, to keep me from seeing his real weapon, his closed fist poised and ready to strike. I do the only thing left in my arsenal. I force my body to go limp and play dead. The last time he beat me, after I passed out for real, he’d dumped me in room. The man clearly gets off on pain. If I deny him pain, then hopefully he’ll move on.

  “Wake up,” he hisses at me. When I don’t, he kicks me. “Wake up, cunt,” He shouts in my face. I feel his breath against my skin but I refuse to give him even a twitch of my eyelid. I hope what I’m doing gives Rory enough time to figure out how to get us out of here. “Fine,” Rodrick says to me. “Not gonna play, then I’m done with ya.”

  “Rodrick,” Scud calls to him, that’s Scud’s voice. “Quit dickin’ around. We got product to move”

  I feel Rodrick’s body heat come close and his sour breath on my cheek. He flicks my face and says low, “Don’t know if yer out, dead or playin’ ’possum, but you ain’t gettin’ away again.” I force my eyes open, only slits, and stare into the face of true evil. There’s purpose there, in his eyes. Intent. Lifting his hand again, I know it’s going to be the last time he lifts it because I catch the glint of a knife that he skillfully swipes from a holder on his belt, lifting it over his head, ready to plunge it in my head or my neck. This is the kill shot. This is where I die. In a warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

  Just as he brings the knife down, Rory lunges at him, knocking Rodrick off-balance but giving himself away. How in the hell does he expect to get out alive, back to his daughters who need him, giving away his position?

  I’ve never seen this Rory before. This Rory, the man who savagely beats the living hell out of the deputy with bare hands, is no longer the father, the partner, the lover I know. This is the biker and it scares the hell out of me. Not that I think he’d ever hurt me, but he’s like a machine the way he beats Rodrick. Over and over, fist connects with flesh. I don’t want him to take a life. I don’t want him to have to live with that for the rest of his.

  “Stop.” It’s the only word I can croak out. Rory looks down at Rodrick with his fist raised midway, coming up from a strike. He turns to me and stands, scooping me up to run. But the commotion has brought too much attention on us. Horde are descending, blocking our exit.

  I’ve heard the saying my world stopped before. And honestly, right up until now, I thought it had. How stupid I was. Because as long as Rory was coming for me, my world might have slowed down considerably, but it didn’t stop. And I know that with certainty because it happens now.

  Now.

  Right.

  Fucking.

  Now.

  A gunshot rattles the metal walls of the warehouse, echoing loudly around the room. Guns are bad, but it’s the way Rory’s body jerks a split second after the gunshot rings. That’s when it happens. That’s how I know the difference.

  Still, he tries to keep running. Blood spiderwebs along the shirt he wears under his cut and that doesn’t stop him. The second gunshot, now that’s what drops him. His knees buckle and we fall, hitting the cement floor hard. Then right there, in front of a crowd of men, Rodrick discharges his weapon for a third time. The shot pierces Rory’s neck and there’s more blood than I’ve ever seen oozing from the love of my life.

  His wet, shallow breaths begin to slow. He’s out. He’s out and I don’t know if it’s from the bullet in his neck or how hard he hit his head when he slammed against the cement. Rodrick laughs when he turns the gun on me and fires what will be his last shot, hitting me in the gut.

  And as he turns to leave, he does it with the most god-awful parting words I could imagine. “Want ya to see it, cunt, see it when the last breath leaves his body. See it and know that’s on you.”

  21.

  Frankie

  Despite the blood leaking from my body, despite the horrific pain rippling through me, I let loose a bloodcurdling scream. It’s my last battle cry. I scream, dragging myself over to the crate, and use my one okay arm to pull me up the side. I scream as I attempt to open the lid of the crate, desperate to get at a weapon, not bothering to consider the fact that there won’t be any ammunition to fire. I scream until my voice goes hoarse.

  My feet slide out from under me. My weight is too much. With my eyes drooping closed, I miss the smoke but hear the deafening boom and open my eyes wide. Men in tactical gear flood inside the warehouse. Guns raised, they flood in through the holes they blew through doors and even a couple of walls. One on each side.

  I’m caught in the middle of a warzone. The Horde don’t go down without a fight. But this is a meth lab. With all this firepower, this place could blow from the chemicals they use. Knowing that, I slide down to the floor, scooting to Rory, and hook my arm around his chest. Then I twist to get to my knees and drag him. It’s slow-going, but even with all the blood loss, his skin is still warm. Warm is good. Warm means he’s not dead yet.

  As shots slow around us, I begin to sense the good guys winning. There are more Horde on the ground than officers. I keep crawling between the bodies. Finally, a hand stops me. I close my eyes, take in a long, watery breath, let it out slowly, and look up to see Sergeant Tommy Doyle squatting down next to me.

  “We got him, Frankie,” he says. I nod once and collapse, letting go of Rory. It’s a blur from there. The sounds of Tommy yelling for officers to help Rory until medics get to us. Men dropping down to their knees, ripping open Rory’s shirt. Putting pressure on his wounds. Putting pressure on my wound.

  Men and women running, rolling in stretchers. Stopping next to us. First shifting Rory. Next shifting me. An oxygen mask for me. An oxygen mask for Rory. There are others being attended to as they roll us out, loading Rory and me into separate ambulances. The very last thing I hear is Rodrick attempting to lie to an officer about infiltrating the Horde to get me and the babies out.

  It’s the very last thing I hear because the medic plunges an IV needle into a vein in my wrist, taping it down, and turns on the drip. It’s clear. My brain goes foggy. Then I sleep.

  22.

  Scotch

  Frankie’s eyes slowly open. The bruising was so bad from the beatings she took at the hands and feet of Rodrick that they’ve lasted for months. Even still, the yellowing around her eyes and nose and cheek, as faint as it is, remain a constant reminder of the ordeal. The girls sit up between us, playing, laughing, and giggling. Happy. Like they didn’t endure what they’d endured.

  Macie’s teething and has Frankie’s ring in her mouth, slobbering all over it and Frankie’s hand. My woman looks down and laughs lightly.

  I woke up in recovery after five hours of surgery. It was a close call. Although Rodrick didn’t sever the artery in my neck, the bullet nicked it and they had to actually get this one out in order to save my life. But it got worse because they couldn’t contain the bleeding. I died twice. Once in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and once on the operating table. That was the time they didn’t think they could bring me back from.

  My first thought was Frankie. How was she? Where was she? I had to wait until they put me in a room to find out anything. I fucking hate waiting. Duke and Boss were the first to visit me. And they brought news.

  Because I’m an ornery fuck, even with dying on the table, once they stabilized me, I never wavered. They kept me in the critical care unit for two nights until I became too much of an arsehole for them to handle and they kicked me out, switching me to a regular room.

  Frankie wasn’t as lucky. Between the gut wound, collapsed lung, and one sprained wrist, her other wrist needed surgery—she’ll need physical therapy to get it back to full use. A b
roken nose. A fractured ankle. And what they worried most over was a nasty head injury. She actually started convulsing in the ambulance. Vomited twice. Neither of those is good when you’ve got a hole in yar gut. But they got her to the closest emergency and helicoptered her over to a class-one trauma center specializing in head injuries. They kept her on that floor for over a week. Best day of my life when they moved her to a regular room and I got to call.

  She spent another week recovering in the hospital before she got discharged. I had Elise watch the girls while Beau drove me to get her. Mollie and Macie had been dehydrated and were put on an antibiotic because of the open sores on their bums they’d gotten from sitting in dirty diapers for days, but other than that, Frankie and Brighton kept them safe. Those two women put their lives in danger to protect my wee lasses.

  They had me on several restrictions, including driving.

  The minute I got Frankie home, Boss and I helped her to our room. Our room. She couldn’t help to notice all her furniture in my place at the compound. I was never sleeping another night not at her side. With the help of my brothers, who actually did the moving, we moved her in.

  Once we were alone, I helped her undress from the ugly sweats we made her wear home into her nightgown and helped her into bed. She worried over me because that’s my Frankie. I gave her some pain meds, changed into pajama pants, and climbed in bed next to her. Before I let myself fall asleep, I did one more thing.

  When Frankie woke, she woke with the largest morganite stone I could afford resting on her left ring finger. Set in rose gold, an antique setting, encircled with chocolate diamonds. She gasped when she saw it. “Does this mean you’re asking me to marry you? Like for real?”

  “Already told ya, not asking. Asking gives ya a choice. No choice, mo leannan. Yar marrying me. Period.”