Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  He thumbs my lips and guides me down onto the pillow. “You are more than I deserve sometimes.”

  “You’re right,” I tease.

  Sadness lurks in both of us, but I don’t want it to steal the little peace we’ve managed to find. “I’ll wear one of your T-shirts and a pair of jeans on the plane. The medicine will help me to sleep on the way—”

  His jaw clenches. “We aren’t leaving tonight.”

  “What?” The panic hitting me isn’t necessarily from thinking Sloane will take her from me. My daughter is like my lifeline. I understand why Sloane sent her and Abby away to the motorcycle club at Cash’s urging. I’m willing to stay there as well, until we know it’s safe, as long as we’re together. “When are we going to her?”

  “By the end of the week.” His tone is familiar to me. It’s his my-way-or-fuck-off one. I inevitably give in because he gets what he wants. Not this time. I intend to argue until he listens.

  “No. We leave tomorrow,” I insist. “Or I leave tomorrow. You can stay. I’m going to where my baby is.”

  “No,” he grits out in warning. “You’re leaving when you’re well enough to travel. If not for this funeral, you’d still be in the hospital.”

  “Only for another day or two.”

  He growls in frustration and shoves his hands through his hair. “Two days, Georgie,” he says begrudgingly. “You’ve been through a lot—”

  “Tomorrow,” I insist adamantly. “Or I’ll call Cash and ask him to get me there.”

  Amusement dancing in his eyes, he smiles at me as if he knows a great big secret that I don’t. “Call him,” he taunts. “He’s on my side.”

  “Of course,” I flare, kicking the mattress. “You assholes are all alike.”

  He’s sexy and he knows it. The cocky half smile buckles my knees and I’m not even standing. He’s in solid black. It’s rare that Sloane wears a suit. The only other time I remember him so dressed up was when he wore the tux for our wedding.

  “You’re beautiful,” I whisper, completely awed and dazed by him.

  He catches my gaze and holds it, and I flush. I’m already half delirious, so the effect he has on my body completes the job. “Two days?” he coaxes.

  Grinning at him, I roll my eyes. “Tomorrow,” I say sweetly.

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  I glare at him. “That’s still two days, Sloane.”

  “No. When I said two days. I mean two full days, and we leave the morning of the third day. Now, I’m suggesting you rest tomorrow and we leave bright and early the day after.”

  “I miss her.”

  “I understand. But if you move too soon, you’ll be away from her even longer. You’ll end up back in the hospital.” He walks out of the room with that hanging in the air. Returning ten minutes later, he has a small plastic container, with bubbly water, and towels slung over his arms. After placing the items on the nightstand, he leaves again and brings back a medical kit and a bottle of scotch.

  He opens the bright red bag with a white medical symbol, two snakes on a winged stick, and takes out a prescription bottle, unscrewing the cap. He hands me the round, white tablet and disappears into the bathroom, before bringing me a glass of water.

  “What is this?”

  “A combination of Tylenol and codeine,” he answers, switching that bottle for another one.

  “And that?” I ask as he holds out a capsule to me.

  “Antibiotic.”

  A couple of sips of water is enough for me to swallow each pill. Sloane adds scotch to the small amount of water left and gulps from it, before setting it aside and removing his watch. He pauses and mumbles, “Fuck it.” Then undresses, soon as naked as me.

  “Slide over,” he instructs, sitting on the edge of the bed when I do. “This might hurt a little.”

  He removes the bandage from my upper side and my arm, scowling at it and downing more scotch.

  “You drink a lot,” I observe.

  “And?” He dips the washcloth in the container filled with bubbly water, then rings it out. He wipes my face off. “Do you have a problem with my drinking?”

  The towel disappears into the water again, his muscles flexing as he leans toward it.

  “Suppose you get tired of drinking and need something harder?” My voice sounds a little slurred.

  “That will never happen.” His smile is tender and he trails the wet cloth over my breasts, swirling around my sensitive nipples. I groan. He wastes no time and glides down my belly, parting my thighs, staring at my pussy with the possessiveness of a man who knows he owns everything around him.

  His long lashes sweep down and my breath hitches, despite everything. Desire tightens his face and I squirm beneath the intensity of his stare. Glancing between my pussy and my wounds, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

  “Fuck.” He jumps to his feet and his stiff cock bobs. Once he pours another drink and tastes it, he snatches gauze, medical tape, and a few other supplies into his hands, sits back down and dumps the items next to me.

  I’m in pain. I can no longer distinguish between the heat of desire or that of a fever. If I have a fever, does that mean I have an infection?

  In silence, Sloane redresses my wounds. After he cleans up his mess, he slips next to me in bed. I turn into his body, feeling safe and protected and intending to ask him for sex. Instead, I settle my head on his chest, inhale his scent and fall asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Georgie, Sloane, this is Outlaw Caldwell, my prez,” Cash introduces, nodding to a biker that Georgie is blinking at as if she doesn’t believe he’s real.

  We’re standing in the middle of a room with a long, scarred bar, near a dozen or so tables. The cordoned off area behind me has pool tables and bathrooms delegated to Chicks and Dicks. Behind Outlaw is a huge mural of the grim reaper, eyes glowing red, blood dripping from the scythe clutched in his bony fingers.

  “Blond motherfucker next to him is John Boy, our VP. Fuckhead next to him is Val, our RC.”

  “RC?” Georgie echoes, glancing at Outlaw, who has yet to speak. He’s sucking on a cigarette, looking at me as if he has something on his mind.

  “Road Captain,” I grit out, pissed that she seems so fascinated with him.

  “That’s Mortician,” Cash goes on.

  “What’s he do?” Georgie asks.

  “Enforce shit, girl.” Mortician chooses to answer. Dreadlocks frame his brown face, diamond studs glinting from his earlobes.

  I don’t feel so fucking out of place, with my tats and earrings.

  “Enforce what?”

  Outlaw throws the cigarette on the cement floor and stomps it out with his boot, almost similar to mine. “Fuck all you fuckin’ need to know ‘bout.”

  “Excuse me?” I couldn’t have heard him right. The harsh tone he uses with her matches his glower. I understand she shouldn’t be asking questions, but he can’t intimidate her. “She’s curious, not a threat.”

  He glares at me. “Well, tell her to get un-fuckin-curious.”

  Cash sighs. “Outlaw—”

  The man named John Boy shoots Outlaw an irritated glance, then offers Georgie a small smile. “Sweetheart, your daughter, and friend are down that hallway, to the left. At the end, take a right and go to the end.”

  Outlaw sweeps me with a look and blocks Georgie from going forward.

  “Prez, Cash not bringing no motherfucker here that’s a fucking threat,” Mortician says, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “Christopher?” a soft voice calls.

  At first, I don’t know who the hell Christopher is until Outlaw softens and steps aside. A gorgeous little blonde stands in the doorway, not much older than Georgie, even though the biker is older than me.

  “I’m Meggie,” she says with a smile to Georgie, before looking at me. “Mortician plays music, too.”

  “You do know who the fuck you talkin’ to, right, baby?”

  She nods. “Sloane Mason, lead singer fo
r Phoenix Rising.”

  “You don’t follow the band, do you?” Georgie sounds almost in awe as if Meggie, whom I assume is Outlaw’s old lady, is an anomaly.

  In a way, she is. It’s rare to run across someone who isn’t clamoring for a piece of me.

  “I know of him, more because of you,” she responds, then looks up at Outlaw. Now that she’s near Georgie, I see that the two of them are also almost the same height. “Are you letting her through or what?”

  Outlaw steps aside, jaw clenching and Meggie stands on her tiptoes to kiss him, although he bends to make it easier. A wedding set sparkles on her hand and it comes to me that he also wears a wedding band. “I love you, Christopher,” she whispers.

  “I love the fuck outta you, Megan.”

  “Come on, Georgie. I’ll take you to Abby and Bryn. All the kids are with us. Now, it’s almost balanced with Bryn here. Five boys and three girls.”

  “You have a daughter?” Georgie asks, scooting around the club officers to follow Meggie.

  “And two sons,” she answers happily before their voices float away.

  We all stare at each other. For an MC with lawyers on the payroll, it’s dull and quiet.

  Mortician heads to the bar, bends down, and places bottles of tequila, vodka, whiskey, and rum on the top, then lifts a brow toward me. I point to the scotch. “My drink of choice.”

  Val and Outlaw are already at the bar, picking up tequila and rum, respectively, and lighting up a joint. John Boy takes his place and opens the whiskey, while Mortician does the same with the vodka.

  “You okay?” Cash asks, still standing next to me and nodding to the weed.

  I can do weed. Unfortunately, once the drug wears off, it isn’t enough and I want a higher high. Looking toward the hallway where Georgie disappeared, I scrub a hand over my face. Before I decide my next move, the door opens and four stunning women walk in. One with chocolate brown hair and whiskey colored eyes. Another who is tall with a beautiful body and hair a lighter brown. An exceptionally tall, big breasted red head. And a shorter girl, with black hair, green-brown eyes, and skin that makes her look exotic.

  Cash expects us to stay tonight, but I don’t think I can. Not that I intend to touch any of these women, even if Georgie wasn’t here. But they are just an addition to the drugs.

  “Chester, baby,” Mortician greets.

  “Antichrist,” the whiskey-eyed girl says sweetly, heading for Val and kissing him.

  I stand there as if I’m a piece of the furniture. A new experience for me.

  “Kendall,” Cash calls, and John Boy glares. “Hold your dick, Johnnie. I want Kendall to meet Sloane, since she and Brooks have the fucking recording with Helen Sanderson and Rand Mason.”

  “She’s my wife first and then his attorney,” John Boy or Johnnie says.

  “He’s right, Cash,” Kendall declares primly and goes to Johnnie to kiss him, as Chester did to Val.

  “Is Chester short for anything?” I ask, curious at these odd names.

  “Ignore this fucker,” Val grunts, nodding to Mortician. “My woman’s name is Zoann. Motherfucker’s name for her is Chester. Just like he calls Kendall, Red.”

  “So is Meggie, Blondie?”

  “Yo, motherfucker, my wife nothin’ but fuckin’ Megan or Meggie.”

  “Lucas calls her Meggie girl,” the black-haired girl says, as she heads to Mortician and kisses him.

  “I sure do, girl. Only because Prez let me though and you know that shit, Bailey, so stop trying to get my ass beat.”

  “Ain’t fuckin’ with a motherfucker till I get my fuckin’ hands on motherfuckin’ Digger and Sharper.”

  Bleakness settles in Mortician’s eyes, and a pall casts over everyone.

  The only girl left comes up to me. “Um, are you Sloane Mason?” she asks.

  “I am.”

  “I’m a big fan of yours,” she admits, blushing. “I’ve really enjoyed having your aunt here. I’m Bunny, by the way. I help out Meggie.”

  “I have one of your albums,” the woman named Zoann says to me, as she walks to where Bunny and I are. “Come on, Kendall needs to talk to him, so let them handle their shit.”

  Once the other three are gone, I realize Cash is now at the bar, talking amongst the guys.

  Strange how I only seem to find a place around Georgie, nowadays. Here, I feel as if I’m an outsider because I’m not indulging in their activities. Around my bandmates, Kiln, and Jaeger, I’m the black sheep.

  “You plannin’ on gettin’ the fuck over here or what, so she can get the fuck away from me, Sloane?” Outlaw calls to me.

  He lights a regular cigarette. Johnnie has moved to the opposite side of the bar, since Kendall’s arrival.

  Johnnie rubs her back, stiffening at Outlaw’s words. Kendall only smiles serenely, so I walk to the bar and stand in the middle. Mortician slides a bottle of scotch to me and lifts a brow.

  “Need a glass?”

  “No,” I respond with a snicker, unscrewing the top and cracking the label, before swigging.

  “I’ve been reviewing your case, Mr. Mason,” Kendall begins briskly.

  “Do not call me Mr. Mason,” I say with a grunt. “Fucking Helen calls me that and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “She’s a cunt to you too, then?” Cash asks with a dark scowl.

  I nod, surprised at his insinuation that she isn’t nice to him. “I thought you two were friends.”

  “Don’t fucking insult me. I can’t stand that bitch.”

  “Then why the fuck are you helping her?”

  “I’m not helping her. I’m helping my little sister, dumb ass. She loves you. Otherwise, I would’ve told that bitch to go fuck herself. I did until she told me what it pertained to.” He holds out his hand. “I never thanked you for laying out that motherfucker, Crowell.”

  I accept it. “Don’t mention that motherfucker. I should’ve fucking killed him. He put his hands on her and left her face bruised.” I swallow back my rage. “He’s lucky he’s out of her fucking life. I would kill him.”

  “You’re free to discuss whatever you’d like, Mr. Mason,” Kendall says in her same tone. “I have a son to get to.”

  Johnnie kisses her forehead. “We’ll talk to him, gorgeous. Go to Rory.”

  She preens under Johnnie’s attention. “Are you sure?”

  “Fuckin’ positive,” Outlaw answers, glaring at her.

  “If you’re responsible for her relapse, don’t say fuck-all, Christopher.”

  “I ain’t. I’ll either shoot the fuck out of her or choke the fuck out of her, and be fuckin’ done.”

  “Fuck, Prez,” Mortician says, shaking his head.

  Val frowns. “Damn, Outlaw.”

  “You’re the last holdout, Christopher. Everyone else has forgiven Kendall.”

  “Good for fuckin’ them. I ain’t one of them motherfuckers.” He releases smoke from his nose, then turns his attention to me. “Listen up. We got your shit on fuckin’ file. It’s all there if you wanna fuckin’ check the shit out. Your pops con-fuckin-fessin’ to murderin’ his own fuckin’ daughter. If this Helen cunt end up fucked the fuck up, then us or her fuckin’ lawyers releasin’ this, but we takin’ your old man out, too.”

  “Helen ordered my father’s death?”

  Outlaw stiffens. “We not contract fuckin’ killers. No, we killin’ that motherfucker cuz he fucked up his own girl.”

  “Whether Helen lives or dies, he still killed my sister and blamed me.”

  “So you want us to kill him either way?” Mortician asks, as if they’re discussing the weather, and not killing someone.

  “Do I want my father murdered?” Fuck, I wanted him dead, but I wasn’t a killer and I didn’t want to live with blood on my hands. It’s bad enough I have for so long with Steffie. I shake my head and gulp more scotch. “No. If he drops dead, I won’t mourn him.”

  “You’ll feel just as you do now with Cassandra’s death?” Cash guesses.


  “My mother-in-law,” I clarify at the question in the other men’s eyes.

  “Who you fucked,” Cash announces, blurting my business.

  “Fuck, man,” Mortician says in outrage. “I wouldn’t touch my bitch of a momma-in-law with somebody else’s cock. That’s some freaky shit.”

  “Shut the fuck up about Roxy, Mort,” Outlaw says in amusement. “I like her ass a lot.”

  “Good. I can’t stand that bitch. Bailey gets all fucking sadity when I complain.”

  “Sadity? What the fuck does that mean?” I ask, having never heard the word.

  “Fucking uppity.”

  “He ain’t meanin’ that shit, Sloane,” Outlaw says, laughing. “He mean she do a pussy lockout.”

  “A pussy lockout?” I can’t help it. I laugh my ass off at the image that rises in my head at those words. Mortician’s reaction is even funnier. “What’s that?”

  “When your bitch keep her pussy to herself because you pissed her the fuck off,” Val explains.

  “I like that you a upstandin’ motherfucker. Stuck by your girl no fuckin’ matter the shit storm fallin’,” Outlaw says, eyeing me as if he respects me. “I’m fifteen fuckin’ years older than my Megan. The day we met, she was turnin’ eighteen. Ain’t never been into no young bitches. But age ain’t nothin’ but a thing, Sloane. Fame, too. At the end of the day, bein’ there for your girl is what count. When shit get bad and you loyal to her, she gonna be loyal right back to you.”

  “I’m a—”

  “Don’t make a motherfuck of a difference what the fuck you be,” Outlaw interrupts. “I was a fuckin’ piece of shit to my fuckin’ grandfather. Worse than shit. We all some-fuckin-thing to every motherfucker we come across. They don’t mean fuck all. Only what my wife think of me do.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” I say sarcastically.

  He smirks at me. “No secret she pussify me.”

  “Fuck. Helen uses—” I nod to Mortician and borrow his word—“sadity language. Around here, you say things I don’t think is in the fucking dictionary.”