Fractured (Devil's SixGuns MC Book 2)

by Scarlett Holloway

  A giggle escaped her, and her widened brown eyes showed shock as Thorne slapped a hand over her mouth. Apollo knew it had been a long time since she had just let go to be the old Thorne that everyone knew and loved, and he was lucky enough to witness it.

  The curtained windows filtered in a low light across her face, blurring the scar from view. Her profile was exquisite and he wanted to capture her in the timeless beauty of that moment. The glow that surrounded her, the laughter in her eyes, the way she smiled. She had no clue what she was doing, and that made it all the more irresistible.

  “What?” She looked down at herself then back up at him with a quizzical look on her face.

  Well, he had been staring… “I want to photograph you.”

  “Fuck. That.”

  There was that venomous tone he was getting used to. Only this time, it held malice and an underline threat in it.

  “Please, Thorne. I think you’ll be surprised at what you see.”

  She thrust her bowl aside, the spoon clinking to the counter top as she pushed herself off of the stool. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when I let anyone take pictures of me, Dalton Kilpatrick.”

  Thorne’s eyes glittered with unshed tears as she stared at him with a look he prayed he’d never see again. It was a mixture of shame, hurt, and fear, and he was the one who put that look on her face.

  Way to go, fucktard. “Thorne, wait…”

  He rose from his stool and stepped toward her, but in a flurry, she was gone. Apollo let out a deep breath, his knuckles rapped against the wood countertop in dismay. Grabbing up the dishes, he glanced over his shoulder when he heard her bedroom door slam.

  “Hell’s about to freeze over, Thorne.”

  That woman ran either hot or cold. There was no in-between with her, as he was starting to realize. How Saber put up with her bullshit, he’d never know. Though he never remembered her being like this. She always had a smile on her face, never sour or a bitch like she had become, and holy monkey-nuts, she was getting worse daily. He thought her getting some dick would help, but he was wrong.

  Maybe she needed more?

  ROMEO HAD JUST SAT down on his front porch with a steaming cup of pick-me-up when the sun peeked up over the mountains. It was o’five-thirty and he was one tired son of a bitch. He had spent the night entertaining three women, and when he left, none of them could move a muscle. That was around two in the morning. Two and a half hours of sleep was not enough to get his brain functioning.

  That was what coffee was for, right?

  He had to be at the shop to wrench away on Saber’s bike by eight. Something in the crank case was broken and, since Saber was working overtime, Romeo told him he’d take care of it. Wolf was back in town, the book nerd of the two business owners, which relieved some of the stress of being the mechanic everyone knew him to be while also maintaining the shop’s books.

  As Romeo held the warm cup between both hands his eyes drifted closed, and he allowed the morning sounds to sooth his over-taxed brain. Romeo felt himself drift into that bliss between sleep and meditation—a comfort zone for him where he could catch a quick cat nap and refresh his brain’s circuits.

  He was jolted out of the twilight zone when his leg vibrated. Hot coffee sloshed onto his chest causing him to yelp and jump up, which caused him to spill even more of the coffee on himself.

  “Fuckin’ aye!” He threw the the coffee mug into the yard with a yell. His pocket would not quit spasming against his hipbone. Romeo tore off the T-shirt that was scalding his chest and tossed it to the side, then he reached into his jeans pocket to dig out the burner that was wreaking havoc.

  “What?” Romeo barked, not bothering to check who might be on the other end of the line. Right now, he couldn’t give a fuck, his chest was on fire and his nuts were tucked up in fear of the hot liquid that had soaked through his jeans, making it look like Romeo pissed his pants.

  There was a hesitation on the other end of the line, and then a throat was cleared. “Ro—Romeo?”

  “Who the fuck do you think this is? You’re the one who fucking dialed the number.”

  “It’s Zack, Romeo.” The voice grew stronger as he spoke.

  “Okay, and?” He knew Prospect SixGuns Zack was smarter than the average bear and to call him at such an ungodly hour meant that something was up, but since he had burned himself, Romeo’s good-mood attitude had flown out the window and he wasn’t exactly thinking about being nice to the male who was currently on the other end of the phone.

  “So, you know how I have to be at work early, right?”

  Romeo licked his lips as he yanked the screen door open. He stomped toward his room, trying not to lose patience with the prospect and his lack of getting to the point. “Yeah, and what’s that got to do with the price of rice in China, bro?”

  “I always ride by the clubhouse on my way to work.” Zack paused and cleared his throat. “I think you need to get here and like, as in ten minute ago.”

  His brows furrowed together as he cradled the phone against his shoulder—which tilted his head at an odd angle—so he could take his pants off and slip on a new pair of jeans. “What’s wrong with the clubhouse?”

  The shop and the clubhouse were on the same property, allowing a place for the bikes to be stored if any of the guys got drunk. Plus, it gave the guys a place to stay if they needed to. Each patched officer had their own room, then there were larger rooms upstairs for the other brothers who needed to stay, or to accommodate Nomads or other chapters who came in for a visit.

  Zack’s voice was strained as he answered, “Just get here.”

  It took twenty minutes to get there. Ten to get dressed and warm up his beast of a bike, and ten on the road. As he approached the club house, he saw blinking red and blue lights in the distance, bouncing off of surrounding businesses, forcing Romeo to swallow down his heart that had risen up to his throat.

  As he pulled into the parking lot of the shop, all Romeo saw was cop cars and bikes. The lights were blinding in the early dawn, making it difficult to see exactly why the police were there.

  As Romeo strode toward the chaos, Zack appeared out of nowhere, grabbing his arm. “Dude, seriously. This is some sick shit.”

  Romeo stiffened at being touched, but understood why Zack was trying to warn him. Trying not to yank his arm from the prospects grasp, he turned his cold pale greens on him. “Explain.”

  “It’s the TG man.”

  That was all Zack had to say. As he turned his head back toward the clubhouse, it took everything Romeo had not to bellow in pure rage. His eyes had adjusted to the lighting and he could clearly see what had Zack so upset.

  Through gritted teeth, Romeo instructed Zack to gather all officers and tell them to be on scene in thirty minutes.

  Once Zack acknowledged him, Romeo headed toward the main officer on scene, an old buddy, John McKinney.

  “How much longer are you guys going to be here?”

  McKinney glanced toward Romeo and shrugged. “I’m not sure; they’re dusting the place now. You must have really pissed these guys off, Xander.”

  “What’s new? We tend to piss a lot of people off.”

  McKinney chuckled and clapped Romeo on the shoulder. “You haven’t seen the inside yet.”

  Romeo blinked and watched McKinney walk away, leaving him with his dick in his hand. The outside was trashed. The Tremer Gallo had defiled the clubhouse to the best of their ability. And they had done a damn good job.

  The structure that was painted white with black and gold accents to declare that it was SixGuns property was covered in TGMC tags, symbols and pictures depicting gravestones stating for the SixGunss to rest in peace. On top of the crude artwork, it looked like they got happy throwing chicken shit and feathers on the walls and around the building. Even the door handles had shit rubbed on them.

  Romeo’s fists were clenched at his sides, ignoring Zacky-boy as he walked up and stood next to him, unable to peel his eyes away from the d
estruction that the TG had left behind. Sayings of Get Out!, TGMC Territory, and RIP Six-Pussies.

  Volatile emotions choked Romeo as his hands opened and closed, his jaw clenched then relaxed, taking everything he had to keep from exploding. His father’s legacy was defaced, right along with Wolf’s. Romeo took in a large breath and held it as he headed toward the front entrance in trepidation. It was as if his legs were moving of their own accord.

  He had to still be asleep. This was nothing more than a fucking nightmare and he knew he was going to wake up soon. There was no fucking reason for the TG to go all out like this…unless they wanted to start a war.

  War had been avoided seven months ago. Why the fuck wait until now to retaliate like this? What was the deal breaker that made Muerte decide it was worth going against the treaty they had reached? More than likely, it was greed.

  Zacky-boy grabbed the door before Romeo could put his bare hand on the shit covered handle, his brain barely registering that Zacky-boy still had on his riding gloves.

  Once inside, the dense fog lifted from his head, his vision cleared and the emotional light switch turned off. That was a good thing considering.

  The inside was just as bad, if not worse, than the outside of the building. Tables were broken, chairs ripped apart and tossed around, windows shattered, glass strewn everywhere. The stationary bikes that the girls danced on were completely trashed: seats were ripped to shreds, the handlebars looked like a metal grinder was taken to them, shavings riddling the bars begging to give some unsuspecting girl splinters. The bar top was blackened, the thick smell of liquor permeated the air, letting Romeo know they wasted it all on the top and lit it up. What wasn’t wasted was broken behind the bar, a mixture of liquid and glass lay thick on the concrete.

  Romeo’s released pent-up breath came out as a low growl that filled the silence in the room. What wasn’t covered in black and green spray paint was covered in the black shit that the cops used for dusting prints.

  “Fuck me sideways.” Romeo shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck as he stared at the malicious destruction laid out before him.

  Romeo was about to head for the chapel room when he heard the all too familiar rumble of a pack of bikes heading their way. He knew his brothers just by the sound of their bikes. There was no other sound like it, deep and full of throttle.

  He debated making his way out to greet the crew, but he wanted them to experience the emotional heartbreak, then anger, that he felt when he saw the TG’s handiwork. He could hear the exclamations and anger through the shut door, full of obscenities, threats of death and ass raping. Those threats grew in volume when the officers stepped inside.

  Saber was in first, followed by Colt, Axe, Talon, and Hawkeye, with Wolf taking up the rear.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Jesus Christ Almighty!”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Those and a few more expletives were heard, followed by more threats of death, ass raping. Finally, castration was added…with a frozen rusty butter knife.

  Romeo could hardly contain the anger that was fixing to explode like a case of dynamite as he listened to the astonished men that now surrounded him. The only one who kept quiet was his VP, Wolf.

  Wolf was always stoic, which made him the best VP around. He tended to think things through before he let his emotions get to the better of him. Six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds, he was not one anyone wanted to meet in an alleyway. He was trained in four different styles of combat, including knife defense and offense, and was an expert marksman to boot. He was lethal and it seeped off of him. Long and wavy, deep-chestnut hair reached down mid-back, matching the cold, calculation of his hazel eyes. Wolf wore a beard, cut close and trimmed neat, which hid most of his facial expressions from view.

  He always wore jeans and a T-shirt, or a bowler’s button-down shirt, and each finger of his hands was decorated with silver rings, giving him more ability to damage someone in a fight. He was muscular, but not massive, just your normal everyday Joe. Or so he liked people to think.

  “I haven’t walked the Hall of Fame to the chapel room yet.” Romeo didn’t care that his voice was thick and slightly slurred, giving away emotions he was trying to keep in check for his brothers. Strength was needed right now, a clear head, not shoot now and ask questions later. No matter how fucking bad he wanted to.

  “Get to it.” Wolf motioned for everyone to head toward the hallway, taking up the rear per usual.

  The silence was deafening as Romeo led his club into the memorial for past patch holders. Pictures were smashed, faces scratched out and drawn on. Spray paint decorated the walls and the few frames that were still intact, adding to the wreckage of the building.

  None of what they witnessed outside the chapel room prepared them for what they walked in on. The sight before them hit them like a sucker punch to the balls. There was a collective mixture of gasps and retching that echoed through the sacred room.

  Romeo wasn’t sure if it was tears of fury or sadness that blurred his vision as he glanced around the maelstrom left behind in the wake of the TGMC. He was choking, he couldn’t breathe. Romeo felt his chest tighten, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His brain denied everything he was witnessing, even while he listened to grown ass men vomiting behind him.

  The death grip on his shoulder brought him out of the shock that was consuming him, forcing vile air into his lungs, forcing him to gasp as it burned his throat. Romeo glanced to his right and met Wolf’s gaze, not at all surprised to see dead eyes staring back at him. He often wondered if Wolf had emotions at all. The miniscule shake of his head kept the apoplexy in check.

  As Romeo turned back to take stock of the damages, he had to tune out the comments from the peanut gallery to focus on his own inner turmoil. The main table had puddles of piss on it mixed with splotches of what he could only assume, by the putrid scent that lingered, was burnt dog shit…or so he hoped. Spray paint seemed to be the Mexican club’s forte, Spanglish slang tagged on top of the varnish, letting the DSMC know exactly who they were dealing with. Each of the officers chairs were shredded and pissed on, except the president’s chair. That had taken the worst of it.

  The message they were sending was loud and clear with the casualty of his chair. The chair was not ripped to shreds, no piss or shit on it, and it had been moved aside and out into the open where it would not be missed.

  Romeo stepped toward the captain’s chair for closer inspection. “I’m going to fucking kill them.”

  It was a simple fact, really. Said and it would be done. No ifs, ands, or buts. Romeo was going to kill each one of the TGMC single handedly. Or so he thought in that moment as he stared at his chair. His seat was covered in a milky white thick substance that required no help to figure out what it was.

  None of the brothers made a move to console Romeo or give their condolences. This was a personal attack against Romeo and it would be dealt with as he saw fit.

  He closed his jade-colored eyes closed as he tried to find inner peace before he said another word. Then he took a deep broken breath and slowly expelled it as he reopened his eyes.

  Nope, still seeing red.

  “Bone out. Meet at the safe house.” Romeo’s voice was strained as he glanced over his shoulders at his brothers.

  * * * *

  Romeo and Wolf rode together, detouring the long way around to the safe house. The house was in an undisclosed location that only patched brothers knew of. In cases of war or acts of violence toward any brother or their family, the cabin out in Paradise Canyon was to be used as a safe house.

  Iron horse meditation was a drug that no doctor could prescribe, but it helped alleviate Romeo’s pain and murderous thoughts for the time being. The wind that brushed along his face and swept away his breath, mixed with the brain’s need to escape from reality, was exactly what the doctor ordered. The swish—swish—swish of the white line and sound of the dual rumble of the 103’s cleared the leth
al images that had started playing like a movie in his mind.

  No words were needed between the brothers as they rode side by side, completely in tune with the other. Years of riding together had perfected their non-verbal communication skills. A nod of the head, a glance in a certain direction, or a slight movement of a hand was all one needed to instruct the other about which direction to go or what one wanted the other to do.

  The Harleys pulled up to the gate that gained entrance to the cabin’s land. Zacky-boy was waiting, pulling the wrought iron fence open, allowing them to roll by, then closing it behind him.

  Romeo paused on the bike long enough to watch his prospect walk up to them in his rear view mirror. “You got your P-bag in the cabin?”

  “Yes, sir.” Zack nodded, glancing between Wolf and Romeo with his brow quirked.

  “Any pain reliever in it?”

  “Aspirin, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and naproxen.”

  “Good man. Where’s Jan?”

  Zack offered up a shrug of his shoulders. “He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Hmm, keep trying.” Romeo racked the throttle, knocked his left foot lever into first, and rolled away from the prospect.

  The duo pulled up next to the prospect’s hog. Romeo killed the engine and laid his skid-plate on top of his tank before he got off the bike, then stepped over to the oversized duffle bag. He unzipped the top and started to root through the bag to get a couple of tablets to kill the major headache. All prospects were required to haul around a bag called the P-bag, or Prospect bag, that carried everything and anything any club member, ol’ lady, or pass-around might need.

  Romeo actually burst out laughing as he lifted up a small package to show Wolf. “He took this serious. He’s actually got a fucking kitchen sink in here.”

  He had told Zack that a P-bag was supposed to have everything but the kitchen sink in it, to include tampons, razors, deodorant, pills, suture kits, allergy meds, bug spray, condoms—you name it, the bag was to have it. Zack had actually found something called “The Kitchen Sink”, which was a plastic sink one could take camping and fill with hot water to clean dishes with.