by Penny Dee
“You think Freebird did this?”
“Things haven’t been good with them since Jacksonville.”
“I know. Freebird hasn’t been able to let it go . . . but to do this?” I glanced over at Irish’s slumped and bloodied body.
Had Freebird finally lost his head over what happened in Florida?
Bull knocked me on the shoulder. “Find Freebird. I want to know what the fuck went down after they left the clubhouse last night, and why he’s been fucking AWOL all day.”
I took one last look at Irish.
It was a question I wanted answered myself.
CADE
The fallout from Irish’s death, and the disappearance of Freebird, was massive. On the heels of Tex’s death, and Isaac’s murder only a few weeks earlier, the club was left reeling. We investigated. We probed. We made contact with some of the shadiest people we knew, but we came up empty-handed every single time. Either we were the unluckiest MC in the country, or someone had a vendetta against the Kings of Mayhem.
The tension was winding up inside of me, gathering speed with every death. I tried to train it out of me by hitting the gym every day, punishing my body until it was spent and fatigued. And when that didn’t work, I threw myself into my work, mistakenly thinking that if I had control of everything else around me, then I would have control of my rising anger. My days were long. Demanding. And I would look forward to the end of the day when I could pull my queen into my arms and worship her body with every inch of mine.
But even the comfort of Indy’s sweet kisses and sexy body couldn’t keep the tension at bay forever. It kept building and building, winding up like a tightly coiled spring deep inside of me.
When Irish’s funeral came along, I was so numb by all the death and loss, I was dangerous and I knew it. The funeral was another gathering of chapters. Another MC funeral where a cut was lowered into the ground, and another brother was honored with a celebration back at the clubhouse in true Kings of Mayhem style. But there was an undercurrent of distrust. A sinister entity simmering just beneath the surface. Some believed Tex’s death was an accident, and that Irish had committed suicide. But they were the minority. Distrust hung like a thick layer of smoke over our club. I drank my whiskey, but not enough of it to numb me. After the fourth or fifth shot, I was done. I needed peace. I needed to be in the arms of my woman.
Indy drove us toward our home. And in my black mood, I just wanted to shut out the world and hold Indy close to me, and drink in the scent of her to calm my mind. There was no peace outside of her embrace and I was so damn tired.
It was late afternoon. Only a few other cars were on the road. My head was pounding. I needed sleep. Weeks of torment had caught up to me and my mind was dark.
My first realization of the beat-up truck was when it roared past us. I watched absentmindedly as it closed the space between it and the car in front, the pickup driver tailgating like a madman. He had my attention when he started to nudge at the bumper. He had my full attention when he rammed it and almost sent the car flying off the road.
I sat up straight.
“What the hell!” Indy said, watching the incident unfold in front of us.
“Slow down,” I said.
“He’s going to run that car off the road,” Indy gasped.
I put my arm out. “Hang back, baby.”
She slowed down to put space between us and the two cars in front.
With a third ram into the bumper, the car lost control and spun off the road. Instead of taking off, the truck came to a skidding halt next to it and a redneck with an axe climbed out. I heard the driver of the car screaming as the crazy redneck swung his axe down on her windshield.
“Pull over,” I said to Indy.
She didn’t argue and pulled over.
“Lock the doors and call an ambulance,” I said. Because when I’m finished with him, he’s going to need it. I felt the tension in me snap. I knew the bomb in me was about to detonate and I felt powerless to stop it.
The lady driver of the car was screaming for help as the wildman with the axe continued to smash her windows and her car, hollering at her about cutting him off in traffic. He was going to kill her, he said. He was going to fuck her up, he yelled, as he rained his axe down on her car, over and over again. She was terrified and crying, begging him to stop, holding her hands up in front of her face as glass floated around her like confetti.
I stormed toward them, and when the crazy redneck saw me coming, he casually turned his back and began to walk away. I continued after him. When he threw the axe in the back of his truck and opened the driver’s door to climb in, I hauled him backwards, sending him to the ground. He got to his feet swinging, but I smashed my fist into his face and immediately rendered him useless. The second blow opened up his nose. The third broke it. Then I couldn’t stop. The tightly coiled tension snapped inside of me and I continued to pound into him with my fist, my rage roaring out of me with all of my fear and frustration. With all of my hate and my pain. All of my agony. It boomed out of me like a missile. And I drove it into his face over and over again.
I was only vaguely aware of Indy saying my name and yelling at me to stop.
Slowly, my tunnel vision widened and the world around me came into view again. The redneck had gone limp in my arms, his face a bloody, pulpy mess. When I let him go, he slumped against his truck and groaned.
I looked at Indy. But she didn’t need to say anything. The look in her eyes spoke volumes. I had lost control.
When the police and ambulance arrived, the deputy interviewed the driver and other witnesses, while the EMTs saw to the redneck.
“He saved my life,” I heard the lady driver say to the deputy.
“I saw it,” said another witness. “I think he would’ve killed her if that man didn’t step in.”
I watched them load the redneck into the back of the ambulance. He was going to be fine. But a few more to the face and he wouldn’t have been.
“You come after another woman again and I’ll finish what I started,” I said to him before they closed the doors.
“That’s about enough from you,” the police officer said, dragging me away. “You’re going to need to give me a statement.”
Before I could answer, the lady driver came up to me and hugged me. Christ, she was only about nineteen. Probably a college kid.
“Thank you! You saved my life,” she said, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me again. When she turned to the police officer, she started to cry. “If he hadn’t come along and stopped him, I think that psycho would’ve killed me.”
“I’m taking him to the hospital to look at his hand,” Indy said to the deputy. “You can meet us there.”
I looked at her. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
But taking a look at my hand and judging by the pain that was beginning to burn in my knuckles, I had probably broken something.
The police officer looked at me from under the brim of his hat. “Good. I’ll get the statement from you there.”
Nothing was broken. In me, anyway. The psycho with the axe wasn’t so lucky. He suffered several broken bones and a concussion, and Indy said he was being admitted. The police had already charged him at his bedside after a witness brought forward some footage they had taken of the attack on their cell phone.
Me, I wasn’t being charged.
But I should be. I had lost control.
I knew it.
And worse, Indy knew and had witnessed it.
She hadn’t said anything, but I knew it weighed on her mind.
She was quiet as we walked down the corridor of the hospital, leading outside, and I wanted to talk to her about it when we were alone. But just before we walked through the door, someone called my name.
“Mr. Calley!”
Indy and I swung around. Dr. Sumstad, the county medical examiner, approached us from the opposite end of the corridor.
“Those toxicology reports came back on
your friend, thought you’d like to know before I hand my findings over to the proper authorities,” he said as he walked toward us.
The donation to Sumstad’s kid’s Boy Scouts fund let him know that yes, the Kings would like to know before anybody else got their hands on the findings.
He handed them to me, but I had no idea what the hell I was looking at so I gave the papers to Indy. Her eyes roamed over the report.
“What did you find, Dr. Z?” I asked.
“Apart from significant levels of THC, nicotine, and alcohol, no other drugs were found in his system. If he was taking medication for depression, such as SSRIs or TCAs, then he hadn’t taken them in days.” He nodded to the file in Indy’s hands. “What I found particularly interesting, though, was Mr. O’Connor’s blood alcohol level was .455.”
“Jesus!” Indy exclaimed.
“His levels were four times the legal driving limit,” Sumstad said.
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Meaning, Irish was too wasted to stay awake, let alone make the decision to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger,” Indy said.
“Exactly,” Sumstad agreed. “Also, his brain stem was severed by the bullet. But the police report said he was clutching the gun in his hand when he was found.”
I didn’t know what that meant, so I looked at Indy.
“The moment the brain stem was severed, it became an anatomical impossibility for him to maintain a grip on that gun.”
“Precisely. So, based on this, I’m citing cause of death as homicide.”
INDY
We lay on our bed in the darkness, the only light in the room coming from the streetlight farther down the road. We were awake but still. Lying together but not touching. Saying so much but not uttering a word. Emotion buzzed around us. We were showered and changed, me in a t-shirt and bed shorts, and Cade in a pair of sweat pants hanging low on his hips, his broad chest naked. We lay on our sides, facing each other. Our heads sank into pillows. Cade was calm, but shame clouded his handsome features.
“I scared you,” he whispered, his throat working as he swallowed. “I saw it in your eyes.”
The torment was clear on his face, and my heart ached at the sight of it.
“You didn’t scare me,” I whispered back. “But you were out of control.”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. They were dark and blue, and full of turbulence.
“I don’t know if I would’ve stopped. The pain . . . the anger . . . I couldn’t hold it back any longer,” he said and I could hear the anguish in every word.
“But you did.”
“Only because you stopped me.” His brows drew in. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”
“You would’ve stopped,” I reassured him.
“Do you really think so?”
I nodded gently. “But I don’t live my life with what ifs. I think if you’re concerned, then you should speak to someone.”
He chuckled softly. “Spoken like a true doctor.”
“Counseling is for big bad bikers, too,” I teased softly with a playful raise of an eyebrow.
That was when Cade opened up to me and told me about seeing a psychologist after I had left for college. How his counselor, a sincerely nice guy named Donnie, had helped him cope with his emotions through counseling and journaling. I let him speak without interruption, and it all spilled out of him. About the desperation he’d felt after our breakup and his inability to cope with the loss of our relationship. How he had struggled with his father’s death less than a year later. And then with Donnie’s death in a car accident not long after.
I reached for his bandaged hand and brought his fingertips to my lips.
“I’ve got you,” I said softly, pressing a kiss into them. “And I won’t ever let you go.”
His eyes roamed my face, absorbing what I had said and looking for signs that I meant it. He reached up and tenderly pushed my hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
“Will you marry me?” he asked quietly.
I nodded gently.
“Yes,” I whispered.
His smile was tender, barely showing on his face, but registering brightly in his beautiful eyes. “I don’t want to wait. I want you to be my wife as soon as possible.”
I curled my fingers around his. “And I want to be your wife more than anything in the whole world.”
He linked our forearms together and held them to his chest, and I could feel the gentle thump of his heart. When he bent his head and kissed the top of my hand, I was consumed by love for him.
“Do you want a big, white wedding?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I just want to be married to you. I don’t care how we do it.”
And it was true. I wasn’t a white wedding kind of girl. I’d never fantasized about a wedding. Because I had already had it when I was nine years old, when I had married my best friend in the backyard, in front of my brother Bolt.
I smiled and pressed my forehead to his. “Plus, we already had our big wedding when we were nine, remember?”
He laughed softly, barely a whisper, but his smile was warm. “I love you so much, Indy. Please don’t give up on me.”
His words killed me. I reached up and cupped his jaw with my hand, and kissed his beautiful lips. He was a big man. Physically powerful and broad. He was tall and intimidating, strong and protective in every way. But in that moment, he needed me. He needed to know that I was standing beside him through everything, no matter what. And it killed me to know that he needed that reassurance. Because he had it. No matter what happened. I would rise up as his queen and stand next to my king. “I will never give up on you . . . on us. I’ve got you, baby. Whatever you need from me. Whatever I can do. Whatever I can give you. It’s yours.”
I felt his breath leave him. Felt his body relax.
We didn’t make love. We just held each other, united by the emotion in the room. He drew me into his arms and held me against the warmth of his chest, his fingers trailing up and down my arms in blissful whispers. And I made a silent vow to this man. To always stand proudly by his side through every storm, and to love him with every beat of my aching and abundant heart.
CADE
The party to celebrate my vote in as Vice President was held a week later and it was huge. Some bikers from visiting chapters lingered for the party at the clubhouse. Bull was adamant the celebration went ahead because we needed something good to bring us all together, rather than a fucking funeral.
The vibe was good. Everyone was ready to celebrate. To be happy. To put the grief behind us and have a good time. A live band played. We had caterers bring in a spit roast with roast potatoes and all the trimmings. Bourbon flowed. Tequila was shot. Weed was blown. Coke was racked up and enjoyed.
But for me, I stayed clear of it all.
So did Indy.
Because after Bull made the announcement and formally swore me in as VP, and when he asked me to make a speech, I changed the course of the night.
“We’re all here to celebrate me becoming the VP of this club,” I said into the microphone, and the room rumbled with cheers. “But that’s not the only thing I want you to help me celebrate tonight.”
I looked across at Indy. She was standing with Abby and Mirabella, looking beautiful in a short white dress with a plunging neckline and a choker of daisies around her milky white throat. She looked stunning and my heart overflowed with love for her. In a room full of leather and liquor, lace and smoke, she was an angel. I offered my hand to her and she stepped up onto the small stage to join me.
“Because tonight, I’m going to make this beautiful woman my wife.”
The room vibrated with surprise, and the applause that followed shook the walls.
A marriage celebrant from town joined us on stage. And as we stood there in front of all of our friends and family, I looked over at the woman who meant more to me than the air in my lungs, and a peaceful calm washed over me. I could withstand any
thing if she was by my side. And when I draped the custom-made crown necklace I’d gotten for her when I was seventeen, over her neck and made her my wife, it was the singular, happiest moment in my life. Indy was mine. All mine. Finally. I took her beautiful face in my hands and kissed her, and the room erupted in celebration. But they all faded away and went out of focus as I continued to kiss my wife, lost in the moment of finally becoming her King.
“I love you so much,” I whispered against her lips. I felt her smile and pull me closer, her reluctance to end our kiss as strong as mine.
Afterwards, we celebrated with our family and friends, and the festivities rolled on into the night. It was the first time in months that we were able to forget, just for once, and no one was ready for it to end. We danced. We drank. We ate. We laughed. There was a feeling of freedom in being able to let go and forget. Some of my club brothers celebrated a little too much, and toward the end of the night it got wilder. Louder. Crazier.
But I was so lost in my queen that I never left her side. And as Paula Cole’s
“Feelin’ Love” played on the jukebox and I held her in my arms, I looked down at her, aching to be inside her.
“Time to go to bed, Mrs. Calley?” I bent my head and nuzzled into her throat, dragging my tongue up to her ear. I was done waiting.
She shivered beneath the caress of my lips against her skin and a soft moan left her parted lips. “Please,” she breathed.
We arrived home, and I scooped her up in my arms and walked her across the threshold because it seemed like the right thing to do, and carried her straight up the stairs to our bedroom where I wasted no time peeling her clothes from her body. We fell onto the bed, kissing furiously, neither of us wanting to wait a moment longer. I moved between her thighs where she was slick and tender, and a tremor rippled through her as I pushed into her. She gasped and clenched around me, moaning my name as I slowly pulled back, only to thrust back with more force. Her head fell back and her fingers pressed into my shoulders. I drove into her, over and over again, my cock feeling so fucking hard it was almost painful. And I lost myself in the noises she made, in the moans and the whimpers, in the soft, tortured pleas for more.