Dream Maker

by Kristen Ashley

  Or, through all this, the agony of seeing Mag’s feet that way on my floor.

  In my reality, I saw Snag’s shoes fill my vision before he crouched over me.

  “I gotta know where that fuckin’ bag is, bitch,” he snarled.

  “Someone stole it from my car,” I told him, again, for the millionth time. “I have no idea where it is.”

  “Your dad’s a dealer.”

  I closed my eyes tight.

  I opened them and said, “Not anymore.”

  “Stupid cunt,” he bit out. “Like father, like fuckin’ son. It’s a joke, those two, both of ’em losers, both of ’em tryin’ to outdo each other on the street.”

  Oh my God, Dad.

  Oh my God, Mick.

  Oh my God, why was this my goddamn life?

  “You look in that bag?” Snag asked.

  I opened my mouth but caught myself from saying “we,” just in case (and I couldn’t think about it another way or I’d unravel) Mag was okay, and that spray of blood was a figment of my imagination.

  And then I said, “I looked into it. I saw the drugs.”

  “And you didn’t get any bright ideas to give it to your dad to move it?” he pushed.

  “No.” I shook my head, my cheek scraping against the floor. “No. Mick told me to do what you said, and I did that. I kept it safe and waited for instructions.”

  “Not safe enough, if, like you said, it got stolen from your car.”

  “I just had to run in and change clothes. I didn’t want my neighbors wondering why I was toting around a Trader Joe’s bag everywhere I went.”

  “You dig through that bag?”

  I shook my head again. “No. No. Just looked into it and saw what was in it and that’s all I needed to see. I didn’t want anything to do with it. I texted you that night to tell you I didn’t want responsibility for that bag. The texts wouldn’t deliver.”

  “I had occasion to put my phone outta commission.”

  I could guess.

  “I need that bag, Gardiner.”

  Suffice it to say, tied to a chair in a warehouse after being kidnapped and…and…whatever happened to Mag, I absolutely could guess that too.

  “I don’t have it,” I whispered, “I swear, I don’t—”

  I didn’t finish because I heard a weird thunk.

  Then I heard Snag mutter, “What the—?” as he rose away from me.

  After that, I heard running feet before a muted explosion that preceded a hissing noise.

  Another thunk, and through smoke forming from something on the floor, I saw a figure moving through the warehouse, all the way at the other end.

  Then I scrunched my face tight when a gunshot blast assaulted my ears.

  “I can see you, motherfucker!” Snag shouted.

  Another muted explosion, a hiss, more smoke, and I opened my eyes and started coughing, noting visibility was decreasing rapidly.

  I still saw two shadowy figures moving through the space.

  Another thunk, explosion, hiss, gunshots and then someone leaped over me in my chair.

  Blinking against the tears forming in my eyes, choking on the smoke, I saw through it what appeared to be Boone hitting Snag in the back with a savage shoulder tackle that sent Snag flat to the ground, landing on his front. Such was the fall, Snag’s gun flew out of his hand, and I heard it sliding across cement.

  Boone hesitated not a second in landing a knee in the man’s back, to Snag’s grunt of pain.

  He then took his head in both hands and slammed it against the cement floor.

  Snag went still.

  Whoa.

  That was when I felt movement at my wrists, which were zip-tied at the back of the chair.

  “Hang tight, baby, try not to breathe,” Mag was saying. “Get you out to fresh air and cleaned up soon’s I can.”

  But I didn’t really hear his words, seeing as a sob tore jaggedly up my throat the minute I heard his voice.

  My wrists were freed, then my ankles were freed from where they were tied to the legs of the chair, then I was up in his arms and he was jogging through the smoke.

  But I heard his grunt of pain when he lifted me

  He’d carried me before and he did not grunt.

  Oh God.

  What did that mean?

  He set me on my feet outside, but his hands didn’t leave me.

  He held me steady as he said, not to me, “Get me some goddamn water.”

  I was crying, blinking, struggling to pull in breaths, at the same time desperately trying to focus on him through my blurry vision, and woefully failing.

  “If you got saliva, spit out that smoke, honey, you with me? Spit it out. Let your body do what it does to take care of you.”

  I bent to the side and spat. My nose was running, my eyes were killing me, but I could spit.

  A lot.

  Mag must have sensed I had myself steady on my feet because his hands left me, and when I straightened from spitting, immediately I felt what seemed like a wet wipe on my face.

  I instinctively rubbed against it, trying to get it toward my eyes.

  “Stay still, Evie. Gotta dab, not rub. Let those eyes do their work. Let me get that smoke off your skin.”

  I nodded but then jolted, bracing to run when I heard a vehicle pull up beside us.

  Mag caught me and cooed, “It’s Axl, baby. It’s just Axl. It’s okay. He’s bringing water.”

  I heard a door slam and then Axl saying, “Water,” and a bottle was put to my lips.

  “Don’t drink. Swoosh and spit,” Mag instructed.

  I did that.

  He gave me more.

  I did it again.

  “Be still again, honey,” he ordered. “I’m gonna run this down your face and pat it dry. Yeah?”

  I nodded.

  He did that.

  He did it again.

  My shirt was soaked, it was cold outside, but I began shivering violently and not because of either of those.

  “Blanket,” Mag grunted.

  I heard retreating footsteps, but more importantly, Mag was coming into view.

  Instinctively, I reached up and grabbed either side of his face, and in doing so, I knocked off the headset with microphone he was wearing, and it fell down his back.

  “I thought—” I started.

  “I saw him through the window, read his intent, saw he had a gun. He saw me, raised his weapon and I got off a shot. He returned fire, clipped my shoulder. When I fell back, cracked my head against the wall. I was out less than a minute but long enough for him to take you.”

  My eyes moved to where his words were referring, and I saw the stain, I saw the hole, and I saw the white of the bandage through the hole in his navy thermal.

  Good God.

  “Your shoulder.”

  “It’s fine.”

  I jolted again when a blanket landed on my shoulders and Mag moved instantly to pull it closed at the front as I looked behind me to see Axl.

  “It was through and through. It’s battle dressed but he needs a doctor,” Axl shared unhappily.

  My eyes shot to Mag. “Then let’s go do that. Now.”

  He didn’t answer, seeing as all our attention was taken by movement coming from the warehouse.

  It was Boone, dragging Snag out of the door by a leg, Auggie strolling casually after them.

  Snag was recovering, I could tell, and struggling to get control of his body, something it was apparently hard to do when someone was dragging you across asphalt by your ankle.

  I was so immersed in this, I didn’t feel it at first.

  It took Axl’s low warning, “Mag,” for me to feel it.

  And then I felt it.

  Which was right before I saw it.

  Mag’s temper.

  Unleashed.

  He sprinted toward Boone and Snag, and Boone instantly dropped Snag’s foot and stepped aside.

  “Stop him!” Axl thundered, jogging that way.

  “I’
m not gonna fuckin’ stop him,” Auggie called.

  “I’m not either,” Boone said.

  “Stop him” meaning stop him from tearing Snag apart. Mag was bent over the man, he had Snag’s shirt fisted in one hand and his other was just fisted and landing in Snag’s face.

  Repeatedly.

  Oh God.

  “He can further harm himself,” Axl clipped.

  Oh God!

  “Danny!” I shouted, rushing toward him.

  Mag did not stop, going so far as to violently shrug off Axl, who was trying to catch his arm.

  That couldn’t be good for his shoulder.

  “Danny!” I screamed.

  Boone caught me before I made it to them, and held me, but I struggled against him, because, up close, Snag’s face was quickly turning to mush, but more, I could see a dark stain that now looked wet growing at the shoulder of Mag’s thermal.

  “Danny!” I cried.

  “Brother,” Auggie murmured. “Hawk.”

  My gaze darted to Auggie and then my head jerked right at the same time Boone shifted us so he could look too.

  At what I saw, I stood suspended.

  Two men were getting out of a Camaro, with Mo coming out of his truck behind it.

  But I scarcely saw Mo or the man coming out of the passenger side of the Camaro.

  This was because I fancied a gigantic swirl of dust like out of a Robert Rodriguez movie curled behind the man folding out of the driver’s side of that Camaro.

  He took his time ambling across the asphalt in such a way it seemed life had gone slow motion.

  He was the epitome of a lean, mean commando machine.

  He was probably around Auggie’s height, Auggie being the shortest of the bunch, if six one could be considered short.

  He had dark hair not liberally sprinkled with silver.

  But in the sea of hotness I found myself floating in after I met Mag, this guy was on a different level.

  If he’d ever had frat boy tendencies, he’d strangled them, spat on the corpse and then set it ablaze.

  He was what Mag and his boys would become in a few years.

  He wasn’t all man.

  He wasn’t all commando.

  He might be an avenging angel.

  There were no words to describe precisely what he was.

  But what he was, he was that 100 percent.

  “You doin’ all right?” Hawk asked me, his eyes assessing my person efficiently, and he did not hide his displeasure at seeing the sting in both my cheeks that was clearly visible.

  “Y-yeah,” I replied, seeing as he was freaking me out by being a human-size force of nature, but also, I’d dropped the blanket in the dash to Mag and I was freezing.

  Hawk turned his head to the man standing beside him, Hispanic, also intensely good-looking, and without a word said by Hawk, that guy jogged back to the blanket.

  Hawk then shifted his attention to Snag, who Mag had stopped pounding, but the man was still on his knees, his body lax, held up by Mag’s fist in his shirt.

  “Are you conscious?” Hawk asked.

  “Fuck you,” Snag spat, and I was pretty sure a tooth came out along with spittle and blood at his words.

  Yuck.

  I noted tears were also running out of Snag’s eyes from the smoke, but that was currently the least of his worries.

  “I see your situation has not impressed itself on you,” Hawk remarked.

  At that, Snag just spat, his head lolling to do so, his aim to the ground by Hawk’s feet.

  It was then Boone let me go, so Hawk’s man, who went to retrieve the blanket, could give me said blanket.

  Boone helped pull it around me and I held it close to my front.

  Hawk watched this as if my comfort was the most important component of this wild scenario, and I decided I liked Mag’s boss.

  He then turned back to Snag.

  “There are few in your line of work who do not know who I am,” Hawk noted.

  “Everyone knows who you are, motherfucker,” Snag replied.

  “So, I take it, you put your hands on Evie not knowing she has my protection.”

  Aw.

  That was sweet.

  And it meant something to Snag. Even in the bloodied mess Mag had made of his face, he looked freaked.

  He struggled to hide it, failed, but still managed to accuse, “She took somethin’ of mine.”

  “You gave it to her, dumbfuck,” Hawk returned.

  “To look after,” Snag retorted.

  “All right,” Hawk said, putting both hands on his hips, and I imagined the sky lifted several inches, “I’m done with this. Outside the narcotics, what was in that bag?”

  Snag blinked. Then it appeared he was trying to think.

  Finally, he said, “Nothin’.”

  Hawk’s gaze slid to Mag and he nodded.

  Once.

  Mag pulled an arm back.

  Not the arm attached to his injured shoulder.

  That one he was using constantly to hold on to Snag, dammit.

  “Okay! Okay! Call off your asshole!” Snag shouted. “I’ll tell you.”

  Mag’s arm dropped but this gave me occasion to look at his face and I saw his mouth was pinched with pain and he’d gone slightly pale.

  However, I felt, regrettably in this scenario, that I should not rush to coddling the man I was living with, albeit platonically (for now, and that happy change in circumstances was indefinitely delayed, stupid Snag!), and instead stayed still and kept my mouth shut.

  When several seconds ticked by in silence, Hawk prompted, “I’m not hearing you tell me.”

  “It’s a gun,” Snag said then hastily added, “Not my gun.”

  “We know it’s not your gun. We know one of your girls took it off a john. We know that girl is now dead. What we wanna know is, whose is it and why is it so fuckin’ important?”

  “I tell you, will you let me go?”

  Hawk heaved a beleaguered sigh.

  “I see you haven’t come to grips with your situation. This isn’t a negotiation. You’re gonna tell me, and your choice is whether you tell me easy, or you tell me hard. And how you choose decides how we disappear you after. If we do that nice, or if we do that nasty.”

  Oh man.

  I looked to Mag, who was focused on the man in his hold.

  “Now,” Hawk carried on, “I work hard, my boys work hard, downtime is scarce, we were all enjoying our Saturdays, and we find ourselves here, dealing with you. And the longer you make us stay here, the more my mood deteriorates. So let’s cut the dicking around and tell me about that gun.”

  “It was used in a murder,” Snag said.

  Oh no.

  “And the guy who was murdered was a cop.”

  Oh no!

  My gaze cut again to Mag, but he was now scowling over my head at Boone.

  “Names,” Hawk barked.

  “Man, you are signing my death sentence if you make me—”

  “Names!” Hawk roared, I jumped, and Boone slid an arm around my belly and pulled me back into his body.

  “Cop was Tony Crowley. Who done him was,” he seemed to be breathing funny before he pushed out, “Cisco.”

  “Shit, fuck,” Auggie clipped.

  I had a feeling Cisco was even worse than being a cop killer and that was pretty damned high up on the bad guy scale.

  “Jorge, Axl, Aug, deal with this asshole,” Hawk ordered. “Boone, Mo, take care of Evie and Mag. Communicate. I want a huddle in the office as soon as this current shit is sorted.”

  And with that, Hawk turned and strolled away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Do Right

  Evie

  I sat on Mag’s couch, staring at Mag’s view, thinking about Mag.

  As well as Mag and me.

  And what Mag meeting me meant to Mag.

  My father was a drug dealer.

  My brother was a drug dealer.

  And Mick’s bullshit got Mag shot.r />
  Shot!

  Got him shot and his friends spending their Saturday afternoon throwing smoke grenades (or whatever those were) and tackling people.

  Against my wishes not to be separated, but with Mag assuring me he’d be okay and sharing he wanted me at his place, where he knew I was safe, Boone had taken Mag to someone called Dr. Baldwin.

  And Mo had taken me to Mag’s place, on which descended Lottie, Ryn, Hattie, Pepper, and Tex. That last for protection seeing as Mo had stayed long enough to have a conversation with Tex in the hallway and grab a new shirt for Mag before he took off.

  Not long after, a new addition to the cadre of hotness that seemed ever-growing showed.

  His name was Dutch.

  He wore a leather jacket with the Chaos MC patch on the back.

  And Mag’s friends were commando-hot, but Dutch was rough-biker-boy hot.

  Such was the situation, however, regardless of this new hot guy in our midst, Ryn, Hattie and Pepper were all about me.

  Getting ice for my face.

  Cleaning and slathering Neosporin on the scrapes on my cheek.

  Pouring me shots of Mag’s Fireball.

  And alternately bitching out loud or fretting quietly about the fact I’d been kidnapped at gunpoint and they’d run out to find Mag recovering from being unconscious with a bullet wound to his shoulder and a spray of his blood on the wall.

  All courtesy of Mick Gardiner.

  All courtesy of me because I didn’t do what was right.

  Needing the love of a family so badly, a family that didn’t love me, I’d done what was weak.

  I needed to go.

  The first available moment I had, I needed to stuff what I had left in as many Trader Joe’s bags as I could find, grab the money the girls gave me, empty my bank accounts, write a variety of notes that would never come close to sharing all the feelings I had for a variety of people, especially Mag.

  And get the hell out of Dodge.

  Get these people safe.

  And escape my dysfunction.

  I didn’t know where I would go, but I was thinking Canada.

  They said people were super friendly up there and I could do with some friendly.

  Amid melancholy daydreams of moving to Canada, Lottie plopped down on the couch in front of where I was twisted toward the window.

  She was staring at me intently.