Crash (Twisted Devils MC Book 5)

by Zahra Girard

  “So, you got divorced, too?”

  Chuckling, he fills his glass and raises it to tap against mine. “Hell yeah. Just as messy, just as acrimonious, though thankfully without all the paperwork, just a bunch of insults the likes of which still have my head spinning, and a kind of sinking feeling of loss deep in my chest. It hurts. And what makes it hurt less is focusing on the people and things that I love: the club and the work I do for them.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. It hurts a lot less when I’m around you, too.”

  We look at each other for a moment; two formerly heartbroken strangers, two workaholics who find solace in the things they build and in providing for their friends and families, and, strangely, in each other’s company.

  I take in a breath, my stomach fluttering with butterflies. I’ve just fucked this man — hours ago, on a table not over twenty feet from this spot — and yet I’m about to propose something that scares me. Scares me not only because it’s something that I haven’t done with any man in years, even before my divorce from my asshole ex-husband, but also because it involves getting close to a man who finds purpose in the criminal work he does for his outlaw club.

  It’s scary, but it also feels so right.

  “My place isn’t far from here. Do you want to come home with me?”

  “I’m up for another round, yeah.”

  I shake my head, and he gets a confused look on his face. “Not just that. I mean, yeah, I want to have sex with you again. But I want you to spend the night. I want you to sleep with me.”

  God, I hope I’m not making an enormous mistake. Taking a criminal to bed? What am I thinking?

  It’s almost embarrassing how hard it is for me to say that, even though we’re both adults and we’ve just fucked each other’s brains out, but it is hard. And it’s almost embarrassing how unable I am to hide my smile when he nods his head.

  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  Chapter Ten

  Crash

  Even content beyond reason and exhausted from hours of fucking a woman better than I have any right to lie beside, I’m a light sleeper. In the dead of night, I pry my ass out of bed and shuffle downstairs to the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge.

  What the hell am I doing here? I think. I know I shouldn’t be getting tangled up with a woman like Violet. Not that I shouldn’t have a good time, but getting close to a woman like her is dangerous. She comes with a whole mess of entanglements, small town drama, and a feud with the local MC, and every single one of those entanglements is a danger to my mission for the club. And to the lives of all of us.

  But even knowing all that, it feels so damn good to be with her; she’s got a businesslike attitude that I just get on an intrinsic level and she’s got a ferocity about her — in fighting and in sex — that makes my blood hotter than it’s ever been. Violet Cassidy doesn’t just kick ass in a street fight, she’s a fuck that puts every other woman to shame.

  I’m two beers in and still searching for contentment when I hear a noise at the front door. It’s quiet, just barely loud enough to hear — a metallic click and slide — the sound of pins in a lock sliding into place and a door handle slowly turning.

  I finish my beer and grab the first weapon I see: a big chef’s knife from the kitchen knife block, and I find myself a hiding spot in the hallway closet that still affords me a decent view of the front door.

  Naked as the day I was born, smelling like sex and carrying a knife, what a way to be just as I’m about to get into a fight.

  The door opens, sliding silently on its hinges, and two men wearing Death’s Disciples cuts enter the house. They pause for only a moment inside the front door, each looking left and right through the living room of Violet’s house and seeing nothing more than the remains of the blanket fort that Snake and Josie built while watching Dead Snow. Satisfied, they head deeper into the house, heading my way, and I know that if they make it further and up the stairs, they’ll be able to ambush Violet, Josie, and everyone else while they’re sleeping. I can’t let that happen.

  I need to kill them here and now.

  Silent, I wait until they’re flush with the part-open closet I’m hiding in. And the second they’re in reach, I attack.

  My foot hits the door, hard, sending it flying open and crashing into the first Death’s Disciple, knocking him off balance and into the hallway wall.

  I charge forward. Knife ready.

  Slashing, I catch the other Death’s Disciple right across the face and I keep coming forward, grabbing him around the mouth with one hand and shoving the knife deep into his chest with the other. He surges in my grip, eyes bugging wide, and his blood sprays all over my hand and forearm.

  I pull the knife free and ram it in again, feeling the solid steel slide between the junction of his ribs. He jerks once, then slumps to the ground as his heart bleeds out inside him. Dead.

  Thud.

  A heavy punch hits the back of my head, sending the knife flying from my grip and pushing me forward. I catch myself against the wall and barely have time to turn and dodge another punch from the other Death’s Disciple. Seeing me still off balance, he leaps forward and grabs hold of me and sweeps my legs out from under me, sending me sprawling to the floor beside his dead companion. Sticky blood soaks my back and, as he raises his foot to stomp on my face, I roll sideways, barely dodging the heavy boot that comes crashing for my head.

  Frantic, I reach for the knife and bring it up in a slashing arc, catching the Death’s Disciple across the calf. There’s a wet slick grinding noise as the knife bites all the way through his calf to his shin.

  He falls.

  And I pounce. Climbing atop him and planting my knee on his throat.

  “Where is she?” I growl. “Where is Kendra? Where is that bastard keeping her?”

  He stays silent, glaring at me with murderous fury as he struggles beneath me.

  “Talk,” I say as I press the tip of the knife to his throat with just enough pressure that droplets of blood form as the steel breaks his skin. “Or I will bleed you out so fucking slow that you will beg me to end it.”

  “Fuck you,” he spits.

  “Last chance,” I say and I press the knife just a fraction harder, enough that the droplets of blood flow freely and he struggles and surges beneath me. “I can do this all fucking night.”

  Then a new sound cuts through the sound of our struggle; a door upstairs, opening and closing, hard. It makes my head turn and worried thoughts of Violet — or worse, Josie — coming down those stairs and witnessing everything. And he seizes on my distraction, pushing with everything he has to dislodge me from on top of him, sending me sprawling to the side.

  Before I can recover, he’s on top of me, wrapping his hands around my throat.

  “So, you’re going to kill me, huh? Fat fucking chance, you limp-dicked piece of shit,” he growls.

  My sight darkens. Blood pounds in my ears, in my brain, the sound of my heart striving with all its vain might to push oxygen through my body. I can feel my life leaving me, a numbness that starts in the tips of my fingers and swells inside me, sending cold welling from the tips of my extremities and racing toward my core.

  Then warmth.

  Wet, hot, thick.

  A look of surprise flares across the face of the Death’s Disciple and he slumps sideways, a thick gash in his throat.

  Behind him, holding the chef’s knife, I see Snake. He’s wearing boxers and nothing else. And he’s grinning like it’s fucking Christmas.

  “Fucking finally got to stab someone,” he says. “God damn, it’s been too long.”

  “Thanks, brother,” I croak.

  “It’s me who should thank you for saving him for me.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I’ll try. But can you do me a favor though, brother?”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “You think you could put some fucking clothes on? Seeing you naked and covered in blood is
giving me all kind of weird thoughts.”

  “Jesus, dude,” I say, and I put my hangs down to cover myself. “I’m going to go take the world’s quietest shower — because we sure as fuck are not waking anyone else up — and then I’m going to get dressed and we’re going to get rid of these fucking bodies.”

  “Got it.”

  “And Snake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Any word from Blaze or Mack on where this Switchblade guy might be hiding Kendra?”

  “No. They searched the whole fucking town and couldn’t find any sign of her.”

  “Fuck,” I snap, feeling unease and worry take hold of my gut. “You know what this means?”

  “No, what?”

  “If they’re making a move on Vi and Josie, they’re running out of patience and cleaning up loose ends. Kendra’s time is about to run out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Violet

  My eyes open to an empty bed, yet one still fresh with his smell and still warm with the heat of his body. This is a feeling that, however fleeting, is one that I never expected to have — at least for a long while — and, now that it’s here, I can’t get enough of it. A time passes, minutes, at least, where I just lay in bed, with my head on his pillow, taking in the smell and feel of him. And I smile. Smile in a way that I haven’t smiled in years. Satisfied, fulfilled, giddy, sensations that are such a welcome and unexpected addition to my morning.

  For the first time in four years, I’m sharing my morning with a man. And it feels so good.

  I take my time getting up, and I put on a pair of flannel pajamas — scratchy, but soft and warm, the perfect pajamas for keeping away the frosty Colorado mornings — and I leisurely make my way downstairs.

  The smell of coffee hits my nose before I’m halfway down. And I hear the sizzle of eggs in a pan and the sound of lively chatter around a breakfast table.

  I’ve gone from alone to a full house in a single night. And, while the men — and young girl — that I know are sitting in my kitchen aren’t here under the exact circumstances I’d wish for, it’s still a wonderful feeling all the same. I pause before I leave the staircase and just listen to the life and happiness that float through the air on the wings of their conversation. Crash is in the middle of telling Josie a story — something involving his road name — and I wait for a moment, not wanting to interrupt, but then the delicious smell of coffee and eggs overwhelms me and I enter the kitchen.

  “Morning,” Crash says, the second he catches sight of me. Before I take a second step, he’s reaching for the coffeepot.

  “Wait, no,” Josie says, leaping out of her seat and running to intercept Crash.

  He stares at her like she’s lost her mind.

  “What is it, kid? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m her barista,” Josie says, seriously. “I have to make her crackhead latte.”

  “Her what?” Crash says.

  “Hey, if it’s anything like it sounds, count me in,” Snake says, downing his mug and setting it — empty — on the table in front of him.

  “It’s not,” I say. “Not anything like that. She’s eight, Snake. It’s just really good and Josie makes them special.”

  “Would you like one too, Crash?” She says.

  “Sure, kid,” he replies, smiling.

  “Me too, Josie,” Blaze says. “And put one in a thermos, too. I’ll bring it to Mack later at Max’s place.”

  Josie is beaming. And she turns into a whirlwind of milk and coffee and a tornado of sugar as she mixes drinks. In seconds, my kitchen counters are coated in a snowstorm of sugar, but I’ve rarely seen Josie as happy, or as proud, as she is when she sets down four full mugs of her coffee concoction. Each of the men picks up a cup, takes a drink, and showers her with praise.

  I sip mine and take a seat, happy and content.

  “So, was I interrupting a story earlier?” I say.

  Crash shrugs and looks about to say something, but Josie pipes up. “Crash was going to tell me how he got his name.”

  Crash shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you, Crash,” I say.

  “Yeah, please finish your story, Crash,” Josie says, bouncing in her chair and giving Crash some of the widest puppy-dog eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “Fine, fine. Kid, you get any better at those eyes and you will raise a bunch of hell when you get older,” Crash says.

  “My mom says the same thing. But finish your story.”

  Crash smiles and rolls his eyes at me and then turns back to the stove, where he’s preparing breakfast. It’s as he turns that I see something dark around his throat. Bruises, maybe. Whatever they are, they definitely weren’t there when we finally went to sleep, and neither of us choked the other that hard that there should be any marks.

  I frown.

  Then Crash, clearing his throat, starts back into his story.

  “I was prospecting. Do you know what that is, Josie? No, you probably don’t. It’s like I was trying out to join the club. Every member has to do it — they put you through some tests, make you do a bunch of busywork like cleaning and dumb errands, and they tease the heck out of you trying to get you to break. There’s more to it, but I won’t bore you with the details. Anyway, I was just a young kid, and I thought I was the best at everything. And, to tell you the truth, I was darn good at a lot of it; I was, and still am, the best racer in the club.”

  “Bull crap,” Blaze says, laughing. “I’ve dusted you tons of times, brother.”

  Crash turns and glares at him, and Blaze quickly closes his mouth. For a moment, I get another look at the bruising around his throat. It’s well hidden by the collar of his shirt — this morning, he’s wearing a full-collard flannel — and by his cut, but it’s unmistakable. Those are fingerprints. What happened last night? Was I that rough with him?

  “Anyway Josie, I was pretty fast at racing and we were on a charity ride — it’s this thing Mack puts on once a year to raise money for some kid’s groups — and the whole club was driving in this big line down this long stretch of highway. And I thought I would show off and prove to everyone just how good I was. So I revved my engine, pulled into the opposite lane, sped by everyone in the whole club, even popped a wheelie for a while, and it was as I was looking over my shoulder to see just how impressed everyone was with my amazing stunts that I lost track of what was in front of me. When I turned my head around, what do you think I saw?”

  “Was it the stupid cops?” Josie says.

  “Stupid? Josie, what do you mean stupid?” I say.

  Crash and Blaze both look directly at Snake.

  “No more unsupervised conversations with the kid, brother,” Crash says.

  “Sorry,” Snake says, looking down at the table.

  “Damn, dude, what else did you tell her?” Blaze says.

  “Nothing weird, I promise.”

  “He told me the best way to stab someone in the face. You know, in case zombies attack,” Josie says.

  “Snake…” Crash says.

  I pick up a butter knife from the table and glare at him. “Any more from you and you won’t be allowed within a hundred yards of her. I’ll have you put on one of those lists. You got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  Crash turns his focus back to Josie. “Like I was saying, kid, I was trying to show off. I turned around and, from out of nowhere, there’s this ice cream truck barreling down the highway. I had just seconds to react, so I swerved my bike and went flying off the road, I went down into this ditch and then shot up high on the other side, like a jump. Man, kid, I soared through the air like a bird. Got a serious case of road rash, too. Still have the scars to this day,” he says.

  “Can I see them?” Josie says.

  Crash nods and lifts his shirt, showing a line of small gravel-sized scars running up his back.

  “Oh, cool. I got a scar, too. When I was six, I built a jump ramp at a bottom of a hill and I went down it on my bik
e. I jumped super far. But I didn’t land so good. But I got this,” she says, pointing to the bridge of her nose, where there’s a slight scar barely bigger than a fingernail.

  “Oh dang, I’ll bet that hurt,” Blaze says.

  “You gotta be tough, kid,” Crash says. “Tell you what, it sounds like you’ve earned your road name: Speed Demon.”

  I’ve never seen Josie’s eyes, or smile, wider than they are in this moment. She jumps out of her chair and hugs every single one of the bikers, so proud to be a symbolic member of their gang. She gets her hair ruffled by each of the men as she goes around squeezing them like they’ve never been squeezed before, because there’s no hug on this earth quite like that given out by a precocious and indomitable eight-year-old girl.

  After the hugs, Crash clears his throat and looks over to Blaze. “Hey, brother, it might be a little early, but do you want to give Josie a ride to school?”

  “Aunt Violet, do I have to?” Josie whines.

  I catch Crash’s eye — he’s got something serious on his mind — and I nod. “Yes, Josie. Crash and I have some grown up stuff to talk about.”

  “Ooooohhhh,” she says. “Is it about kissing?”

  “No, but since you mentioned it…” I say, and then I stand up and cross the kitchen to give Crash a kiss.

  Up close, I get a better look at his throat and those bruises he’s trying to hide. Definite strangulation marks.

  What the hell happened?

  He turns away and gets back to cooking breakfast.

  “Go on, Speed Demon, show us how fast you can get ready for school.”

  Those two words light a fire under Josie like I’ve never seen and, in just minutes, she’s fully ready and standing by the front door, stamping her feet impatiently for Blaze.

  “I wish I had her energy,” Blaze says, grumbling as he finishes the last of his eggs and gulps his coffee down to catch up to the unstoppable Josie.