by C. L. Riley
Rowdy cocks he head, putting things together, or trying to. “One of your family doctors was restrained in a car outside. I freed him.”
Of course he fucking did.
He has no clue what my second cousin has been up to all these years. Rowdy only remembers him as the doctor who helped save Olympia last summer and has mistakenly labelled him a good guy. I can only hope he’s still unconscious, but I won’t bet on it.
Instead of assuming he’s a non-threat, I count him as one more active player on our growing game board.
“We can’t leave Cheryl,” Trina pleads, looking to Rowdy for support.
“I’m right here.”
“Cheryl?” Trina turns.
As she did with Rowdy, Trina launches herself at Cheryl, bundling her into a tight embrace. They cling to each other, both crying.
“For fucks sake, get them out of here!” William growls. “Dex, use one of the secret exits.”
“Come on, ladies. And gentleman.” Dex motions to Rowdy who is watching me closely, his eyes are narrowed and his upper lip curled, forming an ugly sneer I’ve never once been on the receiving side of.
William’s informant moves to a bookcase and tugs on a large tome. Grinding follows and the shelf swings back, revealing a dimly lit corridor. He takes one step before hitting the ground in a pool of blood. The gun’s discharge is muffled by a silencer, but it’s still near deafening in the room’s confines.
I am certain I’m not the only one with ringing ears.
“No-o-o-o!” Cheryl screams, rushing to kneel beside her rescuer. “Dex?”
“My my we’ve started quite the celebration, I see. I’m afraid I missed the memo.” Dr. Martin enters with a gun in each hand. One pointed at me and the other at Agent Thatcher. “Anyone moves, and these two will join Dex at the Pearly Gates.”
Trina spins to face her captor, eyes on fire and her body practically vibrating. “You sick, pathetic jerk. You want to win my heart by killing people? It doesn’t work that way. Kindness is the key to my heart. For someone with such a high IQ you can be really really stupid.”
The doctor’s jaw drops, giving William and Rowdy enough time to act. Together, they force the guns from his hands. My FBI colleague then yanks his arms back and cuffs him with flourish.
“He needs to die,” Rowdy announces matter-of-factly, pulling his knife. “He’s raped and murdered for years. He assaulted my wife. Prison will be just another playground. That’s unacceptable.”
Dr. Martin growls like a deranged animal. “Wife? What the fuck are you talking about, stranger?”
Trina steps forward, reaching for Rowdy’s arm. “This stranger is my husband. I love him. Not you. Never you. You hurt me. You murdered other women and would have done the same to me. Your brain injury caused this. It doesn’t excuse your behavior, but once you’re dead, I will ensure they make good use of that great mind of yours to stop others from this insanity.”
I can’t stay silent. “Trina, that’s not going to happen. You have no idea what’s in his labs. We need him alive to explain what we found. And we need him to tell us about all the missing women. Other families need closure too. I’m sorry, but this isn’t just about you anymore. It never was. I think you know that.”
“Demon, you need to stand down, brother. I’ll take it from here. I’m not sure what you’ve got going with your federal agent friend, but it can’t be club sanctioned. It might be better if you got the fuck away from me and stayed away for awhile.”
His reaction is worse than I anticipated. If it wasn’t for Trina clinging to his arm, I’m not sure who he’d lunge for first, me or Dr. Martin.
I hate what I have to do, but I go ahead anyway. Finding my identification, I show it to Rowdy and Trina. “I’m a special agent, FBI. I don’t want to detain you, but I will if you attempt to disrupt this investigation. We’ve been after the Brain Matters’ founder for months. His ‘research’ needs to be analysed, and we need him alive to―”
I don’t get a chance to finish.
Brandon lumbers in; somehow crossing the game board like an unblocked bishop or queen. In one quick stride, he’s on Dr. Martin, plunging a knife into his throat. Checkmate.
Unlike my cousin, this doctor won’t be waking up.
With blood spurting like a macabre fountain and the women screeching, Brandon stumbles towards me. “You fucking rat snitch,” he slurs, still affected by the medication. “When your father and the family finds out...”
Thinking he’s too drugged to mount any further offence, I’m dumbfounded when he pulls a gun with surprising swiftness and fires.
What the fuck? I dismantled his gun.
That question roars through my head in the same instant Rowdy hurls himself in front of me, taking the bullet, square in the chest. He does exactly what I would have done for him.
Seconds later, I’m on my back, Rowdy beside me.
Trina’s hushed sobs is all I hear before the room explodes in light and sound; there’s a stampede, thundering through the mansion’s hallways.
The Seattle Soul Scorchers, medical personnel, more FBI agents, and Rowdy’s former business associates fill the estate, piling into the study. Voices are loud and questions shouted every direction. Paramedics are already kneeling by my friend.
I’m in shock, covered with Rowdy’s blood.
Unable to participate in the aftermath, I manage to get to my feet; I sway, seeking balance, before staggering outside. I let the tornado of action go on without me.
I’m not sure how long I stand there before Trina appears behind Rowdy’s stretcher. Her gaze meets mine as she climbs into an ambulance after him.
I give her a chin lift and start praying. A gentle touch to my shoulder is the last thing I expect.
“Thank you for helping me.” Cheryl Cunningham gazes up, her expression, bordering on rapturous, like I’m her damn savior. “I could tell you were one of the good guys.”
I feel nothing like a good guy, but I just nod, unsure how to respond to something so far from the truth.
“Dex...” she swallows hard. “He was a good guy too. Or he tried to be.”
Again I nod.
“I wanted to give you this.” She hands over a scrap of paper with a handwritten number. “If you ever need anything, give me a call. I mean it. You look like you could use a friend.”
She has no idea. This time I make my head move up and down several times.
Words are impossible, and she doesn’t push. She simply pats my arm and heads over to another ambulance where they’re waiting to check her out.
I close my eyes and sigh. It’s going to be a long fucking night.
End of August-2016
Rowdy
I’ve been waiting for this day since I regained consciousness after getting gunned down. I’m about to give my wife a honeymoon she’ll remember forever.
The one we never finished.
There are a number of issues currently plaguing me, but I’ve committed to locking them out of my mind until we return to Seal’s Cove.
The good news is obvious. I’m alive and Trina’s attacker is dead, along with the psycho mob doctor who shared an affinity for violence with Cliff-Greg Martin.
Two doctors―what are the odds of them both being crazy sick motherfuckers? Like Ringo and Pyro, it appears psycho assholes attract each other.
In the case of Doctor “madman” Martin, Trina has tried to explain more about the most extreme TBI cases and related research, which doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better. But despite my misgivings, she has assured me, multiple times, the brain is a highly evolved system, and everyone who has a TBI experiences different effects, challenges, and healing rates.
On top of her assurances, I have done some reading on the consequences myself.
I wasn’t shocked to discover aggression is one of the most common traits, resulting from a traumatic brain injury, as well as neurological damage that can lead to mood swings and other lingering issues, including memor
y loss. Although many people suffer less significant side effects and others seem to experience none at all.
Bottom line, I confirmed everyone is different, and the aftermath from a TBI is varied. Most people don’t turn into the Dr. Martins of the world.
From what Trina says, there is so much yet to discover, and she wants to be part of the cutting edge advancements taking place.
As it stands right now, she’s serving as a consultant on the doctor’s surviving research. He did considerable harm, but apparently his findings will continue to help individuals who have experienced TBIs.
Meaning I could end up benefitting from that sick fucker’s work.
I cringe at the thought.
I’m surprised Trina wanted to be part of the team, but she pushed for the position. At least she can do a majority of the job long distance. We’ve sold her loft in Seattle and made the beach house our permanent residence, for now, anyway.
As for me, I’m an official, patched Soul Scorcher. Hells Guardians are regrouping with a new president, and it’s not Demon, for obvious reasons...not thinking about Demon right now. We have a meeting scheduled after the honeymoon.
Because of Boone, I got to skip prospecting, the phase I never want to repeat, but he made me do grunt work for a week just to torment me for a few laughs. Ha. Ha. Thanks little brother.
Did I mention the bullet missed all vital organs?
There was a lot of bleeding and a blood transfusion, but my recovery progressed surprisingly fast. With a nurse for a wife, I had the best possible treatment. Rehabbing from home has been good, most of the time.
Three months have sped by with her keeping my life interesting and always challenging. My queen is still a serious ball breaker, so she worked me hard.
It’s been almost a year since the explosion, and I’m hoping the next year will be without injuries and near death experiences. I don’t like the Reaper hanging around all the time. That fucker scares me shitless. I won’t lie. He’s a creepy fucker.
“Ready?” My wife interrupts my private, life analysis. Well, not so private, as I’ve been open and shared these same, sometimes strange thoughts with her.
I’m tired of lies and secrets.
Almost dying four times in less than a year changes a person...barbershop explosion, bacterial infection, knife attack in my own dining room, gunshot wound―but who’s counting?
Yes, club business is club business, but I have followed Boone’s example, allowing my wife greater access to both my heart and my mind. The results are worth it. She’s on her knees, on her back, riding on top...fulfilling my sexual fantasies better than the tooth fairy fulfils her money for teeth quota.
She’s won the old “swallow it all” contest several times over since Demon saved my life. I always return the favor. Pleasing her is my favorite pastime.
“Are you okay?” she presses, a flash of worry that I hate to see mars her exquisite features.
“Yeah, babe. I’m good. Just over thinking shit.”
“Demon?”
“That’s part of it. But, hey, this is our next chapter. So I’m closing those other books for now and beginning a new story, starring you, me, and an amazing time away.”
Her eyes light up and she giggles. Much better; no sad worried faces for at least a week or two.
I can’t guarantee there won’t be tears, and I’m not expecting unicorns and bunnies, but I do see a cloud break and maybe even a rainbow in our future.
Trina
I rest what I can of my cheek (thanks to the dome on my head, it isn’t much) against Rowdy’s back and breathe him in.
He always smells a little like leather and spices, and lately I detect a touch of gasoline or motor oil. It’s a side effect of him tinkering around in the Soul Scorchers’ motorcycle shop, but I like it.
With the many smells that bombard me when we ride, his is by far the best. I’ve never been a big fan of rotting sea kelp.
My lip curls up at the thought of smelly seaweed, something I’ve become quite familiar with now that I’m a certified beach dweller.
At the moment, wrapped around the man I love, it feels like we’re flying not driving, down 101, and despite the air gusting against us, I squint and look toward the ocean, keeping my face glued to Rowdy’s leather cut.
It’s too dark on this stretch highway to see anything, but I know beyond the Harley’s roar the tide is coming in, and the waves are making their distinctive crashing sounds as they kiss the shoreline. There is likely a mini-mob of teenagers enjoying the solitude, creating their own unique sounds and smells around a bonfire.
Is that weed? The sweet pungent scent drifts by. I breathe it in and smile.
I have no clue where we’re headed. All I know is we’re stopping someplace north of Seal’s Cove, and then we’re trading the motorcycle for my Jeep.
When I asked why, my suddenly secretive husband said we had a long drive ahead of us, and my ass couldn’t handle so many miles on the Harley. Okay...I teased back, suggesting he was more worried about his butt, considering he’s only been riding short distances since his most recent brush with death.
Thinking about the night in the mansion never fails to increase my pulse rate, driving me close to panic.
It wasn’t ever my life in danger. Dr. Martin wasn’t finished with me. But Rowdy, Cheryl, and Demon, the three people I cared about in that room were at risk.
Poor Dex, who apparently kept an eye on Cheryl, during her confinement, didn’t get to see how much his undercover “informing” paid off.
Cheryl was shook up over his murder. She mentioned he had encouraged her when she felt like giving up.
For me, finding out Demon, a man I trusted and thought I knew, was a federal agent, rocked my world hard. But before I could even begin to chew on that information, Rowdy was throwing himself in front of his long-time friend.
In that life and death moment, Demon’s revelation didn’t mean a thing to my husband.
Demon was his most trusted friend and ally, nothing more nothing less. Saving him was an automatic reflex. The same reaction Demon would’ve had if roles were reversed.
In the biker world, Demon is as good as dead, regardless of his heroics.
But, so far, Rowdy and Boone have kept his betrayal off the Hells Guardians’ and Soul Scorchers’ radars; something about determining final judgement at a meeting in a few weeks.
Right now everyone believes he’s caught up in a family mob crisis, which in his case, trumps even club duties.
With the resources Demon has at his disposal, I’m shocked he hasn’t just disappeared.
From what Rowdy has shared, he’s been blacklisted from his family, and he’s on leave from the FBI, seeing how his cover was blown to pieces and he refuses to become a glorified paper-pusher.
The reason his father is allowing for lenience isn’t due to his inherent, fatherly fondness or forgiving nature. It is because Demon kept them out of hot water, meaning prison, more times than they could possibly thank him for; even so, any ongoing leniency is dependent on Demon’s future choices.
I feel bad for him. Demon was my angel more than once, and I believe mercy is the answer.
Crusher is another lingering problem.
Olympia and me have placed bets on what they decide to do with him. She’s shocked he’s even breathing after his double (quadruple?) betrayal, yet another punishment for our men to deal out.
This information is all club stuff I never would’ve been privy to before, but too many near death experiences changed Rowdy.
I’m amazed how open he is with me these days. In addition to current updates, he’s finally revealed some of those deep, dark secrets...shit he alluded to the same afternoon he named me his queen. He admitted he was afraid I’d run if he dumped the dirt back then.
Maybe I would have.
I might have used his darkness as an excuse to bury mine and go into hiding.
I’d like to believe I wouldn’t have left, because that day
was a turning point for me. But in hindsight, I think I needed our focus to be on my past alone. Adding his regrets to the equation could have been too much truth for us to handle at once.
As it stands now, I don’t want or need to know everything club related, and I’m under no illusion he will tell me everything. But I do know he’s making an effort to be transparent when it comes to his feelings, even his biggest doubts and fears.
He’s still a badass, and in my mind an honest badass is so much sexier.
I’m pulled from my ponderings by lights up ahead.
The closer we get the brighter our destination becomes―neon bright. At least I think it’s our first stopping point, because Rowdy is slowing down, the Harley’s roar lowering to a rumbling growl.
The sign comes into view and I swallow hard.
Olympia has told me all about The Treasure Cove and its “basement of BDSM,” appropriately named The Dungeon. I’m not sure whether to be mad at Rowdy’s assumption I’d want to come here, or thrilled he thought of it.
Demon
I glare at the crumpled paper for the umpteenth time.
I’ve attempted to toss the fading number in the trash almost as many times as I’ve stared at it. I guess my obsession isn’t that surprising under the circumstances.
My current hotel feels confining, like a jail cell masked with modern amenities and a semi-comfortable bed.
I should be grateful, considering my father granted me exile rather than a death sentence, and the FBI agreed to my terms for an extended sabbatical. They get it; Desk Jockey isn’t a good fit for me.
The clubs are my final roadblock to freedom.
I don’t foresee the same support I’ve received from good ol’ dad and my law enforcement superiors. Rowdy will be forced to respond to my disloyalty the way club law demands.
The fact he is no longer president or even an officer, makes things murky, but because of our history, he will be expected to administer justice. Boone will back his half-brother’s decision, regardless of any warm fuzzies for me.