Free

by Kristen Ashley

  His grip eased before his hand moved so his fingers stroked my throat.

  “Always.”

  Rush

  Seven thirty-three, Wednesday evening . . .

  “This is not the way it’s done!” Elvira’s voice could be heard from the kitchen.

  “Bring us a board!” Hound shouted back from the living room.

  “Come and get your own board, Hound!” Lanie was also shouting.

  “I can’t go into that kitchen again! I still got a headache from the last time I went in!” Hound bellowed.

  Women could be heard laughing.

  Rush heard Rebel’s come the loudest.

  A cat jumped on Shy, who was sprawled on the floor, Playboy on his chest, and Playboy squealed and reached to claim fur.

  The cat jumped away.

  “Shouldn’t he be in bed?” High asked.

  “Tab and I have learned he’ll pass out when he passes out,” Shy replied.

  “And I’ll get to deal with that tomorrow,” Big Petey, Chaos’s Chaplain, and de facto biker nanny, sitting in one of Rebel’s uncomfortable chairs, grumbled.

  “Don’t put him down with Travis until he’s out,” Joker said to Shy, referring to Carissa’s son, who was right then snoozing in Rebel’s bed. “Last three times, he woke T up.”

  “He doesn’t go down, I’ll go home,” Shy replied. “Someone will drop Tabby.”

  “Got her, Shy,” Tack put in.

  “Snap, do you boys have enough beer?” Rosalie called.

  “I think so, baby,” Snapper called back.

  “I could use another beer,” Hop muttered then yelled, “Lanie! Beer!”

  “Are you serious?” Lanie yelled back.

  Hop grinned at Snapper.

  “Playboy out yet, honey?” Tabby shouted.

  “No! And if everyone keeps shouting, he won’t get that way!” Shy shouted back.

  “This is not the way it’s done!” Elvira shrieked.

  Keely wandered in with a platter filled with finger food.

  She put it on the space-age coffee table.

  On her way out, she bent to the back of the couch to touch her lips to Hound’s where he had his head bent back to get just that.

  Done giving her man some love, she strutted out of the room.

  The men fell on the food like vultures.

  When it was mostly decimated, Hop got up from the kidney couch and muttered, “I’ll get us more beers.”

  He left and Rush looked from where he was sitting, his ass on a poof, back against the wall, knees drawn up, High next to him in much the same position, except his legs were straight and crossed at the ankles.

  He caught his father’s gaze across the room.

  Tack held his eyes, lifted his beer toward his son then he drained it.

  Rush smiled.

  Hop came back in with three beers dangling from one hand, another board balanced on the other.

  “I’ll go back for more beers if anyone needs ’em,” he said.

  “That one was let go under duress!” Elvira shouted.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Millie also shouted. “I made that one especially for you boys!”

  Playboy jumped at the shouting.

  Shy muttered, “Shit, he was almost out. Snap, hand me the bottle again.”

  Snap handed the bottle over from where it was sitting by his boot, his ass on a poof on the floor, back to the bottom curve of the kidney couch. Shy took it, curled up, cradled his son and gave him his bottle.

  Big Petey leaned into the new board offerings.

  There was a truncated squeal from the kitchen.

  Then silence.

  The air hung heavy in the living room as the men sat unmoving and observed the silence.

  Tyra sauntered into the room, eyes on Joke.

  “You might want to bring your truck around, honey. Carissa’s water just broke.”

  Joke was up from his lime green chair in a millisecond.

  Then he bolted out of the room.

  “We can have it here!” Essence yelled. “I helped birth a baby at the nineteen seventy-seven Rainbow Gathering and two in nineteen eighty-four. We just have to fill the bathtub!”

  All the men got up and followed Joker, not one of them to fill the bath.

  Tack didn’t move.

  Rush didn’t either.

  Tack sat on Rebel’s kidney couch.

  Rush sat with his ass on a poof.

  They were looking at each other.

  And they were smiling.

  For that moment . . .

  Free.

  As they knew, it wouldn’t last.

  And it didn’t.

  Amends

  Beck

  Nine thirty-seven, Wednesday evening, one week later . . .

  Core’s fist in his, thumbs hooked, holding strong, chest to chest, partially holding him up, he handed Beck a wet towel.

  Beck took it and slopped it across his face, the blood from his nose and the tear in his lip staining the white crimson. He should have ice. He could already feel his eye swelling.

  He didn’t ask for ice.

  Core had been the last. The man hadn’t held back.

  And now he was holding Beck up.

  “Done, over,” Web said, landing a hand on both Beck’s and Core’s shoulders.

  Web looked hard into Beck’s eyes.

  Then he nodded.

  And with that, Web moved away.

  Beck turned his head and got Core also staring in his eyes and not letting go of his hand.

  “Good?” Core asked.

  Beck drew in a breath, gave his head a shake, lifted the towel back to his bleeding lip and nodded again.

  Core swayed him by their hands, held another few beats then let him go.

  When he did, Grill was right there, grinning, “You are one serious hardass and one crazy fuck. I love it.” He got close and slapped Beck on the back, causing a wave of pain to roll through his torso. “Glad that’s done, brother.” And he too looked right in Beck’s eyes. “Resurrection, Beck,” Grill finished on a whisper.

  Yeah.

  Not quite.

  But it was coming.

  Beck nodded at him too.

  “Table, brothers,” Spartan called.

  His first few steps were unsteady, considering, to make amends to his club, he’d just endured each member delivering two full minutes of a beatdown on Beck, and he couldn’t swing a fist.

  But he got it together and saw the brothers had laid the tables back out after they’d concluded their last round of business.

  It wouldn’t be a priority, but it wouldn’t be too down the line, Beck got them a better fucking table.

  He headed to his usual seat, but Web called out, “Brother. Vote was cast.”

  He looked to Web.

  Shit.

  They were all crazy fucks.

  With the towel held to his mouth, he went to the head of the table.

  He couldn’t beat back the groan as he sat.

  And sitting there didn’t feel good.

  Even after the brothers got theirs back, each one of them, cleaned the slate, put him through that, he took it. But before that happened they voted to give him this if he could stay standing, and he’d stayed standing. It didn’t feel good.

  He wondered if it ever would.

  They had work to do.

  “Get ’em, Rainman,” Spartan said.

  They were all sitting. Rainman got up, went to his saddlebag that he’d thrown on the floor by the wall and pulled something out.

  A plastic bag weighed down with what was inside.

  He came back to the table, and like he was tossing Frisbees, patches went flying.

  Beck’s hand shot out when one skidded toward him.

  He stopped it, turned it on the table and stared down.

  More patches came sailing.

  A top rocker. A bottom rocker.

  The top said Resurrection. The bottom said Colorado.

 
And the first patch was a biker with long black hair flowing straight back and a maniacal grin on his face, sitting a bike riding out of a wall of flame.

  Another patch came sailing, a lot smaller, and he trapped it under his hand.

  He lifted his hand and saw it said Beck.

  And another he caught, read, and it said Original.

  One last one came sailing his way.

  When he lifted his hand, he saw it said President.

  Right.

  They had work to do.

  He pounded his fist by the patch and everyone looked at him.

  “We know our next order of business is how we earn this patch,” he announced. He then pounded the biker riding from the flames with the side of his fist. “We don’t stitch this on until the work gets done, brothers. But we have to be all in. Unanimous. Now vote.”

  It had been a long meeting.

  They’d talked about a lot.

  It hadn’t been easy.

  But it surprised him that it also hadn’t been hard.

  Except the part they beat him to shit.

  But he’d stayed standing.

  They knew what they were now voting on.

  They knew the path Beck was leading them on.

  They knew it was long and they knew it was far reaching, and they knew it would be grueling.

  And when he demanded the vote, not a one of them hesitated.

  “Aye,” Web said.

  “Aye,” Rainman said.

  “Aye,” Grill said.

  “Aye,” Eightball said.

  “Aye,” Spartan said.

  “Aye,” Muzzle said.

  “Aye,” Core said.

  Shit, but he’d underestimated these men.

  And they’d underestimated themselves.

  That ended tonight.

  Beck nodded, took the towel from his mouth, slammed the side of his fist on the table again and announced, “Passed.”

  Tack

  Five twenty-eight, Sunday evening, one week and three days later . . .

  “Pass the roast.”

  “More potatoes, please.”

  “What’s for dessert, Dad?”

  Tack looked at his daughter who was seated at his right. “Tyra’s on top of dessert.”

  “Pudding parfaits!” Tyra declared victoriously.

  He grinned at his plate.

  He’d made pot roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, caramelized carrots and fresh rolls.

  His woman had opened a tub of readymade pudding and Cool Whip and layered them in some glasses.

  And all he could think was he hoped there was some Cool Whip left.

  He then looked to his left.

  “Pass the rolls, darlin’.”

  Rebel grabbed the basket of rolls and handed it to him.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he muttered.

  “No problem, Tack,” she muttered back, nabbing her own roll after he got his then reaching for the butter plate.

  She offered it to him.

  “Go first,” he ordered.

  “You grabbed your roll first.”

  He looked in her eyes. “Go first, Punk.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. She rolled her eyes at Tyra. She grinned at Tabby.

  Then she grabbed her knife and sliced into the butter.

  Perfect fit.

  She was a perfect fit in his family.

  His boy done good.

  “I like this new Sunday food trannition,” Cutter declared through a mouth full of mashed potatoes.

  “Tradition,” Tyra corrected.

  “Whatever,” Cutter muttered.

  “Bud,” Tack grunted. “Respect.”

  Cut glanced at Rebel then stared fixedly at his plate.

  Rider was over it.

  Cut’s crush had remained.

  Tack sighed.

  “I like it too!” Ride piped up. “Dad says he’s gonna teach me how to make his stuffing next week.”

  “Stuffing next week? Righteous,” Tabby murmured, alternately eating and shoving food in the mouth of Playboy in his highchair next to her.

  “I’m not sure you can get more righteous than this pot roast,” Rebel remarked before forking some of it covered in potatoes and gravy into her mouth.

  “Babe,” Rush, sitting at Tyra’s left, caught his girl’s eyes down and across the table.

  After she swallowed she said, “The stuffing? Really?”

  “Serious,” he replied.

  “Whoa,” she mumbled.

  “Hey, have you managed to cook for Rush yet, Rebel?” Tyra asked.

  “I made him toast this morning,” Rebel answered.

  “Toast,” Cutter snickered.

  “It had melted butter and cinnamon and sugar. It was da bomb,” Rush looked after his girl.

  “It was toast,” Rebel replied, staring at her man, looking peeved.

  “Yeah. And it was great toast,” Rush retorted.

  “Can I have cinnamon and sugar on my toast, Dad?” Rider asked.

  “Note how my son asks his father about nourishment,” Tyra stated. “I can safely say my work is done.”

  Tack growled.

  His wife shot him a bright smile.

  He growled again even if his dick twitched at the smile.

  “Now that we’re done filming, maybe I can get some time,” Rebel noted. “It’s been hectic. I had no idea how much the, uh . . . past management saw to now that I have to do it.”

  None of her team left her.

  All of Valenzuela’s team vaporized.

  Their Rebel had been a busy girl.

  And Tyra had shown him some dailies. Tack had never been into porn. The real deal was a far better use of a man’s time.

  But he could see her talent and the pride she took in her work. It wasn’t hidden at all.

  And it was impressive.

  Even being porn.

  “I can’t believe I can’t watch Rebel’s movie,” Rider grumbled.

  “You are absolutely not ever fuckin’ watching Rebel’s movie,” Tack declared.

  “F-bomb one of the night,” Tyra whispered to Shy on her right. “All I can say is thank God it’s not a drinking game.”

  “Why not?” Rider hollered at his father, ignoring his mother.

  “Ask me when you got a nine-year-old son,” Tack returned.

  “That’ll be next century,” Rider complained.

  “We can only hope,” Tyra said under her breath.

  He shot his wife a grin.

  Her eyes closed a little as she watched his mouth do it.

  Yep.

  Felt that in his cock too.

  His phone on the kitchen bar rang.

  His eyes on her meant he did not miss his wife looking to it or her face falling even if she covered that shit up almost immediately.

  Knife through the heart.

  Every damned time.

  Tack dumped his napkin and pushed out of his chair.

  “Can I take calls at dinner?” Cutter asked.

  “Sure, when you’re payin’ for your own phone plan,” Tack told him.

  “And you got a phone, bud,” Rush added.

  “Which will happen when you’re sixteen and I can activate the GPS and stalk you,” Tyra declared.

  “Dad says eleven!” Rider shouted.

  “If you can talk your father into waltzing his badass self into a phone store, I’ll let that happen,” Tyra replied.

  Since he told his sons they could have phones at eleven, but he had no fucking intention of entering a goddamned phone store so they could suck three hours of his life away doing shit to a five by three-inch piece of glass and plastic, he felt mildly bad they’d have to wait until sixteen and their mother would get them a phone.

  That was his last thought before he saw who was calling him on his.

  He took it up, connected the call and was taking long strides down the hall back to his and Red’s room when he answered, “Yo, Raid.”

  “Hey, Tack. Sucks to say, but fro
m what we could find out, he left his latest flophouse this morning,” Raid said.

  Tack turned into his room, got two steps in and stopped.

  The day after Carissa had her baby, Lee Nightingale called with the news that his computer genius, Brody, had tracked the sale of a gun registered to Arthur Lannigan to a pawn shop in Cheyenne.

  Four days later, another gun sale in Reno.

  Four days ago, a Rolex that was reported stolen twenty years ago turned up at a pawn shop in Vegas.

  On the Cheyenne run, Rush, Snap, High and Hound went up.

  They got the Reno news, Knight stepped in, sending Deacon, Raid and Nick with Rush and Snap joining them (half the reason Rebel hadn’t been able to cook for her man yet).

  Knight’s men followed him to Vegas, but Knight and Tack had a chat and decided the writing was on the wall with Chew’s activities, so Chaos needed to see to business at home.

  This meant Rush and Snap headed home.

  They’d clipped through three motels and missed him by hours each time.

  “He’s gotta have an MO with his choices,” Tack noted. “You got a guess as to where he’ll turn up next?”

  “No, considering management didn’t get it when the cleaning staff saw it, but we did, seeing as he wrote in soap on the bathroom mirror, ‘Fuck Chaos.’”

  Tack closed his eyes and dropped his head.

  “Doing the rounds,” Raid kept up in his ear. “He’s dropped some silver, some jewelry, and a local fence took some designer shoes and purses off him.” His voice dropped. “Sorry, Tack, but Nick’s out. Olivia’s in Tennessee by herself and he’s not a fan of that. And Deacon is getting antsy. He wants back home to Cassidy. And probably goes without saying, I wanna get home to Hanna. We don’t like the news he knows someone’s on his ass. His message, not sure he made us. But our women home alone, none of us wanna take that chance.”

  Tack opened his eyes.

  “Understandable. You think he shot his wad and is heading back?” he asked.

  “My guess, yeah.”

  “His take?”

  “Maybe thirty, thirty-five K.”

  “Enough for a hit,” Tack muttered.

  “An amateur one.”

  “Got seventeen large from his last robberies in Denver.”

  “And I can’t say we tracked everything he unloaded across two states,” Raid added. “Which sucks, and makes us feel like dicks, we’re pullin’ out. But we got women and kids—”

  “Not your fight,” Tack muttered.