HARDCORE: Storm MC

by Zoey Parker

  “Okay, I'm up,” Cain said, starting to hobble toward the bathroom. “You can let go now.”

  “How about I walk you over to the door anyway just in case, huh?” Missy replied. She had been here for less than ten minutes and she was already sick of his stupid macho bullshit.

  Even so, while she was this close to him, she couldn't help but breathe in his musky scent. It caused a brief but undeniable tickle of primal attraction in the back of her brain. A tickle that couldn't be ignored.

  “Don't worry,” she continued jokingly, “once we get there, the door will close and you'll be on your own.”

  “Why is your face getting so red?” Cain asked.

  “Exertion. From lifting you. Now shut up, we're almost there.”

  They made it to the bathroom door and Cain braced himself against the walls, easing into the room slowly. Just before he slammed the door shut, Missy caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror over the sink as Cain looked at himself. Even with one eye swollen almost completely shut—and both of them glassy from the pills—Missy could see an anger and shame burning there that looked almost bottomless.

  She felt her annoyance with Cain soften just a bit. She'd known plenty of men like him, and they were so terrified of being helpless that most of them would have rather died than been forced to rely on others to help them dress, bathe, and eat, even temporarily. These men who strutted around, so proud of how tough their bodies were, could also be pathetically blind to how fragile their egos were.

  Clearly, this was the case with Cain as well.

  Missy knew that Cain hadn't eaten since at least the previous night. Well, she certainly didn't relish the idea of spending any time in that kitchen, but Hunter had specifically told her to make sure Cain was eating—and to be fair, she had to concede that even rude pricks probably didn't deserve to starve to death.

  She stepped into the kitchen, trying to ignore the sound of her shoes sticking to the yellowed, curling linoleum and then tearing away with each step. She opened the fridge and squinted in.

  Three mismatched bottles of cheap beer. A crusty squeeze-bottle of generic mustard. A handful of ketchup packets from about five different take-out places. And a carton of eggs that was three months past the expiration date.

  She shook her head and shut the fridge, opening the freezer above it.

  The walls of the freezer were bulging with ice that looked at least seven inches thick on all sides. Resting in the middle of it all was a single pork chop, so freezer-burned that it looked like a fossil collected from an Arctic expedition.

  Cain slowly shuffled out of the bathroom, entering the kitchen. “If you're looking for champagne and caviar, I'm afraid I'm fresh out,” he said, sitting down at the table with a pained grunt. “But don't worry, the butler will be bringing more tomorrow when he comes to clean out the stables and wash the fucking Bentley.”

  Missy ignored the jab. “Do you feel like you could eat? I could order something in for us, if you want.”

  “These pills don't give me much of an appetite,” Cain said. “If you want to do something for me so badly, then bring me my smokes and my lighter from the living room, and make me some coffee.”

  Missy went to the living room and scooped up Cain's cigarettes and Zippo. On TV, a sitcom wife was needling her husband about forgetting to take out the trash as the studio audience screeched with laughter.

  “Do you want me to turn the TV off?” Missy called out.

  There was nothing from the kitchen except morose silence.

  “I'll take that as a yes,” she muttered, switching off the set.

  She walked back to the kitchen and put the cigs and lighter on the table in front of Cain. With his good hand, he fished a smoke out of the pack and put it between his lips, then picked up the Zippo and flicked it. He inhaled deeply, then winced at the pain in his sides, exhaling all of the smoke until it hung around his head like a storm cloud.

  “So where's your coffee maker?” Missy asked.

  Cain shook his head. “Instant,” he said, taking another drag from the cigarette. “In the pantry.”

  “Instant?” Missy asked, her lips curling downward in disgust. “Jesus, it's no wonder you walk around in a bad mood all the time, drinking shit like that.”

  “It suits me,” he snapped.

  “It sure does,” Missy said, removing the jar of instant coffee from the cupboard. “It's bitter and lazy, just like you are.” She found a clean pot under the sink, filled it with water, and put it on the stovetop.

  There was a long silence between them, and Missy found herself trying to think of innocent things to say, just to make casual conversation without angering him further. When the water started to boil, she poured it into a pair of mugs she discovered in another cupboard and stirred in the powdered coffee.

  Cain poured half the mug down his throat, gulping it eagerly despite the steam pouring from it. Missy took a tentative sip from hers and immediately wished she hadn't. It tasted like diarrhea and potting soil.

  “So, how long have you lived here?” she finally asked.

  “I don't,” Cain said tersely. “I own this shitbox 'cause my aunt willed it to me, but I mostly live at the fucking Knife. And that's why I intend to finish my coffee, grab a quick shower, and get back there so I can find out what's going on and what our plan for retaliation is.”

  Missy wondered whether Cain would be so eager to stomp off in search of vengeance if he knew it was Gaspar's men who'd tuned him up. She was tempted to tell him, but she knew that was Hunter's call, not hers.

  Instead, she said, “I don't think that's a very good idea.”

  “I didn't ask.”

  “The doctor said you need at least a week to recover,” Missy insisted.

  “Well, the doctor isn't a Blood Eagle, so what the fuck does he know? For that matter, what do you?”

  “For starters,” Missy said, “I know you can barely walk from the couch to the toilet by yourself, so I doubt you'll make the hike from here to the Knife on your own. I know I won't be driving you there, and most of all, I know that your busted arm means you won't be riding your bike there either.”

  There was a slight gleam in Cain's eye, and a smile tugged gently at the corners of his mouth. “Not my bike, no,” he conceded. “But I've got a few other bikes in my garage that I like to tinker with, and one of them used to belong to The Great Gooch himself.”

  Missy's jaw dropped in disbelief. “You're kidding, right?”

  “Nope. So I don't think I'll have much trouble getting there with one arm, do you?”

  Missy remembered Greg “Gooch” Garland from her father's days as president of the Eagles. Gooch had worked as a rodeo clown and daredevil motorcyclist before joining the MC. When a gangster in Vegas chopped off his hand over a gambling debt, most of the Eagles assumed he wouldn't be able to ride with them anymore. But instead, Gooch engineered a customized set of handlebars that would allow him to ride one-handed, and soon he was back to cruising down the highways with the rest of the Eagles, doing tricks just like always.

  Garland eventually died from cirrhosis of the liver after a long battle with alcoholism, but the legend of “The Great Gooch” endured with each new generation of Eagles.

  “Lucky for me it was the same arm,” Cain said smugly.

  “You're still an idiot if you think you can make it there on your own,” Missy countered. “With all the meds you're on, you'll wrap Gooch's bike around a tree long before you reach the Knife.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess we'll just see, won't we?”

  Cain's cell phone began to ring in the next room. He glanced back, then shrugged and took another sip of his coffee.

  “I'll get it,” Missy said.

  “Ignore it.”

  “But it's probably Hunter,” she replied, walking toward the living room.

  “Goddamn it, I said ignore it!” Cain bellowed, slamming the kitchen table with his fist. The coffee mugs jumped about two inches.

  Mi
ssy picked up the cell phone on the coffee table, reading the name on the screen. She carried it back into the kitchen and dropped it on the table in front of Cain as it continued to ring.

  Cain looked down at it, scowling.

  “Are you really going to sit there and ignore a call from your president?” Missy asked with a hint of mocking. “What happened to the last Eagle who ignored a call from you?”

  Cain let out a frustrated growl and picked up the phone. “Yeah, what is it?”

  The volume on the phone was up, and Missy could hear Hunter on the other end. “Hey, you're awake! Good. How are you feeling?”

  “I'm fine,” Cain said. “I'm a little bruised up, but I was just telling Missy that I'm ready to come over to the Knife and help out. I've got Gooch's bike in my garage, so even with the cast, I can still—”

  “Fuck Gooch's bike,” Hunter snapped. “Cain, if you take so much as a single step outside of that goddamn house without my permission, I'm gonna collect your fuckin' patch. I'm not even close to fuckin' around.”

  Cain's face fell. “But...I'm your VP,” he said. “You guys need me there, especially if some shit's jumping off.”

  “I don't need you here while you look like fuckin' Frankenstein an' you can barely stand up,” Hunter replied. “I need you sharp an' ready to fight, or else you're just gonna get in the way an' get yourself killed. If that means you gotta sit things out for a week, you'd better cozy up an' find some good programs on TV 'cause that's how it's gonna be.”

  “But...”

  “Stop with the 'buts' an' listen to me,” Hunter continued. “Gaspar Hernandez arranged for you to get stomped.”

  Missy saw the color drain from Cain's face for the second time in as many days. She wondered if he'd throw up blood again. That's certainly what she'd felt like doing when she heard who the Eagles were up against.

  “Was this a solo play by him, or did the cartel...?”

  “We don't know yet,” Hunter said. “This is what I'm saying. We need to get some more information an' get organized before we start makin' moves against an outfit like the Barros Cartel. Most of all, we need our VP recovered an' able to think straight. Until that happens, Missy is gonna take good care of you. She's gonna make sure you have everythin' you need, an' she's gonna try to keep yer spirits up.”

  “Yeah, she's doing a fucking bang-up job of that already,” Cain hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Great!” Hunter replied cheerily. Missy wasn't sure whether he was being sarcastic, or if he was genuinely oblivious to the venom dripping from Cain's words. Knowing Hunter's sense of humor, Missy suspected it was the former.

  “So stay put, do what Missy says, an' try to scrape together a little patience,” Hunter continued. “I know that ain't yer strong suit, but it's the only smart way to play this.”

  Cain took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sure,” he answered.

  His voice sounded like he was agreeing to put his arm down a garbage disposal and flick the switch.

  Chapter 13

  Missy

  As soon as Hunter ended the call, Cain let out a furious roar and pitched the cell phone at the wall as hard as he could. It splintered in a shower of plastic, making a dent in the drywall. A shard of the phone's casing hit Missy just above her left eyebrow, leaving a scrape.

  “Ow! What the fuck is your problem?” Missy yelled.

  “My problem?” he spat back. “The four guys who kicked me around like a soccer ball get to spend a whole week walking around laughing about it, while I have to hang around here and do fuck-all! And the worst part is, I don't even get to have any goddamn privacy while I heal up!”

  “Well, raging out like an animal and smashing up your own stuff isn't going to make anything better,” Missy countered. “Especially since the next time Hunter tries to call your phone to make sure you're okay, he won't be able to get through and he'll have a total shit fit. God, you really don't stop to think anything through, do you?”

  As she said this, Missy pulled out her own phone and sent a text to Hunter. “If you need to reach Cain again tonight, use my number. His phone broke.”

  A moment later, Hunter's response came back. “He took the news well, huh?” He'd included a smiley emoticon.

  “I'm thinking plenty of things through right now, believe me,” Cain snarled. “Like what I'm going to do to those cowardly assholes the next time I see them.”

  “Did you hear a word of what Hunter said?” Missy challenged him. “Don't you realize who you're up against? I mean, are you one of those weird dudes who's got a pain fetish or something? Do you need to be burned with hot pokers and have fish hooks through your scrotum to get hard or something?”

  “What the fuck do you care what it takes to get me hard?” Cain barked.

  Missy felt uncomfortable warmth spreading through her face again. He was right—that had been a strange thing to say to him. So why had she?

  “And no,” Cain continued before she could think of a reply, “since you asked, I don't have a damn pain fetish. Which is a shame, because if I did, the feeling I've got in my ribs and arm right now would probably have me creaming my jeans. As it is, though, it just makes me want to sleep for forty-eight hours and then murder the whole fucking world.”

  Cain started toward the hall. “Where are you going?” Missy asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. She wasn't entirely convinced that Cain would go along with Hunter's orders, and if he decided that he still wanted to ride off into the night, Missy didn't enjoy the idea of trying to physically restrain him.

  “I still want a fucking shower,” Cain answered tersely. “Is that okay with you, or do you want to call Hunter first and make sure I have permission?”

  “Is there anything you need me to do while you're...?”

  “Yeah,” Cain growled, limping to the bathroom door. “If you're so curious about what will get me hard, suck my cock and find out. Otherwise, mind your own goddamn business.”

  Cain slammed the door behind him, and Missy heard the water in the shower running a moment later.

  She let out an exasperated grunt and grabbed the coffee mugs from the table, tossing them into the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes. The awful smell hit her again and she crouched down, banging around the odds and ends under the sink as she looked for dish soap. She hated the thought of washing dishes for someone who was acting so piggish and ungrateful to her, but if she had to spend the next week or so in this house, she wasn't going to suffer through that sickening odor.

  Finally, she found a small, crusty bottle with a peeling label. There was still a thin scum of pink dish soap at the bottom. She plugged the drain, ran the hot water, and shook and pounded the bottle until the last of the soap drizzled over the mountain of dishes.

  As Missy waited for the dishes to soak, she rolled her eyes at herself for questioning Hunter's decision to assign this task to her. She hated it, but she also recognized that she'd spent her entire life with Hunter auditioning for this rotten job. Hunter had seen how patient she was able to remain with him even when he was being a complete jerk and a slob, and it was why he had decided she was the only one who could watch over Cain.

  And besides, she was a woman. No matter how pissed off Cain got, she knew that her gender would keep Cain from actually hauling off and taking a swing at her. If she were just one of the Eagles, she'd have no such assurance.

  Well, fine, Missy thought, chiseling at a cluster of dried beans stuck to a plate. But that doesn't mean I have to fucking like it.

  Missy heard a loud thump in the tub, followed by Cain's voice hollering through the bathroom door. “Oh, you goddamn motherfucking numb cunt, come on...!” There was a pause, then another thump and a fresh string of curses.

  She chuckled, drying off her hands. Here was Mister Big Bad Biker, Mister Ride-Out-To-Seek-Vengeance, unable to even shower by himself without dropping things and throwing a tantrum.

  Missy walked over to the bathroom door and tappe
d on it. “You okay in there?” she asked, trying to keep the humor out of her voice.

  “Get fucked,” he called out sharply.

  “Just making sure a hardass like you didn't slip in the shower and crack your skull,” she joked.

  Again, louder: “Get. Fucked.”

  “You know, if you want, I can get some of those big rubber daisies to stick to the floor of the tub...”

  “I didn't fucking fall, all right?” Cain yelled. “I just...fuck it, never mind.”

  “Fine, if you're going to act like a big baby about it,” Missy said, turning to head back to the kitchen.