by Anne Malcom
I stumbled on the first step but caught myself before I fell. I scrambled up as fast as I could. A cold hand circled around my ankle when I was halfway up the stairs, and I came down painfully, my head cracking on the corner of the wood.
I screamed now, realizing that’s what I should have done before. My house was big and the living room was at the other side, but Duke’s ears were sharp. He’d hear me. He had to.
I kicked out at the body behind the hand as warm blood trickled down my forehead from where I’d landed. There was a grunt as my slipper-clad foot impacted with a solid chest. I didn’t think it would normally be enough, but I’d surprised my attacker and the grip loosened on my ankle.
I didn’t hesitate. I scrambled up and half crawled, half ran up the stairs.
My hand clasped around the door handle as I heard him coming up behind me. I was certain I wouldn’t be able to open it, that he’d catch me before I could, just like in some stupid horror movie. But he didn’t. I made it through the door and slammed it behind me, throwing the lock just as it rattled and a body crashed against it.
I thanked everything that was holy that the previous owner of the house had been paranoid and put a lock on this door.
I didn’t count on it holding, so I sprinted across the marble hallway.
“Duke!” I screamed. The entire house was bathed in darkness, with only the dim moonlight creeping in to chase away total darkness. As I passed a window, I noticed the dull light from streetlights far down the driveway.
Not a power outage, my terrified mind realized. This person cut the power. They’d planned this.
I couldn’t think of that; I couldn’t let fear paralyze me.
“Duke,” I called in a shaking voice as I skidded into the living room.
My scream was muffled when my hands instinctively went over my mouth as I spotted his prone body lying by the window, illuminated enough so I could see the pool of red oozing out from underneath.
I ran to him, sinking painfully to my knees as I reached him. “Duke. Don’t be dead,” I pleaded, touching his body with my shaking hand.
I jumped as his body jerked. “Lexie, get out of here now,” he commanded. His voice was weak and a bubbling sound came from his chest.
“No way in hell I’m leaving you,” I declared, trying to find the source of his wounds. “Your gun. Where is it?”
I didn’t like guns, hated them in fact. That didn’t mean I didn’t know how to use one. When you had a person like Zane demanding you learn before you moved to L.A., you listened.
“C-coffee table,” Duke coughed out.
I scrambled to the coffee table, my hands blindly searching until it found purchase on the weapon. My gaze focused on the dark doorway that I was certain would become even darker with the figure in it.
It was quiet in here. Too quiet, apart from that horrible sound coming from Duke and the thundering beat of my own heart. Quiet meant bad. I scrambled back to my spot beside Duke. With one hand on the gun, keeping it aimed at the door, the other went to my pocket. My hands were slippery with blood, but I somehow managed to dial the three digits.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Lexie Williams. There’s an intruder in my house. My friend is badly hurt. He’s bleeding a lot, and I need the police. I need an ambulance,” I said, my voice weirdly even.
“Ma’am, are you hurt?” the voice asked.
“What? No? My friend is bleeding. He needs help.”
“Is the intruder still in the house?”
“Yes,” I said, my eyes on the empty doorway. “Yes, at least I think so.”
“We’ve got units on the way. They’re three minutes away. I need you to stay on the line. Do you know where your friend’s injuries are?”
My gaze went from the doorway to Duke. His breath was becoming more labored, but he was still breathing. “No,” I said. “It’s dark. There’s too much blood. His chest doesn’t sound right.” I noted the calm was disappearing from my voice. Hysteria crept in.
Three minutes. Hold it together for three minutes.
Funny how three minutes seem so long. Like forever.
“I need you to put pressure on the wound if you can,” the voice instructed. “Stop the bleeding. And keep on the line with me…”
I hung up. I had to. She couldn’t do anything, and I’d lose it if I had to listen to that disembodied voice for another two minutes and thirty seconds.
I put the phone down, my other hand still holding the gun in the direction of the door leading from the hallway.
“One-handed shooting is never ideal nor accurate. You need both hands on the gun. You need it steady. You need to be ready to pull the trigger,” Zane’s voice crept into my mind. “But if you’re forced, one-handed shooting is better than nothing.”
I fumbled with my phone and managed to put it on speaker, the dial tone echoed in the silence of the cavernous room. I moved myself so Duke’s entire upper body was in my lap. He was a dead weight and it was a struggle, but I managed it. He let out a low groan but otherwise didn’t make a sound. My hand searched his blood-drenched chest for the source of the blood, the dim light doing little to help. I managed to find a place where warm blood was flowing from and put my hand on top in some vain attempt to stop the gush. To stop my friend from dying.
Dying in my arms.
“Lex, if your mother called you—”
“Zane,” I interrupted him, my voice broken.
“Lexie,” he barked, immediately alert.
“Th-there’s blood, Zane, so much blood. I think Duke’s dying. I’m trying to put pressure on the wound, but I’ve only got one hand because I need the other to hold the gun. I know you said one-handed shooting isn’t good, but I have to use one hand because the other is putting pressure on the wound,” I said, my voice cracking with hysteria.
“Tell me where you are right now, Lexie,” he commanded, his voice alert but calm. It was good.
“I’m home. There’s someone in the house, Zane. And there’s so much blood.”
“You need to get out of there right now. Are you listening to me, Lexie? You need to get out of there and call the police. I’m coming to get you.”
“The police will be here in one minute. I think. Or less. I called them. I’m not leaving Duke,” I told him, my voice firm. My hand was starting to burn with the effort of holding it up, but I wouldn’t lower it. Nor would I tear my eyes from the doorway.
“Fuck!” I heard Zane yell. “Okay, Lexie. It’s okay. Are you hurt?”
My head was throbbing and I was pretty sure I was still bleeding. I could feel the warmth of the blood trickling down my head, but that was nothing compared to Duke. “No. I’m okay. It’s only a little blood. Nothing like Duke.”
“A little blood?” Zane repeated, his voice was flat, but I could hear something else behind it. “Where are you bleeding, Lexie?”
“My head. It’s nothing. It’s Duke who’s worse,” I stuttered, my voice beginning to break.
“Where in the house are you?”
“Living room. He was in the laundry room with me, but I got away. I kicked him. Now I’m in the living room. I don’t know where he is.” I was aware I was talking too much and I sounded ridiculous, but I had to fill up the silence.
There was a small pause, a tiny one. I could almost feel the fury through the phone. “Good girl. Now I need you to put your back against the window and face both the doorways. You’ve got a gun?”
I nodded, not realizing he couldn’t see me. “I’ve got Duke’s gun. But it’s dark. He turned the lights off, cut the power, I think.”
Another muttered curse. “You can shoot, baby. I know you can. I need you to shoot the moment someone comes into the room. Don’t hesitate.”
Flashing lights outside my window made me move my gaze. My entire body sagged in relief. “They’re here,” I whispered. “The police are here, Zane.”
I heard
a similar sigh to my own. “Thank fuck,” he muttered. “I don’t want you to move from where you are. That’s the safest spot. They’ll come in on their own. You stay there and I’m coming to get you. Right now,” he promised.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this fight?”
Killian didn’t say a word, merely looked at Lucky, his silence answer enough.
Lucky held up his hands in surrender, throwing his gloves to the side. “Jeez, don’t kill me with the power of the mind, brother. Heard of sarcasm?”
Killian only glared at him before throwing his own gloves aside and yanking his tee over his head and shrugging on his cut.
Lucky did the same. “Tough crowd,” he muttered.
They both started their walk back into the clubhouse. They’d be training for Killian’s next fight. He’d started doing MMA two years ago when his anger got too much that even enforcing for the Sons hadn’t been enough to feed it. He needed something. So MMA it was. He was good at it. More than good. He hadn’t lost a fight. He was becoming a big deal. Not in the mainstream media; this wasn’t that kind of fighting. This was the underground kind. The illegal kind. The Sons may have gone legit, but that didn’t mean they actually lived by the same laws that the other 99 percent of society adhered to.
“We need to think of a name for you,” Lucky said, keeping pace beside him.
Killian gave him a sideways look. “Got a name. Had it for about twenty-three years, if you hadn’t noticed.
Lucky grinned at him. “No, we need a ring name. Like The Destroyer or The Widowmaker, something like that.”
“The Widowmaker?” Killian repeated as they walked into the clubhouse. He may have had a lot of rage and didn’t shy away from killing if the club needed it, but that didn’t mean he did it for fun.
“Not literally, figuratively,” Lucky explained. “Beer,” he commanded to the prospect behind the bar. The change in his tone was palpable. He’d heard what the little fuck said about Lexie and had nearly killed him same as Killian. Bull didn’t know. They’d be digging a grave for sure. Which was why, the fucker was still prospecting.
He gave them their beers without comment. He wasn’t as mouthy now.
“Your old lady teaching you big words now?” Brock asked Lucky with a grin. He was leaning against the bar, his arm slung around Amy, his hand resting on the small swell of her stomach. She was glaring at the beer in Killian’s hand.
Lucky looked offended. “I was able to string a sentence together before I met Becky,” he defended.
Brock rolled his eyes and took a sip of his own beer. “Yeah, but it was all nonsense. Thank fuck you met her. I’d hate to think where you’d be without her.”
Lucky’s face went serious. “Yeah, so would I,” he muttered, taking a pull of his beer.
Lucky had gone through some serious shit with his old lady, the entire club had. The scars were only now just healing, and Lucky was returning to the joker he used to be before that shit turned him into someone different.
“That’s it!” Amy exclaimed, throwing her hands up and yanking out of her husband’s embrace. She stepped her heeled foot forward and snatched the beer out of Killian’s hands before he even knew what was going on. He had quick reflexes, but shit, she was something else.
She had taken about two gulps of the beer before a hard-faced Brock snatched it out of her hands, glaring a Killian for a second, as if this was his fault.
“What the fuck, Sparky?” he clipped. “You’re pregnant. You can’t drink fuckin’ beer.”
The small redhead glared up at her husband. “Yes, I know I’m pregnant. I’m very aware of the morning sickness, the swollen ankles, the heartburn,” she said, listing the things off on her fingers. “But it’s hot. Really freaking hot. And I want a fucking beer. It’s not going to kill the little thing. It’s your spawn after all. I bet the fetus would survive a nuclear apocalypse,” she snapped.
Both Lucky and Killian tried to hide their grins. Well, Killian did, but that was because his version of a grin was a slight upturned mouth. It was the best he could do. Lucky snorted with laughter. Brock’s old lady was something else. She was funny and fierce. A good woman. But not afraid to throw fire. Brock had his hands full with her.
“You’re not fuckin’ having one mouthful more when you’re pregnant with my baby,” Brock commanded.
She let out an exasperated noise, glared at him, then stormed out of the room. Lucky grinned at Brock, who was downing his beer in preparation to go after her.
Lucky raised his own. “Good luck, brother,” he said with sincerity. His own old lady was a spitfire. The brothers of the Sons of Templar MC needed a certain kind of woman. Once they found her, they’d die for her.
Brock set his beer down on the table. “I’ll need it,” he muttered before going after his wife.
Lucky chuckled. “Poor bastard.”
Killian’s eyes followed Brock and watched as Bull and Cade entered the room. He and Bull were on good terms, considering. Considering he broke his adopted daughter’s heart. Good terms meant Killian was still breathing after committing that particular sin, only because Bull understood why he did it.
To free her so she could fly.
They approached and Cade slapped Killian on the back. “You gonna earn me some money tomorrow night?” he asked, jerking his head at the prospect for a beer. His eyes were cold.
Killian nodded. “You know it.”
Killian made his brothers and the club in general some decent coin on these fights. There were still people stupid enough to fight against him.
Bull looked like he was about to say something when his phone started ringing and he glanced down, smiling slightly. Fucker never smiled, apart from for three people. His wife, his son, or Lexie.
He turned his back with a meaningful look to Killian so he knew who was on the other end of the phone.
He stepped slightly away, for Killian’s benefit, he knew.
“Lex, if your mother called you—” Killian heard him start, his voice amused.
But he didn’t finish his sentence and Killian immediately stiffened at the way his entire body froze.
“Lexie.” His low boom seemed to take over the room. Every inch of teasing had gone out of his voice. It was the voice Killian heard when they were in situations where Bull had to turn into someone else. The person he was before Mia, Lexie, and Rocko.
It was empty.
That meant danger. Killian set his beer down on the counter with a clatter and both Cade and Lucky registered the atmosphere, their faces grim.
There was a pause, one that nearly brought Killian to his knees in frustration. Bull had turned around. His face was blank, but his eyes locked with Killian. Killian flinched when he saw what was behind that empty, cold look.
Fear.
“Tell me where you are right now, Lexie,” Bull barked into the phone.
Kill stood close to him, ready to go wherever the fuck she was, to hell and back if he had to. He’d already been there; he knew the way.
“You need to get out of there right now. Are you listening to me, Lexie? You need to get out of there and call the police. I’m coming to get you.”
Killian’s blood went cold, and he kept stride with Bull as he started moving out of the clubhouse. He knew Cade and Lucky followed.
Bull listened to something on the other end of the phone. Killian resisted the urge to snatch it from his hands, barely.
Bull stopped in the middle of the parking lot, halfway to his bike. “Fuck!” he yelled.
It was that one word, the raw emotion behind it, that had Killian’s body turn to granite. A million nightmares flittered through his mind. A million ways for his freckles to be hurt. He wasn’t there. Something was happening, and he wasn’t fucking there.
“Are you hurt?” He heard the tail end of Bull’s question and his thoughts froze. His heart stopped beating. If the answer was bad, he wasn’t sure it’d beat again.
>
Killian clenched his fists when Bull’s face drained of color. “A little blood?” he said quietly.
Killian couldn’t move. Freckles. Bleeding. No. Fuck.
“Where are you bleeding, Lexie?”
Killian should have listened for the answer to that question. He should have, but he got lost in his head. The multitude of images made him taste bile. And when he emerged again, it seemed Bull had said other things, but he missed them. He had no idea where his freckles was bleeding from.
“You stay there and I’m coming to get you. Right now.”
Bull pulled the phone from his ear and went to turn, but Killian stepped forward, blocking his way. He had to stop himself from clutching the sides of his cut.
“What the fuck is going on? Is Lexie okay?” he asked, or more liked pleaded.
Bull regarded him with that empty stare, the one of a killer. He only had one goal, Killian knew, and he was retreating into the dark place to accomplish it.
Not good.
“You need to get out of my way, brother.”
“You need to tell me what the fuck is going on with my girl!” Killian yelled in his face, no longer being able to tamp down his fury, his panic.
Bull seemed to blink away some of that coldness. “She’s okay. Mostly. Some fucker broke into her house. Sounds like Duke’s bleedin’ out. Police are there. Need to get to her,” he informed him.
Killian registered his words like they were slow-working poison, the pain settling in as the meaning did.
“She’s not your girl,” Bull said, not unkindly. “Not anymore.”
Killian gave him a look. “Yes, she is. She’s always been. And I’m going to get her.”
I squinted at the bright light thrust into my eyes.
“Any nausea? Dizziness?” the doctor asked once I’d blinked away the spots.
“No. I’m fine. I need to know about my friend.”
The woman’s eyes softened just a little, but the rest of her face stayed blank, clinical. It was a mask she wore every day, I guessed. A mask of indifference. You’d need it if you dealt in death. That’s what doctors did. Yeah, they dealt in life too—delivered babies, saved people—but there would always be the ones they couldn’t save.