Lazarus (The Henchmen MC Book 7)

by Jessica Gadziala

  That I wasn't so sure about. I was no superhero. I once cried over a stubbed toe. I didn't exactly have the best tolerance for things that made me uncomfortable.

  "You want to get clean, right?"

  That made my eyes snap up to his and when I spoke, every bit of conviction I possessed was in my voice. "Yes."

  "Then are you making the choice or am I chaining you to the bed?"

  If I wasn't completely mistaken, there was some humor in his voice, like he was trying to tease me a little, trying to make an incredibly heavy and dark situation just a little lighter.

  I swallowed hard, trying to do the same. "Do I even want to know why you have something in here that you could chain a woman to the bed with?"

  To that, his lips tipped up in a way that made the skin next to his eyes crinkle up charmingly.

  In another world, in another life, he was someone I would have let myself want.

  As it was, there was no room for that in my life.

  Then there was, of course, the part where he was a sociopathic freak with some sort of savior complex.

  Or, in other words, he was off his rocker.

  "Jokes aside, Bethany. Make the right choice."

  I don't know what it was per say- the sincerity in his words, the fact that I truly needed to make a change for the better, the fact that I didn't really have a choice, or a combination of all of the aforementioned, but I swallowed back the objections.

  "Okay."

  "Okay," he agreed, nodding as he slowly stood. "Good. You'll regret it for a week then you'll be happy you said what you just said. I am going to run out for some supplies to try to make it easier on you. I'll be back in a few hours."

  With that and not another word, he turned and walked out of the room. A second later, I heard the door to the hall click.

  I was a lot of things, but I wasn't stupid. If he was going to leave me alone, I was going to get the hell out of there. Then, I don't know, maybe Google some local detoxes and change my life while not being held captive.

  I jumped up off the bed and rushed toward the window, looking down on the street in time to see a motorcycle pull to the end of the driveway, pause to look, then peel off.

  So he was a biker.

  And if he was a biker in Navesink Bank, well, that meant one thing. He was a Henchmen.

  That, well, that just reinforced the fact that I needed to get the hell out of there. The last thing I needed in my life was to be caught up with some outlaw biker gang. No sir, no way.

  I went to his dresser and found a pair of pajama pants with a drawstring, yanking it tight so that while it hung alarmingly low on my hips, didn't fall to the floor, then made a mad dash for the front door.

  To find it locked from the outside.

  My heart dropped down into the pits of my stomach as I turned around and ran frantically toward the window in the living room where there was a fire escape. But when I reached for the bottom and tried to haul it up, it wouldn't budge. My eyes went to look for the lock only to find there wasn't one.

  Oh, no.

  It wouldn't budge because he had nailed it freaking shut.

  My breath rushed out of me as I turned back to face the apartment that would, for all intents and purposes, be my prison for the next... however long.

  It could be worse. The kitchen had a light gray tiled floor that matched the tile to the countertops and contrasted the white cabinets well. The living space was small and sparse- just sporting a loveseat, lamp, and end table. The bed had been nice. The bathroom was as well.

  It was probably a lot nicer than any of the places I would have went for traditional detox.

  That didn't make it any less of a prison.

  And while Lazarus was abso-freaking-lutely a million times better looking than any drug counselor could ever be, it didn't make him any less my warden.

  A warden with chains for the bed.

  And there was not, was absolutely, positively not a strange, unexpected tightening of my sex at that thought. Nope. That didn't happen.

  I might have been a lot of things, but I was not the kind of girl who got the hots for a guy who was holding her hostage.

  I took a deep breath and moved into the kitchen, grabbing a cup of the coffee from the machine and trying to not freak out.

  I lost that battle.

  Though it didn't last all that long anyway, because by the time noon rolled around, I had dived headfirst into withdrawal.

  And all there was was misery.

  THREE

  Lazarus

  When I was sure she was passed out the night before, I had made the rounds in the apartment building, letting everyone know that my sister was staying with me and she was detoxing. While they were generally of the 'mind your own damn business' mindset seeing as they were all criminals themselves, I didn't trust that they wouldn't call the cops if they heard Bethany screaming about being held hostage.

  "She's been messed up for long fucking enough," I lied through my teeth to the pot dealers down the hall. "It's time she cleans up before she throws her life away." That part was true enough.

  "Understand, man," the guy whose name I didn't even know agreed. "We just deal herb, bud, but we know how that hard shit fucks your life up. We'll mind our business."

  It was the same response from the freak who milked snakes and Barney and his wife Gerty who were forgers and the shut-in food blogger.

  Drugs were an ever-increasing problem everywhere. They all got that. Especially seeing as we had heroin dealers right across the street. And, as much as they maybe weren't comfortable with the idea of a raging or crying or screaming woman, they understood that you had to do what you had to do for the ones you loved.

  The sister angle was smart.

  Even if they caught sight of her somehow- we were both dark-haired and dark-eyed. It was believable enough.

  Once that was handled, I changed out the lock on the front door, replacing it with one that locked from the outside only. I had a chain on the inside. It was good enough. No one would break into a Henchmen's place anyway. When that was done, I nailed the windows shut.

  Even if she was happy at the idea of detoxing, of getting better, it would only take a couple hours into active withdrawal for desperation to kick in. She would be climbing the fucking walls, trying to get out any way possible so she could hit the street and get another fix.

  I needed to cover my bases.

  That was why I was leaving right after she woke up and we talked. I needed to hit the club and talk to my brothers about trying to cover for me for a few days and then grab some groceries and clothes for her. She would sweat through anything she put on, but she needed them regardless. The longer I waited to do the errands, the worse she would be feeling, the more chance there was for her to find a way out and fall back into her habit.

  I couldn't say where the compulsion came from. I wasn't the hero type. I was, in general, a let everyone live their lives type. I had been through so much shit over the course of five or six years that it had given me a new, much more laid-back outlook on life. Shit happens and it happens literally all the fucking time. If you got worked up over every little thing, you were stressed twenty-four, seven. It was easier to literally and figuratively roll with the punches.

  I saw drug deals on the daily and never reported it.

  I saw people snort off the bathroom counters at Hex and didn't get them kicked out even though I knew there was a 'no drugs' policy.

  Very rarely did I step in.

  I stopped a mugging of some poor fucking sixteen year old girl back in the City and I had told the Henchmen about people breaking into their headquarters.

  That was about as heroic as I got.

  I wasn't some White Knight saving the damsel in distress.

  I was more like the Black Knight who all the good girls were told to stay far, far away from.

  Maybe it was my own past, my own OD's, my own feeling of being completely and utterly alone in the world with no one wh
o could even remotely understand how godawful I felt, how bad things had to be to allow me to stick a needle in my arm and shoot drugs into my veins.

  Quite frankly, unless you had been there, there was no way you could possibly even begin to know that kind of low.

  Pretty girl like her alone at a bar on a Thursday night. She couldn't have had many people around her who gave a fuck if they let her do that. So it was likely she either didn't have much family or they weren't close.

  See, I had sweat it out alone.

  I had gone through that misery without a fucking soul in the world who cared if I lived or died.

  I didn't know her from Eve, but I didn't want that same fate for her.

  I fucking cared.

  I didn't know her. I didn't know if she was the valedictorian of her high school or if she blew guys for money. It didn't matter what she had done, where she had been. Everyone did what they needed to survive. I wasn't someone who could judge.

  But I cared.

  Maybe it was a form of penance. Maybe I felt the need to pay it forward. Whatever the reason, I was going to help her.

  Whether she liked it or not.

  "Thought you were coming back last night," Edison growled at me when I walked in the door. Not because he was moody; that was just how the fucker talked.

  "I thought so too. Turns out I got some company," I hedged.

  To that, his lips quirked up slightly, giving him an altogether devilish look. "Company, huh?" he asked, gleaning exactly what I meant for him to- that I took a woman home with me. It was an easy enough explanation. And since they never stopped ribbing me about not getting enough pussy, they would understand if I wanted a feast after my famine.

  "Yeah. I was wondering if you guys could cover for me a bit for the next night or two."

  To that, he chuckled, the sound a low rumble. "Got a taste of something sweet, huh? Alright. I'll take your shifts and if Renny asks, I'll tell him you just lost your virginity finally and need a weekend to figure out how your cock works and where the G-spot is. No biggie."

  I snorted at that, shaking my head. "I appreciate it."

  "Two inches," he called as I started walking away, making me turn back.

  "Two inches?" I repeated.

  "G-spot. Two inches in, top wall, no bigger than a half dollar. And they like firm pressure, not pansy ass stroking."

  To that, completely unexpected, like most things with Edison, I threw my head back and laughed. "Found my first G-spot when I was fifteen, but thanks for the info."

  "You missed Cyrus coming back in last night," he added, going behind the bar for a glass and the bottle of vodka. Edison liked to drink. Being an addict myself, I could spot one from a mile away. He wasn't one. He just liked to drink. And he had the tolerance of a lifelong alcoholic. Him having three fingers of vodka at eleven in the morning was basically his equivalent to some watered-down mimosas at brunch.

  "Oh yeah? What'd I miss?"

  "He brought home a mother fucking harem," Edison said, shaking his head as he sipped his vodka straight. "Apparently that Addison chick has a lot of friends and they are all open to..." he paused, thinking of the right phrase, "sharing."

  That was Cyrus for you.

  "How many?" I asked, genuinely curious.

  "He brought four, but Reeve somehow managed to get one into his bed instead."

  "What, none for you?"

  He snorted at that. "The reek of ex high school cheerleaders and Victoria's Secret underwear and desperation for male validation. I can do better than that."

  Edison, for all the ragging he did on me about not getting laid enough, was picky as fuck with women. He definitely got his fair share, but he never set his sights on the easiest targets. In fact, he tended to like the girls who were out with books in their hands or earbuds in their ears- you know, the girls with the 'fuck off' plastered across their foreheads.

  That was his type.

  His cock wouldn't go within ten feet of an ex-cheerleader.

  "Victoria's Secret does some great work with g-strings nowadays," Cyrus supplied, walking in half-awake, rubbing at his beard.

  "Don't need a designer tag on her panties. Much more fucking interested in the ass beneath it," Edison shrugged as he finished his drink. "Alright, that's it for me. Gotta go help Cash and Janie at the gym. We're hanging fucking heavy bags today," he informed us, going to the door and disappearing outside.

  "Pretty sure Janie weighs less than a heavy bag," Cyrus said, nodding toward the kitchen.

  I followed behind, knowing Edison offered to cover, but figuring it was best to get them all on-board if possible.

  "How is the shop coming along?" I asked Reeve who was already standing in the kitchen going about making coffee. He, having a past that meant he was handy, had been pitching in on the rebuild of Repo's vintage car shop. They also did some work on bikes, but generally left the everyday automotive repair to Colton King and his men, them having been around longer and Reign not wanting to step on toes especially since The Henchmen didn't actually need the money from their legit businesses.

  The entire fucking place had been burned to the ground during their issues with the Abruzzo family a few months back and it was proving a long, drawn-out process to get it back into working condition.

  "Idiot contracting company needs to be fired. If Repo catches any more of them smoking pot when they're supposed to be working, heads are going to fucking roll."

  "So where were you last night? I could have used one less woman in my bed," Cyrus said, not looking the least bit put off by such an unfortunate situation as a foursome.

  "Found a woman of my own and took her to my bed," I offered, it being completely true even if the insinuation wasn't. "Which is why I'm here. Edison already agreed to cover my shifts so I..."

  "Say no more," Cyrus cut me off, slapping a hand on the back of my shoulder. "You get all up in there. But... don't fucking put a goddamn ring on it, alright?" he asked, shaking his head. "I can't be going to the bars and picking up chicks with Reeve and Edison."

  "The fuck is wrong with me?" Reeve asked, un-offended. "I took one of them off your hands last night."

  "He's a Debbie fucking Downer and he knows it," Cyrus went on. "And Edison scares the chicks away with that growl of his. And if that's not bad enough. With his ridiculous standards, he's the worst fucking wingman on the planet."

  "Not putting a ring on it, don't worry," I assured him. "I appreciate the reprieve."

  "We'll see you for the fight on Monday though, right?" Cyrus asked, jazzed up to get to see me in the ring.

  I didn't fight often. Not anymore.

  Back when Ross first hired me, I fought pretty much weekly. But after about a year, I proved my worth as a guard instead and spent more nights doing that than fighting, leaving that for the younger or more blood-thirsty of fighters. I still went in the ring when I needed to- when someone requested me in particular because I made them a lot of money sometime or because another fighter got too hurt, threw in the towel, or was too drunk or high to be any fun to watch get his ass kicked.

  So since I started being a probate several months before, I hadn't needed to get in a ring but once and that was when I was way too new to The Henchmen for any of them to give a damn about showing up.

  My fight on Monday was therefore a big deal to my fellow probates as well as some of the patched members who informed me that they were coming... and betting against me.

  I didn't bother to tell them that they would lose.

  If there was anything I knew I could do, aside from cook, it was win a fight. Part of that was just childhood and adolescent skirmishes that turned into early adulthood bar fights. The bigger part, though, was thanks to Ross Ward and his ability to "work with" desperation.

  He had made me what I was in more ways than one, taking a big brother role to someone who had no one else in the world. Ross wasn't a warm and fuzzy kind of guy and therefore he would never claim the same kind of bond with me, but I knew with
out a doubt that he felt the same with me. I was probably the only person save for himself who had ever been allowed inside his residence.

  That was just how he was.

  Which was why he worked with me so much when I first agreed to work with him.

  He actually preferred I didn't fight either.

  But Monday night was the biggest fight night of the week and while he had four other fighters doing their two fights, the third fight was missing a major player thanks to a fight earlier the week which knocked three of a guy's teeth loose and he needed to have implants put in. He would be down for a while and all his other good fighters were already fighting.

  Mine would be the last fight of the night against a guy named Igor who was about twice my size but only a third as trained. The fools who didn't know me would bet on him.

  And they would lose huge.

  Me? I'd rake it in.

  So would Ross and anyone else who bet on the underdog.

  It was going to be a good fight.

  Quite frankly, I could use the release too. I was due.

  The only problem I currently had was, well, I was worried about leaving Bethany.

  But I would have to do what I had to do and, by then, she should be at least somewhat better than she was going to before the next two days.

  "Alright. Anything I need to know or are we good?" I asked as they went about making coffee and heating up leftover Chinese from two nights ago because I wasn't around to cook for them.

  "Supposed to have church tonight, you know," Reeve offered and I felt myself sigh.

  Of course.

  How could I forget that?

  "Think Reign will understand trading one meeting for pussy," Cyrus piped in.

  "Should probably call him though," Reeve added, always being the more serious of the two.

  "Right," I agreed. "Thanks for this, guys," I said as I headed out, reaching for my phone as I moved outside.

  I called Reign, hearing Ferryn and Fallon having some kind of screaming match in the background, met by the sounds of their newest sibling, giving me a rare opportunity to catch Reign only half paying attention and therefore more accommodating. By the end of the two minute call, I was getting a headache from the yelling and I was off the hook for this one church under the condition: just this one fucking time.