Avery

by Addison Jane

  I was going to have a panic attack.

  Right here.

  Because you fucking care about him, you idiot.

  “He’s fine,” Tyler stressed, waving his hand in front of my face in order to draw my attention back to him. When I finally looked up, he offered me this wide smile. “He’s fine.”

  “I heard you the first time,” I answered and rolled my eyes like it was no big deal. Like I wasn’t about to decorate his boots with last night’s dinner. Like my heart wasn’t beating out of my fucking chest as I fought to convince it that Shotgun wasn’t about to be stabbed to death by some drug addict in the emergency room just because he had to bring me here to visit my friend, who had put herself and me in a really shitty position tonight.

  I sucked in a deep breath. Though I hadn’t said any of that ramble out loud, I could still feel the weight of it sitting on my chest.

  Shotgun was right.

  Oh, how I fucking hated that he was right.

  I had rushed in.

  I always fucking did.

  It was ingrained in me to always swing first, ask questions later when it came to two things…

  Protecting the people I loved.

  And protecting myself.

  Holly’s eyes looked up at the creak of the door opening, meeting mine instantly.

  “Hey,” I said quietly, stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind me with a click that seemed so damn loud. She stayed quiet, even as I walked over and placed a small bag on the end of her bed. “I brought you some clothes for when they let you escape. Yours weren’t in such great shape.”

  It was an understatement. They had smelled like a mixture of cigarettes, fruity vape, and vomit, and if that didn’t correctly define the Beta Beta frat house, I didn’t know what fucking would.

  The closer I got to her it became apparent her skin had more color than a couple of hours ago. Its pinkish tone had returned. Her lips were less blue. She looked alive.

  A hot mess, with her hair sticking up all over, mascara smudged across her face, but absolutely alive.

  “How you feeling?” I questioned softly, sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, the white plastic fabric they called sheets squeaking under me.

  She pursed her lips like she was trying to stop a wave of nausea, holding it for a few seconds before inhaling deeply through her nose. “My stomach is all twisty and yuck,” she murmured, and her eyes floated toward a plate of dry toast that had been left on a tray beside her bed. I reached over and grabbed the dish, handing it to her. She forced a thankful smile, picking up a piece daintily and nibbling at the edge. “My head feels weird. Foggy. Thick.”

  I nodded, my shoulders slumping. “Shotgun said it was likely Ketamine. It’s used sometimes for pain or anesthetic. It can apparently affect your memory, so don’t be surprised if everything from last night is kind of a blur.”

  “It is,” she whispered, her nose crinkling. “How’d I get here?”

  I gave her the short version of the story. Her ringing me. Me finding her and ringing Tyler. Tyler showing up with the club and scaring the bejesus out of Cooper and his friends. I decided to skip the part where Shotgun had dragged me back to the clubhouse so he could spank me for leaping to her rescue first before calling for help.

  Holly pressed her hand to her forehead and groaned loudly. “Dammit,” she cursed under her breath before shaking her head. “Do you know what I’m going to have to do to get them not to completely excommunicate me?”

  I sat up straight, letting out a soft laugh, thinking maybe she was fucking kidding. “You’re joking, right?”

  Her eyes met mine beneath her brow. There was this strange determination in them, where they’d been broken and weak only seconds ago, I could suddenly see her planning.

  Planning how she would get back in the good books of the bastards who fucking drugged and possibly raped her.

  She shoved the food to the side, crawling across the bed and snatching up the bag I’d brought in, pulling it into her lap and beginning to dig for clothes.

  “Holly…” I tried, my heart beginning to race as she found a tank top and some sweatpants, laying them out before going to work on the line in her arm. The fucking needle that was threaded into her skin, feeding her the fluid she desperately needed to try and wash out the fucking drugs. “Holly!”

  I reached across the bed, grabbing her hand before she could rip the line from her arm.

  She jerked back, shoving me away but at least turning her attention back to me. “What!”

  “You need to stop this,” I declared sternly.

  “I want to get out of here,” she cried, her eyes filling with tears.

  “That’s not what I mean, and you fucking know it,” I argued and leaped off the bed, at this point, not giving a flying fuck if the entire hospital heard me. “You need to stop this. You need to stop—”

  “Stop what? Having fun? Being a college student?” She scoffed out a sarcastic laugh, swiping at the tears that were dripping down onto her cheeks now. “Millions of other college kids do it every single year. They drink a little too much. Get in a little over their head. It’s the lifestyle.”

  “Sure, but they do it with people they trust to have their backs. They don’t get drunk with the Beta Beta frat boys from hell,” I hissed. It felt like someone had their hand wrapped around my heart, squeezing it slowly because this wasn’t fucking hard enough as it was. “They’re not good people, Holly. Next time, I’m going to show up, and I won’t be calling the boys for help. I’ll be calling the fucking police to come and remove your body.”

  “Then next time, I won’t call you,” she snapped.

  “Not that it matters if you did. Because Shotgun’s not going to let me answer anyway. He’s practically banned me from seeing you,” I spat, throwing my hands in the air. “He thinks I’m going to get myself killed coming to your rescue. And you know what, he’s probably fucking right because I love you. And if you call, I will fucking come. Every. Goddamn. Time.”

  The words got caught in my throat, twisted in this web of emotion I seemed to be winding myself tighter and tighter inside.

  “I don’t need you to rescue me.”

  “Then stop fucking acting like someone who needs rescuing.”

  The air was thick, a storm building, brewing—one I was scared could destroy us.

  “Why would you let him do that?” she whispered suddenly like her brain had just connected the dots, and she understood the repercussions of what was going on. “You were my friend before you joined the club.”

  “I have to follow—”

  “Orders? Right. So, the club comes first.” She laughed, though it was dark and sent chills down my spine. “The club and their fucking rules. You’re going to let them dictate your life and our friendship.”

  “I’m going to let them fucking protect me,” I rasped, feeling a wave of emotion hit me, stealing my breath. “Because do you know how fucking long it’s been since someone protected me? Do you know how long it’s been since someone has put me fucking first? You want to sit here and act like I’m turning my back on you, but where were you, Holly? Where were you when Cooper called me a whore in front of everyone? Where were you when I was trying to fucking keep you alive, and he was telling me that no one would believe me anyway if I tried to fight him?”

  I couldn’t breathe.

  My chest heaving painfully.

  Because I realized that once again, another person I thought loved me had failed to put me fucking first.

  The door opened behind me. I knew it was him, but I couldn’t move. Tears streamed down my face, and I watched Holly through the blur.

  Waiting.

  For what?

  For fucking anything.

  For her to say she was sorry.

  For her to tell me to go and fuck myself.

  But she just sat there, her eyes glazed.

  Like she was numb.

  “That’s enough,” Shotgun’s deep voice ordered, h
is fingers wrapping around my wrist and gently pulling me back against his chest. I allowed him to take the lead because that was how we worked. When I felt lost or out of control, he stepped in. He balanced me. And I wasn’t sure at that point whether I really had the consciousness to know what the right thing was to do. Especially when my anger began to fade, and the panic started to set in.

  Good work.

  Show another person why you’re not worthy.

  Show them why you’re the problem.

  Why would she want to fight for you?

  Why would she want to stick around?

  “Tyler, stay with Holly. Make sure she gets home safe.”

  “I don’t need your charity, Shotgun,” she hissed under her breath, her words hitting my body like gunshots in the chest.

  “Don’t push me, Holly,” Shotgun growled, holding my body against his and turning me toward the door. “The only charity you’re getting is me leaving Ty here and not sticking around myself because you don’t wanna fucking hear the words I have to say to you right now.”

  Panic quickly replaced the anger in her eyes.

  So it should.

  Anyone who didn’t take a threat from Shotgun seriously was a fucking idiot.

  Ty slipped through the door as Shotgun guided my body out into the corridor, closing the door behind him, but not before I heard my friend let out a heart-wrenching sob.

  “Let’s go home—”

  I broke, shoving my hands against his chest and putting some distance between us. He held his hands up, letting me escape but watching me with narrowed eyes.

  “Fuck you,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

  “Fuck me?” he questioned, his brow raising, surprised by the sudden outburst.

  “Yeah. Fuck you,” I whispered, my voice trembling, my body too. “I get to say that because part of this fucked-up relationship we have is me having your back in there, but out here, being able to tell you this. I will distance myself like you asked, but I don’t give a fuck what you say. If she calls, I will run. Again. And fucking again. No matter whether it kills me or not. Because you know what? That’s what family does and how fucking dare you ask me to do anything less.”

  Then I turned and ran out of the hospital.

  And in pure Shotgun fashion, he followed me out, met me at his Harley, and took me home.

  To the clubhouse.

  To his bed.

  Because I’m fucked.

  So fucking fucked.

  SHOTGUN

  “She here?”

  Bill looked up from behind the counter, the old man tugging on the edges of his mustache. “What’d you do?”

  I’ll take that as a yes.

  “And what makes you think—”

  “Because ain’t no pretty girl like her show up here, on her own, looking for a weapon and shooting like the target at the end is some guy’s fucking balls if she’s loved up.” Old man was on point. Every fucking time. His mustache was long and hid a lot of his mouth, but the smile lines on his face told me just how fucking amused he was by the situation. “She’s outside. Number nine.”

  I snapped a salute, turning to the corridor that led to the outdoor range.

  “You ain’t taking a weapon?” Bill questioned, making me pause.

  I turned back just for a second, shaking my head. “If I’ve fucked her off enough that she wants to unload a clip into me and be done, then I honestly probably deserve it.”

  “Stupid motherfucker,” Bill muttered under his breath as I stomped away. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was fucking dumb for thinking of walking into this unarmed. President of the club or not, Avery was the woman scorned, and I’d heard less valid excuses used as reasoning in a court of law.

  I stepped outside. The Arizona heat was extra thick out here in the desert, beads of sweat instantly forming on the back of my neck. The gun range was set up a few miles from Phoenix in a secluded area with hills surrounding it. A lot of the boys came out here once a week, and some of the girls had taken to it as well. We met Bill through the Exiled Eight MC. Not only was their president Meyah’s dad and Shake’s father-in-law, but technically, they owned a half share of Empire and Dynasty—our nightclubs. So, they had become family.

  Just with different patches.

  Old Bill didn’t ride but served time in the military with Exiled Eight MC president, Huntsman. Bill had never admitted it, but I was pretty sure the two men met in the Navy SEALs and while Bill looked like an old geezer who had no sense—if shit went down, I’d take him on my team any fucking day.

  I stepped outside. The sound of echoing gunshots was loud as fucking hell, a constant attack on my eardrums. The place was busy. Busier than you’d imagine it would be mid-morning in the middle of the fucking week.

  Walking up to bay number nine, I had to pause.

  The booty shorts did it first, the subtle curve of her ass showing just beneath them, made my hand itch. I stopped behind her, standing a few feet back as she leveled her gun at the rough person-shaped outline. It was the hottest thing I think I could even fucking imagine any woman doing, especially one of mine.

  She’s not yours.

  She belongs to the club.

  She was mine.

  And maybe someday soon, I’d get her to fucking realize it, but until then, this was all I had, so I made it fucking work.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  She pulled the clip, placing the gun on the ledge in front of her before hitting the recall button. She tugged at her earmuffs, placing them next to the weapon while the paper from the other end of the range came flying back toward her.

  “Your aim is a little to the left today,” I commented when she ripped the paper down.

  Her fingers scrunched it tighter, and I caught a little peek back at me over her shoulder. “Right now, I’m wishing I went way left.” She scoffed and narrowed her eyes on me before turning back to the weapon.

  “Ouch, baby,” I mocked and pressed my hand to my heart, knowing just a glimpse of sarcasm coming from me would have her smiling. It wasn’t a side she got often. Or a side anyone else got ever.

  I knew things were bad when she threw her arms up. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to listen—”

  “I’m pretty sure I heard you loud and clear last night,” she threw back, her fist clenching at her sides as she took a breath and swallowed hard. “I follow the rules… or get the fuck out. Anything else to add?”

  “I ever tell you I killed my dad when I was seventeen?” The words tumbled out, one after another like a chorus line. They knew their place. They knew their impact. And when she spun on her heel to face me with her eyes sparkling and her lips parting, just slightly in a sexy but silent oh my fucking God kind of way, I knew she was one of the few fucking people who I would allow to hear the rest. “I ever tell you my mom was a drug addict? That I was so worthless to her, I was born addicted to methamphetamine and spent the first six weeks of my pathetic little life going through withdrawals.”

  Her eyes became cloudier, her shoulders slumping, but she kept her distance. She was apprehensive. Scared to reach out and let me pull her further into my world than most people had ever stepped.

  I knew I was a fucking asshole.

  But what I wanted was for her to understand why.

  “I need you to hear me out.”

  “Why?” she croaked, her fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of her jeans.

  “Because I don’t give explanations often,” I rasped finally, holding my hand out to her. Asking her to take it, so I could help her understand just why I was the way I was. “But I feel like you deserve one.”

  “You should get out now, Marcus.” His voice shook, and he rubbed his hands together. “They’ll be at the clubhouse in less than ten minutes. You have time to run.”

  My aim shook, but I refused to let it falter.

  “What the fuck have you done?” I demanded, my finger squeezing at the trigger when my father’s rattling
laughter came as a response. “What have you done?” I screamed, this rush of heat hitting me, rising through my body. It was like a surge of panic, like a fight-or-flight response my body was creating by making it feel like I was standing in the fire pits of fucking hell.

  “I did what I had to do!” he yelled back, shoving his body out of the old rocking chair he practically lived in these days.

  “You handed over the fucking club?”

  I’d already heard the conversation.

  Walked in on him talking to the cops in our goddamn living room, telling them where the club kept their stash, making himself a deal because he’d been caught with possession. And suddenly, the problems the club had been facing the past few months were starting to make sense. Numbers not adding up, measurements wrong—all things that had almost caused wars with other clubs and criminals.

  Because of my father.

  A club member of over forty years.

  He had been skimming off the top of club product because he had an addiction to satisfy. An addiction so fucking powerful, so fucking strong, that he’d now possibly given up his brothers’ freedom because the idea of going to jail and not being able to scratch that itch was scarier than having to face his family and admit he’d done them wrong.

  He’d betrayed the people I loved.

  The people who had done more for me than he ever would.

  It was the addiction that scared me, something I believe ran through my veins too. One I was fucking petrified would rear its ugly head and turn me into something I absolutely despised with all of my being—my father.

  I guess you could say I should thank him in a way, though. Because of him, I was forcing myself to become more disciplined. Teaching myself to focus on control and organize the chaos around me. It was already making me feel stronger like I could withstand the storm I could see coming. The storm that I was about to create.

  I shoved my hand into my pocket, digging out my cell and hitting my speed dial one. “What are you doing? You won’t be able to warn them in time!” my father protested, lurching at me once before I pressed the barrel of my gun to his forehead.