by Lana Grayson
Five disembodied heads, a stand-off with her behemoth of a boyfriend, and a race across the state to hide before nightfall, and she celebrated by charging twenty dollars to the room for an ounce of bad whiskey and a request to take the bed closer to the window.
For over three hours, I held her in my possession on the back of my bike. I kidnapped her. I used her as a shield while I saved my worthless ass from her MC.
And she...partied?
“Are you hurt?”
It was the only question that made sense to me. She was a tiny woman I had pinned to my chest, hauled around with one thick arm over her waist and thrown where I wanted her. I hadn’t thought about her injuries from the bike crash. I just...acted. I used my weight, like I did to all women.
Most liked it. The others were probably too terrified to tell me otherwise.
The shame slashed through my gut and exposed every part of my shredded conscience.
Martini rubbed her wrist, but the lightness of her words weren’t a match for the dark bruise staining her pale skin.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. I’ll live.”
She parked in front of the mirror and ran her fingers through the gentle, golden wisps framing her face. The steel in her eyes cracked as she peeked at me from her reflection.
“Damn, Brew. We’re out of danger now. You can relax.” She gestured to the bed. “You probably have a concussion. You should sit.”
“You’re not...” I expected a slap to the cheek. A woman cowering in the corner. A half dozen profanities insulting my name and manhood. Martini gave me nothing. “I thought you’d be...scared.”
“I’m safer with you than Sacrilege.”
She wasn’t. I didn’t correct her.
“Besides,” she said. “There was only one way out of that mess. Goliath and Sam believed you murdered those Kingdom men. They wouldn’t have let you live. This was a great idea.”
“What was?”
“Kidnapping me.” She sighed, resting her hand on her forehead like she was swooning. She collapsed onto her bed. “It was brilliant, Brew. The best escape we could have hoped for. I wish I thought of it.”
“You knew what I was doing?”
“Of course. You’re a better actor than me.”
My voice lowered. “I held a gun to you.”
“You weren’t going to hurt me.”
“You didn’t know that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Bullshit.”
She twisted. Her molten gaze might have brought me to my knees if I didn’t have a noose of self-doubt and loathing swinging me from the ceiling.
“You weren’t going to hurt me, Brew.”
“What if I hurt you now?”
Her fingers drew tiny circles over the comforter, marking a place for her to sit and recline as she bled me out. “You won’t.”
“You willing to take that chance?”
Her voice gentled. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I’m the first to admit I make the same mistakes again and again,” she said. “You aren’t a mistake.”
“What am I?”
“My rescuer.”
I snorted. “You must have hit your head off the road harder than you thought.”
“Nope. Right now? I’m thinking clearly.”
“And what are you thinking?”
She leaned back. The tight little t-shirt stretched over her midsection. She crossed her legs at her ankles. Smart thinking. I didn’t let myself envision what it it’d be like tucked between those legs. Not when my blood roared at the thought of pinning her to the bed. My hand curled as I imagined the grip over her slim throat. Holding her still. Watching as her lips parted.
I clenched my jaw. Martini’s voice edged with all the confidence I lost over the past three months.
“I’m thinking, I want to figure out what’s going on. Learn why those men were dead. Why Sacrilege was even dealing with that type of club.”
“Those aren’t questions you should be asking,” I said. “Didn’t they teach you a woman’s place in the club? It ain’t sitting in church with the members.”
“Fine.” She met my gaze. “Then I want to know who the hell you are.”
That made two of us.
I turned away. Enough heat suffocated my body without the additional layer of my jacket. I swore as I peeled it from my shoulder.
“How’d you get shot?” She asked.
Christ. We weren’t getting into that. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does.”
“You’ve been thinking a lot of things,” I said. “You ain’t been right once.”
She accepted the challenge with a coy shrug. “But I’ve come close?”
“No.”
“Liar.” She laughed. “You’re a horrible liar.”
I didn’t used to be. I said nothing.
“Why aren’t you with your MC anymore?”
Staying silent would have been safer for her. Too bad she summoned trouble. A wiggle of her hips only saved her so much.
“Those Temple guys? They knew you. But they didn’t recognize you as Noir, or whoever you’re pretending to be. They were after Brew.” Martini purred my name. “Brew from the Anathema MC.”
“He doesn’t exist anymore.”
She said more things with her eyebrows than her smart mouth. Probably learned it when she overstepped her bounds and got smacked one too many times. A good smack might have helped me now. If I threatened her, she might have dropped it.
But rescuers didn’t hit their girls. I saved Martini only to wait for her to slice her nails across my jugular and end my fucking torment.
“So what are you? A ghost?” She asked.
“Would that scare you?”
Her legs crossed at the knees now. It might have been a warning if I hadn’t watched every last inch of her perfect body shudder. Her curves invited—ready to be pushed and tasted. She was a delicacy I didn’t deserve. I should have punished myself for the thoughts tempting my sin.
“Who are you?” Martini said. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Do you talk that way to Goliath?”
She flinched. The implication hurt.
“Maybe I trust you’ll let me talk?” She bit back. “Maybe I have a hunch you won’t backhand me for trying to get answers out of you.”
“Keep asking, Darling. Let’s test it.”
“You want to hit me?” She shrugged. “I’m used to it. Hasn’t kept me down yet.”
She was right. I swore. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Answers.”
“If I had answers, I wouldn’t be three thousand miles from home, pointing guns at pretty girls and counting rounds in case I gotta stage a fucking stand-off in the hallway of a Holiday Inn.”
She smirked. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Three questions.” She held up her fingers. “Three questions, three honest answers.”
“Darling, you can ask all you want, but I don’t got a drop of honesty left in me.”
Her first finger tucked down. “Why are you running from Anathema?”
I hadn’t agreed to this, but I shot back with the truth.
“I exiled myself.”
“Why?”
Second question. “Because it felt a hell of a lot better than a bullet to the brain.”
Only Martini’s index finger remained. She licked her lip. Her words sucked the heat from the room. I tensed for her next demand.
It wasn’t what I expected.
“What did you do to Rose?”
I gritted my teeth. “Wrong goddamned question.”
“That’s not an answer.”
My hand curled into a fist. Every ounce of restraint bound my muscles. She was lucky. If I were my brother, the drugs would have blinded me to all rationality, and she’d be dead before I tossed her out the window. If I were my father, the gun would
have shot before the question passed from her lips.
If I were Rose?
Christ, if I were anything like Rose, as good as Rose—the past twenty-one years of my life wouldn’t have been stained by blood, tears, and remorse.
Martini stood. She approached me like it was safe. Like she might have curled against my chest, held me, and whispered comfort for my bleeding heart.
I didn’t let her get that close.
I grabbed her hand, squeezing with the intention to break the fucking bones in her delicate fingers. I succeeded only in curling mine over hers.
“I didn’t do anything to Rose.”
My words laced with menace. Her expression shifted, darkened with the fear she should have always felt within my presence.
“That was the problem,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Brew—”
My hand tensed. She stilled, thinking I might hurt her. Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure. Neither was I.
“The Anathema MC split into two factions a few years ago. It was a civil war. Men died. Brothers turned on brothers, and half left to form a new chapter—The Coup—after slaughtering most of our leadership in the middle of the night.”
“Jesus.”
“The club was splintered. I wanted to fix it. I tried to fix it.”
Martini’s eyes widened, not the hardened steel but white-capped waters.
Worried.
“I fucked over my own club.” The truth tasted like blood. I wondered if every old wound picked open with memory would sit as foul in my mouth. “I made a deal with The Coup to start a drug trade.”
“Why?” Martini swallowed. “Money?”
My grin turned cold. “Because the MC who traded the drugs with The Coup worked with my father. While he rotted in jail for murder, I was the next best thing. His son. They’d wanted me to do the deal while they spent tens of thousands of dollars in bribes to get my father out of prison.”
“You betrayed Anathema because a rival club could get your Dad out of jail?” Martini’s praise was misguided. “That’s almost noble, Brew. Nothing is more important than family.”
“Yeah. I learned that lesson too late.” I shuddered.
Martini saw, but she didn’t ask. “The drug trade? Was it between The Coup and…Temple?”
I nodded. “My father and Temple were great allies. If he got out of jail and the deal was set, he’d convince Temple to take out The Coup’s president—a violent psychopath Anathema couldn’t touch without renewing the war. We planned to tell Temple he was a danger to the deal because they’d end the problem.”
“Wow,” she whispered. “This is nothing like Sacrilege’s business. A few stolen bikes and a couple pounds of meth to trade. Not…war.”
“It wasn’t always war. I was tired of all the goddamned violence. I wanted to set Anathema up in an era of prosperity and power. Temple and my father might have done that for us.”
Martini tugged at her hand. I didn’t let her go, but she regained her confidence, little by little.
“Why didn’t it work?” She asked. “Anathema found out?”
“Yes.”
“But why wouldn’t The Coup protect you? And why is Temple shooting at you if they’re loyal to your father?”
Because I was a fool. I was an asshole who thought only of his club, who didn’t stop to see the truth. For thirty-eight years, I lived my life to be a man like my father, to make him proud, and serve our club just as he did when he helped to form the chapter.
Then I realized his blood was a curse, and his existence was a crime waiting to be brought to justice.
“You’re out of questions,” I said.
I pushed her away. Martini stumbled back, but she didn’t let the scowl darken her features for long. A moment passed, and the pinkish tease colored her cheeks once more. She nodded, tucking her hands in her pockets.
“Thank you,” she said. “I think I understand.”
“You really don’t.”
“No. I get it.” Her voice shadowed with softness. “You’re going to let one mistake bleed you dry. Define who you are for the rest of your life.”
“I can’t bury my sins.”
“You already have,” Martini said. “You think you failed Anathema. But you haven’t.”
“Enough.”
“You think you failed Rose.”
“You got three seconds to shut your mouth.”
“You didn’t fail me, Brew,” she said. “You saved me even if you won’t admit it.”
She took a breath, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna wash this day off me. Let’s hope this hotel has a lot of hot water and soap.”
I said nothing. Strained every muscle in my body to stop my cock from hardening as I imagined her under the steaming water. She shut the door behind her, but she didn’t lock it.
She trusted me too damned much.
I rubbed my face as the water patted against the tub. I wasn’t a good man, but even I wouldn’t fuck a girl three hours after I pointed a gun at her temple. Four hours after I led her to a murder scene. Ten hours after I nearly killed her on my bike.
The adrenaline raged, but Martini tempted a devil. A night with me might have buried either my cock or a sharpened blade too deep in her to rescue either of us.
I swore. I brought her to the hotel to keep her safe, not threaten her more. But she wasn’t safe here. Not from me. Not from her club. Not from Temple.
What the fuck were they doing so far from home? And what would they do to Martini if they found her?
I had to make sure she stayed whole. I hated doing it, but I needed reconnaissance on Temple. There was only one person I trusted to help me.
The phone weighed heavy in my hand. I dialed from memory.
My brother answered after the fifth ring.
I hardly recognized his voice. Whatever demons he injected in his veins didn’t just steal his sanity—it took his excitement. Once, Keep might have been the first to hop his bike, piss off the strippers at Sorceress, and fuck three of them before he made it home. Now, he sounded as dead and flat as the bruises that stained his arms.
The bruises came from the drugs I scored from Temple. I had to buy and deliver to earn their trust, but handing them off to my recovering addict brother would land me in Hell. I hated myself, but it worked. Keep stayed off my ass long enough for me to arrange the meetings, talk to the men, and convince The Coup I was loyal before I tried to destroy it from the inside out.
“Keep,” I said after my brother forgot to answer.
The confusion didn’t clear easy. “Huh?”
“Keep. It’s me.”
“Thorne?”
I gritted my teeth. “Tristian, it’s fucking me.”
If he recognized his given name, it took him a hell of a long time to answer. Only Rose and Mom ever called him Tristian. His real name was strong enough to sober him up, but thirty-five years of memories, crimes, and heartache hurt more than a cold shower and cup of coffee.
“Brew?”
“Yeah.”
Keep chuckled. First a stoned snort, then the amused grunt of awareness. I swore at him before he lost it all together.
“Christ, man. Are you high?”
“Nice to talk to you too.” Keep groaned. The squeal of bedsprings squeaked over the phone.
I checked the clock. “It’s fucking noon. What the hell are you doing in bed?”
“Jesus Christ. You call me for the first time in three months, and all you do is bitch.”
“Someone should. You using?”
“You really want an answer?” The chip of a bottlecap rolled into a sink. At least it wasn’t a needle. “Christ, Brew. Why are you calling? You’re supposed to be playing dead.”
“You’re supposed to be sober.”
“Yeah, well, since when do us Darnells do what is expected of them?”
“You okay?”
Keep snorted. “You ain’t calling to ask me that.”
“How’
s she?”
Now he really laughed. “Pissed. You haven’t returned our little sister’s calls. She’s freaking out. Thinks something happened to you.”
Rose always was the smart one in the family. “She okay though?”
“Yeah, sure. Little 4.0 suck-up. Dean’s list or some shit.”
It was the first good news I had in months. “Is he treating her okay?”
“Fucking Thorne? Christ. Won’t let her out of his sight, but I don’t think she minds. Finally got her cast off, but something fucked with her neck from the accident. Goes to physical therapy every once in a while, I guess.”
“She’s hurt?”
“Just says it bothers her.”
My stomach detonated. I swallowed the bile and collapsed on the chair.
“Fuck. What do the doctors say?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t fucking know.”
Keep groaned. “Look man, I let Thorne deal with that shit.”
“Well, what are you doing to help her?” I took a breath as my fist started to tremble. “What about her gigs?”
“I don’t go. I watch the videos.”
“Videos?”
“That’s more than you fucking do.”
Keep was just lucky he had most of the country between him and my temper. “You don’t go watch her play?”
My brother’s silence answered the question. Which one of us was the real traitor?
“You’re an asshole.”
“Oh, fuck me,” he said. “You wouldn’t be there either. Not after...”
“After what.”
His voice hollowed. “Brew...I fucking love Rose. I’d take a bullet for her too, don’t think I wouldn’t. But I...I can’t...”
“You can’t what.”
Keep pitched whatever he was drinking into the sink. The glass broke. “I can’t fucking look at her. Every time I see her, I just imagine...I can’t stop thinking...”
“For Christ’s sake.”
“I don’t want to imagine Dad doing that to her.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure she didn’t want to go through it.”
“Shit.”