"Have I mentioned how fucked up you are?"
"Today? No. You're either getting used to me, or I am becoming boring."
"Don't think anyone could call you boring, Peyt," I said, throwing an arm over her shoulder.
She used to just let it happen. Maybe even stiffen up a bit.
But I noticed lately that when I did it, she curled her body in toward me slightly. Once, she even rested her head against my chest. It was a little thing, but intimacy was hard for her. It meant a lot that she'd gotten there with me.
"I'm too jazzed to go home," she told me as we started walking. "Want to walk to She's Bean Around for some coffee?" she suggested, being the kind of person who would actually wake up at two in the morning and get herself a cup of coffee before going back to sleep.
"Sure," I agreed, turning us around to head the other way.
It wasn't exactly a short walk, but I was used to walking the city, and Peyton seemed to have a story associated with every square inch of this town to keep me entertained as we made our way across the sketchy area of Navesink Bank.
We saw nothing.
We heard nothing.
But I sure as fuck felt it when a cold muzzle pressed into the back of my neck.
Don't ask me how I knew.
This was Navesink Bank.
There were criminals of every goddamn sort around.
And I was a Henchmen. Wearing his cut.
There were plenty of organizations who wanted what we had, who were willing to take us out one by one to get it.
But I knew.
The second I felt it, I knew.
"You stupid fuck," I growled, making Peyton stiffen, seeming to sense in my voice that something was really wrong even as my arm pushed her forward, got her further away from him.
"You're the stupid fuck. Taking what was mine."
"Go," I told Peyton, gaze holding hers. I couldn't see what she could, but her blue eyes - she'd stopped wearing the contacts - were strange. I expected panic, fear, uncertainty. But what I found there was more like curiosity, assessment, and maybe even - if I wasn't completely misreading it - anger.
"What a stupid gun."
Yep.
That was my girl's comment.
Not to scream, beg, cry.
Nope.
Criticize the man's gun.
"Tell your bitch to shut her cunt mouth," he demanded, moving in closer.
"Yep, that's me. Miss Cunt-mouth," she agreed. "So, the greasy hair thing. Is that because you don't realize how disgusting you are or..." she went on, making me close my eyes for a long second, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to tell her to shut up.
"Not the time for a conversation on beauty tips, Peyt," I said pointedly.
"It's always the time for beauty tips. I mean leather? Real leather? In this day and age? Disgusting."
I didn't know if she was trying to distract him, confuse him, or both, trying to keep him engaged in her instead of me until someone walked past or something. But it seemed to be working.
The muzzle lessened just enough.
Enough that I could fly around, grabbing the gun and knocking it out of his hand.
I lost sight of Peyton as I fought my old president, finding him about a hundred pounds heavier than I remembered him, harder to push around. And, well, he had batshit crazy on his side in a fight as well. I didn't know what had happened to him, what had driven him mad, but it was right there in his eyes - wild and almost inhuman.
"Fuck," I growled when his fist caught me in the kidney, sending me down on the ground hard, clutching my stomach as the pain rolled through me.
And he was advancing on me, rambling, ranting nearly incoherently about his money, ungrateful bikers, loyalty, and something about the rally not going as planned as he reached back inside his waistband.
I'd gotten the one gun away from him.
But it seemed he came with a backup.
I tried to force my body to get up, to knock him off his feet, to do something.
But just when I saw the glint of metal in the moonlight, there was a bang - loud and unmistakable - and he dropped his gun, hands going to clutch a brand new hole he had in his gut, blood seeping deep red through his shirt, covering his pale hands.
Surprise seeming to bank down the pain, I scrambled up, grabbing his gun on the way as he fell down on his knees.
Keeping the gun aimed at my old president, my gaze went to find Peyton standing there, his gun in her hand down at her side.
And fucking smiling.
"I guess this makes me a ride-or-die bitch, right?" she asked, the gun still smoking in her hand.
Jesus Christ.
This woman.
My free hand ran up the back of my neck.
"Yeah, baby, this makes you a ride-or-die bitch," I agreed, watching as she beamed just a little brighter.
Reaching inside my pocket, I scrolled through my contacts, finding the right number, then hitting send.
"Got a problem, bleeding out from a gunshot wound to the gut," I said to Virgin who must have turned off the TV or something because it got quiet and a few guys grumbled. "Time to bring someone else in. We need some hands. And I need someone to take Peyton," I added, ignoring the look she was giving me. "Yeah, down by Jefferson in the alley between the old cleaner and the old..."
"New Age shop," Peyton supplied, even if she was still scowling at me.
"New Age shop," I relayed.
"Two minutes," I told Peyton, as if she needed the comfort of that.
"Well, if you didn't point your silly gun at my man, you wouldn't be hurting now," she said as my old prez started groaning, rocking a bit.
He wasn't going to make it.
Gut wounds got ugly.
All that nasty shit in the intestines seeped out and gave you a raging infection that killed you before they could even get a solid dose of antibiotics in you.
"Baby," I tried in what I hoped was a soft voice, trying to take her attention off the man bleeding and oozing to death on the ground by her. Right now, she was okay. Great, even. But once the adrenaline wore off, once the reality settled in, this shit was going to come back. The fewer memories she had of watching a man bleeding from a hole she put in him, the better for the processing of these events.
"What?" she asked, looking confused.
"You alright?"
"Am I... oh," she said, snorting. "Right. Because I am a delicate fucking flower," she said, rolling her eyes at me.
"Reading it and doing it are two different things," I insisted even as I heard the rumble of bikes coming from a few streets over.
"I'm fine," she said, convincingly. So either she truly believed it, or she had become a really good liar. "Ah, the cavalry," she said as the bikes got louder, coming to a stop in a line just a few feet away from us.
"The fuck is this?" Reign asked, pissed, clearly. "You alright?" he asked almost in the same breath, looking at Peyton.
I couldn't tell if it was genuinely just him being a good man, or fear of the hell that would rain down on him if something involving us hurt one of the Mallicks. Honestly, it was likely a mix of both.
"Figure we can talk about that when someone ain't painting the street red," Adler added, moving in toward my old president, reaching down, snagging him under the arms, and dragging him up. "Pagan," he called, struggling to hold the much larger man up as they led him toward the SUV.
I moved over toward Peyton, reaching down to try to take the gun.
And I shit you not, even surrounded by a ton of bikers who were looking pissed as fuck, she didn't give in that easy.
"No. It's mine," she objected, pulling it away. "I shot him with it. I get to keep it. Those are the rules."
"Christ, Peyt, those aren't the rules. And you can't keep that," I insisted, fully aware that Reign was moving in closer.
"Babe," he said, getting her attention. "Not saying you can't have it. Saying you can't have it now. If we check it, and it comes back that it's a ghost
, I will personally bring it back to you," he said, holding out his hand.
"See?" Peyton asked as she handed it over. "You could have just explained it that way, Mr. Bossypants.
Oh, fucking hell.
Fuck Baby Bash.
Mr. Bossypants was going to haunt me until I died judging from the smirks the guys were sending in my direction.
"I need to take your man for a while," Reign explained as he tucked the gun in his waistband. "I'll bring him back, but until I do, I need you to stay at the compound."
"And if I don't want to?" she asked, lifting her chin.
"You're staying anyway," he told her bluntly.
"So, essentially, I am being falsely imprisoned," she mused.
"Something like that," he agreed, not sugar coating it. For a short time, whether she liked it or not, she had no control over her life.
And how did this woman react?
She fucking clapped her goddamn hands.
"Who is going to be my jailor?" she asked, looking over at the men sitting on their bikes, waiting for instructions.
"Reeve," he decided instantly, knowing that of all the men, he was the least likely to be swayed by her charm. "Now go hop on with him. We need to get out of here. And you," he said, pinning me in place with his green eyes once Peyton was out of earshot. "You have a lot of fucking explaining to do. Don't mind cleaning up bodies, Sugar. But this keeping things from me shit? This isn't going to fly. Now get the fuck in the SUV, so we can handle this."
There was a routine to this kind of thing, decades of trial and error, of learning new things, of finding the best spots.
We drove several miles outside of town, dragging a mostly unconscious man behind us into the woods on a private piece of property that belonged to some old alcoholic farmer who wouldn't know if an entire herd of buffalo came charging through his living room, let alone a gang of bikers quietly traipsing through his woods.
Pagan and Adler started digging.
"Why bother?" Reign asked when I reached to pull the spare gun out of my waistband.
"Because I don't want her living her life knowing she killed him," I explained simply before putting bullets through his heart and head.
"Alright. Now fucking explain while we're standing here," he demanded.
So I did.
What I knew, anyway.
Which wasn't much.
There were holes in the story, ones that made Reign tense, wondering if there was a chance for someone else to come out of the woodworks down the line.
I didn't think that was going to happen, though.
I think my old president lost his fucking mind.
There was no money.
Or if there was, clearly no one else knew about it, or had already been handled, or else he wouldn't have been coming after us of all people.
"Never fuckin' again," Reign added again as I kicked a layer of leaves and rolled a few fallen tree limbs over the freshly-packed dirt. "You got a problem, you come to me. I don't give a shit if I got ten other ones I'm dealing with. That shit is not going to fly here, got it?"
"Got it," I agreed, nodding.
"Now you have to go do damage control. The last thing I fuckin' need is Charlie and his boys charging into my compound because their girl is traumatized."
Traumatized.
He clearly needed to get to know Peyton a little better.
"Will do," I agreed with a nod.
With that, we made our way back through the woods, me, Pagan, and Adler stopping to wash the blood off in a creek, before heading back toward town.
"Damnit!" Peyton's voice called, making me stop short as I walked in the door.
Because there she was. In the common room. With Reeve and Rey. Playing fucking Scattagories.
Scattagories.
After shooting a man.
"Ugh. You suck," she declared, looking at Reeve. "I never lose at this," she added, small-eyeing him. "Oh, honey, you're home!" she declared in a very nineteen-fifties housewife voice. "How was work? Did you get all the bodies buried?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rey jerk backward at that, looking stricken, making Reeve reach out and touch her hand.
"Figure maybe we should have this talk in my room," I suggested.
"Alright," she agreed, standing. "I demand a rematch. But next time, we play Dirty Scattagories. I know you'll go down in that," she said with a smirk as she fell into step with me. "Where are you going?"
"We both need to shower. And your clothes need to be washed," I added, going through the motions that were as rote to me as they were new to her.
It wasn't until our clothes were in a pile on the floor and we were both naked in the shower, our fronts touching in the small space, that a bit of the front fell.
Her gaze went up to me, eyes a little worried.
"Did I kill him?"
"No," I said immediately, truthfully.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
She nodded a bit at that, accepting it.
"If you hadn't, would I have?"
Too fucking smart for her own good, that was what she was.
"Yes," I told her because there was no reason to lie.
"But you didn't want me to be a killer," she guessed.
"Something like that," I agreed, my arm going around her lower back.
Then she did the damnedest thing.
She moved forward, put her arms around the back of my neck, leaned in, and fucking hugged me.
"Thank you," she said, voice soft. "I mean... I still plan on becoming a verifiable badass. But I'm okay with not having killed anyone. I will keep that for my books."
"Sounds like a plan," I agreed, following the urge that made me want to plant a kiss to the top of her multicolored head.
"I think we're going to be something special," she said.
It was a little comment.
Nothing really, to anyone else.
But for her, for me, for us?
It was the first time she used the term we to mean anything other than just to explain that there was more than one person involved.
It was her accepting us for what we were, for what we would become.
"Yeah, baby, can't disagree with that."
EPILOGUE
Peyton - 2 weeks
It was only a matter of time.
Before they all found out.
I really hadn't even been careful about it.
My car was parked at The Henchmen compound a few nights a week.
I was actually kind of shocked it took everyone this long to figure it out.
But there was no group of angry and concerned men at my door.
The information came as a phone call from Dusty.
"Ryan knows," she said, whispering because Ryan must have been in the apartment. "They're planning on having a talk with you on Sunday."
Then, the next afternoon, it was Helen blowing up my phone, insisting I bring Sugar with me to dinner.
"You'll be fine," I insisted when he seemed to go a little green at the idea.
"Says the one who isn't about to be castrated."
"They're really not that bad," I insisted, lying through my teeth. I imagined they could be exactly that bad if and when they wanted to be. "Besides, there will be all the girls on my side. Believe me, that is a formidable force of women. Helen especially. You'll be fine. And if you're not, you can just eat your feelings. American traditional tonight. All the stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls, sweet potatoes, corn on the cob, and meat you can eat. Literally. She makes enough food for an entire army. Plus dessert." I didn't realize I made a moaning sound until he smiled at me.
"Always thinking with your stomach," he observed, knowing it was true. It was going to catch up with me someday. One day I would wake up and have the kind of metabolism that would make me gain ten pounds for looking at a donut. Until then, though, I was going to enjoy the one that let me stuff my face silly anytime I wanted, and only maybe left me with a teensy bit of padding tha
t I needed to work off here and there.
"What are you doing?" I asked as he went into the closet. We hadn't even discussed it, but we had both moved a few basic items into each other's closets for situations such as these.
"Picking out something to wear," he said, sounding anxious about the prospect.
"What you're wearing is fine," I insisted to his clear insecurity on the matter. I imagined he'd never had a situation where he needed to meet a chick's family before. "All the guys will be in jeans and tees. Once in a while, Helen asks everyone to dress up, but not this week."
"You're in a dress," he pointed out, waving at my black and white checkered flirty 50's halter-top dress.
"I'm always in a dress," I said, shrugging it off. "Besides, this is a casual dress."
"Nothing casual about dresses, Peyt," he said, shaking his head.
"If you want to dress up a bit, go ahead. You have your funeral shirt here," I told him.
Yes, funeral shirt.
The only dressy item of clothing he owned was meant for the funerals of his buddies. That being said, it was a very nice matte black top. He'd worn it once when we had gone to Famiglia with Cy and Reese.
"But not the slacks," I added. "You'll feel too out of place if you go that dressy. Just the black jeans."
And with that, we put on our final touches, grabbed Hannibal so the kids could play with him, and headed out.
I realized in about one-point-two seconds of us walking into the house that while Ryan knew - and told all the others - that I was involved with Sugar, he did not know that I was bringing him to dinner.
One look at Helen said she was enjoying the hell out of the way that all the conversation in the living room stopped suddenly as the men one by one realized who was next to me, his hand at my lower back.
"Well, this is awkward," I said, nodding a little. "You're supposed to be on my side, woman," I declared to Helen.
"I'm on the side of what will be most interesting," she shot back, smirking at me.
"Traitor," I told her. "Alright, so... this is Sugar. Sugar, this is... well, everyone," I said, waving a hand out. "Sugar is expecting castration," I went on when all there was in there room was silence. "I would ask that you leave his..." I trailed off, seeing a few of the kids milling around, "funsicle alone. The rest is fair game."
Sugar (The Henchmen MC Book 12) Page 21