Fallen (Redemption Reigns MC Book 3)

by Juli Valenti

  “Where’s the acid tripper?” Fallen asked Shakespeare.

  “Outside with Craze. Blabberin’ about the many problems with SL and how all their dead deserved to be that way.”

  “Bring him in,” he demanded, swallowing and turning his face to meet his VP’s. “Please.”

  The other man hesitated for only a moment before nodding and hollering out the door. Seconds later, the hippie biker and Craze entered the room, making the already small space seem even smaller than it was. Between the four of them, Staple, the hippie, three more on the couch, and two seated at the bar, it was downright past capacity.

  “Need to make this right,” Fallen stated, pacing a three foot by three foot pathway on the carpet, kicking aside discarded beer cans. “Your club, despite most of them ... relocating ... attacked both of ours. Not only Hells Redemption, but also Bishops Reign. And, it wasn’t only once, it was twice. And both times, it was our women that suffered the brunt of the damage.

  “Your men threw down on three women – two wives, one wing – in a fucking restaurant. Luckily my Sarah refused to cower like she would once have against that little shit dead on your floor. You lost how many – six? – that day?”

  Staple swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the ground before meeting Fallen’s once more. “Seven. One from our chapter, two prospects, and four from one of our sister chapters.”

  Fallen nodded. “So our women took out seven men who thought it was a good idea to draw against them. Innocent women – they aren’t like Artist here.” He threw his head to the side, though didn’t let his eyes leave the other biker. “They do as they’re asked, but they aren’t us. They aren’t like any of us. Yet, Static Law still thought that was a good fucking idea.

  “And today, our presidents, the presidents of both clubs, have a beautiful fucking fairy tale wedding and y’all thought it was a good idea to make it into the shootout at the O.K. Corral? Why? Because some guido fucker decided it was a thought-out plan?”

  “I don’t know the details – I wasn’t included in that vote at Chapel. This all went down and by the time the rest of us found out, none of us approved it, but that didn’t mean shit. We weren’t officers, our votes didn’t fucking matter.”

  Fallen bobbed his head. “Fine. There’s only two options I can see for y’all to get out of this alive and they’re the only ones you’ll get. Well, three. Three choices.”

  “And they are?” Staple asked, his gaze moving between Fallen, Shakespeare, and Craze. When his eyes got to Artist, he inclined his head slightly.

  “First choice is in a fucking body bag. I will, personally, take out each and every one of you motherfuckers and sleep just well tonight. Hell, I’ll sleep well every night for forever ... one less stupid fucking club interrupting my life.

  “Second? You take those wanna-be club cuts off and throw them on the ground. After that, you will each ask, nicely, to prospect for either Hells Redemption or Bishops Reign. And you won’t ask me – you see, I personally really want you to pick door number one. No, you’ll ask Shakespeare, the VP of HR, or Craze, the SIA of BR. Only they’ll say yes or no.”

  “And if they say no?”

  “Ding ding!” Fallen exclaimed, his lips pulling into what he knew was an unpleasant grin. “Then we’ll get to go with the first option!”

  “You said there’s a third choice?” a voice came from behind, and Fallen turned to look at the biker in question. He was a smaller man, probably no more than five-six or five-seven, with very little meat on his bones. It was almost comical – he’d be crushed if Staple barely even hit him.

  “Yes, yes I did,” Fallen said, rubbing his forehead with the tip of his gun, scratching at his hairline. “Third choice? Well, we’ll forcibly take your cut, count to five, and let you run. You run fast enough, smart enough, and never come back – you’ll get to live. But you take nothing with you. No motorcycles, no belongings, nothing. And, if you’re too slow, or too stupid, you’ll die. Still a win for me, though, now that I’m thinking about it, it seems like a lot of work. I could totally be okay with just two options...”

  “Fallen...” Shakespeare said warningly and the Sergeant nodded.

  “Okay, okay. Now choose.”

  The group remained standing, weapons still at the ready. As far as Fallen was concerned, there was no such thing as Static Law anymore. Maybe another state, somewhere else in the United States, but not in New Mexico. And if any of the other SL chapters decided it was a fun time to visit the Land of Enchantment, they’d soon find out they were now KOS in his eyes. The fact that the club ruined his president’s wedding would guarantee her support on the order as well.

  At first, no one moved. None of the SL bikers spoke or barely even breathed. The room was absolutely silent – no shuffling of bodies, nothing. It was almost deafening, the complete lack of noise, as the bikers in front of him thought long and hard about their futures. Not that any of the options were something they thought they would have to choose from when they’d woken up that morning.

  Staple was the first to step up, so to speak. He took a step forward, ignoring the guns moving to point directly at him. Raising his hands slowly, he gripped the sides of his leather cut and slipped it off his back. Without looking at it, he dropped it on the ground at Fallen’s feet, the worn material clashing against his now-scuffed dress shoes. Slow steps led him in front of Shakespeare, and he met the man’s cold gaze with his own, unflinchingly.

  “May I prospect for Hells Redemption,” the large man asked, before swallowing and adding, “please.”

  “Why?” This time it was the VP’s turn to become monosyllabic. His eyebrows were arched in question, and his gun lowered only slightly.

  “Anyone with someone as crazy as that bastard,” he said, pointing to Fallen, “and who has good reason to be, is someone I’d rather align with than stand against.”

  Shakespeare nodded and inclined his head to the side. “Start outside – get rid of them.”

  Again, Staple didn’t flinch. He merely nodded and went to the front door, stepping over the bodies and starting his work. If he could stay that way, there was a good chance he’d make it into the club.

  The hippie, who was appropriately handled “Acid,” followed, repeating the same action, though requesting to be a part of Bishops Reign. Craze gestured the same as Shakespeare had, and sent him to help. One by one, the others in the small room stood, and, before long, a pile of black leather lay in a forgotten heap at Fallen’s feet. They were as useless as the club they’d stood for, and would never be worn in his region again. He’d be sure of it.

  “Listen up,” Fallen called as he stepped back outside with the rest of the men, the now-prospects of both HR and BR. “I want all weapons gathered into a pile, there.” He pointed to a small clearing. “All bikes, I want pulled off to the side, lined up, as best you can. Leave the keys in them, but not running. All waste is to be disposed of before morning – I don’t give a fuck if it takes all night, every last minute of this day, before dawn. Understand?”

  The group of men nodded, some with looks of apprehension, a very clear “what the fuck did I get myself into?” expression on their faces. Staple and Acid were the exception – they looked up with understanding; they’d prospected more than once, that was for sure.

  “Bring me a bike, prospect,” he added loudly, to no one in particular. The little one, who he was going to dub Mouse, took off sprinting, bringing back a chromed-out, custom Harley Davidson Predator Chopper. It wasn’t his usual style, nothing like the comfort of his Road King, but damn it was a pretty piece of machinery. Mouse must’ve caught the look on his face and chuckled slightly.

  “SL didn’t have a lot of brains ... but they had a lot of money.”

  Fallen grinned at the smaller man. “Make sure to collect it — all of it. Give it to one of the officers. Do you understand?”

  He nodded and Fallen waved him back to his tasks; the tiny biker was going to have to work his ass off to make it
in Redemption, and his testing began now.

  Revving the engine, he waited as Shakespeare, Artist, and Craze approached him. Their expressions were of relaxed caution, of expectation, compassion, and respect. It was how they always regarded him after he flipped his SIA switch and took care of business. If one didn’t know any better, they were afraid of him. At least ... he hoped they knew him better than that. No way would he ever hurt one of his own – they should know that.

  “Heading to Sarah?” Artist asked, already knowing the answer to her question and continuing on. “We’ll stay here until some of the others can get out here. From what I understand, Craze has some prospects coming and ours will be on their way once they tear down what’s left of the reception.”

  “You want a partner?” Shakespeare offered, giving his support where he could – knowing that the ride to the hospital would be long. It would be too much time, too much mind ability to run through scenarios Fallen didn’t want to think about, that he didn’t want to even consider as possibilities.

  And, while a very large part of him wanted to say yes, to allow his VP to ride with him, to keep him company, he shook his head. Allowing that to happen, especially with the new prospects watching, would destroy whatever image they had of him, and would throw him in a weak light. It wasn’t something that could be afforded – he was the Sergeant in Arms for Hells Redemption. He made the tough decisions, took the tough calls, and slept like a baby regardless of what was going on inside his own head.

  “Nah. I’m good. I’ll keep you updated,” he said, throwing back the grip and letting the engine of the Harley roar underneath him. Passing his black SUV, which was in plain view, still where he’d left it, he turned on to the main road, and headed for Greenspan County Hospital.

  Chapter Twenty

  Fallen

  It’d been quite a while since he’d been to that particular hospital, and as he pulled in, easily finding a place to park the loaner Chopper, he couldn’t help but remember.

  The last time, Titan had been shot, and his president remained sitting, holding herself, covered in blood, in the waiting room. As much as he’d respected the woman, would give his life for her, at the time, he’d judged her.

  It was foolish to care about someone so much, he’d thought. No way was it going to be a healthy situation, the only out offered from something like that was death. Add in the fact that the man she was so disheartened and hurting for was the president of a rival club? That was downright fucking stupid.

  Yet, there he was, his heart racing, his breaths coming fast, worry filling his gut to the point of barely functioning. As he’d expected, the ride to the hospital was long. He feared the walking into the lobby, the wait for the doctor. He was afraid she’d be gone, or too far gone, or almost gone, or anything with the word gone in it.

  How much blood had she lost? It had been a lot when he’d helped her into the ambulance. His expensive suit, his hands, the ground, Teagan, and Train had been completely covered in the crimson life-giving liquid. Surely that was more than her small body could hold; Fallen wasn’t even sure how much blood a human was supposed to have in the first place. A few pints? Something like that, but he couldn’t remember.

  In his days, Fallen had caused enough damage to see blood. It wasn’t a rarity, nor was it something that made him squeamish. If he was being truthful, it no longer affected him, one way or the other. For him, it was as common as water - and, with that knowledge, he rarely saw someone lose that much of it, and survive. Of course, he had seen even more, but that was a memory for a different time.

  The image of Sarah, so perfect, laying limp in his arms was a constant and scratched record glimpse in his mind. She’d been so lovely in her dress, in the blue and white, looking like something out of her own fairy tale without even knowing it. And the blood that had soaked through the fabric had turned her into a scene from a gruesome horror movie.

  Fallen covered his eyes with his hands, forcing his knees to lock and keep him upright on the pavement. He tried to expel the sight of her from his thoughts, only to make room for more horrors. The rattle of her lungs as it tried to expand, failing, filling with liquid, and keeping her from breathing. Lips tinting slightly blue, chest heaving with her will, her fight to live, and failing.

  More, the adoring look she’d been giving him before the whole thing. It was an expression she often gave him, whether he was playing or not. One which spoke words never said, of things never given voice just yet. It spoke of emotion: of adoration and of love and devotion. They were all the same things he thought every time he looked at her - yet he’d never had the guts to be completely open about them.

  He’d be lying if he said he didn’t worry about the future. How much was she going to be able to handle? His band? His club? It was a lot, he knew, which was part of the reason he’d always been the way he was. Why he chose to hit it and quit it rather than trying to make relationships with women who didn’t truly want him. They usually saw his guitar and thought it would be cool to have a rockstar as their boyfriend. Or, more, they saw his cut, his Harley, and thought a biker way of life was neat.

  But Sarah, she didn’t seem phased by either. Yet how long could that last? It was one thing to live in a short term, but long term? Neither were easy.

  The band was great - it was one of his greatest joys and truest passions. Music lived in his soul, fueled his body and calmed his mind. When he was playing the rest of the world didn’t seem as bleak. Life was full of hope and joy, with nothing but the grit of rock ‘n roll booming through an amplifier to worry about. Unfortunately, one of the many things that came with it, was drama. Drama from the band - keeping every member satisfied with what was going on, the songs, and keeping agreements.

  Alongside those issues, were the girls that hung around. They were a part of music life, of band life and, while he wasn’t sure if it was that way for everyone in all similar industries, they sure as hell knew of them. They were the girls who wanted the trophy of a musician in their bed. The ones who wanted the hope that someday their man would make it big - that they’d be comfortable with money and not have to worry about anything. That they’d live in the limelight along with their man, or woman he supposed, and get some sort of fame. And, so, they’d throw themselves at band members; from showing their tits or putting money and phone numbers in the tip jar, it was a pretty regular occurrence.

  Most girlfriends couldn’t handle that sort of attention, the jealousy that came along with taking a particular musician off the market. Suddenly they were the focus of rumors and mean, fake people, who wanted what they saw the other had. More, those girls were always looking for someone they considered “better” - a better guitarist, or drummer, or bass player, it didn’t matter. The minute they found someone with more clout they were gone.

  That alone was enough to run most off ... and he had the club as another very large part of him. He’d been in Hells Redemption as long as he could remember. He worked his ass off to get an officer position, to prove his worth and become Sergeant in Arms. He took pleasure in it, joy in the family and brotherhood of the entire institution. But that had a whole other assload of issues.

  Sarah, so innocent and pure, having taken an oath to save lives ... How could she stomach the idea of someone who took them? Sure, she’d gotten a taste of his life at the restaurant, but she’d only done so to protect herself and the others around her. She hadn’t gone out looking for problems or looking for danger. Fallen? He thrived on it. Loved it. Took pleasure in taking care of things some were too chicken shit to manage.

  Did she even realize how bad of a person he was? What would she think if she knew he’d taken out a dozen men today alone, with absolute no second thought nor care about any of them. He didn’t give a fuck if they had families, or their own Sarah at home. The only thing he’d cared about in that moment was making sure none of them could hurt his people. His family. His love.

  When she looked at him, she didn’t look at him like the gun
-toting monster he knew he’d become over the years. She didn’t look at him like a hot piece of ass, or an arm trophy, or a way to ride a motorcycle. Hell, she’d given him shit about Dyna Glide - actually wanting to set up a payment plan to pay for it herself. She wasn’t in a relationship with him for money or status or anything else. It was completely new, and even if it made him the biggest asshole on the planet, he didn’t want to lose that. He wanted her to continue looking at him like the world revolved only around them ... because that’s how he looked at her.

  Fuck, what if she’s gone, he thought, the words in his head like a dagger to his heart. His knees buckled and he allowed himself to drop to the pavement, his head in his hands and his forehead resting on the concrete. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he knew real fear. Not for himself, but for her.

  He didn’t give a fuck if someone drove up and saw him crouched on the pavement, willing the liquid pooling in his eyes to evaporate. His world was crashing around him, and he knew he needed to get his shit together.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced his feet back underneath him. He demanded that they hold his weight, and as he took a step toward the hospital, he gritted his teeth and forced himself forward. Regardless of what they would say, he had to know. He had to find out what was going on and he could only hope his worst fears weren’t coming true.

  The doors to the hospital glided open, revealing the standard cold, sterile environment that was like each one he ever saw. It didn’t matter what town or state he was in, they were all the same. Desolate and sad, clinical and professional. Even when he’d visit Sarah at St. Agnes, the place had never seemed friendly or welcoming. No, they were places that had to exist, that saved lives as a priority, but did nothing for the grieving or the worried. They had no time for that; they couldn’t be expected to. The most they could do was their jobs - keep people alive.

  A far-too-perky nurse greeted him as he neared the front desk and he murmured, “Sarah O’Fallen?”