Tires squealing, Bunny sped off, while Digger leaned halfway out and aimed at the driver’s side tire on the Benz.
“Booyah!” he crowed when he hit his mark. He settled back into his seat, and brushed off the glass shards, noticing the cuts on his hands and the blood blooming on his sleeve.
He’d been fucking shot.
“Where to?” Bunny asked in a high-pitched voice, still speeding like an Indy 500 racer. Her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel twitched. She hadn’t even asked about her mom and dad, so Digger lowered the visor and opened the mirror.
Virginia had her face buried against Walt, who kept his arm protectively around her, but they were unscathed.
Bunny peeled left onto the main road, toward the interstate.
“Bunny?”
“I’m okay.” She clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline and tore down the road, straight past a stop light. A series of horns blew. “I’m fine. We survived, so I’m okay.”
“Bunny, listen to me,” Digger said firmly. “You’re going to get us fucking stopped by a cop, so pull over. Let me drive.”
In response, she swerved onto a side street without warning and slammed to a stop, breathing hard.
“Keep your foot on the brake. If you move from the pedal, we’ll strip the gears while I’m shifting,” he said as calmly as possible, sliding the gear into park as he spoke. “Let’s switch seats.”
She didn’t move.
“You’ve been doing so good,” he crooned. “Don’t fall apart on me now. It won’t take them long to get a roadside service and have their shot-out tire changed. We have to go.”
“Albany!” Walt called, and Bunny flinched.
Talking to her wasn’t working, so Digger got out of the car. Ignoring the ache in his arm and the glass falling to the ground, he stalked to the driver’s door and opened it. “Get the fuck out of the fucking car, Bunny. Get in the fucking back seat. We have to fucking go.”
“Where’d the bullet go?” she asked, dazed. “It could’ve hit you or Mom or Dad and then you’d be dead just like Outlaw’s sisters and nieces.”
He crouched down and touched her thigh since she refused to look at him. “You could’ve gotten shot too, girl. But that didn’t happen. We made it through. You drove your ass off and got us the fuck out of there. I’m so fucking glad you did. If I would’ve been driving, it would’ve been hard to fucking shoot that fucking tire out.” It would’ve been fucking impossible, actually. His fingers skimmed up, along the curve of her waist. “We have to get your folks to this old colleague of Father Wilkins, then get the fuck out of town.”
“In-in this car?”
He nodded and her face fell. “You don’t like cars?”
“Bikes are faster.”
“Fuck, yeah, and I wish I had a bike, but I don’t, so we have to take what we can get. But we need to fucking get, so I can take.”
She frowned at him. “You’re weird.”
“And you’re pretty.”
“I’m scared.”
He caressed her cheek, then settled his hand behind her neck and pulled her forward to kiss her forehead. “You got a right to be, but you brave, too.”
She turned her body to him, settling her feet on the ground. Instead of moving, she touched his lips, his jaw and, finally, his hair.
Walt cleared his throat and Bunny flushed, pulling her hand away.
Digger didn’t appreciate the man’s interruption. Her fingers had been so soft, almost unsure, as if she’d tired of fighting their attraction but still hadn’t convinced herself completely.
Adjusting his hard cock, he got to his feet, careful to keep his back to her mom and dad. “Passenger side is full of glass. Sit in the back with your parents.”
Once the switch occurred and Bunny sat next to Virginia, Digger started off again, the bullet wound more of a nuisance than actual pain. Odd. He sure the fuck didn’t see a bullet anywhere, which meant the shit must still be lodged in his body.
Keeping his right arm at his side, he used his left hand to maneuver the car in the direction Walt instructed.
The drive to the priest’s house took almost six fucking hours, heading in the opposite direction from the way Digger needed to go and into New Mexico. Albuquerque to be exact.
Father Struthers was waiting for their arrival. Before Digger had a chance to exit the car, the man had opened the door to his house, located directly across the street from a huge cathedral. He didn’t appear as old or as uptight as Wilkins, a plus in Digger’s eyes.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he greeted, walking down the three steps to meet them at the driveway. “Marion gave a very good description of you,” he added, nodding to Digger, who stood near the bumper now.
“Who the fuck’s Marion?”
Struthers lifted a brow. “Father Wilkins,” he clarified in surprise as if Digger should know. He turned to Walt and held out his hand. “And you must be Marion’s brother.”
Virginia straightened. “Walt doesn’t—”
“I am,” Walt interrupted, offering a shit-eating grin to Struthers and then to Digger. So that was the line Wilkins had used to gain them a temporary sanctuary with Father Struthers. He’d claimed to be Walt’s brother.
“You’ve been shot!” Bunny screeched, grabbing Digger’s arm. Pain shot through him. “You drove all this way with a bullet wound?”
“Chill, baby,” he said, pretending Bunny touching the wound didn’t hurt like fuck. “It’s cool. I’m going to look at it soon, then clean out the car, so we can get back on the road.”
“Young lady, why don’t you go inside and find some medical supplies. I’d like a word with Mr. Banks. I have money for you,” he said, the moment they were alone, “and orders to ditch the car. A bike was delivered earlier. If you’re up to it, we’ll take care of your arm, then get you on the road. Marion requested that you consider leaving Bunny with me and her parents.”
“It has to be her choice. If she wants to come with me, I’m not forcing her to stay.” He wouldn’t even bring it up. He’d already asked her and she’d made the decision. If he kept going at her with the same shit, she might change her mind.
Struthers left it at that. Efficient and connected, the priest called someone in to see to Digger’s wound. Within an hour, the bullet was dug out and he was stitched up. They’d been fed and Walt and Virginia had been shown to their bedroom.
While Bunny showered, Digger brought Walt’s car to a chop shop. Not that the motherfucker knew, but it couldn’t be helped. Whoever had been in that Mercedes had probably gotten the license plate from Walt’s vehicle and identified Walt’s address.
Not shocking his father would think to do that. What was shocking to Digger was the shit Father Wilkins had thought of. More money, a map of a route back to Hortensia on lesser known roads, and, most importantly, one of the most beautiful Harleys Digger had ever seen, all royal blue enamel and gleaming chrome.
Looking at it reminded him how much he missed his bike. Digger had patched in a few weeks after his twentieth birthday, and a fucking Harley had been his gift, supposedly from Mort, Outlaw, K-P, and Big Joe, but since Mort and Outlaw didn’t have a lot at that time, Digger knew it had been from the two older bikers.
He’d fucking loved it. He’d already learned to ride, so once he had his own hog, he’d hit the fucking road as often as possible, loving the freedom of the open spaces.
“I don’t know how I’ll get this back,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” the priest returned with a shrug.
“Father Wilkins bought this for me?”
Struthers widened his eyes. “No. Outlaw did.”
He was crying. No, he was motherfucking screaming because he’d lost his fucking mind. Identifying child murder victims did that to a fuckhead.
All the things he should’ve and could’ve done were useless, because it was too late. The only reason Zoann and Ophelia hadn’t been killed was because they’d been on-premises, as h
e’d asked. The others had refused his request.
Christopher should’ve insisted, but he hadn’t been in any condition to do so. Just like he was in no condition to do any-fucking-thing right now, except drink and sob and destroy his fucking bedroom.
And destroyed it he had.
Bleary-eyed, he staggered through the broken glass of the flower vases Megan kept on each bedside table, and sat on the edge of the bed. He’d never, for as long as he lived, forget the fucking medical examiner opening that curtain and asking if the small body belonged to Sasha, followed by Tammy, and then Michelle.
All before, he’d never kept their names straight. Sasha had been friendly, always calling him Uncle Chris, so he never forgot her name. He hadn’t paid much attention to his other two nieces.
In death, he’d remember all of them, as he never had during their lives. As for his sisters, Avery, Bev, and Nia, they’d stopped giving a shit about him years ago, so he’d returned the favor.
But he’d never wanted them dead. Murdered.
He’d beefed up security on Megan’s hospital floor, the best he could do until her doctor released her. Osti was fucking dead. Supposedly, Sharper was, too, but Christopher couldn’t be certain about the last, so he wouldn’t take any chances until he somehow verified that motherfucker’s death. Preliminary reports aside, firm DNA still hadn’t been obtained.
Despite what every-fucking-body told him, shit just didn’t fucking add up right. Just like with whiny-ass Dinah. He squinted. Where the fuck had he put her fucking phone? He needed to check it, see if she’d somehow contacted Sharper or Osti and gave away Digger and Bunny’s location. Who else would know except a bitch who blended into the shadows and heard everything? No, what the fuck was he thinking? The fucking phone wasn’t fucking important. He was probably barking up the wrong fucking alley, thinking Dinah had some-fucking-how connected with Sharper.
Sharper…
Assfuck was smarter than Christopher after all. The motherfucker knew exactly what the fuck to do to bring him to his fucking knees. Shoot Megan to fuck with his head, so Christopher couldn’t focus on fuck all, and then fucking kill children related to him to finish the head-fucking job.
On top of every-fucking-thing, he had the Digger situation to contend with. The brothers still wanted Digger’s ass. Fine with Christopher since he still intended to fuck Digger up. But the motherfucker reaching out to Wilcunt couple with the deaths of his sisters and nieces changed his mind about killing him. Besides, Digger had Bunny.
Christopher suspected she stayed so CJ could be returned, although he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t fucking sure of anything nowadays. Except he didn’t want any more civilians killed. While Digger wasn’t innocent, Bunny was. Once he’d thought about it, he’d called Wilcunt back and found out where the little motherfucker had sent them, then he’d contacted the president of a Dweller chapter in Albuquerque and set shit in motion.
The door knob jiggled and Christopher scowled. All those motherfuckers had already paraded in front of him, begging him to come down, swearing the deaths of his sisters and nieces wasn’t his fault.
“Get the fuck away from my fuckin’ door,” he roared.
Instead, it swung open and he shot to his feet, intending to blast whoever used a goddamn key to invade his space.
“Megan?” he whispered, wondering if Herb and Al fucked with him a little more. He hadn’t seen her in two and a half days, too ashamed to face her. He swayed, hurrying to her when she started tipping through the mess he’d made. “Why the fuck you home, baby?”
“I checked myself out, Christopher,” she said quietly.
“You shouldna fuckin—”
She lifted herself up to kiss him. Automatically, he bent to make his mouth accessible. “It’s done. You need me here with you.”
He swayed again and she circled her arms around his waist, attempting to move him.
“No, don’t fuckin’ strain yourself,” he said, allowing her to guide him back to the bed and sitting when she pushed on his chest.
She stepped between the ‘v’ of his thighs and thumbed at his wet jaw, rough with stubble. But he was so full of alcohol and marijuana, he couldn’t remember. She had no place in his head right now, not while so much blood and death filled it.
“They were lil’ fuckin’ kids,” he whispered, needing her comfort. With Megan, he didn’t have to say anything at all. She’d know what bothered him. “Sasha ain’t got to her eighth fuckin’ birthday. Tammy just turned eleven. I never knew that. Did you?”
“No,” she whispered, gliding her fingers through his hair and cradling his head against her.
“Michelle was gonna be twelve. They ain’t ever goin’ on a fuckin’ date. They ain’t never gettin’ married or graduatin’…I don’t fuckin’ hurt kids. They were fuckin’ kids!” he repeated.
“I know,” she said, stroking his nape but not commenting on his yelling at her.
“We fucked up that motherfucker. We got him in the fuckin’ meat shack.”
She cleared her throat. “He’s still there?”
Christopher shrugged, unsure of what Mort had done to Osti’s body. He hoped like fuck he hadn’t gotten rid of that motherfucker yet.
“You need to clean-up,” Megan told him, her voice still soft and soothing.
“You need to lay the fuck down, baby,” he countered. “I ain’t able to watch over you like I should right now, so get in fuckin’ bed and rest.”
She glanced behind him and scrunched her nose. “The bed is strewn with glass, flowers, and water. I have nowhere to lay. I’m in pain and I’m tired, but I promise I’ll keep. Let me take care of you. You’re hurting.”
Standing up forced her backward, but he caught her arm so she wouldn’t fall. He stared at her, attempting to count how many days had gone by since she’d been shot.
She knew him, knew what kind of comfort he needed right now, and through his jeans, gripped his suddenly hard dick, squeezing. “I don’t want to end up back in the hospital with too much vigorous exertion, so I think it’ll work better in a bath. Okay?”
“Yeah, baby,” he said tiredly.
She pointed behind her. “Now, sit. I have to call Roxy and ask her to help me.” She moved away and walked around the room. “How much did you drink?”
A quart. A fifth. Who the fuck knew? Enough to give him alcoholic poisoning.
“You don’t get wasted so easily,” she said, “so I know it was a lot. You need food to soak up some of that.”
A series of beeps drummed through his head as she dialed and asked Roxy to come upstairs to help clean up the room, requesting a plate of food, as well.
“Will you eat what I give you?” she asked, once she’d disconnected the call.
“I’ll eat your pussy. I ain’t fuckin’ hungry for food.”
Megan smiled, removed the hairband she had around her wrist and twisted her hair up, securing it with the purple-colored elasticized material. Fatigue ringed her eyes.
He swayed again and crooked his finger at her.
“What?” she asked, even as she walked to him.
“Get the fuck in bed.”
“No.”
Before he could respond the door opened and Zoann walked in, gasping as she took in the fucked-up room. He hadn’t even thought of how Zoann must feel about him now that he’d gotten their entire family wiped out and after they’d come so fucking far and made up.
As if protecting him, Megan stepped in front of him, although he could clearly see over her head. The side of Bitsy’s face and her mouth was bruised and her eyes were swollen from all the crying she’d been doing.
Staring at him, Zoann bit on her lip, before offering him an encouraging smile. “I came to check on you, Christy.”
“Zoann,” he began. “I fuckin’ ain’t ever meant…”
She held up her hand. “It isn’t your fault. You offered them your protection. They declined,” she finished, on a sob.
“I shoulda made them.”
Megan snorted.
“You couldn’t make them,” Zoann insisted. “The whole fucking MC had been shot up. You couldn’t worry about them because they wouldn’t listen to you.”
“We was still fuckin’ family.”
“Yes, Christopher,” Megan inserted, “but they chose not to act like it, so you can’t blame their deaths on you.”
“Meggie’s right.”
“Them bitches probably blamin’ my fuckin’ ass and campaignin’ to fuckin’ Satan to fuck me up.”
“Only a psycho say shit like that.” Walking into the room, Val glanced around and whistled. “Can I fuck up our shit like this without you getting mad, Zoann?”
“Omigod, get out,” Megan ordered. “This isn’t a joke.”
“Asshole,” Zoann said, pinching Val and making him yelp. She started toward Christopher, but paused and looked at Megan. His wife shifted slightly, allowing his sister to reach him and wrap her arms around him. “I love you, Christy,” she whispered on a sniffle. “We’ll get through this like we have everything else. You’ll get us through. Just rest now.”
Roxy carried in a tray as Zoann and Val left. “Lawd, Jesus Christ, what the fuck you did, Outlaw?”
Sitting down again, he scrubbed at his face. “Fell the fuck apart, like the pussified bitch my ass be.”
Roxy sat the tray on the sofa since the table lay on its side. “More like fell the fuck apart like the drunk motherfucker you are.”
He scowled at her while she closed the distance and bent to observe his eyes.
“Like the drunken, high motherfucker you are.”
“Christopher, I think we need to go to a guestroom,” Megan said. “It’s going to take a while to clean everything up and you really need some peace and quiet.”
“You fuckin’ think? What the fuck I need is pussy from you. I need to know you fuckin’ here with me.”
“Just come with me,” she said. “I swear I’ll take care of you.”
“Fuck, baby, you need some-fuckin’ body takin’ care of you.”
“She’s looking at him, Outlaw,” Roxy said, righting the table.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 259