HANDS OFF MY WOMAN: Padre Knights MC

by Claire St. Rose

  Walking away from Drew, I crossed the yard and soon found myself at the front door. Figuring this wasn't a situation that called on me to stand on ceremony, I reached out and turned the knob without knocking. Not surprisingly, it wasn't locked.

  Letting the door swing inward, I crossed the threshold and immediately regretted it. The stench was overpowering. I hadn't been around many rotting corpses in my time – none really, to be honest – but I would have bet my life that the horrid odor filling the house was exactly that.

  Putting a hand over my mouth, I continued farther into the house. It was dimly lit, gloomy even. And the interior was as dirty and trashed as the exterior. The fabric on the couches in the living room was covered in stains and tears. Empty beer bottles and cans littered the floors, and there were holes in the walls all over the place. I had no doubt that once upon a time, this had been a fine home. A nice home. But once the Incas got hold of it, just like everything else they touched, it had turned to shit.

  As I walked farther into the house, the stench got worse. When I turned into the kitchen, I found Dawkins and fought to keep myself from gagging. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered to myself.

  Dawkins had been propped up in a chair at a scarred and nicked wooden table. His head was thrown back, the expression on his face haunting, for it was one of terror and pain. He'd been cut up. Tortured. One of his eyes had been put out. His arms were on the table in front of him, but ended in stumps – his hands, of course, had been hacked off, boxed up, and sent to the cops. And there was blood everywhere. Pooled on the table, on the floor around his feet – there was so much splash and spray, it looked like the Incas had been throwing a painting party.

  I was no crime scene or forensic expert, but I didn't need to be to know that the large, ragged gash across his throat was what ended Dawkins' life.

  “I'm sorry, man,” I said to the corpse. “This is all my fault. I never should have – ”

  I cut myself off and stood in silence, staring at the lifeless body of my friend, my brother. The wave of guilt that washed over me seemed as deep as it was endless. I suddenly regretted ever climbing into bed with a bunch of shitbags like the Incas. I'd let my desire to get out of the life cloud my better judgment. I'd let the illusion of quick and easy money make me careless. Sloppy. Stupid.

  Mixed in with the guilt, a fire ignited in my belly. The hatred I felt for the Incas – and for El Segador, in particular – was as deep and abiding as the guilt I felt over the death of Dawkins. I wanted vengeance. Justice. For Dawkins. He deserved it. I owed it to him.

  I looked into his dull, lifeless eyes and only felt that pit of hatred within me grow ever deeper.

  “We're going to get them, man,” I said. “We're going to make sure they pay for this. I swear to you that these assholes are going down.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  ABBIE

  When King came back, he was agitated. More than agitated, really. He was downright pissed. He looked at me and I saw the rage in his face. His entire body was tense, his jaw clenched, and he had murder in his eyes. Granted, I hadn't known him all that long, but I'd never seen him in such a state before.

  The dark look of rage on his face was unnerving and though I knew it wasn't directed at me, it still terrified me. And judging by the expressions on the faces of his men, it terrified them, too – though, they were doing a much better job of hiding it than I was.

  Though I was still pissed about getting stuck with a pair of babysitters, after seeing the state King was in, I scared and I wanted to talk to him. See if I could calm him down. Something. I grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him into the living room while his men gathered in my kitchen, speaking in hushed tones. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He looked at me with eyes that were full of anger but also…sorrow. “No, Abbie, I'm not,” he said. “I'm pretty fucking far from okay right now.”

  I wanted to wrap my arms around him, pull him close and try to comfort him. But with his men in the other room, not to mention the tense set of his body, I didn't think King was in the mood for affection and would probably rebuff my attempts. So instead, I settled for taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “What happened, King?” I asked. “I can tell by the look on your face that whatever it is, it's not good.”

  “No, it's not good,” he said, his voice soft. “I screwed up big time.”

  “I don't know about that,” I said. “But I can tell whatever happened out there was terrible.”

  I could have sworn I saw tears shimmering in his eyes when he looked at me. But like a mirage in the desert, it was there one moment, gone the next. King was somebody who had firm control over his emotions. He rarely let himself get out of control and always had a tight grip on himself. So, to see even a momentary slip of that mask was more than a little concerning to me. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, shaking his head. “Nothing I want to talk about right now.”

  I looked at him, imploring him with my eyes. “King, talk to me,” I said. “You can tell me anything. Let me help you. I'm here for you,.”

  He looked at me and I thought he might open up, but I watched the curtain descend over his face as he shut down on me. King was back in firm control of himself again and there was no way he was going to talk if he didn't want to. And judging by the look on his face, he most certainly didn't want to. He put his hand on my cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “I appreciate that, Abbie,” he said. “And I will talk to you. But not right now. Right now, I need to talk to the guys. We have some things to discuss and a game plan to work out.”

  “But, King – ”

  He shook his head again. “I really appreciate what you're trying to do, Abbie,” he said. “I really do. And I appreciate the hell out of the fact that you're here for me. There will be a time when I want to sit down and tell you everything. There is going to be a time when I need you to comfort me. But now is not that time.”

  His voice was firm, but gentle when he spoke with me. That was his way of letting me know that whatever was upsetting him had nothing to do with me. I wanted to press him, wanted to get him to sit down and open up with me. But I knew doing that when he was as agitated as he was already would only blow up in my face. King wasn't going to talk to me until he was ready to talk to me and there was nothing I could do about it.

  “Okay,” I said softly. “Go do your thing. I'll be here when you're ready to talk.”

  He took my hand in his and gently squeezed it. “I don't want to make you feel bad,” he said. “Or hurt you in any way, shape, or form. I hope you know that. This is just – club business. And that kind of shit is the last thing I want to mix you up in. I want to keep you as insulated from that as possible.”

  I gave him a rueful smile. “It's a little late for that, don't you think?” I asked. “I mean, you're the leader of this club. And given the nature of our relationship – ”

  He nodded. “I know,” he said. “It sounds as ridiculous and hypocritical as hell. But there are some things about this life I'd rather you not see or get involved in. For your own good.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  The ghost of a smile touched his lips as he leaned down and planted a soft kiss on my cheek. Looking me in the eye for a long moment, King nodded and turned away, stepping into the kitchen with his men. They huddled close together and spoke in hushed tones to keep me from overhearing. But I could hear the occasional word like “death,” and “revenge” – not to mention the copious flinging of he word “asshole” and various other curse words – in their conversation now and then.

  Sighing, I dropped down onto my couch and tried to distract myself by playing games on my phone. I had a number of Words with Friends games going at the same time, so I tried to lose myself in them for a while. I understood King was trying to protect me, which I thought was sweet – old fashioned, but sweet. And I did appreciate it. But by the same token, it pissed me off. I was a big girl and knew the risks I was t
aking by getting involved with him in the first place. Or, at least, some of the risks.

  “Calm down, Abbie,” I muttered to myself. “You probably don't want to know.”

  But that was the thing: I did want to know. I wanted to know what sort of threat he was facing. What sort of danger he was in. I wanted to be there for King, I wanted to help him in whatever way I could. I just wanted to make sure he was safe, that he was going to be okay.

  But I couldn't force my way in. It was “club business,” and since I wasn't actually part of the club, I couldn't just squeeze my way in and throw my two cents into the pot. King had made that abundantly clear to me. I only wanted to help, though. I wished he could understand that. Or maybe he did and his instinct was simply to protect me. Hell if I knew. All I knew was that I felt like I was being kept on the outside with nothing but questions running through my mind.

  I was tempted to go into the kitchen and listen in anyway. After all, it was my house, right? But then I thought better of it. Something had all of the men upset and my house or not, my presence likely wasn't going to very welcome.

  I looked down at my phone, scrolling through Facebook as I tried to keep my mind occupied, tried to quiet all of the questions I wanted to give voice to. It didn't prove to be much of a distraction, though. There are only so many banal, self-aggrandizing, or fishing for compliment sort of posts you could read before you wanted to tear your hair out.

  I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes, deciding to try and meditate or something until their little meeting was over. But the phone buzzed in my hand and when I looked down, I saw a text message from a number I didn't recognize.

  Don't call attention to yourself or this message or the consequences will be dire, it read.

  I read the words a second time, still not sure what to make of it. Part of me thought it was a joke, or, perhaps, somebody texting the wrong number. It happened from time to time. I thought for a moment and then keyed in a response.

  Not sure who you're trying to reach?

  This message is for you, Abbie, came the reply a moment later. We are watching. Do not draw attention to yourself.

  A knot formed in my stomach, twisting painfully. I glanced at the kitchen and saw King and his men still engaged in an animated conversation. Turning slowly, I looked out the window to the parking lot below but saw nobody. They were watching? I looked around the living room, suddenly realizing that if they could see me, whoever it was, had probably put cameras in my house. But how? Why? What in the hell was going on?

  The greasy, ominous finger of dread slid up my spine and made me shiver.

  Who are you? I took a breath before sending the message.

  The response that came back chilled me to the bone. The knot in my belly twisted so hard and so painfully, I thought I might black out. It was a picture of Michelle. She was tied to a chair and gagged. There was a blindfold across her eyes, and a small trickle of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. Her blouse was torn, her hair was a mess, and she looked like she'd been roughed up.

  It wasn't Michelle's appearance that drew most of my attention, though. As bad as it was, what was standing behind her was worse. It was two large men wearing ski masks that showed only their eyes – and in their hands were wicked looking machetes. In the picture, they loomed over Michelle, the edges of those machetes hovering dangerously close to her neck. The threat was more than clear.

  Who are you? What do you want? I sent the message back quickly.

  The message that came back baffled me for a second. It was an address. But the message that followed it made it all clear.

  Do not tell King or his men, it read. Come alone to this address or she dies. You have thirty minutes. Hurry up. Michelle's life depends on you.

  I dropped the phone in my lap, feeling tears burning my eyes, my thoughts a jumbled mess. In my belly was a potent mix of terror and rage. Who were these assholes? What did they want? Why did they have Michelle? I was a nobody. I didn't have a lot of money.

  But then I realized the obvious – they knew who King was. And didn't want him involved. Which meant whoever was holding Michelle was trying to use me to get at King for something. I looked at the men huddled in my kitchen again and wondered if their meeting, and the anger on all of their faces, had anything to do with Michelle's abduction and the messages I'd just received.

  Part of me wanted to tell them. Wanted to make them go rescue my friend. But if whoever the abductors were had cameras in my apartment, they would see me doing it. I was trapped in my own home. I quickly glanced at the time on my phone and saw it was ticking away. Michelle didn't have much longer to live if I didn't get to the address I was given.

  With my stomach cramping out of sheer terror, I knew I was Michelle's only hope. If I didn't save her, nobody was going to be able to. I had no choice. I had to go. I had to find her and do whatever I could to save her. I hoped it wasn't going to cost me my life, but if it did, I only had myself to blame. Michelle was an innocent and got caught up in something bad – probably the very thing King was going to great lengths to shield me from.

  But how was I going to get out? King and his men would see me if I tried to leave through the front door. See me and then stop me. I had to get out but I had no idea how to do it. As I looked at the front door and then at the men in my kitchen, panic began to set in. How in the hell was I going to get out of my house?

  I looked at my phone and saw another minute had slipped away. My heart was racing and my hands were trembling. I needed to get out of the house. Michelle's life depended on it. I stood up as casually as I could and paced the living room, surreptitiously grabbing my keys and stuffing them into my pocket. Maybe if I just bolted out the door, I'd get to my car before King and his guys even realized what was going on. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had – the only shot Michelle had.

  I tensed my muscles, getting read to make a dash for it when something outside exploded. My windows rattled in their frames and through the window, I could see a bright orange fireball racing toward the sky followed by a thick plume of black smoke. Obviously, somebody had already formulated an exit strategy for me – by blowing up two of the motorcycles outside.

  And it was apparently working. King and his men were at the window in my living room in a heartbeat. Duke, El, and Drew rushed out the front door and I listened to their heavy bootsteps descending the stairs from my apartment. King looked at me, the rage and concern still in his eyes – though it appeared the rage was beginning to take over.

  “What in the hell is going on, King?” I asked, trying to appear as normal as possible.

  “Stay here, Abbie,” he said. “Don't leave the apartment and don't let anybody in. Lock the door behind me. Got me?”

  “Yeah, got it,” I said.

  He nodded and then rushed out of my apartment, rushing down the stairs to join his men in the parking lot. I hurried to the door, closed and locked it. When they returned, it would take a few minutes for them to get through the door. By then, I was hoping to be long gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  KING

  In that first moment, I felt the entire building shake and heard the windows rattling. In the next, I heard the sound of the explosion as it rocked Abbie's apartment building.

  “What the fuck was that?” Drew asked.

  Without stopping to respond, I dashed out of the kitchen and got to the window in the living room just in time to see the fireball rising into the sky and the thick column of pitch-black smoke that followed it upward. “Son of a bitch,” I growled. “Our bikes.”

  El, Duke, and Drew were out the front door before I'd even turned away from the window. When I did finally turn away, I found Abbie standing there, between me and the doorway. Her eyes were wide and it looked like she'd been crying. She was terrified. And rightly so. Somebody had just blown up our bikes in her goddamn parking lot.

  “What in the hell is going on, King?” she asked, fear twisting her features.r />
  “Stay here, Abbie,” I said. “Don't leave the apartment and don't let anybody in. Lock the door behind me. Got me?”

  She looked at me a long moment, seeming like she had something to say. Whatever it was, though, she seemed to realize now was not the time and bit it back. Instead, she just looked at me. “Yeah, got it,” she said.

  I nodded and turned away from her, bounding down the stairs. I heard her shut and lock the door behind me. I just hoped it was going to be enough. Instinctively, I knew this was the work of El Segador and the Incas. But I had no idea what game they were playing. I had no idea what they were doing. Why blow up our bikes? Unless it was to send a message.

  “But what is the fuckin' message?” I grumbled under my breath.