“Momma, I need you to stay inside.”
“I will,” she assured him. “I’ll be waiting in here, ready to call the police.”
He shook his head. “No, you won’t. My guys are coming.”
“Then you should wait in here until they can help,” she retorted. “You’re really going out there alone?”
His smile shot through the dimness of the living room, very white. His eyes shone, and she had a moment of...not fear, but not far from that. For just a split second her brain asked, Who is this man?
“Stay inside, Momma,” he instructed, then stole silently out the back door.
With a sigh, she moved to the kitchen window, but couldn’t see anything between their houses. Then she moved back into the living room, peering around the edge of the curtains. In front of Knuckles’ house four motorcycles were parked, then two more on the opposite side.
Until she saw the bikes, she wasn’t fearful. This was her home, nothing could hurt her here. The bikes broke through that comfort, forcing her to realize how thin the walls of the house were, how flimsy windows could be. And there was only one Knuckles, against six people she couldn’t even see.
She got the cordless phone anyway, clutching it tight with one hand as she continued her watch out the front. Nothing was stirring; it was four-thirty in the damn morning. The world was asleep.
Man, she wanted to go back to bed. She had to work in the morning.
There was a shout near the house, and she guessed it to be near the front of Knuckles’ place, on his driveway. She darted back to the kitchen just as the unmistakable rumble of motorcycles split the night once again.
Loud enough to wake the neighbors again, but at least that was help.
With a yawn, she collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing her forehead. Sitting idly by was not her thing. But running out to meet danger head on screamed of an insanity that she just didn’t have.
Her leg bounced on the ball of her left foot. She swallowed, willing her heart to slow its pace. Just as she was contemplating taking a shot of the vodka bottle half-full in her freezer, a deafening pop rang out, startling the world. Dogs began barking.
With a cry, herself, she jumped three feet, then dropped to the carpet. Her heart set off at a frantic pace, thumping so high up her throat she was choking on it. At the sound of a creak she knew Annie was up, heading down the hallway.
She shot up to her feet and flew around the corner, making Annie shriek and jump in sleepy surprise. “Back in your bedroom,” she hissed, just as another shot rang out and the kitchen window—she was pretty sure it was the kitchen window—exploded inward. Now, even she shrieked, shoving Annie ahead of her into Grace’s room and shutting them all in, as though a hollow panel door could stop a bullet.
“Mom?” Grace was sitting up in bed, reaching for her lamp.
“Leave it off, honey,” she instructed, squatting down to sit with her back to the dresser. She pulled Annie into her lap and motioned for Grace. “Get down here.”
She had both of her girls huddled in a group, and all she could hear was her own ragged breathing. Annie was shaking on her lap, and Grace was chewing her thumbnail.
After a long, silent stretch, Grace whispered, “Mom? Was that a gunshot?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Knuckles?”
“He went outside. The Rebels are here now.”
“Thank God.”
Every sound, every creak or rustle as one of them shifted position, convinced her there was someone about to come down the hallway to do them harm.
“Mom?”
“Yes Annie?”
“I’m scared.”
Kissing her daughter’s cinnamon curls, she tightened her hold. “Me too, baby. But Knuckles will look out for us.”
There were no more fantastic explosions, no second window breaking in a rainfall of shards. Just long, agonizing minutes while absolutely nothing happened.
Please let him be okay, she willed the universe. Please keep him safe.
When the back door opened, it seemed far too loud, but that was her straining ears. Still, Annie’s hands clenched her sweater tighter and Grace burrowed closer under her arm. They waited, hearing footsteps crunch across the glass in the kitchen, then the sound was dulled by the carpet of the hallway.
She tried to call out to Knuckles, confirm it was him, but her words were wedged in her throat. The closer the footfalls drew, the tighter her legs drew against her body, the harder she clung to Grace and Annie. Oh God, where was the phone? Why didn’t she bring it? Why didn’t she call the police when she had the chance—
“Danielle?”
She jumped, making Annie and Grace both scream. Hands out, contrite look on his face, Fritter came forward, crouching down to appear smaller and less intimidating. It didn’t work, but she appreciated the gesture. And she really appreciated him not being a homicidal bad guy.
“Fritter,” she gasped in relief, head falling back to the dresser. Then she sat up straighter again. “Where’s Knuckles? Is he okay?”
Grace got up to turn the lamp on, then perched on the edge of her bed. Annie stayed in her mother’s lap, holding on tighter when she asked that.
“Yeah, he’s okay. Don’t worry. He got a little messy, so he’s going to go right back to the clubhouse to clean up, okay?”
Danielle frowned. “He can use the shower here.”
Fritter smiled, but it was half the grin she’d seen him use before. That put her radar up. “Can I talk to you a second?”
She looked to Grace, who was also keying into something being off. But Annie was just looking up at Fritter, then up at her, earnest in her concern.
“Sure,” she agreed, setting Annie up to her feet. “Wait here, girls. Grace, can Annie bunk with you?”
“Sure,” Grace said, faux-cheerful. “Come on, Curly. Let’s get back in bed. We’re going to have such a rough day at school tomorrow.”
Danielle left Grace to tuck them both in, then closed the door and followed Fritter into the living room. He took her by the arm and sat her on the sofa, then turned on the lamp in the back corner before he sat beside her.
“Okay, here’s the thing. There were six members of another motorcycle club breaking into Knuckles’ place tonight. Pretty sure they expected him to be there.”
“Why? Why would they come after him?”
Fritter shrugged. “He lives alone. Quiet neighborhood. Easy to get to him there.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. “Is he okay? Tell me the truth.”
Fritter studied her eyes, and whatever he saw there convinced him to answer. Sort of. “He’s not hurt, don’t worry. But...well, you’ve seen him hurt people, right?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“He sometimes gets lost in it.” Fritter was clearly uncomfortable telling her this, but even as he fidgeted and rubbed the back of his neck he kept talking. “When that happens, he just needs time alone. I don’t want him at his house tonight, obviously. But at least at the clubhouse, we’re around if he needs us. And if he needs to be alone, he can have that, too.”
“Why...why would he need you around?”
Fritter rubbed his chin. “You know about his time in the service?”
“Of course. We talk about that a lot. My husband had PTSD, too.”
Fritter looked surprised. “I don’t think Knuckles has that.”
She smiled. “He does, actually. He has the nightmares, and I’ve seen the blank stare after he knocked Brian Crawford around. My husband had it. I became pretty good at spotting the signs.”
Now she’d surprised him, but they were getting off track.
“So he has trouble...coming out of this?”
Fritter nodded eagerly, out of relief she’d caught onto this, she guessed. “Yes. Exactly. And he doesn’t want you to see him like this.”
“Well...” She looked at her hands, frowning at them. “I need to get used to this. Fritter, I lo—” She stopped, just before realizing
she’d been about to say she loved him.
“You what?”
“I care about him. A lot. I want him to be part of my life. Part of my family.”
Fritter grinned again, and this time it was real. And very, very appealing. “That’s good. He needs that. But I’m sure you know this, too; he’ll let you into that part of himself when he’s ready. Just be available when he comes around again.”
She nodded, still somewhat hurt, but understanding all of that at the same time. “Yeah, of course. I’m here for him no matter what.”
Fritter patted her hands. “Good.” Then he stood, heading for the door. “I’m sending some guys over to put a board over the kitchen window here. We can put a new one in tomorrow.”
She followed, ringing her hands, wondering how all this had happened that night and now she was somehow going to bed by herself and there was broken glass on the kitchen floor. She stopped at the threshold, not wanting to cut her feet. “No, I can sort that tomorrow myself.”
He waved a hand, turning back to her in the landing. “Are you kidding? We’ll take care of it. You get the girls to school, we’ll fix the window. Just leave the backdoor open for us.”
“Okay,” she answered weakly, waving as he left through the back after locking the door behind himself.
After turning off the living room light and returning the phone to the charging cradle, she went back to her bedroom, hearing the nails being driven into the window frame as the guys made good on the promise to close the hole in the side of the house. She wondered if the rental owner would even notice a new window.
As she shrugged out of her cardigan and climbed back into bed, Danielle found herself gravitating to the pillow Knuckles had been sleeping on. None of this seemed real; she’d been woken up for amazing, brain-numbing sex, someone shot at her house, and now she was going back to bed alone.
She curled around his pillow, closing her eyes. God, if she’d just been able to see him and know he was okay. There was this gnawing, sickening fear that things weren’t going to be fine, despite Fritter’s assurances.
Somehow, she fell asleep; not terribly deep, but enough to get her through to morning.
Chapter Thirty
“Knuck, you okay?”
On the tile, either side of where he’d planted his forehead, his splayed hands clenched into fists. He’d be fine if everyone would leave him the fuck alone.
“I’m good,” he grunted back, coughing, then repeating it louder when he realized he’d been nowhere near loud enough to be heard over the running shower and exhaust fan.
He waited, but no further questions were shouted through the shower curtain. Fritter must have decided a man could shower himself.
He swallowed cut glass, then turned off the spray. His skin felt adequately scalded, and he pulled the shower curtain back to let the cooler air shock him out of this half-fugue, half-raging state.
The towel was rough, which he preferred. Naked, in the light of the bare bulb fixture over the sink, he checked around his nails for blood, but it was gone. Then he looked at his own face, expecting to see the red spray still all over his face and neck, sweat pushing dirt through the sticky coating in little rivers. But it was gone, he was all sparkling, squeaky clean.
On the outside, anyway.
Heading out of the Prince’s house that night, sneaking into their backyard and scaling their fence to land in his own yard, he’d intended to just create a few distractions with whoever was breaking into his house. Going solely on the bikes parked out front, he’d bet on a swarm of those fucking Dirty Rats.
It had been quiet lately, no one coming into Markham to fuck with them. They were due a skirmish of some kind, in retrospect.
One of them was at his back door, maybe waiting for him to flee to the yard. They had to be assuming he was in the house, which saved him some worry for the Princes. They came after him, not them. Still, it was far too close to people he cared about.
The back guard he took care of easily; the fat fucker was breathing so hard he hadn’t heard Knuckles sneak up behind him, and didn’t register him being there until he’d grabbed his chin and the top of his head. Using that surprise, Knuckles scaled the guy’s back and twisted his head hard to the right, hearing the snap and jumping back as the Rat fell forward. Adrenalin racing, he let Red Mode take him over, make him sharper, more focused.
The Rat had been holding a sawed-off shotgun. Knuckles scooped it up, checked the chambers, then snapped it all back into working order again. Peering in his own back door, he thought he saw someone moving on the upper level; just a pair of legs cutting through the light coming in the front of the house from the front windows.
The form grew larger and he ducked back out of sight, back to the wall. The doorknob clicked, then it began to turn. He held his breath, and when a bearded, long-haired head peered out he struck with the shotgun, catching the guy’s temple with the stock. He dropped hard, and that’s when Knuckles heard the approaching bikes of the Rebels.
Thank God, he was thinking just as someone shouted “Someone’s out back!” from inside the house.
No hero, he leapt over the guy he’d just brained and ran down the driveway to the front just as someone stepped out in front of him.
“Hey!” the man shouted, and Knuckles tried to side-smack him with the shotgun but this guy knew he was there. He knocked the shotgun away, then tried to sucker punch him, but Knuckles was faster and ducked, delivering a left into a fleshy belly. It still hurt, sending a stinger up his arm that made his elbow tingle, but that’d be easy to get over. There was a flash of metal as the Rat pulled a knife, and Knuckle brought the shotgun up again, this time with the business end pointed at the Rat. No hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
“Fuck!” he shouted as his ears rang. He’d almost forgotten how loud a shotgun was, and firing it here in this residential neighborhood was not one of his smartest moments.
He dropped the shotgun, searched the man he’d just taken out, and came up with a loaded Glock.
“Excellent,” he breathed, looking up as the bikes pulled up out front and his brothers were dismounting fast.
Three down. There were three more, and he had back-up now. He started towards his guys, when one—he thought it might have been Spaz—shouted “Behind you!”
Bringing up the Glock as he spun, Knuckles barely caught sight of the black leather-clad form running at him, head down like a linebacker. The asshole’s arm came up, pushing his firing arm to the side as he squeezed off the shot.
It was slow motion. His finger had already been pulling the trigger, and there was no stopping it, especially as his arm was jolted. The round was fired, right at the Prince’s kitchen window.
The glass made him wince as he was taken to the ground, but the shriek that followed was enough to freeze his blood.
The Rat landed on him hard, but all that did was bring him out of that “Oh shit!” moment. He managed not to smack his head, and he exhaled so his breath wasn’t knocked out, but then the fight was on again. He had to make sure the girls were okay, he didn’t have time for this fucking asshole.
Someone pulled the Rat up, but it wasn’t necessary. Knuckles left the Glock behind, going after the guy with fists. It was Fritter holding the Rat, and he kept the asshole on his feet while Knuckles made his face into a Jackson Pollack painting.
His hands went numb before a voice said “You got him,” yanking Knuckles back with one strong arm around his neck. “You got him good, Knuck.” That was Tank, he could tell by the calm, deep tone, and the sheer wall of meat that he was being held against. “Easy, easy.”
“Jesus Christ,” another voice spat, somewhere behind them. That was Jayce, and Knuckles took a moment to contemplate the mess he’d made here.
“You good?” Tank asked, still not letting go.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” he assured the big guy, still high on adrenalin but the rage was folding back up where he could fit it inside. he tapped the forearm around
his neck. “I’m good.”
Tank let him go, and Knuckles took his first deep breath in about five minutes. “Shit,” he breathed, looking down at the weight that Fritter was dropping to the concrete pad.
“Feel better?” Jayce snapped, somewhat hushed while still sounding pissed right the fuck off. “Can we cap another guy? Maybe right in the street in broad daylight this time?”
Knuckles evaluated where he was standing, right in front of his own home. Across the street, between his driveway and the Prince’s, was a bright and shining street light. “Shit,” he mumbled, looking for lights coming on in houses as the neighbors began wondering what those gunshots were all about.
But all the houses sat dark. People could still be looking, he knew that, but no one was making it obvious. Everyone’s dog was barking too, he’d managed to miss that somehow.
“We got clean up now, and you’re definitely helping,” Jayce informed him, jabbing a finger in his chest before heading back into the house.
“Let’s drag these guys into the garage,” Tank suggested.
Knuckles nodded. “Good call.”
It took him and Tank to pull the guy with no face all the way up to the overhead door. He opened the door on the side and they pulled the guy inside that way. He flicked on the light, then went back to collect the man with the snapped neck, and the one he’d brained with the shotgun. That guy was breathing so he set him upright against the garage door for when he came to. Fritter and Spaz brought the one he’d gutted with the shotgun. The other two from inside the house were dragged out by Jayce and Tank.
“Jesus,” Spaz breathed, examining all the Rat carcass. “Knuckles took out four all on his own.”
A chill ran down his back.
“Go get the van,” Jayce told the IO officer. “We’ll wake this asshole up and see what the fuck they wanted.”
The last breathing Rat was leaning, back to the overhead door, still asleep. Jayce grabbed his chin, shaking it back and forth, slapped his face a few times. The man came awake slowly, and when he did, he woke up angry.
He tried to swing at Jayce but the Prez stepped out of the way and Tank stepped in. He grabbed the Rat by his kutte, hauled him to his feet and slammed his back into the door.
Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5) Page 33