Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5)

by C. D. Breadner

  “I’ll bring everything we’ve got,” he promised, and took off through the motel room at a run.

  She knelt next to the tub and took the showerhead from Buck. The stream removed the blood, the dirt, and she fought back tears. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be Knuckles; the man she knew could never have this happen to him. Knuckles could not be lying in this bathtub, limp as a ragdoll and bleeding.

  She moved his arm to rinse more dirt from his ribs, seeing the bruises along his ribs and wondering if anything was broken. There was no wetness to his breathing, so the lungs hadn’t been punctured. As his arm came up his hand flopped to the edge of the tub and she gave a yelp, backing away, falling on her ass and dropping the showerhead when she covered her mouth.

  “Easy,” Jayce’s father said soothingly, helping her back up.

  “I didn’t even notice.”

  “I know. It’s the worst part.”

  His fingers had been hacked off. Not all of them, three of the four. One of which was left with a bit of a stump. Only the index finger was whole on his right hand.

  She reached for his left arm, and saw that the pinky and ring fingers were gone. “Jesus Christ. Oh my God, who would do this?” She noticed that the room got quiet and decided she didn’t need to know that answer. “I think these have been cauterized so they wouldn’t bleed out. But if he’s infected here, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Let us get him cleaned up, then we’ll take him back to the bed and you can work on him.” Jayce’s voice was also calming. “You can do this. Let us do this part.”

  She agreed, feeling the quaking in her joints as her adrenalin kicked it up a notch. “Okay.”

  They let her go, and she returned to the other room. She stripped the comforter off the bed, along with the soiled jeans, and tossed them into the corner. The pillows she pushed across to the other side and left the sheets as they were, then piled towels from the closet on top. This was going to be bloody.

  Stitches she could do. The cuts had been done with a blade, so it wouldn’t take a surgeon to close those. There’d be solid skin to work with. The patches of skin would...well, they’d have to heal over. She had no other way to treat that. Keeping the wounds clean would be the best course of action.

  But the fingers...she had no idea. Not a fucking clue. So, she pulled out her phone and did the most asinine thing. She Googled it. After going through all the advice that told her how to preserve the stump and the fingers for reattachment, she found basic information for what to do with the person that has suffered the injury.

  Yeah, like she thought. Bleeding, infection, shock. The scabs on the stumps were black, already swollen. She wondered if the cartilage was still in tact. On some instinctive level, she wanted to reopen those wounds, cut out any ragged flesh and let the bleeding clean the wound a bit, treat it, then bandage them up cleanly.

  But Christ, would she be able to do that?

  “Got all the stuff here,” Spaz announced as he opened the door, holding up a kit that looked more like a tackle box. “And the antibiotics are on the way. Our doc called in a prescription, Sharon’s picking it up for us.”

  “Can he get us pain meds, too?”

  Spaz sucked in a breath. “He’s got a history of heroin abuse, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. But he’s going to be in so much pain.”

  After a moment studying her, with his tongue pushing his cheek out in thought, he pulled a phone out of his back pocket and dialled.

  The men from the bathroom reappeared, Knuckles in their careful hands. When he was laid out on the bed again, Danielle put the pillows under his feet to elevate his legs. Jayce and Fritter dabbed him dry with more towels that quickly became red.

  “Okay,” she said, breath shaking as she opened the first aid kit on the dresser. “I’m going to close those wounds with some stitches. Usually I only do this following an autopsy.”

  “More experience than the rest of us, Dani.”

  Jayce calling her Dani made her smile, straightened her back, and steadied her hands. The surgical thread and needle were in the second drawer she checked, and she was about to pick it up when she remembered her hands. “Shit,” she whispered, but Spaz was already handing her latex gloves. “Wow, you guys have everything.”

  “Just call us Walgreen’s,” he joked, and she appreciated the levity. Especially with the heavy quiet of the room.

  “Let’s see what we can do,” she said to no one in particular, then turned back for the bed.

  -oOo-

  Hard to say what woke her. Probably her aching back. She’d slumped over on the edge of Knuckles’ bed, sitting in a chair drawn as close as she could get it. Just so she could keep her hand on his wrist, under the comforter, propped up on a pillow to elevate the mangled mess of his fingers. She’d tried to clean up the stumps. A couple still had cartilage, so she removed that and stitched the skin closed over the ends. But the other three were open wounds, now cleaned and bandaged.

  His skin was still burning, but his breathing sounded better. Not so labored, much more even. Still hoarse, but he wasn’t fighting for it.

  She let go of his wrist, sliding her hand out from under the covers, and stood, hands on her lower back, arching over her heels to stretch out again. Her wristwatch said it was three in the afternoon. She’d slept like that for two hours.

  After checking on the bag hanging from the IV stand, with its constant flow of vancomycin, Danielle went to the door to get a shot of fresh air. The room stank of rubbing alcohol and blood.

  Outside the motel, the lot was still full of bikes, but the women that had been pulled into the clubhouse were sticking close to the dorm rooms. Big, important biker stuff was going down in the clubhouse.

  A door two rooms down opened and closed, and Gertie stepped out onto the walkway, and she smiled. “Hey, little one go down for a nap?”

  “Yeah, eventually. Did you get some sleep?”

  “A very uncomfortable nap. I just needed some air.”

  Gertie leaned against the wall next to the window, her beautiful blue eyes gazing out into the lot. Danielle again mirrored the position of the person next to her, tucking her hands between her butt and the wall.

  “How are you feeling?” Gertie asked eventually.

  “I’m...okay, I guess. I really don’t know.”

  “Buck says you saved him.”

  She puffed up her cheeks then blew out the air. “I don’t know. I’m not that confident yet. I hope I did. I’m way out of my league here.”

  “Are you scared?”

  Danielle met her unwavering gaze. “Scared?”

  “Scared of being with him. Staying with him. After all this.”

  Danielle’s eyes prickled. “I’m scared of losing him.” And damn it, she teared up.

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to upset you!”

  To her surprise, Gertie straightened, then pulled her into a tight hug, rubbing her back. Danielle let herself be held, soaking up the warmth and affection of the gesture. “I can’t lose him. I love him.”

  Gertie gave another squeeze, then held her at arms’ length. “I can tell you do. It’s hard, being with these guys. I won’t lie to you. But I can tell you’re tough enough to take care of your own shit. We have to be. The main question is, is he worth bringing in and messing up your life?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Gertie’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. “Oh my God!”

  “Only Grace and my doctor know. I don’t just want him, I feel like I need him for this, too.”

  “Of course you do.” Gertie’s head tilted happily. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “What?”

  With twinkling eyes, she whispered, “I’m pregnant again, too.”

  “Really? Congratulations!”

  “Eleven weeks along, but I’m waiting a few more weeks before we let everyone know.”

  Danielle sighed, squeezing Gertie’s hands. “That is great. You guys
must be so excited.”

  “We really are. I mean, it’s soon after Davie, but...I’m not that young anymore. And I always wanted two kids.” Then she giggled. “Or maybe three.”

  Danielle chuckled. “I’m not that young, either. I’m terrified. And I’m scared to tell him.”

  “No, you have to tell him. Talk to him while he’s out, tell him what’s going on. Keep him in the loop. Be with him, give him that. It’ll make him stronger, I know it.” Her tone got serious and she moved closer. “He’s stronger than he thinks he is. Giving him this gift...he’ll love it. He’ll know that it’s precious.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  While they just smiled at each other, comfortable in that moment of comradery, a sound came from the room; a low moan, then a pained shout.

  Her heart leapt to her throat and she dropped Gertie’s hands, then rushed to the door. Knuckles had shoved the pillows off the side of the bed that had been elevating his right arm, and his legs thrashed at all the blankets they had covered him with.

  “No, no, baby,” she cooed, touching his hand, then smoothed a hand along his brow. “Still, honey. You gotta stay still.”

  Her voice stopped the thrashing, or maybe that was her inflated sense of her own importance. His head turned into her hand, and his body heaved with a deep sigh, then went still.

  She had to smile. “That’s better. Isn’t that better?”

  No reaction, but he calmed and his breathing returned to normal. She put the pillows and blankets back in place, checked his bandages. No new blood spots on the gauze, that was good.

  With Gertie’s advice in mind, she circled to the other side of the bed and stretched out on her side, next to him. Gently, she reached out to touch his brow, his shoulder. This arm didn’t have the IV, so she adjusted the blanket to rest her hand on his wrist. As she did all this, his head turned to face her again, sighing again when he was in the position he liked.

  She smiled. His poor face was so bruised, and she was so glad that he could find a deep sleep. A little morphine in the IV helped, but she hadn’t given him a lot. Just enough to take the edge off whatever he might be able to actually feel.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she whispered, moving closer. “I’m okay. I’m going to take care of you, so you just rest. I need you, honey. I really do. I need you to get better.” She sniffled, then smiled again. “We’re going to have a jellybean of our own, Knuckles. I think I’m going to start calling him Uncle Jellybean. Even if Grace’s Jellybean is going to be a couple months older.” Wiping her eyes, she gave a short laugh. “Up until right now, I think I was scared of this baby. Now I’m scared of having it without you around.” She took his wrist in hand again. “I know why you walked away. And it’s okay. I appreciate it. But I want you around, Knuckles. Me, the girls, and Uncle Jellybean. We miss you. We want you to come home.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was clever of the angels to use Danielle’s voice.

  That had been one of the more inane thoughts that came back with him, once the morphine and pain were done clouding his brain and making him a drooling moron. The nightmares were intense, and just when he was sure he’d passed over into hell, he’d hear her voice and hope that maybe he was headed for the good place.

  He remembered very little of the fever dreams, just the constant agony and fear. And as for what went on before that, it was also stitched portions of time that bled into the nightmares.

  The beatings he remembered. Something to do with some of his skin being cutting off, yep he recalled that, he definitely remembered them pissing on him, but nothing of his hands being mangled. One thing his hands told him; they intended to kill him. If they were hoping to, at the least, leave him unable to ride, they would have taken his index finger and thumb first. But they didn’t. They wanted to torture, and then they’d probably just plug him in the back of the head and toss him in the Red Rebels’ yard.

  He didn’t know how he got out. And it was at least two more weeks before Danielle let anyone back in his room to talk to him. He knew she had that Fierce Momma Bear in her, but Jesus. Being able to stare down Jayce, or tell Tank to go away, impressed him. She kept the room quiet, dim, cool, and calm. Just for him.

  And in the clinch of every nightmare, she talked him out. Woke him up. Reassured him he was safe now, he was going to be fine.

  When his “doctor” had cleared him for company, Jayce and Tank took seats next to his bed, and laid it out for him.

  Sachetti’s men had called up, ready to rip Jayce a new one about Knuckles capping Guidinger. He remembered doing that, anyway. Jayce called everyone into the clubhouse for protection, then arranged a meet with Sachetti. He told the man he knew who’d been capping his associates—namely, Knuckles—but he also had proof that the club thought it was on Sachetti’s command.

  They handed the video over, and then, in Jayce’s words, shit their boots waiting to see what Sachetti was going to say.

  The man had been pissed, and totally caught off guard.

  Jayce assured Sachetti they were still interested in working for him, but in the meantime, they suspected that Knuckles was being held by Dirty Rats, which meant he was probably going to get dead in a few hours.

  By some fucking miracle, the Nomads had been on a pot run and had only left Los Angeles twenty minutes before Jayce buzzed Guido’s cell. They stole a van to go get him and, using local contacts, found out where Knuckles was being held. They descended on the place in a rain of hellfire, Guido’s words, dragged him out, then hustled him back to Markham.

  And Danielle had fixed him up.

  No surprise, his hands were a fucking horror show. The index fingers and thumb combo reminded him of a lobster claw. The left hand still had the rude-salute finger, and half of his ring finger. His body came out looking like it had been chewed up by a wild animal, and his ink was fucked up. But maybe Brady could fix all that once his scar tissue was established. But first, he was inking Danielle’s name around this left-hand ring finger, because that’s where he wanted her.

  Forever.

  -oOo-

  “You are not sleeping on the sofa. That’s ridiculous.”

  He grit his teeth. “Listen, I elbowed you in the damn head last night—”

  “And it didn’t even bruise.”

  “—I’m not risking doing worse.” His eyes flit down to her stomach, just starting to show that a little one was stretching out and making room in there. When she’d first told him she was pregnant, he had just stared at her for about three minutes straight, figuring out what all of this had to do with him. He blamed the morphine for the fact he threw up when she told him. Then he cried, hugged her, and panicked. For about two days straight.

  Eventually, his brain settled. He got used to the idea that Danielle wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he. So, what was one more person in the house?

  Then he’d moved into the Prince household, and the nightmares had started up again. Those black terrors rode him hard, the worst he’d ever had. He couldn’t control his own damn brain, never mind his body. Arms and legs flailed well beyond his control, and more often than not he didn’t wake until Danielle could talk to him and get him back in his head.

  The night before, he’d caught her right in the temple with his bony elbow. It had to have hurt; the impact was what woke him up.

  “You got our baby in there, Momma,” he said softly, moving next to her on the sofa and spreading his hand out on her belly. “If I hurt Uncle Jellybean….”

  Her hand closed over his. “Okay. I’m going to be very honest here. If you’re going to have those episodes, I want you with me.”

  “But—”

  “Because out here you’re closer to the girls. And if you wake Annie, which would be quite a feat, she’ll come down here to help you. And if she gets hurt…”

  His jaw cracked he clenched it so hard. Shit, he was going to be crap at this parenting thing. He hadn’t even thought
of that.

  “I’m not scared of your nightmares. And you’ve never hurt me on purpose. But you could scare Annie. So I’d rather have you in my room.”

  “If I hurt you—”

  “It won’t be on purpose. Accidents happen.” She actually managed a smile. “Your nightmares don’t scare me, Knuckles. You always come back to me.”

  -oOo-

  The bottle would have normally been well in his grip if he’d had all his fucking fingers. But of course, instead, he knocked it over with a spectacular clatter, spilled the full bottle of root beer all over the work bench.

  “Fuck!” he roared, picking the spark plugs and solenoid out of the puddle he’d made. “God-damn it.”

  “Here,” a sweet voice said, handing him a roll of paper towels.

  “Thanks, Curly,” he muttered, taking it without much enthusiasm. So of course, he dropped that too. “Fuck!”

  “Dude, you need to get a lock on that shit,” another voice said from the garage door.

  He glared at Grace as he picked up the paper towel. “No one asked, Grace.”

  “It’s a grown-up thing. Losing your temper over accidents is pretty weak-ass.”

  His jaw clenched down on an angry, expletive-rich reply. It was true. His anger, especially after a shitty night of nightmare-ridden sleep, was easily set off. And he kept fucking dropping everything.

  Grace toddled into the garage, holding out a plate for Annie. “You need lunch,” she reminded her sister, then sat down on the overturned dairy crate with a sigh.

  “Thank you,” Annie replied, sitting down right there in the middle of the floor to eat her sandwich.

  “You should wash your hands,” he pointed out, mopping up his mess while trying not to catch a glimpse of his own fucking mangled paws.

  “Okay.”

  He looked over his shoulder to watch her flounce out of the garage to the hose at the side of the house. Then he looked to Grace. “You’re going to grace us with your presence?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing else to do. And I wanted the fresh air. I was going to read then I heard your shouting.”