“Better eat the fucking cake and have your dessert at home,” he hissed, feeling increasingly intimidated by the way the guy who got the kiss looked at his partner. So openly affectionate it left Stitch powerless. Could he ever sit with Zak in a diner like this? Eating pie from the same plate? If Gator and Captain got a scent of this, it could end bloody for those poor, clueless tourists.
“Relax, my beautiful American friend,” said Dom, pushing the plate with the last piece of pie to his partner. “Your colleagues are still in the kitchen.”
“What ‘colleagues’?” Stitch lowered his voice, looking to the kitchen door and the single waitress far away at the other end of the diner. He chose to ignore the ‘beautiful’ comment. “You guys better leave if you don’t want to get your heads bashed in.” He made sure to make it sound more like a warning than a threat.
Dom leaned forward and sighed, a small gesture he made with his hand enough to pull Stitch lower, to listen to the silent words. “I’ll tell you something because if I weren’t practically married, I’d fuck the likes of you any day. You, your friends, and I aren’t the only armed people in this establishment.”
Heat exploded all over Stitch’s body for a whole array of reasons. No guy ever dared talk to him like that. His buttocks clenched on their own accord, but his brain desperately tried to pull itself out of the murky waters of homophobic inadequacy. Guns. He needed to focus on guns. The short haired hunk just smiled as he swallowed the last piece of pie. He didn’t seem at all bothered by talk of armed men. Stitch didn’t like the idea of Italian strangers with guns in a diner they were doing fucking drug deals in. He didn’t like it at all. But even more men in the kitchen? He could smell trouble from a mile away, and it didn’t smell half as good as the cologne of the guy sitting next to him.
“How many?” he whispered back, looking to the kitchen door. He needed to get them all out.
Dom sighed and gestured for his friend to get out from behind the table. “Your friends already passed whatever it was they had on them to Mr. Cloud there. My guess is that the six people in the kitchen are waiting for all three of you to be in one place.” He grinned, but unlike so far, his hazel eyes remained cold. “See, I’m keeping your precious head safe by just talking to you.”
Stitch slowly nodded, ignoring the gay aspect of the situation in favor of staying alive. When the other guy got up, the table creaking against the floor in the quiet diner sounded like an elephant in a glass store. Stitch grabbed his cell phone, to text Captain. Fuck.
Stitch froze when Dom put his finger against his chest, only to frown. The freak factor became all the worse when Dom spoke, and this time he sounded like the most local of locals, Louisiana born and bred, as if he’d pressed some switch inside his head.
“Listen, you never met us. In fact, you’ve never met a true Italian in your life. If any word about us bleeds out of your mouth, I will find you, I will choke you with your own cock and slit the throats of every single person you love. Understood?”
Stitch swallowed. He could lash out, punch the guy, pull out his own gun, but all those ideas seemed futile. It wasn’t just the raw confidence the guy exuded, Stitch had confidence too. Maybe if they weren’t dealing drugs in the middle of nowhere, Stitch would take it as a bluff, but right now, he knew they were in way over their heads, and he wasn’t taking a risk on assuming these guys were just messing with him. As if the situation weren’t surreal enough, the other guy, who clearly must have heard every word his partner said, looked away and stretched with a yawn, looking like some goddamn fashion ad, all tall and handsome. That was a trophy boyfriend right there if Stitch had ever seen one.
Stitch nodded slowly.
Dom snorted and eased back into the Italian accent as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Calm down that heart. You need nerves of steel to deal in this business,” he said and casually walked over to the door. Not ever looking back, he let his partner go through first and stepped out. The metal door slammed shut with a ghastly creak.
Stitch was glued to the seat, but he knew he needed to act fast. Gator had been acting with all the confidence in the world, but it turned out he knew shit, they had no idea who they were dealing with. He got up even though he wanted to sit in this booth forever. His fingers never texted as fast as they did now.
‘When I come over, duck under the table. Just do it.’
He walked in slow motion, every step weighing at his feet as if they already had rocks tied to them so they'd drown quicker in the swamp.
Captain raised his eyes to Stitch. To any outsider, he wouldn’t seem nervous, but Stitch recognized the slight frown, Captain’s upper cheek pushing on the eye patch and creating a fold. He was tense as a string next to Gator and Smoke who were enjoying a conversation so smiley it looked almost like flirting.
Stitch approached their booth, aware of every sound in the diner. The steps of the waitress by the counter, the insects making noise outside of the window, and finally, the creak of the kitchen door. The moment Stitch heard the latter, he yelled to Gator and Captain.
“Duck!”
Stitch threw himself under the table in the booth opposite to them to avoid the onslaught of bullets raining through the air. The waitress screamed, a thud of a dozen boots resonated on the floor, Smoke gurgled, five bullet holes dripping with blood on his chest. Stitch watched life leave his body like the last puff of smoke he would ever exhale.
The seats exploded with sponge, marked with the chaotic pattern of bullet holes. The noise took Stitch’s senses into overload. He curled up on the floor of the booth and frantically fumbled with the gun under his cut. Across the aisle he saw Captain and Gator, who had already pulled out their guns, but the moment they dared to fire, the kitchen men switched to assault rifles.
“Drop your guns!” came as another cascade of bullets burned out. Stitch tried to breathe as quietly as possible, but it still came out as a rasp when he met Captian’s gaze under the counter. They were sitting ducks.
Captain swallowed and looked to Gator, whose mouth was open, all teeth bared. He looked like a cornered pit bull, still wondering whether he’d turn the attacker into a bloody pulp or die trying. Stitch’s blood turned cold when their president shuffled closer to the aisle, moving the gun as if wanting to shoot, but Captain reacted immediately. He grabbed Gator’s wrist and hissed into his ear, back arching under the table, which was now covered in fresh biowaste, straight from Smoke’s head.
Stitch shook his head, slowly putting his gun on the floor. “We’re putting them down,” he yelled to the attackers, taking lack of bullets in answer as a promise of survival. If the Italian wasn’t lying, there were six men, all armed, now in an advantageous position. With guns that were much more efficient than their handguns. He would not die because Gator couldn’t hold his gun in his pants.
“Shove all your guns our way, don’t think of doing anything stupid, and you might leave here alive,” yelled a young, somewhat raspy voice.
Stitch watched Captain put his gun down like a mirror image of himself and finally, Gator did the same. All three of them sent the guns sliding down the aisle. “There, man, we don’t want any more dead!” Stitch yelled with blood pumping in his ears. The smell of blood was getting him nauseated, but he knew he had to keep his cool if he wanted to survive this.
There was a clattering noise, which Stitch guessed was someone picking up the firearms, and after a moment’s wait, the same voice told them to slowly get up, with their hands over their heads.
Gator spat to the floor but slowly pulled himself up, holding onto the seat and the table. He let go of the latter very quickly and shook the blood-stained hand, sending a piece of red mush to the floor. His scowl was so deep Stitch’s stomach twisted. The whole club was likely to be lost within those deep, bloodied folds. If they got out of this alive, Gator’s need for vengeance would have the force an alligator's jaws have on a human leg.
They slowly got up, and Stitch was surprised by how stea
dy his knees were. Nerves of steel. That was what he needed. The handsome Italian would be proud.
He exhaled but kept his face cool when he gazed down the aisle, at the six bikers standing there like smiling statues.
The oldest, a silver haired man with a thick moustache, grinned and pulled up his shades, showing off his smiling eyes. “Little fish cruising the territory of the sharks. It’s kind of amusing, isn’t it, guys?”
His men all nodded in agreement, relaxed as if they had no single care in the world. From the corner of his eyes, Stitch could see Captain’s profile. He made no sound, standing with his arms up as they had been told.
Stitch looked around to assess the situation. They were surrounded. When one of the men turned around to reach for Smoke’s duffel bag full of coke, it all became clear. The patch on his cut said ‘Coffin Nails, Louisiana’ with a skull on a cross between the two patches. They were so deep in the shit that Stitch wanted to scream in frustration.
“And they are...?” asked the boss, who could only be the Nails’s prez, Ripper. The guy who snatched the coke replied with their MC name, and the Nails burst out laughing.
“What kind of shit is this? Petty crime not enough for you anymore?” snorted Ripper and shook his head. “Who’s your prez?”
Stitch and Captain glanced at one another, the air between them burning with tension, but Gator stepped forward. Streaks of sweat on his bald head made him look as if he had just put his skull under the shower.
Ripper poked his forehead with the gun he was holding and laughed again, like a kid being told a poo joke. “And you thought this was a good idea? Stepping into our fucking territory?”
Stitch’s hands were sweaty, and his heart raced against his will to stay calm. It was a lot easier to deal with the likes of Officer Cox. These guys weren’t fucking around. They were the MC in Louisiana no matter how much Gator strived to change that.
“Ripper? There’s only four packs here,” said the guy who took Smoke’s duffel bag.
Ripper poked Gator’s head with the barrel of the gun. “We all know there should be two more.”
Gator’s nostrils flared, and he opened his mouth, almost choking on the words. “Stitch, give them the fucking stuff.”
One of the men in front of them, a muscular redhead with a wild beard, stepped closer and reached out his hands with a smile. “Or shall I self-serve?”
Stitch unzipped his jacket and pulled his T-shirt out of his pants to reach the packages. He passed them over to the guy with no expression whatsoever. This was ten thousand dollars leaving his hands. He thought he’d earn five on this run, and here he was, losing ten and possibly his life. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
He didn’t even know what hit him when Redbeard slammed his knee into his crotch. He saw stars and toppled forward, sinking to his knees with a gasp he could not stop. His vision dimmed at the edges as he looked at the red stains on the floor, and he braced himself, knowing only his cool could get him out of here alive. He had a little daughter waiting back at home for him, one whom he’d promised a bike ride once she was old enough. He couldn’t have his brain join Smoke’s all over the place. The next punch hit him straight in the face and sent him back to the floor, spread eagle. From the sound of it, Captain and Gator were getting a pounding as well.
“See that fucker on the seat? That’s what we do with people who don’t honor agreements with us,” growled Ripper.
To Stitch, his voice sounded like an echo, resonating through his skull.
“I think it’s only fair you pups hand over the cash and tell your friends never to step foot on our turf.”
Stitch got a kick in the ribs, but his balls were still his main concern as he curled up on the floor.
His head shot up when Ripper commanded his men to hold Gator in place, and he paled at the sound of a zipper opening. The sound of spraying liquid and Gator’s growl made it all too clear what was happening, and Stitch put his forehead back on the floor, pretending he didn’t see their president getting pissed on. But he was close enough for the stench of urine to get to him. His body was one big aching mess, and every single bruise he’d hopefully wake up with next morning was like a fucking message from God.
He stole a glance at Captain whose lips were a bloody mess, not to mention the teeth he was baring like a rabid dog. Stitch clenched his sweaty fists, wishing he could send his brass knuckles into each grinning face.
The zip went up again, and Stitch felt the thick, ridged sole of a boot press on the back of his head. “This is the one time we let you off, so be good pups and fuck off out of the business that’s too big for your paws, huh?”
Gator gasped but didn’t try to put up a fight with all six guns pointed straight at them. They would have no chance. Stitch groaned, but only gave a short nod. Even if they were to plan retaliation, this wasn’t the time for it. Fortunately, Captain did the same.
“Just so your buddies don’t think you gave in easily, we’ll make it easier for you.” The red bearded guy laughed and grabbed a bottle of ketchup off the counter and pressed a steady stream over Stitch’s head and face. “See, you gave such a fight, you’re covered in blood all over.” Two guys grabbed Stitch’s arms and forced him to turn around. He didn’t feel it through the leather, but by the sound of it, the ketchup drizzled all over his cut.
Once they were done with him, a sudden kick to his ass pushed him right back on the floor. He didn’t dare get to his feet. They all stayed silent, listening to the heavy footsteps farther and farther away, and just as Stitch got his hopes up, with the creak of the entrance door, another series of bullets from a machine gun forced his body to almost melt into the floor.
He covered his head with his hands, but then the noise was gone and seconds later they heard the roar of bikes cutting through the mind-numbing silence. Stitch had always thought of himself as a tough guy and a hothead, but this? The Nails had fucking ambushed them like children.
Gator got up with the speed of an alligator attacking its prey and kicked something with a loud scream. “Fuck!”
Neither Stitch nor Captain said a thing. They both stood up slowly, and all Stitch wanted was to hop on his bike and head home. The staff would have called the police. They could hear the waitress crying behind the counter. Stitch didn’t even want to see her face, so he kicked the counter with a growl. “I bet you know the drill, bitch. You didn’t see any faces.”
“Y-yes,” she uttered with another sob.
Stitch gave Smoke’s body one more glance before walking away. He was both relieved and disappointed to see that the Coffin Nails hadn’t even bothered to topple their bikes. Apparently, they weren’t enough of a challenge to humiliate them any further. None of them said a thing, and within two minutes, they were on their way back, racing toward Lake Valley with just their headlights as guides.
It was the MC equivalent of the walk of shame. Stitch didn’t even put on his helmet, disgusted with the thought of cleaning out the ketchup afterward. They’d lost ten grand each, as well as their dignity. They were criminal cock-ups, like from a fucking Disney movie. Like villains from Home Alone.
They stopped at an empty car park at the outskirts of Lake Valley, to discuss what to tell the rest of the guys and what the course of action would be, but it was a short chat. None of them wanted to go into detail, too humiliated by the night’s events. Stitch’s ribs hurt, and he didn’t even want to start thinking about how he would fork ten grand for the club. The debt would surely push him even deeper into shit because he had been responsible for that fucking parcel.
Gator’s fury was also as clear as the piss that had hit his skull. All he had to say was talk of revenge, getting more men, more guns, and a plan to take down every last piece of shit that fucked with them. Stitch only nodded in silence. There was only one place where he wanted to drown his sorrow tonight, and it wasn’t in a bottle. He needed to climb into Zak’s warm bed and hug him close so he could forget all of this, even if just for a few hours.
Chapter 13
Stitch felt as if he were twenty again, climbing into Crystal’s bedroom in the middle of the night. Only this time, all he wanted was to slip into bed without too much fuss and fall asleep next to his lover. Last week they’d straightened up their relationship and had made a promising new start, so he hoped Zak wouldn’t feel spied on with Stitch showing up in the middle of the night. He left the cell phone he used for him at home so he wouldn’t be able to call anyway. He just needed to feel close to something real.
Zak probably wasn’t sleeping yet. There was a small light on in his bedroom, with loud rock ‘n’ roll music thumping through the glass. The climb up the drainpipe was slow, with all the aches in Stitch’s body screaming when he pushed himself farther, but he didn’t want to wait at the door. All he wanted was to just be greeted at the small balcony, taken to bed, maybe take a warm bath together.
He groaned as he forced himself to pull himself up all the way and exhaled, holding on to the railing. Two more moves were enough to put him on the balcony itself, and he leaned against the wall, looking at the thick curtain. It wasn’t drawn over the whole length of the window, and Stitch slowly limped to the ray of light coming out into the night like an invitation. He knew he’d promised not to spy on Zak again, but all he wanted was to look at Zak, all immersed in a book, with Versay at his side. He was surprised there wasn't any barking yet, but then again Versay was useless as a guard dog.
With caution, Stitch gently leaned forward so that just a part of his face would push out from behind the curtain. His heart stopped, only to rush to its full speed when Stitch took in what was going on inside. Taken aback, he stumbled, watching Zak’s long, patterned body stretch over one that was smooth, much meatier. On the bed he and Stitch had fucked so many times, Zak was twisting the other man’s arm back, grinding his hips into his bare ass.
Road of No Return (gay outlaw biker MC romance) Page 14