Crash (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 1)

by Susan Fanetti

  Adrenaline had supercharged her body’s processes, and already she could feel whatever he’d dosed her with bubbling in her blood, making her limbs seem not her own. But her mind was still her own. For now.

  Coughing, sputtering, spitting out what she could, Willa put her hand up her sleeve—he seemed never to have felt that she had something under there—and drew her grandfather’s knife.

  Confusion pulled Jesse’s features inward as he stared at the knife. Before he could make sense, and before she could lose hers, Willa threw herself forward and sank the blade into his chest.

  When she’d made her plan, soaking in her bathtub, she’d intended to make a single, careful thrust—into his heart—so that he would bleed out quickly but internally and not leave a mess.

  In reality, soaked in drugged beer, feeling the effects of it sinking into her muscles, she stabbed and stabbed and stabbed until she couldn’t hold the knife anymore.

  Then, kneeling over his dying body, she made herself vomit, trying to get what she could out of her before it was too late.

  With the last bit of her sense, she crawled to the nightstand and pulled the phone down. There was a little sticker across the back of the handset. The letters wavered in her vision, but she thought it said Local Calls $1 Charged to Room Press 9.

  She pressed 9 and dialed Rad’s pager. When it was time to leave a number, she squinted at the sticker on the base and keyed in the numbers she saw, plus 911. Then another 911 for good measure. She’d almost hung up before she remembered to add 14.

  ~oOo~

  The ringing phone sounded like it was underwater. Or maybe she was underwater. A hundred miles away. Willa didn’t know why it wouldn’t stop. Shhhh. Stop.

  Baby, it’s me. Pick it up.

  Rad? Why was he here? Where was here?

  God, the ringing wouldn’t stop.

  She rolled and flailed around until she slapped at the hard plastic of a phone. When she picked it up, it went quiet. Relieved, she dropped it.

  “Willa? Baby, are you there? Willa! Goddammit!”

  With Rad’s voice whispering through the deep water that had filled her mind, Willa remembered that she needed him. She needed help. She couldn’t remember why, but she needed him to be here. To help her.

  “Help me,” she said, trying to be heard through the water. “Help me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Willa! Willa! FUCK! WILLA!”

  Rad felt a hand on his shoulder, and Dane said, “You’re pullin’ a lot of heads this way, brother. What’s the trouble?”

  Afraid to hang up, to lose the scant connection with her he had, Rad clutched the handset of the payphone in a fist that had begun to shake.

  That faint voice, nowhere near the receiver: Help me. Help me.

  “WILLA!”

  “Rad! Talk to me. What is wrong? Where is she?”

  He’d gotten the page on the road: a number he didn’t know, Tulsa exchange, and 91191114 after it. There were so many numbers, more than the screen would hold without scrolling, and it took him a beat to make sense of it and be sure that the 14 was really Willa paging him. That cute thing she’d pointed out, how ‘14’ upside down was ‘hi.’ Their little code that always made him smile. Sometimes, she’d page him only those two numerals, not expecting him to call back. Just a ‘hi,’ to let him know she was thinking of him.

  Once he’d recognized that the page was Willa in trouble, he’d surged ahead of the two-club formation and pulled off at the next exit. They’d been planning to pull off there anyway, gas up and eat at the truck stop before stopping in Signal Bend for the night, but Rad had had no plans in his mind at that point but getting to Willa.

  At the bank of pay phones near the entrance of the truck stop diner, he’d called the number. After the first ten digits, there’d been a beep, and, guessing that it wanted an extension, he’d keyed 105, the next numbers, those right before the 91191114. It had rung and rung before he’d heard the harsh rattle of a handset being manhandled, and then nothing. He’d called her name, and again, and finally heard just those soft, slurred words: Help me. Help me.

  They were in Eureka, Missouri. More than three-hundred-fifty miles from home. From Willa.

  Bile churned in his belly. “I don’t know! She’s in trouble! She’s there but I think she’s passed out! I don’t know this fuckin’ number! I don’t know where she is! Jesus CHRIST!”

  Dane pried the phone from his hand and put it to his own ear. “Willa?” he said. Like he thought he’d get a response when Rad hadn’t. Then he listened for a moment.

  And then he hung up the phone.

  “NO!” Rad yanked it back off the hook. Nothing but a dial tone now. “FUCK!” He slammed the handset on the hook again and again, until Dane and somebody else—Ox, it was Ox—dragged him back.

  The entire diner full of travelers and truckers, the waitresses, the cooks, almost all of the Bulls and the Horde, stared in silence at him.

  At his side, Dane gritted through his teeth, “Let’s sit down. Let’s work this out. We’ll get you to her, but we gotta know where to go.”

  Every instinct in him shouted to shake his brothers off and go, just go, just ride, get to her. He’d find her. He’d feel her. He was hours away and she was hurt, he knew she was hurt. Something bad had happened, was happening, and he had not a minute to spare.

  It was Smithers. That bastard had found her. That was it. It had to be.

  He beat me up and raped me. He heard Willa’s calm voice saying those words. He beat me up and raped me.

  He heard himself promise to keep her safe.

  Help me. Help me.

  “I gotta go, Dane. She needs me.” He wasn’t shouting now. Emotion had closed his throat too much for shouting. “She needs me.”

  “Then let’s find her. Go sit down. I’ll call Slick and see what he knows.”

  It took everything he had to nod and let Ox lead him to the long table, made of several four-tops hastily pushed together, where the Bulls and the Horde sat.

  He did not fucking want to be sitting with the fucking Horde right now.

  Delaney stood at the head of the table. He put his arm around Rad and gave him a squeeze before he pushed him to sit at his side. “Let’s see the number she left. Let’s start there.”

  Rad handed him his pager.

  “I don’t know it.”

  Rad shook his head. He didn’t, either.

  “Bulls—anybody know this?” Delaney handed Rad’s pager to Ox, who shook his head and passed it to Simon. Around the table like that, until Gunner had it. He squinted at it so long, Rad wanted to punch him on principle.

  “Maybe…”

  Rad jumped up. “You know it?”

  “Hold up.”

  Gunner reached into his kutte and pulled out a ragged little black book. He flipped through, squinting at a few pages and moving on. Rad thought he’d go mad with waiting. Then Gunner stopped, checked the pager, compared it to something in the book, stared a crazy long time, back and forth, like he was trying to make the suspense build. Asshole. Finally, he said, “Yeah. The main number is the Osage—that shit motel off of 44? The next number is the room. 105. They got it set up so calls go to the room if you key the room number after the main.” He looked up at Rad with a proud grin. “That’s where she called from. The Osage, room 105.”

  Rad wanted to beat that fucking grin off Gunner’s face. But he forbore and snatched his pager back. “I’m goin’. Right the fuck now.”

  “Rad. Sit.” Delaney spoke with clear calm.

  Muscles pounding with the need to fucking move, Rad couldn’t sit. He stared at his president as the last strings of his control twanged.

  “Sit,” Delaney repeated. “Now.”

  His knees creaked in protest, but Rad sat. “Prez, I gotta go.”

  “Think, brother. Take a breath and think. One—we’re in the middle of a run here, and you know how important it is. We can’t all have your back on this. Two—we’re hours out.
Even if you go balls first, there’s more than four hours between you and her. Three—the prospects are home. Let’s get them to her and find out what’s what.”

  Through his fury and panic, Rad saw that sense. Seeing more than the problem immediately before him had never been his strength. He’d never lead this club—which was fine; he didn’t want to.

  Delaney, on the other hand, was a good leader—and a good brother. He saw ahead. Rad trusted him with the club, with his life. And with Willa’s. He took the breath. And then another.

  After a compassionate nod, Delaney looked over his shoulder. Rad turned his attention the same way and saw Dane heading back.

  “Got Slick and Wally waiting for my call back.” Dane sat down. “What’s the word?”

  “Gunner says the number came from the Osage Motor Inn.” Frowning at Gunner, Delaney added, “Do I want to know how you know that?”

  Another punchable smirk from their crazy brother. “Bangin’ a married chick. We meet up there. She pages me when she’s ready.”

  Rad stood. “The prospects need to get to her.” He meant to go to the phone bank and make the call himself, but Delaney reached up and grabbed his arm.

  “Sit. Dane’ll call. Let’s decide what we tell them.”

  “They need to get in the fuckin’ room and GET TO HER NOW!” He slammed his fist on the table, and the silverware clattered.

  Staring at the spot Rad’s fist had landed, Delaney said, “Dane. Tell Slick that they need to get to the Osage, room 105. They need to be carrying and ready for trouble. Slick should have his pick kit with him. They need to call with a sit rep.” He turned to Rad as he said the rest. “We will wait here until we hear from them. Tell ‘em to move it.”

  Dane nodded and went back to the phones. Rad stared after him, helpless and furious and so goddamn scared. “This is that bastard I told you about. The Rat. I fuckin’ know it. He raped her. He tried to kill her. And I left her alone. I left her alone, and now he’s got her again.”

  “We’ll get to her as fast as we can, Rad.”

  It wouldn’t be fast enough. Rad dropped his head into his hands.

  At the other side of the combined tables, the Horde men had sat quietly, watching, through all the drama.

  “What can we do to help?” Little Ike asked. Though he wasn’t an officer, Kirill had wanted him to lead the Horde runs. Since Big Ike and Frank had peeled off at Signal Bend on the way to Indiana, Little Ike had seemed to have been in charge not only of the run, for the Horde’s part, but of the club itself. Reg, the ranking officer, had sat back and let it happen.

  “I thank you for the offer, brother,” Delaney answered. “But you keep your focus on your work. Looks like we’re gonna lose some Bulls from here, so it’s time for the Horde to take point the rest of the way.”

  Little Ike nodded. “Fair enough.”

  ~oOo~

  Three hundred and sixty miles in just more than four hours. Four hours and forty minutes from the time Rad got Willa’s page. Rad, Ox, Simon, and Gunner rode like madmen, on the shoulder when they had to, letting nothing stop them and little slow them down. Thank Christ they’d seen no law the whole way.

  The prospects had found her, right where Gunner had said she’d be. They hadn’t found the scene they’d been expecting, however.

  She’d killed him. Willa had stabbed the motherfucker to death.

  But not before he’d hurt her, and Rad had no clue how badly. Slick and Wally had found a bloody, rank scene, with Smithers dead and Willa deep under, her face bruised, her mouth bloody.

  Dane had told the prospects to hold the scene, keep watch over Willa, touch nothing else, and wait.

  God. God. What had that piece of shit done to her? What had Rad allowed to happen?

  He knew better. He’d known she needed somebody on her every minute he was away. But she didn’t want that, she hated it, said it made her feel weak. He should have forced the point on her, done what he’d known needed to be done anyway.

  But he was trying not to be bully. An asshole. He was trying to do it right this time.

  When they parked in the lot, Rad stared at Willa’s truck, parked right in front of 105, and tried to understand why it was there. He’d figured that Smithers had grabbed her up—and there was an old Econoline right there, looking customized for kidnapping. Had he instead forced his way into her truck and made her drive here?

  It was time to get questions answered and save his girl.

  He pounded on the door marked 105. “It’s Rad. Open up.” The security chain rattled on the other side, and the deadbolt turned. Wally opened the door.

  Fuck, what a stink billowed out from the six inch-crack Wally had opened. Somebody had shat his pants. And puked. And a lot of blood had been shed. And…beer?

  He pushed in, and his brothers followed. With two prospects, four Bulls, a dead body, and an unconscious woman in the room, the space was cramped. Rad pushed the prospects out of his way and went to the bed.

  Willa lay on top of the mussed covers, her sweatshirt—her recognized it, a baggy UT shirt she pulled on when they were outside on chilly evenings—soaked in blood and vomit. Her hair was sticky with gunk. Scratches and bruises marred her face, deeper and darker at her mouth. Blood rimmed her teeth.

  “Wills? Baby. Baby, I’m here.” Nothing. He eased his fingers into her stiff hair, seeking some kind of wound, but he found nothing. He checked her arms—and found an empty sheath on her left arm, but no wounds.

  He looked around and saw the hunting knife—her grandfather’s—on the floor, its blade thick with congealed blood.

  She’d come to this room armed. Her truck was parked outside. Rad closed his eyes and considered these facts.

  Motherfuck. She’d come looking for Smithers. She’d put herself in this room. Of her own free will.

  When she was better, when she was safe, they were going to have a very serious goddamn talk. By the time he’d had his say, she was going to have some goddamn sense.

  For now, he needed to get her well and safe. He checked under her shirt, sliding his hand up under the fabric, to keep his brothers from seeing her bare skin. There was nothing. Her skin was warm—too warm, he thought—and her breath shallow. Other than the damage to her face, which was infuriating but not serious, there was no wound he could find.

  Her blood-stained jeans were on and closed, the belt around them buckled. Her sneakers were neatly tied. Rad let out the breath he’d held since Eureka, the one that had been waiting to find her savaged.

  “What the fuck did he do to her?”

  “This,” Gunner answered, and Rad looked over. Gunner held a small plastic bottle up. “It’s GHB.”

  “What the fuck is GHB?”

  “It’s pretty new on the scene. It’s…it makes you…in the right dose, it makes you feel great. Wide open, nothing in your head telling you no. The sex is fucking fantastic. But I’d guess with more than the right dose, it’d make a girl unable to fight or even to know she needed to. She’d be compliant. An overdose…” He nodded at Willa.

  Rad was holding her, and he didn’t want to hurt her more, so he remained calm and turned his rage inside, pushed it into his gut. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

  Gunner wagged the bottle in his hand. “This is empty. If it was full when he dosed her, and she drank it all, she’d be dead.” He nodded toward the body, and Rad turned his attention there for the first time. “The puke. Our little nurse is a smart cookie. I think she made herself get rid of what she could. From the beer reek, and the hurt to her face, I’d say he forced it on her.”

  Rad scowled at the body on the floor. Smithers had lost his bladder and his bowels as he’d died. His chest, face, belly, and arms were slashed and gory. She must have stabbed him dozens of times. And then, it seemed, she’d puked on his face.

  “This is a fuckin’ mess, Rad,” Simon muttered.

  “I know.”

  A patched member of another MC killed by an old lady. That was war, straight up. A
bloody mess in a motel room within spitting distance of a busy interstate. That was law, so far up their asses they’d be able to taste the sugar from their doughnuts. And Willa, unconscious and hurt.

  And she’d fucking done it on purpose. Sought this shit out.

  She moaned, and he thought she might have tried to say his name.

  “Baby.” He brushed his fingers over her forehead and spoke at her ear. “Wills, I’m here. Come back to me.”