by SE Jakes
Bram was exactly the same way—born, bred, and ready to fight his way out of everything. He waited with Ozzie at the back and finally forced himself to asked, “Will the Pagans report him?” even though he knew that’d never happen.
Still, he had to keep up his cover as Linc’s dumb-as-fuck brother.
Ozzie snorted. “Never. Cops just decide to scoop everyone up and hope someone talks. It’s more about the Pagans than Havoc, but we’re used to it.”
Bram wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do. “Gypsy made it sound like bail wasn’t an option.”
“They’ll just let him out in the morning. Nothing to charge him with,” Ozzie explained. “Sweet’s okay.”
The familiar swirl of emotions began inside his brain. Locked up, unprotected. Sweet isn’t you, he reminded himself.
Minutes later, he was in Sweet’s truck with Tug driving, Gypsy in the passenger’s seat and Bram and Ozzie behind them. When they got to the bond shop, the men worked with military precision: Tug waited in the car, Ozzie took the front door, and Gypsy vetted the entire building before he told Bram, “Go get your shit and come down fast.”
Bram did so. His bag was still packed, save for the shirt he’d changed from earlier. He grabbed it from the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror, the hunted, haunted expression staring back at him.
What the hell had he been thinking? Two nights of cock—damned good cock, but still, it wasn’t a reason for him to run around saving a biker.
Shit. He splashed his face with cold water, rubbed it hard with a towel. He’d be sleeping—if that happened—fully clothed and armed. Then he grabbed his bag and got back into the truck that would take him into the Havoc MC compound.
Bram wasn’t sure if he was prisoner or protected, and driving into Havoc with the lights on the truck dimmed didn’t do anything to reassure him it wasn’t the former. He took note of several MC guards at what he assumed was the entrance, but from there, it was dark as shit on the property, at least until Tug turned up a small road and came upon a lighted house that Bram assumed was Gypsy’s.
“Wait here,” Gypsy told him and went with Tug into the house. Several minutes later, Ozzie’s phone beeped and he walked Bram into the custom-made log cabin that looked nothing like the shitholes that most of the Heathens inhabited.
Ozzie walked him into the kitchen where Gypsy and Tug stood talking. Gypsy handed him a bottle of water. “I’m going to let these guys out and lock up. There’ll be guys around the house all night.”
Was that a warning? Bram just nodded as the three men walked past him. But before he could think more on that, he noticed the shirt hanging casually on the back of one of Gypsy’s kitchen chairs. There was no way this wasn’t a setup, a motherfucking trap set because they didn’t believe he was Linc’s brother, like Bram was some kind of jerk-off.
His hands tightened into fists, but the instinct to reach for Linc’s shirt was stronger. As he held it, he was immediately flooded with memories.
It was a concert T-shirt for Motörhead, the first concert they’d gone to together. Linc loved the shirt, said the goddamned thing was indestructible. Faded from black to grayish with age, frayed, the cotton nearly see-through in places. It was Linc’s security blanket. It went overseas with him, and Bram was pretty sure Linc regarded it like some kind of talisman.
Tonight, Bram would clutch it like one, although it wouldn’t stop the dreams.
He didn’t wait for Gypsy to come back into the kitchen, figured that the shirt had been left there to goad Bram into a reaction—or to see if he actually recognized it at all. So he took the shirt, because that should clue the asshole in to the fact that Bram knew exactly whose shirt it was. He also grabbed a couple of beers and a bottle of water for good measure and found the room his bag had been placed in. He remained dressed, downed the beers in quick succession and lay down, and he’d locked the damned door and slept with his knife.
Gypsy didn’t come to find him, remained outside with Tug and Ozzie for quite a while before Bram heard the door open and close. But there were Havoc members at all the exits of the house, just like Gypsy told him there would be. Whether they were to keep him safe or a prisoner, Bram had no idea. Probably a little of both.
Fuck, he was really isolated. Except for Dozer, no one knew where he was. He especially couldn’t tell Linnea his location—he needed her and her kids, his nephews, safe.
But he also needed to check-in, so he used his burner to call her as he did a quick sweep for bugs and cameras, found nothing but turned the TV on anyway. “Hey Lin—”
“Where have you been? I’ve left messages,” she cut him off. “And don’t pull that job shit.”
Yeah, he couldn’t get away with anything with her. Neither could Linc. “Sorry. I was following a lead on Linc and getting settled.”
“You still haven’t heard from him? What did the bondsman say?”
“That Linc jumped.” He considered telling her that Linc might not have left on his own steam, but why go there?
And still, their sister was anything but stupid. “I want to believe he ran, because thinking anything else . . .”
After she trailed off, all he could say was, “I know, Lin. I know.”
“Find our baby brother.”
Our baby brother. There were no halves or steps with Linnea—her brothers were hers. They were family, period. “I will, Lin. Promise.” He paused. “How’re the boys?”
“Pains in the asses, just like my brothers.” Then her tone softened. “They miss their uncles.”
“Tell them we’ll see them soon. I mean it.”
“I know. Stay safe or I’ll kill you.”
He hung up, knowing she meant that. She’d known the full extent of his injuries, but only after the fact. It was better that way, but he’d hear about it for the rest of his life.
He took up Linc’s concert shirt and held it, like it could tell him where his brother was. He concentrated hard, recalling all the times he’d seen Linc in that shirt, and happy. Linc always looked more like an angel, Linnea used to say, albeit a fallen one with a very crooked halo and a smile that could make anyone forgive him. Blond, blue eyes, their mom’s olive skin that tanned well and an easy, lanky build he wore like a strutting model.
A hippie, trained to kill. It was a great cover, but that was exactly who Linc was—he knew it, embraced it, enjoyed the fuck out of it. Unlike Bram, who could never just keep one life or persona on for size. There were too many he wanted to try, looking for the perfect hit. One that felt comfortable without being too restrictive.
But no matter how well he looked out for Linc, Bram could never shake the feeling that it really was the other way around. And still he refused to believe or accept that his baby brother was the one babying him, just kept insisting that he knew best and Linc would nod—patiently—and then do whatever the fuck he wanted to keep himself happy, which often included asking Bram what he planned on doing post-ATF.
“There is no post-ATF, Linc. This is my job,” he’d say, and Linc would nod, stare at him with that combination of spacey and sage, and then ask, “You don’t think there’s more out there for you?”
“More? More what?”
“More . . . life,” Linc would say, spreading his arms to emphasize his point.
Fuck it all. The only thing Bram knew for sure was that he wanted what was best for Linc.
Bram took out a pain pill and contemplated taking it. He’d rather keep drinking to numb out everything, but it hadn’t helped the physical pain much. He had to weigh the worst of the two and finally, he took the damned pill, let himself float away from everything, good and bad. And still, it did nothing to quell his nightmares, his dreams a mix of Linc and the beating and pure fucking terror.
He woke yelling, clutching Linc’s shirt.
Sweet remained locked up for the rest of the night through early the next day. He’d been solitary in his cell, mostly left alone except for the guard who’d smuggled him a bag
of lollipops, and finally questioned half-heartedly by the detective who had to answer to the FBI who roamed the area looking for RICO cases.
“Nothing personal, Sweet,” Detective Connelly told him as he sat across the interrogation table.
Whenever they got to this point in his arrest, Sweet knew he was just about to be let go for lack of evidence. The understanding between Havoc and the local law had always been an uneasy partnership, but most of the cops understood that Havoc was a necessary evil to keep the drugs and guns and gangs away from their city.
Havoc also stimulated the local economy with the shops they ran off the Havoc compound, which also helped keep the local politicians from coming down too hard on them.
One of Havoc’s biggest moneymakers was porn, which was filmed, cut, and distributed on Havoc’s property—completely legal and up to code. Taxes paid. Another was stealing expensive cars from wealthy buyers. “I know. Too bad I didn’t see anything.”
Connelly stared at Sweet’s bloodied knuckles and shook his head. “A damned shame.”
Now, nearly twelve hours post-arrest, with Tug and Ozzie escorting him home, Sweet dialed Gypsy.
“They finally got tired of you?” Gypsy asked.
“About fuckin’ time.” He needed a shower, sex, and sleep, in that order. “Bram okay?”
“Apart from the nightmares?”
“How bad?”
“Bad, Sweet. But he made Linc’s shirt. I left it out purposely.”
Sweet’s anger rose but he wasn’t sure exactly why—it was a smart move on Gypsy’s part. “So he passed your test.”
“Go fuck yourself, Sweet,” Gypsy muttered. “Come get Bram and get him the hell out.”
Gypsy was the only man on this compound who’d talk to Sweet that way. Their fights didn’t last long though, and Sweet always cut his friend slack.
“What the hell’s got you so spooked?”
“How about the fact that this guy’s got you wrapped,” Gypsy told him.
“Guess it runs in the family,” Sweet retorted and swore he could hear Gypsy’s growl through the phone. “Hey, I trusted you about Linc.”
“And look where that got us.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Bram’s fucked up, Sweet. We both know it. Just because you’re looking for someone to save . . .” Gypsy trailed off as Sweet’s blood ran cold.
He stared out the window and hung up on Gypsy before he said something he’d regret, figured his friend was more pissed—and guilt ridden—over Linc than anything at the moment, and Sweet’s choices were an easy target.
But Gypsy was dead wrong about Sweet wanting to save anyone. He’d learned long ago that it wasn’t possible, and he lived daily with regrets over things he could never take back. But he’d learned from what happened with James, aka Jimmy-Boy, and after losing the love of his goddamned life, Sweet refused to make the same mistake twice.
Still, he pondered on the value of keeping Bram on the compound until they could figure out what the fuck was happening. Because Sweet had administered a test of his own, one his closest MC brothers definitely noticed. By Sweet’s pretending not to see the knife, he’d forced Bram’s hand to see if he’d jump into the fight . . . and ultimately, it’d forced Bram farther into Havoc. It was done to ensure that Linc would come back, or to at least find out once and for all if Linc had betrayed Havoc. And if Bram was planning on doing the same.
This plan would screw Bram with the Pagans, and it might end up doing the same to Sweet. But he’d risk it to ferret out any signs of infiltration from outside enemies into his camp. Havoc trusted him implicitly. They depended on him. He’d never let his club down.
After his nightmare, Bram wouldn’t let himself go back to sleep. He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed in Gypsy’s spare room since 4 a.m., staring out the window watching darkness turn to light like a prisoner waiting for release.
He’d eaten a few protein bars he’d had stashed in his bag so he could take some more pain pills, because he’d noticed his hands shook if he didn’t dose up. They’d stopped making him feel so groggy, and whether that was a good or bad sign he wasn’t sure, but he was sure as hell he needed to be pain-free physically to deal with Havoc. To defend himself and find Linc in the process, because this time he needed Linc’s help. Maybe he was living it up partying while hiding from Havoc and responsibility, and Bram would accept that as long as he could get Linc back. Because fuck, he missed the hell out of his brother.
Gypsy hadn’t gotten much sleep either—Bram heard him pacing around the house, talking on the phone and finally heard the door slam. A quick glance out the window assured him that Gypsy was now outside with the men who’d been guarding the house all night. Bram turned the TV up and took the opportunity to check in with Dozer. It was under the twelve-hour mark, but who the hell knew when the next opportunity would present itself?
“Where are you?” Dozer asked immediately in lieu of hello.
Bram checked the window again—Gypsy and the two MC guards remained in a tight circle, their heads together. “Havoc. Gypsy’s house. Sweet got arrested.”
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Dozer hissed. “Because I’ll come get you and check you in someplace until you’re motherfucking semi-sane.”
The hairs on the back of Bram’s neck rose. “Hear anything?”
“You’re definitely on the Heathens’ radar. Big time.”
“Do they know—”
“That you’re not who you say you are?” Dozer finished his thought. “Not yet. But someone is leaking intel about where your undercover persona is at the moment.”
Bram had never been more grateful than now that he was a paranoid bastard. Because the only person he’d told his made-up vacation plans to was Parisi, and Bram had mentioned that he’d be on the other side of the country. “And?”
“It’s California.”
Bram’s gut feeling about Parisi was confirmed as he breathed, “Okay then.”
“What’s your end game?”
Bram sighed. “Safety.”
“For a few minutes and the cost is high. What’re you going to pay with?”
Bram had no idea how to answer that. “Look, I need to figure out more about where Linc could’ve gone. There’s a missing piece and it’s here, at Havoc.”
“So find Linc, pay the bond, and get the fuck out.”
Yes, that was the best option. The rest of it, whether he was betrayed to the Heathens or whether he ended up going back to the ATF? All up in the air. “Don’t let yourself get fucked for me, Doz.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Dozer warned before hanging up. Their familiar refrain made Bram smile for a second, until he remembered that Parisi was trying to let the Heathens kill him.
He shoved Linc’s T-shirt into his bag, zipped it up and went into the kitchen to wait for Gypsy. What he needed now was a current address for Linc. His brother did mainly e-billing these days, and any addresses still listed were his previous rentals. Linc had mentioned that he’d been spending time at Havoc, but living here?
If Gypsy was surprised to see him waiting in the kitchen, packed bag and all, he didn’t show it. Instead, he asked, “Hungry?”
“Any word on Sweet?” Bram countered.
“Nope. Why? Got somewhere to be?”
“I’d like to go to Linc’s place and check it out.”
“You didn’t do that first, before you came to me?” Gypsy asked.
“I don’t have a current address. But you do.”
Gypsy shrugged. “He was staying with Rush for a while but then Rush mainly stays here.”
Fuck. “Where’s Rush’s place?” he demanded, and when Gypsy didn’t answer, he added, “I guess you went there and looked around.”
“His bike’s gone, Bram. He’s a runner. Rush said so, you said so, and hell, even Linc said so. The landlord hasn’t seen him, but Linc paid rent through the end of this month.”
“And that’s it?”
&n
bsp; “You’re a month behind,” Gypsy told him.
“So what the fuck’ve you been doing besides making calls to me?” Bram asked, and Gypsy’s eyes turned into cold steel. Bram could feel the warning signs radiating off the man, but he didn’t give a shit. “This is your goddamned job, so why not find him right away? Or do you always fuck your money and then let it walk?”
“This wasn’t about money,” Gypsy said tightly.
“Then what the fuck was it about?” Bram railed, as it finally clicked that Linc saying he loved it at Havoc translated to Linc loving Gypsy. And all Bram’s anger that had previously been directed at Linc shot straight at Gypsy. The fucker had taken his brother’s heart and stomped it, had let him down and let him go. At the very least, he’d done shit to look for him, focusing on the lost money aspect ahead of anything else. “You’ve let my brother’s trail go stone-cold. All I’ve seen you do is dial my goddamned number. So either you suck at your business so badly you can’t even find your own dick with a map—”
Gypsy charged, a bull seeing red, and it was exactly what Bram needed. He’d feel it in the places that were still healing, but in the heat of this moment, he didn’t care. Maybe they’d kick him out of Havoc—and it was definitely easier fighting one man to do that than the whole club.
Gypsy was strong, seemed as angry as Bram. Both men took it out on each other, Bram’s fist connecting with Gypsy’s nose, Gypsy’s landing squarely against Bram’s sternum, vibrating through his still healing and painful as fuck rib cage.
As Bram fought for breath, Gypsy growled, “Don’t blame me because you can’t take care of your own.”
“He was yours too, you fucker.” Bram rallied, managed to get Gypsy in a headlock, ready to slam his knee into Gypsy’s nose. Just then Sweet grabbed him with a loud, “What the fuck?” as he yanked Bram’s arms off Gypsy and behind his back, leaving him effectively wide open to Gypsy’s blows.
Bram fought the hold, not wanting to give away how well he could fight, but thankfully Gypsy backed off, swearing, blood pouring from his nose. Bram’s head had opened over his eyebrow. Those bled like a bitch but he was too wound up on adrenaline to feel the punishing pain he was assured of later.