Running Blind

by SE Jakes

  Sweet could easily hold him down—and nothing was stopping him from killing Bram right now.

  Bram shook, a mix of pain and fear, and Sweet noticed immediately. “You’re in pain.”

  “Lots of it.”

  “Do you need your pills? Or can I try to take your mind off of it?” Sweet watched him and Bram gave the barest of nods, consenting.

  Sweet’s first smack was hard, stinging Bram’s bare ass and then stopping. Fuck—not enough.

  And Sweet knew that, used his open-handed palm to hit him, hard and fast, varying where the smacks came down and managing to put Bram into the exact place he needed to be—calm, focused on the right here and now.

  Why was the man who could turn out to be the biggest threat to his existence the one who could make him the calmest?

  He hung his head down, arms burning, a thin film of sweat covering his skin. Sweet leaned in, murmured, “You know how strong a man you have to be to submit,” then licked along the side of his neck and Bram shivered.

  It wasn’t really a question, and Bram didn’t feel all that strong, but it felt good to know Sweet thought that, and thought Bram a worthy adversary.

  He’d have to be that and more in the next few hours. But now? All he had to do was be here. Unable to trust, wanting to belong, knowing how to fake it, to fit in . . . but that wasn’t the same thing as truly finding his place somewhere. He’d spent so much of his life and career living as someone else that the only way he really knew how to live was to live in the moment.

  Nothing more in the moment than this. “That all you got, Sweet?”

  Sweet laughed, and then trapped him, held Bram’s head down to the ground a tight wrestling-like hold that made Bram safe and vulnerable at once. Sweet’s hand went half over Bram’s mouth, forcing him to suck Sweet’s fingertips as Sweet pounded into him flat to the mattress, invaded, impaled, and unwilling to fight.

  There was no denying his body’s reaction. He was drowning and flying at the same time.

  Bram wanted to ask if they could stay here all night, like this, miss the party and keep fucking.

  But that was putting off the inevitable. This might be Sweet’s way of saying goodbye.

  Or maybe you’re losing your edge.

  Sweet’s hips snapped, driving him more deeply into Bram, and his body tensed, strung tight like a bow that Sweet was holding. Stroking. Testing. Sweet, embracing him, detaining him, fucking him with a vengeance that spread heat through Bram’s entire body. He’d never felt so goddamned taken, so owned, claimed, so fucking full of Sweet’s cock, of Sweet’s everything.

  “Take it, Bram. Take it all,” Sweet groaned.

  “Yes,” Bram managed, his face pressed into the carpet, his ass up, unable to do anything but accept Sweet’s hard thrusts.

  When he came, his entire body jerked from the force of both his and Sweet’s climaxes.

  Bram got dressed, his body still buzzing from the sex, his mind following suit, but in a much more distracted way. Because his mind was looking for a way out, knew there wasn’t a choice . . . but his body? Wanted to stay and let Sweet fuck him any way he’d like.

  He needed to go. Find a way to not go to the party. Or hope that afterwards, everyone was so mellow and loose that they’d be off guard. Even slightly. If they weren’t . . .

  “You ready?” Sweet asked, coming out onto the porch to join him, pulling on his leather vest, wet hair tied back messily.

  Ready? Definitely not. Even if escape wasn’t on the table, recalling how Gypsy glared at him after talking to Sweet made his gut clench. He didn’t give a shit that Gypsy was mad at him, but he didn’t want to decimate Sweet’s friendships either.

  Which was what would happen when he escaped. Sweet would be to blame.

  “Why are you fighting with Gypsy?” Bram asked him to stop his mind running.

  “Just a difference of opinion. He’ll get over it.”

  “Will you?” Bram asked.

  “What do you care? You don’t even want to be here, so don’t get involved in shit that doesn’t concern you.”

  “Right.” Bram stared straight ahead. “I think it’s better I stay at Linc’s.”

  “It’s—”

  “I don’t care. Fuck, I told you I’d give Gypsy the bond.” Bram swore a muffled curse under his breath. “I don’t belong here.”

  “You’re here with me.”

  “You keep saying that. Trying to bend me to your will, to show everyone I behave for the president.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “That’s exactly it.” Bram brought his fists hands down on the porch railing, hard enough to make them ache. The pain was welcomed. Maybe the only thing that was at the moment. “Doesn’t matter if I don’t like it here.”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t belong here.”

  “Bram—”

  “I’m not part of this community. Not looking to patch in. And I’m not fighting anyone for acceptance.” Been there, done that . . . had the PSTD flashbacks to prove it. They were becoming more intense, and the fact that he was being lulled into believing that this place was different? Granted, no meth, but an MC all the same. Rules, regs, and a president everyone listened to.

  Same shit, different day.

  Sweet put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Bram wanted to ignore the implicit command behind the overt one, but his body refused to. He blamed the danger. His need.

  He blamed Sweet. Because it should be so much easier to save himself.

  Because Sweet had to know something, or at least suspect it. And Bram didn’t have it in him to hide much longer. He was having a problem keeping his undercover persona up and running.

  Something was off. Sweet looked around the party as though he could suss out the issue with a glance, but the rustling, restless breeze that fluttered around him remind him that shit like this wasn’t always in his power.

  On the outside, everyone was having fun. Things were calm—as much as any Havoc party could be considered calm, and most men and women weren’t quite drunk just yet. Still, everyone seemed happy.

  But, as it had so many times before, for Sweet there appeared to be an overlay that gave the entire area a grayish cast, like the land was attempting to warn him.

  “What’s up?” Tug asked quietly. He’d been standing with Sweet for most of the night. Ozzie was walking the crowds, listening for murmurs of anything that seemed off, and Gypsy was sitting on the closest porch by himself, brooding.

  Sweet glanced at Tug. “Not sure. Perimeters okay?”

  “Just swept.”

  “Do it again. Better yet, post men for the night.’

  Tug didn’t argue—never would when security was a factor—and left.

  He glanced over at Bram, who was somehow drunk and uptight all at once. Maybe he sensed that something was up as well, or maybe it was a guilty conscience. Sweet figured he’d find out soon enough.

  Ozzie was the first to report trouble. “Spoke with Tug. Pagans are here. They say that they’re looking for the Heathen probie with the bounty on his head. They want to bring him in, dead or alive. They say we’re harboring a club fugitive and club rules dictate we send him back.” Ozzie didn’t look happy about either prospect, but he kept it professional. “They’re being held at the bottom. They say they don’t want trouble—if we hand him over, they won’t tell the Heathens that we were the ones harboring their man.”

  Sweet barked a harsh laugh. “Tell them I’ll come down there and piss on them if they don’t get the fuck out of here.”

  Ozzie frowned, glanced at Bram. “But Sweet—”

  “He rejected the Heathens, right?” Sweet reasoned.

  “Yeah,” Ozzie admitted. “This could be a Trojan horse situation though.”

  It could be. But Sweet refused to be bullied into anything. “Tell the motherfuckers to go on home alone.”

  “What if they come back with proof?” Ozzie asked. “Or with the Heathens the
mselves.”

  Sweet glanced over at Bram, who seemed blissfully unaware of the ripples running through the MC’s membership. “By then, we’ll know the truth.”

  Ozzie nodded slowly. “You up for this?”

  “Yes,” Sweet said firmly. “First, we save his life and then figure out of it was worth saving. Because everyone makes mistakes.”

  Bram had been trained to read lips, and although he was damned good at it, he found himself fading in and out as he kept his eyes on Sweet and Ozzie while they put their heads together. He caught Pagans and Heathens and his own name. And finally . . . Everyone makes mistakes.

  Those words hit him like a kick to the sternum. He bent forward, his breath coming in hard, painfully panicked gasps. He was trapped. He’d never escape this job, and the enormity of that washed over him like a tidal wave.

  He remained there alone and continued to drown mercilessly.

  At some point, there were voices surrounding him. Inside, he felt oddly calm and peaceful, but his body was fighting something he didn’t quite understand.

  “Bram, what the fuck did you do to yourself? What did you take?” Sweet was asking harshly.

  Bram stared up at him, trying to comprehend what the fuck he was talking about.

  Take? He was having a panic attack. A goddamned massive, heart pounding, dizzying . . .

  Take.

  Drugged.

  Fuck. With all the strength he could muster, he pointed to the beer he’d been handed by someone at the keg earlier.

  Sweet echoed his thoughts with a decisive, “Fuck. Call the doc—Bram’s been drugged.”

  He was restless—drowning and flying at the same time. Throat closing painfully as his leaden limbs cut through the water. But he had to get to Linc, who’d flailed and thrashed—and then his brother’s head went under. Bram panicked, water filled his lungs and his cough sounded unnatural to his ears, like a death rattle.

  Linc! He was yelling inside his mind. Under the water, Linc turned to look at him. Held out his hand, but then, as though an invisible force began pulling him from behind, he slowly moved away.

  Bram’s outstretched fingertips touched Linc’s, but Bram couldn’t get a grasp on them. Linc was slipping away and Bram’s body tensed. He couldn’t breathe. His brain clouded and then . . .

  Sweet. What was Sweet doing in the water?

  Bram blinked slowly, coming to, feeling the mattress under him, the realization that he was soaked from sweat. That he was nowhere near that goddamned lake. That Linc wasn’t here. That Bram himself very nearly hadn’t been either.

  And even though he reassured himself that he wasn’t drowning, he closed his eyes and went under again.

  However many hours later, Bram surfaced with a deep, gasping breath of goddamned air, grasping for a body that wasn’t there.

  Sweet’s voice broke through the roar in his ears. “Hey, you’re all right. Safe.”

  Bram opened his mouth, but it took forever to croak out, “Felt like I never stopped moving.”

  “You didn’t. You were looking for Linc while you were knocked out,” Sweet confirmed in a voice heavy and husky from lack of sleep.

  Bram blinked at him until the confusion cleared. “Shit. Was dreaming.”

  “I’d imagine so,” Sweet said darkly. He was pissed, and it took Bram another minute to process—and recall—that none of this was his fucking fault.

  “Who did this?”

  “Not sure.” Sweet handed him a glass of water, which Bram drank down greedily. He became aware that he was thankfully not in a hospital, but rather in Sweet’s cabin. And that there was a pretty woman approaching, long blonde hair and big blue eyes. The dark-rimmed glasses she wore made her look even sexier, although Bram suspected she wore them for just the opposite reason.

  “How long’s he been awake?” she asked, her tone low and no-nonsense.

  “Few minutes. He seems okay.” Sweet vacated his seat next to Bram so she could move closer. “Bram, this is Doctor—”

  “Misha,” she corrected. “I’m just going to do a quick exam, okay, Bram?”

  He nodded, and she listened to his chest, tested his reflexes, and asked him some standard questions.

  “Great—passed with flying colors. You’ll feel like crap for the next twelve hours or so before all of the drug’s out of your system. Drink lots of fluids to flush it out faster, but you shouldn’t have another reaction like that—you’re through the worst of it,” Misha told him. “But I’m around—Sweet knows how to reach me.”

  “Thanks.” Bram noted that she hugged Sweet as she started to leave the room. “Wait—”

  She turned back. “What’s wrong?”

  “What was it—the drug?”

  “GHB.” She frowned. “Apart from being affected by it, you’re highly allergic to it—that’s why you reacted the way you did. You started going into shock. It’s not a common allergy, one you could live your whole life peacefully not knowing you had.”

  Bram’s body chilled—utterly ice-motherfucking-cold.

  “Bram, what’s wrong?” Sweet asked.

  One you could live your whole life peacefully not knowing you had.

  But Bram did know.

  And so did anyone who looked at his ATF records.

  Because the Heathens gave him the drug after they beat him—OD’d him but it wasn’t the OD that nearly killed him. It was the allergy—and the only people who knew that were the ATF agents sent by Parisi who picked him up and took him in after they discovered him.

  Sweet demanded, “What is it, Bram? You got pale as a fucking ghost again.”

  Bram was trapped, inside his own body and inside Havoc’s compound. He wasn’t going to die, not from the drugging. But at the hands of Sweet and his men?

  Entirely possible.

  He had to tell everything, and trust that Sweet wouldn’t kill him . . . or feed him to the Heathens, limb by limb.

  “Bram, can you tell me how you feel?” Misha urged. “Scale of one to five, five being great.”

  “Two,” he managed.

  “Better than I expected,” she said. “I’m going to run another IV to push the rest of the shit out of your system. Just lie back and try to relax.”

  He didn’t even have the strength to laugh at her words. Instead, he let her check his vitals and he slept more, knowing he was at least safe until she was gone. Finally, he was steady enough to sit up without getting light-headed. He drank some Coke and kept it down and progressed to crackers as Misha took the IV fluids out of his arm, convinced that his health and welfare were going in the right direction.

  If she had any idea of the truth, he wondered what she’d do. She’d taken an oath to do no harm. Would it matter?

  Probably not, since her loyalty was to Havoc. So Bram didn’t say a word to her, let his last hope walk out the door and leave him alone with Sweet, and with the truth.

  Sweet, who walked slowly over to him, unshaven, handsome as fuck and looking bigger than he had earlier. Bram had been trying to wake his muscles up, testing them, flexing his hands to make sure he could fight.

  Because if he could, he would.

  Without any small talk, Sweet narrowed his eyes and demanded, “Who the fuck are you, Bram?”

  Bram stared at him and said seriously, “I’m the guy you’ve been fucking.”

  “Not the time for your sarcastic shit. We both know it won’t work.”

  Playing innocent for a few more minutes wouldn’t either, but that didn’t stop Bram from frowning slightly. “What’s this all about?”

  “I’ve got two Pagans outside who offered me the full amount of the bounty put on your head by Heathens so they can take you back and finish the job,” Sweet said. Bram knew he must be a pretty damned VIP for the Pagans and the Heathens to actually work toward the same end. Then again, all the MCs were in agreement about traitors.

  Sweet continued, “I’m assuming the Heathens are on their way as well. Word travels fast. I know who you are, Bra
m. I know you’re hiding from the Heathens. There’s no way out, so you need to start talking.”

  Under Sweet’s steady stare, Bram dropped the act. “Just let me get out of here and I won’t bother you again.”

  And then he stood up, leaving them mere inches apart, pushing his luck. As he suspected, Sweet pulled the knife he’d held in his palm and brought it up under Bram’s chin. “You’re a Heathen probie.”

  “Guess you’ve figured that out,” Bram said evenly. “You tell me the rest of the story.”

  “Tell you what?” Sweet asked, an edge to his voice. “That I’m going to beat the shit out of you? Kill you? Or turn you back over to the Heathens? Because they’re all viable—and called for—options.”

  Bram swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.

  Sweet continued, “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have even given you time to ask your question.”

  “So why am I still breathing?”

  Sweet leaned in. “Make no mistake it’s because of my generosity. Your life? In my hands.”

  Bram blew out a harsh breath. “What the fuck do I say to that? Thank you?”

  “Be a start.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Sweet.” His voice turned low, dangerous, the sound a caged animal would make right before it broke out and attacked. “I’m not anyone’s bitch. Don’t expect me to be your indentured servant, walking upright because of your good graces.” Because he knew all too well how quickly those good graces could turn like the tide . . . and when that happened, it was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen.

  Because he’d seen it.

  His past swirled around him and he was drowning again . . . gulping water, praying, looking for help frantically . . . and seeing a man standing at the shore, staring, hands stuffed in his pockets, unwilling to help, no matter how hard Bram screamed and begged.

  Parisi’s assurances rang hollow in his ears. “We’re coming, Bram. You can get out tonight—don’t wait. Leave your apartment and don’t look back.”

  Bram, surrounded by Heathens. Hemmed in.