The Rush: The Hell's Disciples MC (The Hell's Disciples MC Series)

by Jaci J

  She takes a deep breath. “Listen, don’t worry, and try not to freak out,” she starts. Not fucking possible. Not when you tell me not to worry or freak out. “But Ty’s been hurt.”

  “What?” I gasp, already scrambling out of his bed, the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder, searching for my clothes on the floor around my feet. “What happened? Is he okay?”

  “He was in an accident.”

  “Shit.”

  The phone slips, falling to the bed. Grabbing it, I fumble with the stupid thing while untangling my clothes from the pile on the floor.

  “He’s okay,” she says quickly. “He didn’t want me to call you, but I figured you might want to know.”

  “Yes…thank you. Where is he? The hospital?” I ask, putting my phone on speaker so I can pull on a T-shirt.

  Sam laughs softly. “No. He refused, of course. He’s here at the club.”

  “I’ll be there in just a second.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up my phone and leave it on the bed in the mess of sheets. I look down at myself, and I can’t find it in me to change or care.

  I couldn’t give a shit less right now.

  The only thing I care about is getting to T, to see for myself that he’s okay.

  Leaving the room out back, I manage to pull the door closed behind me as I rush down the stairs and toward the club.

  It’s cold, the ground under my feet damp and chilly, wet grass sticking to my toes.

  Rushing into the club, I stop in the door and look around, looking for T.

  Tinks is sitting at the bar.

  “Bailey,” he crows, jerking his chin up at me.

  “Where’s T?”

  “Huh?”

  “T? Where is he?” I ask, my breath stilted and short.

  “In the back somewhere.” He points to the back of the club, toward a hall. “I think.”

  There’s a hall full of doors, and anxiety hits me in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  I don’t know where he is.

  He could really be hurt.

  Mid-panic attack, a door opens and T’s sister walks out. She stops when she sees me and shakes her head. “His crazy ass is in there,” she huffs, tossing her hand over her shoulder at the door she just walked out of.

  When I don’t move, she smiles and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Babe, he’s fine. A little fucked-up, but okay.”

  A little fucked-up?

  Taking a deep breath, I nod. “Oh…okay.”

  Opening the door, I step inside and stand in the doorway, my eyes finding T.

  He’s sitting up in a bed, his back leaning against the wall.

  My chest tightens at seeing him.

  He’s got a black eye and a gash on the bridge of his nose. His forearm is wrapped up, and there are white bandages on his side, running down and into his jeans. Jeans that are torn and covered in blood.

  He looks bad.

  Really fucking bad.

  “Baby,” he slurs, a lopsided smile on his face. He’s as high as a fucking kite. “Told that fucking pain in the ass not to call you.”

  “I’m glad she did,” I say softly, chewing on my lip, trying to keep my whacked-out emotions in check. I don’t know why I suddenly feel so upset. He’s alive. He seems okay.

  But still …

  “I’m fine,” he tells me, grunting in pain when he tries to adjust himself, looking at what I’m sure is my grief-stricken face.

  “T,” I groan in a pathetic attempt not to lose it.

  “I’m fucking fine,” he growls, scowling at me.

  “I don’t know if I believe that shit.”

  Pulling a bottle of something amber off the nightstand next to the bed, he takes a swig, closing his eyes as he swallows it back. “Either you walk your ass over here, or I get my injured ass up and come get you. You pick.” He gives me a pointed look.

  Walking toward him, I sit on the edge of the bed carefully, but he doesn’t think I’m close enough. Reaching out, he grabs my arm and pulls me to him, groaning in pain. “Get the fuck over here.”

  “What happened?” I ask, touching his arm, brushing my fingers softly over the bandage.

  “You weren’t the reason I dumped my bike,” he tells me casually, like it’s no big deal.

  I’m sure my eyes are as wide as my mouth. “You dumped your bike? How?”

  “That shit ain’t important. What is important is that you’re not naked and sitting on my face.”

  He’s drunk. Or high. Maybe both.

  “Jesus, T, I’m not getting naked. You’re fucking hurt.”

  He snorts. “I don’t give a fuck if I’m in a damn coma or casket.”

  “You just had me a couple of hours ago.”

  He shrugs, pulling at the bottle again – a bottle I take from him and set on the floor by my feet, out of reach. “I don’t like this,” I tell him, watching him try to adjust his body, his face screwed up in pain.

  “Like what?”

  “You hurt because of your bike.”

  I watch his face darken, and I know I’ve hit a nerve, but I couldn’t care less.

  “I could fucking trip over a rock walking down the street and break my goddamn neck. Don’t blame this shit on my bike.”

  Standing up, I step away from him and pace, my anger curling inside of me, choking out sense and reason. “Then who do I blame it on? Your club life? It’s caused a lot of fucking shit in both our lives.”

  “Don’t fucking do that shit,” he growls, scooting to the edge of the bed and putting his feet on the floor. I watch, in pain for him, as he gets off the bed, his fist clenched at his side. He’s slow, but still manages to make it upright. “Don’t blame this shit on my bike or my club, because, baby, that shit is a part of me. It’s something that’ll never change.”

  And I don’t want it or him to change. I like his bike. I like his club. But what I don’t like is this feeling. This worry. These nerves. All the shit it all seems to bring. “Jesus, T. This shit is too much for me.”

  “Fucking clearly,” he growls, eyes dark.

  “Clearly? What, do you think I’m here, upset and worried and acting this way just to be a bitch?”

  “Sounds like it. Blaming my bike and my club.” He shakes his head.

  That pisses me off. More than pisses me off.

  “You can’t be serious!” I shout, my anger spilling over. “After all this shit?”

  “Dead fucking serious.”

  “I’m acting this way, like a crazy bitch, because I fucking love you, you fucking idiot. And I’m not going through all this, changing my entire life, all so you can go off and fucking kill yourself.”

  30

  T

  EVERY GODDAMN INCH of my body hurts. Every fucking thing screams in pain.

  Every muscle.

  Every tendon.

  Every bone.

  I can hardly stand, can barely fucking move, but I can’t stop myself from grabbing her ass up and hauling her back onto the bed with me.

  The crazy bitch loves me.

  Bailey hits the mattress on her back, me on top of her, pinning her down with my body.

  She’s not going anywhere.

  My right side is fucked-up, the side that hit pavement first and took the brunt. Road rash, a nice slice, and bruises everywhere. Something, a piece of my bike or his truck, met my face, giving me a black eye and a busted nose. I’m a fucking mess, but that shit won’t stop me from putting hands on my girl.

  “You what?” I growl, pinning her hands to the mattress on either side of her head, holding her down, desperate to pull the words from her pretty little lying lips.

  She’s not getting away from me.

  Bailey won’t look at me, too busy jerking her head from side to side, refusing to meet my eyes. “Nothing,” she sniffs, chin up and out in some bullshit defiant move.

  “You gonna act like you didn’t just tell me you love me?”

  Forcing a laugh, she rolls her eyes. �
�I think you damaged your hearing when you took that blow to the head.”

  She wants to play games, act like a bitch. That’s fine. But she’s not going to tell me she loves me and then take that shit back. Not on her fucking life. “I heard that shit loud and fucking clear. Not a damn thing wrong with my ears, Doll. Only thing wrong is your fucking attitude.”

  “Then you must be confused.”

  “Don’t do that shit.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But she fucking does.

  I’ve met a lot of woman in my life, fucked a lot more, and I’ve heard them say all kinds of shit. They love me, want to marry me, carry my baby, be my old lady. None of that shit meant a goddamn thing to me, none of it caught me up. None of it hit me in the chest the way it did when Bailey just said what she did.

  Bailey loves me, and I needed to hear that shit. I want to hear the words come from her pretty little mouth again.

  Putting my face in her neck and hair, I breathe her in. “Say it again.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

  “You’re hurt and fucked-up.”

  “Gonna be hurtin’ a lot worse if I gotta pull out my cock and ram it into you to hear the words I’m askin’ for.”

  Bailey sighs, trying to wiggle away from me. She makes it about as far as sitting up, her back pressed against the wall, me blocking her from getting off the bed.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want to hear me say I love you? So you can not say it back and then use it against me?”

  That is fucking bullshit. “I’m not the bad guy you want to make me out to be in your fucked-up head. Yeah, baby, I do bad shit, but not to you. I put your ass on a fucking pedestal and you know it.”

  “T—”

  “Don’t say my name like that, like you can make me out to be this asshole.”

  Bailey chews on her lip, her eyes on mine. I can see every question and concern in her fucking head churning. She’s fishing for reasons and excuses, digging for bullshit. And I don’t get the chance to set her ass straight because someone is banging on the door. “We need to talk, asshole.”

  It’s Rock

  Motherfucker.

  “We’re not done with this shit, you hear me, Bailey?”

  “You called me Bailey,” she breathes, thrown for a loop, her eyes wide and hurt. “You didn’t call me Doll or Doll Face.” She almost sounds upset. She fucking should be.

  “Right now, you’re not acting like either.”

  She frowns.

  I smirk.

  “Calm that shit down, baby.”

  “I’m sorry,” she tells me, watching me get up, slowly.

  Shaking my head, I walk toward the door. “No, you’re not.” I know goddamn well she’s not sorry. She meant every word she said, and I would be fucking pissed if she didn’t.

  It’s my job to change her mind, to show her exactly how fucking wrong she is.

  “You love me?” I ask her, standing at the door.

  Scooting up and sitting at the edge of the bed, she looks at me.

  “You love me?” I repeat.

  “T…”

  “Trust me.”

  _______________

  It was a long and painful walk to room one, which took me twice as long as it usually does. Every step a feat in sheer will not to give the fuck up and take my ass back to bed, back to Bailey, and die.

  “Jesus, took your hobblin’ ass long enough,” King grumbles, watching me limp into the room.

  “How you doin’, gimpy?” Rock chuckles, kicking out my chair for me, like I’m a goddamn invalid and can’t do it myself.

  Sitting down slowly, I hiss in pain. My ribs are fucking killing me. “Dying, but doesn’t mean I won’t take you assholes out with me.” I reach for the pack of smokes on the table. Out of reach, Buck shakes his head and pushes them toward me in pity.

  “You gonna need us to wipe your ass too?” Tink asks, cracking up.

  Fucking pricks.

  “Yuck it up, motherfucker,” I bite out, pulling out a smoke and lighting it up.

  “Just givin’ you shit,” Rock insists. “Don’t start cryin’. We’re so sorry, princess.”

  “Good. Now get down on your knees and suck me off, show me how sorry you are.”

  Poncho laughs. “Pull it out, sweetheart.”

  “We gonna get this shit started, or are we gonna break out in song and dance with all the love floating around in this room?” my old man growls, dropping his coffee cup on the table. Must be fucking serious if he wants to be sober for this shit.

  “Don’t wait on my crippled ass.”

  “Speakin’ of crippled, you okay?”

  “Besides a couple of cracked ribs, some road rash, a hole in my arm, and bike on its way to the scrap pile? I’m solid.”

  Pops shakes his head. “You’re breathin’, you’ll be good. Let’s not forget, this shit is your goddamn fault. Should’ve waited for the club on that visit.”

  “I did what any one of you assholes would’ve done. We needed the money, I got the money.” And a little information.

  “Road Dog huffs. “No shit. You fucked-up this deal for us. Least you could’ve done.”

  “I’m not gonna throw Bailey under the fucking bus. You and I both fucking know that deal with the Russians was bullshit. It was bullshit from the beginning. Don’t need you to keep bringing it up. We get it, you’re fucking butt hurt.”

  “Still wasn’t your call to make.”

  “Yeah, well, I fucking made it anyway.”

  “And now you’re fucking paying for it,” Road Dog growls, his hands hitting the top of the table, his eyes dragging up and down my bruised skin.

  I couldn’t give a flying fuck if he’s mad or not. I did what I had to do, and I’d do it again.

  “Did I fucking complain?” I bark out, getting up from the table. “I don’t need the club’s permission on this anymore, since you all already stepped back. And if you don’t want to take my back, then don’t, but I wasn’t about to keep sticking my neck out for those fuckers when they weren’t giving us anything other than shit, and I wasn’t gonna keep doing it while they fucking came for Bailey. You got some of the money you’re so fucking worried about losing in that Russian deal. You’ll get the rest.”

  King looks at my old man. “How?”

  I speak up. “You motherfuckers aren’t going to do shit. It’s my mess, I’ll handle it, so don’t worry about it. You’ll get your cut.”

  I’ve never been anything other than one hundred percent loyal to my club.

  I’ve always had my brothers’ backs.

  I’ve done every goddamn thing asked of me by this club.

  But not this fucking time.

  I’m not playing with Bailey’s life.

  I walk out of Church for the second time in my life.

  BAILEY

  Trust is a funny thing.

  You trust your mom to feed you as a kid. You trust adults in your life not to hurt you when you’re young. You trust your childhood best friend to keep your secrets. You trust your boyfriends not to fuck other women. You trust yourself not to fall in love with a man that has the potential to ruin you.

  Trust is fragile and weak. It’s exactly like my heart when it comes to T—fragile and weak.

  I’ve always considered myself a tough girl, one with a backbone and thick skin, but when it comes to T, I’m anything but. I’m a mess. I’m weak. He makes me stupid and pliant, as well as willing and trusting.

  He’s turned me into everything I’ve never wanted to be—dependent on a man and not just for money, but for fucking attention and time, and love.

  I can’t believe I told him I loved him.

  It wasn’t a lie or bullshit.

  I’m still not sure I trust him not to break me, though.

  Sitting in a truck, T driving, he pulls off the road, the tires of the truck j
erking to the left.

  Staring out the window, mist and fog all over the highway, I finally look at T sitting in the driver’s seat.

  He’s looking at me, his face a fucking mask.

  “Need you to do something for me, baby.”

  “Okay,” I hear myself say, no questions asked. Turning away, I stare back out the window, miles of dense forest in front of us. On the side of some desolate highway in the middle of nowhere, I kind of want to bail out of the truck and run away from my fucking feelings and T.

  I can’t.

  I won’t.

  But I should.

  I should run for the damn hills.

  “Bailey, look at me.”

  Turning in the truck seat, I tuck one leg under me and look at him, leaning back against the door of the truck, watching his face.

  He looks so battered and bruised.

  I hate it.

  And I love it.

  The man does injured well.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t the only fucking option I have.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? That easy?”

  “That easy.”

  I know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. When it comes down to it, deep down, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do if he asked me, even if it went against everything I thought I wanted. Even if it fucking killed me.

  “Serious shit, Bailey.”

  “I’m serious, T.”

  He sighs, his jaw tight. “Need you to go back into The Pink Cat.” His voice full of remorse, and my heart instantly crawls into my throat.

  T’s fall off his bike wasn’t accidental. He may not be telling me everything, but I know better. This has something to do with Victor. It has something to do with him spending a night in jail, my split lip. It has something to do with the tension between us.

  T asking me to go back into The Pink Cat puts me right back in the middle, exactly where I don’t want to be.

  “T—”

  “Trust me, baby. You gotta trust me,” he pleads, his head down, eyes on the seat between us.

  He doesn’t want me to do it.

  He needs me to.

  “I’m trying.”

  “No trying. You either trust me or you don’t, Doll. No in between. Not now.”

  Before giving it more thought, I agree, because how could I not? Not really? “Okay.”

  I fucking love the man.