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

by Jaci J

She’s alive.

  “Doll Face?” I ask, my voice gruff, clogged with emotion. Rocking back and forth, I try like hell to wake her up, to bring her back around.

  I can’t remember a time in my life ever being this scared.

  I’m fucking terrified.

  I could lose her.

  I can’t fucking lose her.

  “T!”

  Rock.

  I can’t answer him. I can’t muster the strength to holler back, and honestly? I don’t want to. Not like this.

  “Tyler!”

  With my back pressed against the building, I hold Bailey, listening to sirens wailing off in the distance coming closer. I don’t know if Rock called it in or the fire alarm did, but they’re coming, headed this way, and there are two dead bodies inside being burnt up by arson, a half dead female in my arms, and I’m the last motherfucker standing.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” I tell her, suddenly over-fucking-whelmed. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  T

  Chaos.

  I’m lost in the middle of it all.

  Floating.

  Or maybe I’m fucking drowning, lost at fucking sea.

  Alcohol does nothing.

  Pills do very fucking little.

  Nothing helps.

  Sitting in the back room at the club, bullets removed, holes stitched up and the wounds cleaned, it’s not the pain from the shots that hurt. It’s knowing that Bailey is at the hospital, alone.

  I’m not there and I should be.

  She needs me, and if I’m being real fucking honest, I need her too. I need to see her face. I need to see the rise and fall of her chest. I need to hear her voice.

  I fucking need it.

  The doc left me with strict orders to stay off my damn feet.

  Not gonna happen. Not on his or my life.

  I need to be with Bailey.

  “Haven’t you fucked-up enough shit already?” my old man growls, pacing the floor. “Your sister said the Five-O have been by twice.”

  Thank fuck for my sister, who has been with Bailey since she was admitted.

  “Not gonna fuckin’ sit here.”

  “You can and you fucking will,” he barks, shoving a finger in my face. “Last goddamn thing I need is your ass tossed behind bars. You want to see her, you wait until tonight, after the cops have got what they want.”

  _______________

  I fucking hate hospitals.

  It’s ten at night and no one’s around as I walk down the hall toward Bailey’s room.

  My sister texted me the room number.

  I couldn’t stay away.

  I stop at the door and look in, my stomach in my goddamn throat.

  I make my way inside, on autopilot.

  Bailey has pretty skin. Tan, full of color and life. Smooth and soft. Perfect.

  Now?

  Purple. Black. Blue. Red.

  Her skin is fucking pale, what little of it that’s showing between the cuts, scrapes, and bruises marring her perfect fucking body.

  Every inch of her.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, I stare at her.

  Numb.

  I can feel the bile rising in my gut. I can feel it climbing up my chest, clawing at my throat. It fucking burns.

  She’s so lifeless.

  So fucking still.

  “Who are you?” a voice asks from behind me. It’s soft, but shrill.

  I don’t look.

  I can’t stop looking at Bailey.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” the voice asks again when I pull the white blanket off Bailey’s body.

  I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I need to see her.

  All of her.

  Her body is bruised.

  Badly.

  Her arm is in a cast.

  Her skin is covered in bandages.

  “Excuse me!” the woman shouts, her arm grabbing mine when I go for Bailey’s hand—her small, soft hand. “Get away from my daughter.”

  I just want to touch her.

  I just want to fucking feel her skin.

  “Shit,” someone else says.

  My old man.

  “Fuck,” my dad curses, his boots following me into the room. He grabs my shoulder and I shrug out of it.

  “Son.”

  “Get the fuck off me,” I hear myself growl.

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Maybe it’s the medication.

  Maybe it’s what happened.

  Maybe it’s seeing her like this.

  I’m fucked-up.

  “Get out of my daughter’s room!” the woman shouts. “I need help in here!” she yells out the door. “There’s some man in here. I need security!”

  There are tubes and wires everywhere. Medical tape and bandages, needles and monitors.

  I don’t remember much.

  Fire.

  Hot fucking flames.

  I’m fucking drowning in them.

  “Ty, son, come on.”

  “No.”

  I make it to the other side of the bed, crouching down next to her. “Bailey, baby.”

  She doesn’t move.

  She doesn’t respond.

  Nothing.

  I grab her hand.

  I need to touch her.

  She doesn’t flinch.

  She doesn’t pull away.

  I expect her to be mad at me. I expect her to yell at me. I expect something.

  “Open your eyes, Doll Face,” I plead, grabbing her face.

  There’s blood dried to her lips—her pale fucking lips.

  Panic builds in my chest.

  Can’t she open her fucking eyes?

  Why are her lips so fucking pale?

  “Baby, open your fucking eyes. Look at me.”

  “Tyler,” my dad growls, his hands on my shoulders. “Rock!” he hollers. “Get in here. Help me with him.”

  My old man tries to get me up, but I can’t leave her, not when she needs me. Not when I need her.

  “Get the fuck away from me.”

  “You’re no good to her locked up, T.”

  Rock.

  I look at him.

  Fucking pity.

  “She’ll be fine,” I tell him, even though he didn’t ask. I think I say it more for me than him.

  Rock nods. “Yeah, but you can’t stay here.”

  “She needs me.”

  “Not right now.”

  “My daughter doesn’t need you!”

  I look at her mom. “No? Who the fuck’s been taking care of her the last year and half?” I shout, my voice loud in the small room. “Where were you? Fucking jail? On the fucking street?”

  Her mom, a small woman with an old, tired face, shrinks back. “I’m her mom.”

  “I’m her man.”

  I look at Bailey and I feel myself breaking.

  She needs me.

  I need her.

  “T, man, not like this,” Rock says, like the motherfucker is in my head. “Not like this.”

  I look at her mom, at my old man, at Rock, at the nurse and security at the door, and back at Bailey.

  I lean down and I kiss her.

  “I’m sorry, Doll. So fucking sorry. I’ll be back, yeah? I won’t leave you, not like this.”

  BAILEY

  In a daze.

  In a dream.

  I wake up, alone, in an empty room.

  Blinking up at a ceiling, I let my eyes adjust, or what little they can, seeing as one will only open a slit.

  White walls.

  Sterile furniture.

  Beeping machines.

  I’m sore and stiff. I hurt everywhere.

  My bones ache.

  My lungs burn.

  Dragging in a deep breath, I cough and it hurts. Pain radiates from my chest and through my body, blooming in my back and spreading everywhere when fresh air hits my lungs.

  I can’t catch my breath.

  I can’t stop coughing.

  I start
to panic because I can’t fucking breathe.

  Putting my hand on my chest, my fingers stinging, I feel for a heartbeat, anything that tells me I’m not dying.

  “Bailey, sweetheart.”

  Mom.

  “I need a nurse in here,” my mom calls out, her voice fading as she walks away from me.

  I don’t need a nurse.

  I don’t want a doctor.

  I need Tyler.

  Where’s T?

  I look around, my eyes not finding him.

  Where is he?

  Why isn’t he here?

  I open my mouth to ask, but nothing comes out besides a strangled wheeze.

  A nurse comes in. Hovering over me, she looks down at me, her face kind. “Welcome back, Bailey. I’m going to give you something to ease the pain, honey.”

  I only nod because I’m desperate to put the fire in my chest out.

  I’m burning alive.

  The last thing I see is a white ceiling, wishing it was T I was looking at instead.

  _______________

  I come to hours later.

  Maybe it’s days?

  Weeks?

  The room is dark, the only light coming from a muted TV hanging from the wall across from my bed.

  Court TV.

  How ironic.

  Scooting up in the bed the best I can, I look around me.

  The chair to my right is occupied by my mom.

  My mom.

  She’s asleep, her arms crossed over her chest and her legs crossed at the ankles. She’s wearing a dress, a leather jacket over it.

  She looks like she always does—tired. Even in sleep, she looks exhausted.

  I know I’m in the hospital. It’s the smell. I can smell the sickness, the sadness, the death.

  Taking a deep breath, I feel a fiery burn hit me.

  Rubbing at my chest, I fight the cough.

  Little breaths.

  I search my memory, and little by little, all the terrible pieces fall into place.

  I need to find T.

  On the edge of the bed, I look down at myself. One arm is in a cast, and the other is hooked up to an IV. I’m covered in bruises and scratches, the skin under that a funny shade of pale.

  Putting my feet on the floor, I get up.

  My legs are steadier than they should be.

  Determination?

  Desperation?

  Squeezing the small clip on the IV, I cut it off and unplug it, needing to get up.

  Flashes of the night before flit through my mind.

  T. The beach. The ocean. The bath. The old bed. The sex.

  I remember holding a gun, the shake in my hands making it hard to aim.

  In my mind, I hear the gunshot. In my hands, I feel the kick of the gun. In my nose, I smell the metallic smell from the gun firing.

  Leaning against the doorframe of the hospital room, I’m hit with worse memories.

  Victor. A white box van. His fists. The fists of his thug. A chair and rope. Smoke and fire.

  Swaying on my feet, I manage to stay upright.

  “Sweetheart?” my mom’s voice calls from behind me.

  I cringe at the sound, my skin prickling.

  She’s drunk.

  I feel her hand on me.

  “Where are you going?”

  “After T.”

  “Get back in bed.”

  “Just go home.”

  I hear her suck in a breath. “Bailey,” she chastises. “I came here, took time out of my day to make sure you’re okay.”

  “You’re here for money.”

  She doesn’t say anything, and I know I’m right.

  Every once in a while, she drops by, always for money. This time, I just happen to be in the hospital. Makes no difference to her. “I need something to get home.”

  “Get away from me,” I whisper, pulling away from her, walking into the long white hallway outside my door.

  Looking left and right, I see nothing.

  T has to be here.

  Wandering down the hall, past closed doors, I finally find a nurses’ station. The woman behind it looks up, surprised to see me.

  “I’m looking for a man, tall with tattoos.” Leaning against the desk, I catch my breath before continuing. “Is he here?”

  “You should be in bed.”

  “I need to find him.”

  “Miss—”

  “I need to fucking find him!” I shout, my throat burning and aching.

  The nurse shakes her head, her eyes pinching closed before she looks at me again with pity. “He left about five minutes ago.”

  Crushed.

  My face must give me away. Or, well, something on my face. I can’t imagine what the hell it looks like at this point.

  “He’s been here all night in the waiting room. He only just left.”

  38

  T

  I FEEL FUCKING fractured leaving the hospital without Bailey, like a piece of me is missing. Like I’m missing an important part of me, a limb or a vital organ. Like I’m missing my goddamn heart.

  My bike, an old piece of shit that needs to be junked, sits at the curb, rain hitting it from all sides. I debate on whether or not to just leave the fucker there and walk.

  Nothing feels right right now, and my bike isn’t going to fucking help. I’m in pain, and I should have driven my truck, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, the pain a needed reminder that I fucked-up.

  Standing on the curb, the hospital at my back, I pull out a smoke and light it up, the nicotine a welcome burn.

  It’s somewhere around eleven, the hospital dead, the parking lot empty. I’m the only person out here.

  I want to be back inside the hospital. I want to sit next to Bailey, hold her hand, promise her that shit will be okay, but I’m out here, alone, like a pathetic fucking asshole.

  I left, her mom getting upset and security being called, and as much as I hate to fucking admit it, my old man is right. I’m no fucking good to anyone sitting in a cell, and that’s exactly where it was headed if I didn’t leave that room.

  Taking a drag from my smoke, I chuck it onto the road and into a puddle before pulling on my jacket.

  Getting onto my bike, I hear the sliding doors of the hospital open and close, but don’t bother looking. No one I want to see is going to be standing there.

  Firing up my bike, the engine rumbling to life, I swear to fuck I hear my name being called over the growl of the engine.

  “T!”

  I turn my head, slowly, blinking just as slowly when my eyes land on the person standing on the sidewalk a few feet away in the rain.

  Bailey.

  “Goddamn it! T!”

  “Bailey?” I shout, shutting off my bike and getting off.

  I all but run to her, desperate to get my fucking hands on her.

  “You’re really just going to leave?”

  “Baby.”

  “Don’t leave.”

  “What the fuck are you doing out here?” I growl, wrapping my arms around her, gently. Through the wires and the cuffs, I manage to get my hands around her.

  “You’re leaving,” she whispers into my chest, her voice barely above the sound of the rain.

  “I was coming back.”

  “But you were leaving.”

  “I couldn’t stay.”

  “Take me with you.”

  I shake my head, my heart crawling into my throat.

  I know it’s only a matter of seconds before one of those uppity ass nurses comes down here and takes her back upstairs.

  Pulling her away, looking at her face, I see a little bit of the color and fight coming back into her eyes. She’s still covered in bruises and cuts, but that shit fades. It’s the emotional shit I’m worried about.

  “Bailey, you have to go back upstairs.”

  “Not without you,” she bites back, a bit of that strong will of hers coming through.

  “Bailey—”

  “Don’t.” Her voice is soft,
and hoarse. “Don’t pull the same shit on me as I do on you.” I hear the tremor in her words and fucking hate it.

  Tears start to well up in her eyes, and that shit is almost worse than seeing her skin pale and her body motionless.

  I can’t do tears. Never could. Even worse when it’s Bailey.

  “If you cry, I’m really leaving,” I tell her, and that does it. She stops crying.

  “Fuck you,” she growls, wiping away the tears that have now given way to the anger. “Leave. Don’t let me stop you.”

  I watch as she turns her back to me, still moving slowly, clearly in pain.

  “Bailey—”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  A spark. An ember. It’s something. I can see that fire in her coming back.

  “You couldn’t stop me from leaving even if you wanted to.”

  I’m being an asshole, and for the first time in my life, I don’t enjoy it. But I fucking do it to get that deep, buried emotion from her.

  She’s hurt, in the hospital, because of me. I want her to remember that. I want her to think about it. I want her to want to love me through this bullshit, but at the same time, I want to remind her that I’m a fucking asshole.

  I know she’s hurt, bruised, and battered, but she’s not fucking broken, and I want her to know that too.

  “You’re seriously doing this now?” she asks me, her knuckles turning white as she clenches her fists.

  “Doing what?” I retort, pulling out a smoke.

  She watches me, her eyes narrowed.

  “Being a fucking asshole.”

  “You expect something else?”

  I watch as the wind picks up, blowing her hair around her perfect face—a face I came close to never being able to see again.

  She looks beautiful.

  My doll.

  “I expect you to put that fucking cigarette out and help me get the hell out of here.”

  “That what you want? You sure about that shit?”

  “Am I sure? What kind of bullshit question is that? Yes, I’m fucking sure.”

  I guess I needed to hear that shit, hear her say she’s sure, even after everything.

  “Figured after everything, after dealing with all my bullshit, you’d run for the hills.”

  Bailey shakes her head. “I love you, you idiot.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Then why are you asking me this shit?”

  “I needed you and me to hear it.”

  BAILEY

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “T, give me my damn keys back.”

  My bruises have healed, my cuts have scabbed, and my mind has settled. T? He doesn’t believe a damn thing I say, despite being honest when I say that I really am okay.