Rage: Royal Bastards MC Page 11

  I need to get up. Get away from here. Stumbling to my feet, I tug from Jameson’s hold and walk on unsteady legs back to my bike, climbing on.

  “Gabe, don’t fucking do this.”

  I can’t be here when they bring her out. What’s left of her. I’m going to be sick. Fuck, my soul is being ripped through my skin. I gun it, tires screaming, kicking up gravel. Tears blur my vision. I contemplate plowing headfirst into a tree. She’s going to call and laugh saying she was cooking and things got out of hand and she ran outside to escape the smoke. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.

  I find myself pulling in at the first bar I come across, pain vibrating inside my head, waiting to explode. Sweat beads my forehead as scenarios and images dance through my skull like a movie reel. “Whiskey straight—leave the bottle,” I bark to the bartender, resting my hands on the bar, trying to suck oxygen into my lungs. This isn’t fucking real. She’s going to call and ask where I am. I’ll drive home, and it won’t be ash. She’ll be waiting for me and…

  “Another round over here,” some dickhead bellows. Suited and booted and already drunk surrounded by other entitled assholes who think they should be waited on. I chase the first shot of whiskey and will the glass to re-fill itself. The intoxicated asshole is getting louder, pushing and shoving people into tables, smashing glasses.

  “Come on, guys. It’s time that you leave,” a bartender calls over to them from her position behind the bar.

  “I’ll be taking your fine ass with us. You ever been gangbanged?” he calls back. Am I in hell? I didn’t leave Willa, I went up in flames with her.

  “Course she has. Look at her, bet she’s a pro.”

  “That’s enough. You guys need to leave,” the male bartender speaks up for his colleague, gaining an array of laughs and insults.

  “Oh, come on. Be a team player,” the leader of the fucking entitled pricks croons. I hate men like them, born with daddy’s checkbook in their diapers. They think it makes them untouchable, above everything, even human decency. Am I even here? I’ve left my body—I’m floating above, my psyche splintering.

  “Let’s just lock the door and have her right here.” A hand lands on my shoulder. “You game?”

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl.

  “Wow. Chill, dude. Who died and made you boss?” He mocks with a smirk, holding his hands up.

  I snap my arm out and grab him by the scruff of the neck before he can move away. Clasping the whiskey bottle in my other hand, I swing hard, smashing it on the bar, then jab the sharp, jagged end into his neck. Shocked blue eyes enlarge as silence falls through the room. Gargling sounds shuts the cunt up. I add some pressure and twist, slicing through the artery. “You,” I growl. “You fucking died.” I release him, his body collapsing, hitting a bar stool on the way down.

  Crimson liquid coats my hand and shirt, the bottleneck acting like a funnel for his blood.

  Screaming ensues from the female bartender. His little buddies don’t move to help their drinking buddy. Instead, they huddle together like the cowards they truly are. Pulling a hundred from my pocket, I slap it on the bar. “Thanks for the drink.”

  When I get outside, Jameson’s bike is pulling into the parking lot. The motherfucker probably has a tracker on my phone. Dismounting and slipping off his helmet, his gaze assesses my appearance, and his eyes close. “What the fuck have you done?”

  I look down at my hands, the sticky crimson gore staining the flesh. It’s real…it’s all fucking real. My head swims and my feet stumble toward him as the doors behind me open and people pile out, fleeing the scene.

  “She’s fucking dead,” I choke over the words. A sob convulsing my chest, I fall to my knees as the darkness consumes me.

  Thirty-One

  Gabe (RAGE)

  10 years later.

  Twenty-five fucking minutes I’ve been sitting at this bar waiting for Halo to get out of the crapper. Asshole got a text and suddenly needed to shit. We’ve got a job to do, and time’s a ticking. Some fucker is going around murdering women in their homes in our city, and our Prez wants everyone out looking, protecting. A text comes through on my cell. It’s from Kai—aka Killer—letting me know he’s going to be out of town a couple more days. Animal sent him on an errand that’s taking him longer than planned. No doubt mixing in a little pleasure with business. Kai was aptly named Killer because he did any dirty work happily. I’ve never known any brother to enjoy the carnage as much as him. “You want another, sweetness?” the bartender asks, leaning on the bar to give me a view of her cleavage. She’s gotta be at least fifty. Her overly bleached hair looks thin and crispy, and her over-the-top makeup makes her look like a like a deflated blow-up doll. Before I can reply, a skinny, pale brunette pushes between some old geezer and me.

  “Laura, is Milo in?” she asks, her hands shaking from withdrawals. My head whips toward her as old scars open up, seeping pain from my pores. The barmaid does a perusal of the bar and dips her shoulders. “He was earlier.”

  My eyes scan the place. No ghosts laying in wait to fucking jump scare me.

  “Fuck, give me something—a shot of Patron,” the woman demands, tapping her finger on the bar top.

  “You know I need to see cash first, Milly. You nearly got me fired last time.”

  “Milo will pay.”

  “Milo isn’t here.”

  “Fuck.” The brunette slams her palm down, her body vibrating.

  “What about you, old man? Want to buy a lady a drink?” She leans into the geezer, much to his disgust.

  “If I see one, I might,” he grunts, side-eyeing her.

  “Fuck you then.” She turns to me, attempting to move closer.

  “Don’t fucking touch me.” I hold up my hand in warning, then nod to the bartender.

  “Milly, I can’t have you in here harassing my customers.”

  “Screw you all then,” the angry spitfire sparks.

  A flash of familiarity washes through me. From across the bar, a face that can’t be real turns suddenly and begins walking toward the back. I know it’s my imagination summoning memories and morphing them into images before my eyes, the fucking mention of Milo awakening the agony of losing Willa.

  The dark-haired woman turns her head, and for half a heartbeat, my soul reaches out, wishing. It’s funny, the last couple months, I’ve had the feeling of being watched I can’t shake, when in reality, it’s me people watching, searching. I am always seeking out things lost to me long ago.

  The woman moves with grace, dodging people like she’s made of air. From the back, she could so easily be Willa, but there’s no fucking way. Despite knowing that, I push up from the bar and move toward her. My heart rages inside my chest, telling me to calm down, use self-preservation, protect myself from the ache.

  Long, dark curly hair disappears from sight. There’s only toilets and a fire exit back here. She wasn’t real.

  Pushing into the women’s bathroom, I do a sweep. It’s empty.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  I try the men’s. One guy taking a leak at the urinal.

  “You see a woman come back here?” I ask. I’m fucking losing my mind.

  “If you drink enough, you can see anything.” His grin is lopsided.

  My head is playing tricks on me. I’m so fucking desperate to see her face again, I convinced myself it was possible. Now, that the empty hole in my chest will ooze all night. Anger rattles my bones. How could I even let myself entertain the possibility that she could be in a crowd somewhere, waiting for me to find her, save her again? Grief is a funny thing. One day, I could go a whole twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes not think about her, but that one minute is so savagely soul destroying, all the other hours become irrelevant. Over ten fucking years, and I’m still chasing shadows.

  The door to the men’s bathroom opens, and it registers that guy was the only one in there. Where the fuck is Halo?

  The only other door is a fire exit. If that pri
ck ghosted me, I’m going to kick his head in.

  He definitely came back here. I glared at him the entire fucking time. Pushing out into the back parking lot, I scan my surroundings. Empty but for one car. Mason’s. But it’s not him inside, it’s his heavily pregnant wife, leaning over the backseat, getting fucked from behind by Halo for anyone and everyone to fucking see. Animal is going to lose his fucking calm when he finds out Halo is breaking one of the rules we live by. Nope, not my place to tell him. I may be the VP, but I’ve never seen him happier now that his woman has come home, and I’m not upsetting that shit.

  Trudging back inside, I can’t help but seek out the brunette. If I don’t ask, it will play on my fucking mind. I pull a twenty from my pocket, and her eyes bug out as she bounces like a puppy waiting for a treat.

  “Milo—what’s he to you, your dealer?” I know it’s not Willa’s Milo. We’ve heard nothing on him since his best friend confirmed he died the night we torched his bar. If he survived, he would have wriggled out of the woodwork by now, and he certainly wouldn’t be lurking around Little Rock. Yet, here I fucking am asking the question that should have remained buried. This is why I can’t fucking move on with another woman or build a new house. No matter how many years tick by, Willa is still alive in my fucking head.

  “He’s my boyfriend.” She licks her lips, never taking her eyes off the money. That’s the right answer. If he were a dealer, and not one of ours, this conversation would end very differently.

  “What’s his last name?”

  Scratching her head, she shrugs. “I don’t know. Why do you want to know?”

  “Just answer the fucking question.” I step closer. Intimidation is usually all I need to get answers.

  A hand lands on my shoulder, and my head snaps to the side, fists ready. Out of breath, Halo beams at me. “Sorry I was so long, brother. I had curry last night.” Lying fuck.

  “There he is,” the woman announces, pointing to some bald white guy who just walked in. She snatches the twenty from my hand and fucks off.

  I shake my head in annoyance—at myself for being caught up in entertaining the possibility of some random being Milo just because they share the same name and for Halo fucking me around. “You ever keep me waiting so you can get your pecker wet again, we’re going to have a fucking problem,” I warn him before getting the fuck out of there.

  Thirty-Two

  Gabe

  The club’s energy tonight is low. Everyone’s on a comedown from Koyn and his brothers visiting from out of town. We shed some blood, drank too much, and he left with a woman in tow. It was all too reminiscent of me saving Willa.

  My mood is fucking dark and I feel uneasy. Jackie thumbs through a news article about this serial killer doing the rounds too fucking close to home, and it has everyone on edge. We haven’t found anything on this fucker. Animal has had us all on alert, and no one has seen a fucking thing. Copper, Koyn’s fed brother, is looking into it. He’s given us files on the way this fucker rapes and murders these women. We need to catch the scum and gut him slowly.

  The redhead, Amy, behind the bar slides another beer in front of me and one to Crazy Joe a couple feet away. He’s part of the furniture these days. The beloved old chair that has some wear and tear, but is still comfortable and sentimental.

  “I’m just going to stay here for the time being. It’s scary to live alone at the moment,” Amy tells Joe, who nods his agreement. My jaw tightens. She’s one of ours and is too scared to go home because of this bastard loose in our city.

  “You can come home with me and warm my bed, darling,” Idiot pipes up, slapping Joe on the back and grinning like a fucking predator.

  “As tempting as that is, I’ll pass. I’ve seen the company you keep.” She looks to me and pretends to put a finger down her throat, gagging. Idiot is a prospect who’s missing his trigger finger, thanks to me cutting it off. Fucking moron shot Jameson in the leg. He’s lucky to be breathing.

  “Damn, that Gracie is looking at all kinds of delicious,” PB—aka Pretty Boy—says as he clinks his beer bottle to mine while pulling his ass onto the stool next to me. Amy’s eyes dart over to us, no doubt waiting to see if I allow PB to leave the seat in one piece. My road name isn’t fucking Simmer, it’s Rage, and he knows full well we aren’t friends. He’s a prospect and Idiot’s sidekick. I don’t have time for either of them. They have some growing up to do before I’ll tolerate their company. “You think I have a shot with her?” This motherfucker is young, dumb and dead if he thinks he’s going to sit here trying to rile me up about getting into Gracie’s panties. I fucking bought the ones she flashes every time she leans an inch in any direction. Bitch is trying to make me jealous, punish me for not making her my ol’ lady. I don’t need to give her a title. This little prick knows Gracie is my bitch—hell, every bastard in here knows. I just haven’t claimed her because I can’t—won’t. She deserves more than the half-assed attention I give her, but she keeps coming back for more hoping one day I won’t be this distant, rage-filled, emotion-inept asshole. I won’t change, and deep down, she has to believe that. Willa’s image flashes through my mind—her smile, the way she would bite her lip, that giggle. Damn.

  Over ten years, and she’s still alive in my fucking head. It took me years to take another woman to bed, and I cried like a fucking baby once I was done. Guilt and grief ate away at me until there was nothing left but my demons. “Fuck, look at her bending over knowing her pussy is on display. Three fingers, you think?” He holds up his hand, thrusting his fingers in a forward motion. “I say a whole fist.” Idiot chuckles to him like the Beavis to his Butthead. The pretty boy punk sticks four fingers up and adds a licking motion above them.

  It’s fucking torture being around these fucks. Where the hell is Jameson when I need him? Probably spying on his doctor woman. He’s fucking obsessed. Unbeknownst to her, he’s been following her home at night to make sure she gets there safely.

  Whipping my arm out, I grab PB’s fingers and gives them a quick snap, enjoying the way they bend too far back, making them crunch, relishing in the bones cracking. Grabbing my beer, I chug it to the sounds of him howling. “You broke my fucking fingers.”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t your face.” Joe chuckles, taking the seat I vacate. Idiot dives out of reach as I march past him across the club. Gripping Gracie by the wrist, I tug her ass down to the room I keep here for us.

  “Baby, what’s the rush?” she singsongs, knowing full well she’s been flaunting her ass all over the club to get a rise out of me. Well, she got one, and it’s soon to be down her throat.

  I’m not too fond of the dawn hours. Every fucker is asleep but me. Memories taunt me. I want to crawl outta my skin for one fucking night and know what peaceful dreams feel like again. “Why don’t you ever cuddle with me?” Gracie’s husky sleep-filled voice asks, her body moving closer to mine, seeking comfort, the intimacy I don’t want to share with her…or anyone. Willa…Willa…Willa.

  I want to tell her to leave, but I’m not that big of an asshole. I don’t like the man I am to her, with her. I fucking despise men who treat their women like a garage to park their motor in, but no matter how much I try to force myself to feel more, look at her and want to hold her, want to call her my ol’ lady, put a ring on her finger and babies in her belly, the very thought makes acid wash through my veins and settle in my chest like poison. She’s not Willa. No one will ever be Willa. I’m a cunt. “There’s a storm coming tomorrow,” I say, changing the subject. I try not to let her shuddering sigh affect me.

  “Do you think that serial killer is out there, hurting someone else?” she whimpers.

  “I think we’re closing in on him. It’s not something you need to worry about.” I fucking hope we get some leads and soon.

  “Because you’ll keep me safe?”

  My hands ball into fists. I’ve made that promise before and failed.

  “Animal has his people on it,” I say, my jaw tense. Her fingers curl
around my bicep, her breath heating my skin.

  “Will you ever love me like I love you?” My body solidifies beside her. I know she needs reassurance and affection, but the words lodge in my throat, refusing to be given life. Is it more cruel to be truthful or pretend? Another man can give her all the things I can’t. I’m taking her best years selfishly. I have to end this. “It’s okay.” She sniffles. “If this is all you can give me, I’ll take it.”

  Fuck.

  “Grace…” The words fail me, so I dodge them. “I need to go check out my house. Make sure it’s good for the storm coming,” I lie.

  “I need to check on my mom,” she murmurs. “Will I see you tonight?”

  “Yeah. Or tomorrow, yeah?” I jump up and slip into my jeans. There’s an emptiness in the air between us. The ugly truth laid bare.

  “I’ll take whatever you can give me, Gabe.” She sits up, clutching the duvet, refusing to use self-preservation and protect her damn heart from the monster that is me. “Don’t try to leave me for my own good. I’d rather have moments of you than nothing at all. Even if you can never love me, I’ll put in the love for us both.”

  The worse part of what she’s saying is the fact that I’m selfish enough to accept what she has to give, knowing I’m taking her best years and giving her nothing but my cock.

  I lean down, cupping her cheeks, dropping a kiss to her mouth. “See you soon, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Thirty-Three

  Gabe

  Carnage. Trees down. The power went out at some point, and despite knowing I should have met up and checked in with Gracie, I ignored her call and didn’t bother calling back. I’m going to end things, let her find a man who will take care of her, answer the phone when she calls. I check the rearview mirror to see a black sedan parked outside my house, tailing me.