Rage: Royal Bastards MC Read online

  Eleven

  Gabe

  Walking into the living room, I seek Jameson out. His tall frame stands in the window, looking out at the tree line boarding the property.

  “What’s with the home visit?” I cross my arms over my chest, frowning when he looks over his shoulder at me, his jaw clenched.

  “Have news on Milo.” He huffs, running a hand through his hair. Going to the couch, he takes a seat. I do the same on the couch opposite him, resting my elbows on my knees.

  “Talk to me. You look like you need a stiff drink, which means you’re not here to deliver good news.”

  “Depends on your definition of good news,” he leans back, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. He makes it look like doll furniture.

  “Good news would be me getting the go-ahead to take the prick apart limb by limb. It’s the only thing I want to hear.”

  “Bad news it is then.” His brows collide. “His boys say he’s dead. Didn’t make it out of the fire.”

  I balk, my face contorting into disbelief and suspicion. There’s no way. My mind plays that night over, breaking his hand, a boot to the face from Jimmy, the little cunt’s defiance and cockiness. No fucking way. I shake my head. They’re lying.

  Pointing his finger at me, Jameson says, “That look on your face was the same as Jimmy’s. It’s all too convenient. That asshole had a busted jaw and hand. There’s no way he didn’t make it out,” he speaks my thoughts aloud.

  “So, he’s in the wind?” I say what we’re both thinking. Motherfucker. I should have gone back for him that night. Willa’s sobs from earlier boom in my head. He needs to go to ground. She will never be fucking free of him otherwise—she’ll never start healing.

  Jameson stands, kicking my boot with his. “That’s what we’re going to find out. Grab your jacket and kiss the wife goodnight.” He smirks down at me.

  I let the remark slide as rage seeps into my veins. Her brother is playing games with the wrong people. If he’s not fucking dead, he’s going to be. I don’t give a fuck if there’s permission. I’ll take the heat—I’ll take whatever I have to if it means Willa is safe.

  “Where we going?” I stand, following him into the hallway.

  “To fuck up someone’s face until they talk.” He turns, giving me a once over. I’m wearing the same outfit I gave Willa: sweatpants and a basic tee. Raising a brow, I dare him to say something about his appraisal. “I’ll be in the truck,” he grunts.

  I’ll get fucking changed.

  Forty minutes later, we pull up in a shitty neighborhood. Run-down houses line a road with smashed streetlights, offering obscurity. I make out a couple of silhouettes sitting on the steps where Wesley Mateo lives.

  “These assholes are like rats. Where there’s one, a dozen more lurk. Lets go in quiet—get the information we came for and get out,” Jameson tells me, pulling his Glock from his ankle holster. He stares at me with a raised brow, waiting for me to agree.

  “What are you insinuating?” I pull my pistol from my holster inside my jacket and grab my knife from its sheaf. His gaze drops to my blade. “You want one?” I ask, offering him the handle. “I have a spare.”

  “Of course you fucking do.” He shakes his head, climbs out of the car, knifeless.

  “Don’t act like I’m a weirdo because I carry a knife.”

  “Oh no, that’s normal as hell,” he scoffs. We slow our pace toward the house on alert. “Who wants to be normal?” I grumble low as we approach the steps going unnoticed by the two stone heads outside. Jameson’s gun is an inch from their face when they both jolt in alarm.

  Placing a finger to his lips for them to remain quiet, Jameson pushes the barrel of his gun against one of their temples.

  “We’re here for one person. You can either become a causality or fuck off and live another day. You choose,” I tell them, lifting my knife menacingly and grinning like a crazy fucker. They look to each other and jerk their chins like bobbleheads before running off. This is why Milo could never surpass street-level dealing—no one is loyal to him or his number two. You treat your crew like shit, they’ll turn on you as soon as trouble comes knocking. That’s why the Royal Bastards MC appealed to me. It’s a brotherhood—loyalty, respect, family.

  Jameson looks over his shoulder at me, mouthing, “Unlocked. Fucking idiots.” He twists the doorknob, and it gives way, opening with no force. The scent of weed hits as soon as we enter. Voices from a TV vibrate through the house. Laughter rings out from one of the back rooms, and I signal with my hand to move toward the noise.

  These assholes are fucking stupid to be this careless. We reach the room where the most noise seems to be coming from and push open the door to three boys who barely have fucking hair on their chins.

  “What the fuck?” One jumps up from the couch they’re lounging on watching some shit movie and getting high on their own supply. “We’re just runners,” he blurts when I tap his friend’s cheek with the barrel of my gun in warning.

  Jameson grabs him by the scruff of the neck and shoves him back onto the couch. “We don’t have anything.” The boy with my gun to his cheek quakes.

  “We’re here for Wesley. What room’s he in?” I demand.

  “Don’t fucking tell him anything,” the third boy spits.

  I crack his temple with my elbow, putting him out. “He’ll wake up in an hour with a real bad headache. You won’t be as lucky if you choose the wrong fucking words, boy.” I curl my hand around his neck, digging my blade against the artery pulsing there. A wet patch floods his lap, expanding and filling the air with the stench of piss.

  “Upstairs. He’s not alone. Has girls up there,” he exclaims.

  “He’s about to be the opposite of lucky tonight,” Jameson quips. Smirking over at me

  “You stay fucking put. If you make me kill you, I’m going to be real pissed off,” I warn, backing out the room. Closing the door, I hit the handle with the butt of my gun until the metal comes off, locking them inside.

  “You made him piss himself.” Jameson grimaces.

  “Could have opened up his throat. I think he got off light.”

  Jameson pulls a couple open doors closed as we reach the stairs, so we can hear if any open, giving us a warning. He takes the stairs two at a time, me right on his heel. Holding up one finger, he points to a door, signaling only one bedroom up here, then gesturing down the hall to an open bathroom. That means this has to be Wesley’s room. Grunting sounds come through the wood panel, the kind you make while fucking. The boy downstairs must have been telling the truth.

  Jameson nods to his boot as I get in position against the wall. Lifting his leg, he kicks into the room, splintering the door, eliciting startled screeches from two females. I round the wall, my gun aimed as a scurry of movement dashes before my eyes. A girl on a mattress on the floor gathers up a duvet to cover her tits while a guy I presume is Wesley scatters across the room, stark naked, his dick still hard, heading for a weapon on a dresser.

  “I wouldn’t,” Jameson warns, and every fucker stills. I survey the room, stopping on a fully-clothed woman holding a video camera. My eyes move to the female on the mattress, and my fists clench. She’s young—too fucking young. The color drains from her face as she clings to the duvet, her body shuddering.

  Willa. Willa. Willa.

  “Sorry to ruin the party. Wesley, right?” Jameson asks casually. And like a moron, Wesley nods in confirmation.

  “Jameson,” I growl. “The girl.”

  “She’s no one,” Wesley pipes up, holding his hands up, sweat sheening on his flesh. His cock softens like a deflating balloon. I want to shoot him in the eye at the thought of what he was fucking doing before we barged in here.

  “What’s your name, darling?” I ask her.

  “Ka—Katy.”

  “How old are you, Katy?”

  “She’s legal.” Wesley nods.

  Lifting my knife in his direction, I growl, “Was I talking to you?”

&n
bsp; “Fourteen,” the girl whispers, drawing my attention back to her.

  Fourteen—fucking hell. Their bodies don’t even look like a woman’s at fourteen. What kind of sick fuck likes little girls? My mind replaces the girl’s face with Willa’s, heating my already steaming temper.

  Willa, Willa, Willa.

  “Take your clothes to the bathroom and get dressed, sweetheart,” I tell her, ready to sign fuckface Wesley’s death warrant. I look to the older girl, maybe in her twenties. “What about you?”

  “What the fuck’s it got to do with you? You wanna play daddy or something?” Her voice is slurred, her jaw rocking side to side. She’s high as a kite.

  “Bitches like you are the worst kind of predators. You’re supposed to look out for each other, not this fucking bullshit.”

  “She’s a slut who likes to suck dick for a bit of powder and twenty bucks. Not my fucking problem.”

  Cunt! I want to cut her tongue from her mouth.

  My feet march toward her before I even realize I’ve moved. Gripping her cheeks, I force her mouth to open and bury my gun in the gap. Her eyes spark wide, tears brimming as she mumbles around the steel. “I’m sorry.”

  “You fucking disgust me. I should blow your fucking brains out to protect god knows how many more kids you violate.”

  “Fuck, man. Come on. We didn’t know her age,” Wesley whines. Pulling my gun from the bitch’s mouth, I move to the piece of shit across the room. The urgent pounding of feet echoes through the room as she flees from it. I clutch the handle of my knife and connect my fist with his jaw—once, twice. He hits the floor, choking on his own blood. “You’re fucking scum,” I roar, jabbing his ribcage. My knuckles smart, cracking open as I hit bone. Hands grab my shoulders, pulling me away from the fucked-up mess I’ve made of Wesley’s whimpering body.

  “We need some answers about Milo,” he reminds me, heaving from the exertion of getting me to comply.

  Fuck.

  “Milo is dead,” the mangled mess gurgles. “He’s dead. I swear. He didn’t come out of the bar that night. I swear on my life.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Jameson says. At least the fucker really believes what he’s saying.

  “I am, I swear. If he got out, we would have seen him. He would have gone home. He would never leave Willa.”

  “Don’t say her fucking name,” I growl, stomping my boot down on his legs. His body jolts back and forth, trying to get away from my onslaught.

  “God dammit! Please,” he begs, his elbows digging into the carpet, trying to pull his body to safety. “I’m telling you the truth!” he cries.

  “I believe you.” I nod before aiming my gun and putting a slug in his skull.

  “Motherfucker,” Jameson barks, running a hand through his hair, tapping the side of his head with his gun. “I should have known you couldn’t wait until we got him somewhere no one would find him.”

  “He fucked kids on film. No one is going to be crying over a dead animal.”

  I swallow the urge to spit on his dead body. “Leave him. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Twelve

  Willa

  The shadows creep up the walls as the trees whisper to each other in the wind. Every sound and movement becomes clearer when you’re alone, your senses heightened. Gabe left hours ago and hasn’t returned. It’s not my place to worry about him, yet here I am. I still don’t understand how someone so selfless and wonderful exists amongst all the darkness in the world. My heart won’t settle as I pace the spare room.

  Moving to the bed, I sit, stroking over the patterns with my palm. Everything is luxury here. Back home, I still had a duvet from when I was a child, the rainbow pattern so faded, you couldn’t make out the colors anymore. I don’t miss that place, but I wish I had books here. Sleep evades me, and fear of having to return home torments my waking hours.

  Sighing, I leave my room and walk the house. There are a lot of rooms yet to be completed, and my mind designs and fills them as if they are mine. One day, I want a house like this—more rooms than reasons for them, land, maybe animals. The painting supplies are still out in the living space. It’s something small I could help with to pay back all of Gabe’s kindness and kill this pent-up energy.

  Tying my hair into a braid, I get started, using a roller to add the white paint. I’ve covered an entire wall by the time tires kick up gravel outside. He moves through the house so stealth-like, it’s not until I hear the tap turn on in the kitchen that I know he even came inside. I make my way there, nerves churning my stomach.

  His back is to me as he washes his hands. He’s so broad, he makes me feel safe. I mourn the loss of this feeling, like it’s gone before he’s even sent me on my way.

  As if sensing my presence, he turns abruptly. “Willa, why are you awake?”

  There’s blood on his knuckles. Cuts. I race across the kitchen toward him. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing.” He turns away, pushing them back beneath the spray of the water.

  “You hurt someone?” I whisper, all too familiar with those types of wounds.

  “That’s what I do—what I am, Willa. You know that. You’ve seen it.”

  Of course I have. Why the hell did I just shut that part of him out? He’s muscle for a motorcycle club. That’s how we met for Christ’s sake.

  Turning off the tap, he wraps a cloth around his hand, leaning his ass against the counter. “I need to tell you something.” His brows pull together, and my heart begins to pound.

  “It’s Milo,” I gasp, my head whirling.

  I sway on my feet and reach for the table to steady myself, swallowing the lump forming. Gabe’s beside me in a heartbeat, arms bracing me. Lowering me into a chair, he drops to his knees before me. “Is he dead?”

  “Jameson came by earlier because he had some information. I needed to find out if that information was truthful.”

  “Was it?”

  “The fire at the bar…” he takes my hands, squeezing, “Milo didn’t make it out.”

  No. That’s impossible. He was fine. Conscious. He would have gone out the back. He would have had plenty of time. I bolt up, snatching my hands away from his and forcing the chair backward. “Whose blood is that?” I point to his beaten-up hands.

  “Willa?” He holds both hands up, shaking his head. “It’s not his. I’m telling you the truth. I will always be truthful with you.”

  “Then tell me whose it is.”

  “It’s my blood. I cut my knuckles.”

  “You asshole,” I breathe. He’s dodging the question.

  “I needed to know if he really was gone, to know if it was safe for you.”

  “For me to what, leave? Because if that’s what you want, I’ll be on my way.” I snap, my emotions rolling from one to the next. I’m being unreasonable, bratty, but I can’t stop myself.

  “You know that’s not what I want. I went to Wesley’s house.”

  Tears well in my eyes. Wesley would know if Milo made it out of there. They were best friends. Wesley was in deep with everything Milo did.

  “You had to hurt him?” I croak.

  Looking down at his hands, he’s silent for a few seconds before capturing my gaze with his soul-shattering eyes. “Pain is a common motivator when it comes to getting information out of people. It’s the easiest way.”

  “How bad?” I don’t know why I care. Wesley and I were never close. He was scared of Milo and the beast I brought out in him.

  “He’s dead.” My lungs seize. He killed him? The man before me is a murderer.

  “I’m not sorry about killing him, Willa. He was a piece of shit. Had a fucking teenage girl naked in his room while some woman videoed him with her. Fourteen years old.” The muscles in his jaw tense. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your brother. I know you loved him in some way, and for that and only that, I’m sorry you’re in pain.” He moves toward me, wrapping me in his hold. My shoulders drop as tension bleeds out of me. I feel sa
fe, content, and desperate to be in his arms.

  He strokes my cheek so delicately with the pad of his thumb, the tears spill over, leaking onto his fingers. My heart stops beating for a tender moment as he leans down and kisses my forehead, inhaling my scent.

  Tears dry on my cheeks, leaving an angry irritation in their wake. What happens now? There’s a sense of pure relief knowing Milo is gone, and that causes guilt and fear to surge within me. I’ve never been on my own before, and now that Milo is gone, I won’t need Gabe’s protection. He could kick me out at any time. Where would I go? I have nothing. Nowhere. No one. A cold, empty hole opens in my chest, threatening to suck me inside, swallowing me whole.

  Gabe went to shower a while ago and hasn’t come back downstairs. I miss him. He’s in the house, and I miss him. It’s insane. Is this hero syndrome? Attracted to the man who saved me?

  The lonely ache continues to build as I take the stairs on my tiptoes and creep down the hall to his room. The door is open, and my breath catches in my throat at the view of him laying on top of the covers in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. His skin is colored with ink, flowing flawlessly over the tight muscle. I knew he would be beautiful under his clothing, but he’s so much more. Breathtaking. “It’s rude to spy on people.” His gruff tone is playful, but my stomach knots all the same.

  Moving into the room, he observes me without speaking. His chest begins to rise and fall like he’s struggling for air. Reaching the bottom of his bed, I climb up and crawl across the mattress until I’m next to him. “What are you doing, Willa?” It’s almost a plea.

  “What I want to do.” Curling my body around his, I sigh. His strong arm wraps around my back, and we just lay there, two souls seeking comfort—connection—warmth—peace. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but right now, here with Gabe, in his arms, is bliss.

  Thirteen