Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Eighteen

Demon

I leapt out of bed, the cool air rushing at my skin. Indie had already gone, and Fury and the twins were scrambling out of bed on shaky legs, rubbing at their eyes in just-woken-confusion. Somewhere at my feet were my clothes. But all I could find were my jeans. I pushed into them hurriedly, the material folding, stopping me from ramming my leg all the way down. The second leg seemed to take even longer, and this time I lost my balance, falling back onto the bed. Fuck’s sake.

In front of me, Fury was already out the door and the twins were busy fighting over who’s t-shirt was whose. Once my other leg was safely inside, I ran forward, pulling the jeans up over my arse, fiddling with the brass button as I ran and twatting my little toe off the foot of one of the beds. Fuck, it stung like a bitch.

Outside, in the hallway, there was a commotion. Feet thundering on the old wooden floorboards. In front of me. Behind me. Bodies racing to the ground floor.

My father was slumped on the sticky floor behind the bar, his dark-haired girlfriend bent over the top of him. His hands clutched his bare chest, breaths coming in short shallow bursts and even under all his tattoos I could see the colour of his skin. Grey. His eyes seemed to bulge in his head, his cheekbones throwing shadows across his face. He looked like he’d aged thirty years in one night.

From the other side of the bar, I could hear Indie on the phone.

“I need an ambulance to the Dog on the Tyne , Gateshead.”

“Ste, come on, babe. You’re going to be ok,” Tori cooed. “Demon. Don’t just fucking stand there. Get him some water.”

On another day, I would have had to control the urge to punch her in that fucking annoying mouth of hers. But today I obeyed, pulling a glass from a shelf, and holding it under the tap. The glass shook in his hand as he tried to bring it to his lips, water spilling out onto his chest, collecting in droplets on the unruly grey hair in the middle. Then he started coughing again. Deep, desperate convulsions, never stopping. He gagged with the next bout, vomiting all over himself, and still the cough wracked his body.

Prising the glass from his fingers, I guided it to his mouth.

“Here. Just sip at it. It’ll help.”

His lips trembled over the glass, shallow gulps, the cough returning straight away, unrelenting. I gave him a few seconds and then lifted the glass to his mouth again, a tinge of blue just appearing as he pressed his lips against it. Then for a few minutes the cough subsided, his chest heaving, desperately trying to pull in some oxygen. His ribs seemed to suck in his flesh with each breath, his skin pulling across the top of his stomach. He seemed even greyer now, sickly, and beads of sweat collected on his forehead. Resting his head back against the bar shelf, he closed his eyes.

“How long for that ambulance, Indie?” I shouted.

“Dunno. I’ll ring them again,” he called from the other side of the bar.

His voice trailed off. To my right, faces peered at us, but none were distinct. Just faces watching on like I was. Unable to do anything but wait.

My father’s breathing changed. It became high-pitched, almost a whistle, and the sweat that had clung in droplets on his brow now streamed down his face. Indie pushed through the small crowd of faces, looking on worriedly.

“I don’t think we can wait for an ambulance, Indie. We need to get him to the hospital now.”

“And how the fuck are we going to do that? I’m still that far over the limit my own organs are preserved. Same as this lot.”

“I’ll take him.”

“On your bike? You going to tie him onto it?”

“I can take him,” a light voice penetrated the mutterings. Ciara pushed forwards. “I only had a few. I’m good to drive. We can take him in my car.”

Indie glanced back at our father slumped on the manky bar floor, growing paler, his breath now rattling. He nodded.

Between us, we hoisted my father to his feet, pulling his arms around our shoulders, walking painfully slowly through the seating area of the bar. Tori followed and Ciara behind her. Outside, the weather was cruel. Horizontal rain thrashed in from a wind whipping up off the River Tyne.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have room for you as well,” Ciara said from behind me as we shuffled my father into the back seat of Ciara’s car.

“I’m fucking coming,” Tori replied, the high-pitched note in her voice driving that feeling of homicide back into my system.

“There isn’t room,” Ciara said again.

“Then Demon can stay. I’m getting in that car.”

“Look, love,” Ciara’s voice was harsh now, “it’s Demon’s father. You’re gonna have to find another way to the hospital.”

“Stupid fucking bitch,” the raven-haired arsehole spat. “You’ll fucking regret this.”

Ciara rolled her eyes at me, bit her tongue, and moved into the driving seat. As we pulled out of the carpark, I watched Tori grow smaller and smaller in the rearview, standing watching as we left her behind in the rain. And in the middle of the chaos, seeing her left behind at the clubhouse, out of my life for once, induced a whole load of fuzziness, despite the fear and tension clogging my arteries.

“Demon. Demon,” the sweet sound of her Irish accent broke through my thoughts. “Which way to the hospital?”

We’d come to the end of the road, leading us out of the industrial estate. Cars rushed past on the double lane carriageway in front of us, a blur of colours and a whir of noise.

“Demon?” she said again. “Which way?”

“Left.”

“You’re pointing right, Demon.” I looked down at my hands, at the finger pointed the opposite way.

“Yeah. Yeah. I mean right.”

The car pulled forward, the lights changing to red as we pulled through them. Somewhere behind us, a cacophony of angry horns sounded.

“And you lot can all fuck off,” Ciara complained, her hands clutching tightly to the steering wheel as she forced the underpowered car forward, oncoming cars tight behind her.

The little red Fiesta screamed under the weight of four of us and Ciara’s heavy foot. We were just in front of rush hour traffic by some sort of warped miracle, the roads clear enough that the traffic in front and behind us was moving continually. Behind me, the cough started again. A racking, barking noise as my father battled for breath. Ciara’s hands tensed on the wheel; her eyes focussed only ahead.

“Faster, lass,” Indie called from behind her, his voice almost lost in the noise of the choking cough beside him.

“I’m at the speed limit.”

“Then you need to break it.”

I glanced across at her, at the lip she held with her teeth, at the creamy tint of tightened skin over her knuckles and the tension of muscles in her neck. But the car growled again, pushing forwards, overtaking those in front, weaving through the traffic and braking heavily to avoid rear-ending the cars before it.

“A little easier on the breaks, Ciara,” Indie called again. “We’re gonna get whiplash here in the back.”

“Feel free to fucking drive then,” she spat like an angry cat, her Irish accent harsher than I’d ever heard it before. “Oh, wait. You can’t because you’re still pissed.”

“Indie. Back off her,” I cautioned, catching his taut expression in the rear-view mirror.

“And you can be quiet, too. Just shut up and let me drive.”

“What about directions?”

“Aye. You can give me those. But I don’t want to hear a peep out of either of you otherwise.”

For the rest of the short ride, we sat in silence. The only noise the growl of the engine and the wheeze from my father’s chest.