24. Bad Friends #2
Rounding the counter, he takes the glass from my hand and places it down.
His thumb strokes down my cheek. “No, I’d keep it just for my eyes.
” Butterflies dance in my stomach. This is a bad idea.
I already learned I can’t fuck Cutter out of my system, but pain eclipses rational thought and alcohol leaves me fearless and horny.
Gripping a fistful of his shirt, I drag his mouth to mine.
Hungry lips devour and explore. In the next breath, he raises my dress over my head and lifts me onto the counter, the cold marble shocking against the warm flesh of my ass.
Breaking our kiss, he runs a palm down the valley of my tits and across my abdomen.
“You’re sexy as sin, but you know that, don’t you?
” My stomach quivers when he leans in and kisses over my tattoo. “I like these,” he murmurs.
Memories of when I got the two aces assault my mind, and I stiffen. “Stop.”
“What’s wrong?” He lifts his eyes, looking up at me through his lashes. I cup his face and move him back.
“Your brother.”
“What.” He stands, confusion contorting his features.
“Your brother was there when I got this tattoo.” I nibble nervously at my lip. It’s weird being with him and not mentioning I know his brother…knew…kind of.
His eyes appear to darken, darting from side to side before narrowing on me. “You knew my brother?”
Exhaling, I jump down from the counter and pick up my dress, the mood shifting. “No, not really.” Turning away from me, he runs his hands through his hair, pacing the shiny floor. “I met him once, and we partied at the clubhouse.”
Whipping around to face me, he grabs my wrist before I can slip into the dress. “Your dad’s clubhouse?” Shit. Shit. Shit. Loose lips sink ships, Kitty.
His grip tightens, causing pain. “You’re hurting me,” I bite out, attempting to free myself. “Michael,” I warn. Yanking harder as the skin pinches.
“Answer me,” he demands.
“Yes. He was only there a couple hours. My brother reamed me out about it.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know.” I grit through clenched teeth. “Let fucking go of me. Now.”
Instead of letting go, he grabs my other wrist and pulls me into his body. “Where did you meet him?”
Usually, I like it rough, but this isn’t sexual anymore. “At a card game,” I whine, trying to twist free. My bones protest the pressure he applies. It feels like my wrists are going to snap.
“When?” He shakes me, demanding an answer. Fear rips through my body. Terror descends over me like frost in winter as realization dawns. No one knows where I am or who I’m with. Only the new Tim, and I sent him away.
“WHEN!” he roars, shoving my back against the counter, ripping a cry from my lungs. That’s going to leave a mark. Releasing one of my wrists, he grasps my face, painful fingers digging into my jawline. The charming man from earlier has been replaced by the devil breathing fire down on me.
“Years ago, before he went missing,” I cry through my scrunched up face. How is he this strong? He knows a street gang killed him. I don’t understand the monster looking back at me.
“Wait.” He moves off me like an invisible entity pulled him away.
“Are you the girl he left Matt’s game with?
” Taking the opportunity his reprieve gives me, I dart for the elevator, dragging my dress over my head, and jab the button anxiously.
It pings open, and I clamper in. Michael’s there in an instant, pushing against the doors, preventing them from closing.
He shoves me hard, and I stumble back into the table they put in here for decoration.
I catch the vase that wobbles and launch it at his head, knocking him back into the apartment.
Punching the button for the foyer, the doors shift, closing.
I squeeze my eyes closed, releasing a breath I’d been holding.
The elevator starts descending without needing the key card. As soon as there’s a sliver big enough for me to fit through, I dart out into the foyer. The woman at the desk gasps, her wide eyes tracing my movements. “Is everything okay?”
The doorman doesn’t get a chance to open the door before I crash through it and spill out into the street.
Looking from left to right, I take off down the road, turning the corner into an alley, and race to hide behind a dumpster.
Reaching into my boot for my phone, I hammer out a text, allowing the tears to fall from my eyes.
Me: I’m pinging you my location. I need you!
My heart pounds frantically in my chest, dread eating away at my insides. Nausea swirls in my gut. Acid burns up my throat and spills from my lips, liquid splashing to the ground.
Swiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I wince from the pain and then sob. How the hell did that turn so bad so fast?
Steeling my shoulders, I take a few calming breaths and attempt to clean up my makeup, using my phone as a mirror.
I shouldn’t have called him. He’s going to lose it.
This is going to cause so much trouble. Stuffing my phone away, I finger-brush my hair and check my dress is in place.
The cool chill of the morning hours snuffs out any heat from earlier.
Shaking, I rub my hands up my arms, ignoring the burn ripping at my cuts.
I attempt to replay the night Nicolas came to the club, coming to the same conclusion: I never saw him leave.
Dad sent me to my room because they said the police were at the gate.
“Cops are at the gate. Don’t come out until me or your brother come for you.”
I didn’t hear the alarm that usually goes off when cops are at the gate. But it was evident something terrible was going on by the stress in his voice and posture.
Were the cops even there?
It was Cutter who finally came to my room hours later—bloodied and injured.
What the hell happened that night?
The sound of a motorcycle thundering through the silent night floods my system with relief. The headlight beams toward me, a beacon of safety, as it pulls up to the curb. His large frame climbs off the bike, dwarfing me. Gripping my shoulders, he asks, “What the hell happened?”
Bowing my head, I sniffle, “Take me home.”
“Tell me what happened. Where’s Tim?”
“Please, Callan. Take me home.”
“Look at me, Kitty. What the hell happened?”
Tension leaks from him in waves. Fierce, dark eyes take in our surroundings.
“I just want to go home, Callan,” I repeat, pulling back.
Blowing out a breath and nodding, he slips out of his cut, and helps me into it before hauling a spare helmet from the backseat and fastening it into place on my head.
Mounting the bike, he says, “Get on.”
Using his shoulder, I swing my leg over and rest my head against his back, my own back screaming at me for the action.
As soon as the vibrations rattle through me and the wind hits my cheeks, I silently cry into the night, feeling more relief with each moment we become farther from that fucking apartment.
Cruising the winding path up to the clubhouse gates they open without us having to change our pace. Pulling into the compound, Callan parks out front next to the row of other bikes. Climbing down, I take off the helmet and nod a thanks.
“Kitty,” he says my name so softly, I wonder if I imagined it. “Did someone hurt you tonight?”
My pulse hums beneath my skin.
“Can we go inside? I need a drink,” I beg, my throat on fire.
“Sure. But you’re going to tell me what happened, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I don’t want to admit how na?ve I was tonight.
Loose lips sink ships.
Dammit. I know better than that. I got too caught up in the moment.
We’re greeted by quiet hallways when we enter the clubhouse, much to my relief. I don’t want anyone else to see me right now.
The pounding of Callan’s boots follows me into the kitchen, and he almost bumps into the back of me when I pause at the threshold.
Cutter is slouched over the counter, sitting on a stool, head resting on folded arms. Taking a step inside, Callan moves around me and goes to get a glass from the cabinet, filling it at the sink with water.
“Here.” He pushes it toward me. His gaze lands on my face, and his stance suddenly becomes rigid. A chill chases up my spine. I can only imagine how harsh the bruising looks under the bright lights of this room. Regret cloaks me as that realization sets in. This could start a war.
As if sensing the company in the room, Cutter raises his head, eyes squinting. “Kit?” He’s on his feet in the next instant, tilting my chin with the crook of his finger. “Who fucking did that to you!”
The pain along my chin is nothing compared to the agony radiating from my back. Manic eyes dance to Callan. “Who fucking did that to her?”
“I don’t know. But they’re a dead man walking. I got a text to get her from downtown.”
“Don’t stand here and talk like I’m not in the room.” I pull away from Cutter’s grip and take the glass from Callan, gulping the cool liquid and exhaling when it coats my throat.
“Talk to us, Kit,” Callan demands, broad arms perched on his hips. Cutter looks like he’s going to tear out of his skin, the vein in his temple fluttering madly.
My body aches. Every nerve feels stretched beyond its limits, and all that's left are cuts and bruises.
A pang of nausea crawls up from my core—fear and anger course through my blood. I was so foolish with Michael tonight, leading with my libido and not my brain. I want to scrub my skin until it breaks away for even letting him touch me. Fucking bastard .
My hand squeezes the glass of water until pain radiates in my palms.
"Kit?" Cutter says firmly.
Darting my eyes between the two foreboding figures waiting for answers from me, I swallow past the stone lodging in my throat. I want answers too!
“What happened to Nicolas Carnell?” I ask.
The atmosphere shifts, tension rolling in like a storm front.
“Why?” Callan asks, bracing his legs apart, his arms now over his chest. Gone is my big brother. I’m now facing the VP of the kings of Sin motorcycle club.
Cutter reaches out. Taking my arm, he lifts my wrist under the light, the red circular bruising already darkening. His gaze hardens, pierced with accusation. “Did Michael Carnell do this?” His voice is so cold, death himself would tremble.
“What happened to Nicolas? Was it the gang?” I beg to know. “Something went down that night and I thought it was a police raid.”
“It was.” Callan’s gaze flits to Cutter.
“Don’t fucking lie to me. I’m so sick of the lies!” I cry out, snatching my arm back and dumping the glass on the counter.
“Why would she be with Michael Carnell?” Callan ignores my outburst, directing his question to Cutter.
“They met at a club tonight.”
Fucking Claire.
Stepping between them, I growl, “Answer me! Did Nicolas ever leave here that night?”
“No,” Cutter says as Callan says, “Yes.”
Ringing shrills through my skull.
“Cutter,” Callan warns, and my shoulders sag.
Oh my god.
“He attacked Claire and got violent with me.” The crystal blue of his eyes bleeds into me, truth evident.
“You killed him,” I summarize, my mind a turbulent sea of thoughts.
“Cutter,” Callan says through clenched teeth.
“Something fucking happened to her, Callan. I’m not going to lie to her anymore. Did Michael do this to you?”
At my silence, Cutter’s fists clench. “I’m going to separate the bastard’s fucking head from his shoulders.”
“Kitty—look at me.” Callan fastens a hand around the back of my neck, turning my body to his. My big brother is back. “Was it Michael?”
“What will you do if it was?” My words are numb. This is so fucking bad. A flood of overwhelming emotions engulfs me. A haunting look passes through Callan’s eyes before he tugs me against his body. His scent fills my nostrils, the strong embrace offering safety and loyalty.
“Where is he?” Cutter demands. “What’s the location you picked her up from?”
“Put the knife down and chill out for a second. We need to be smart.”
I pull out of Callan’s hold, my eyes moving to Cutter.
He looks manic, a blade clasped in his grip.
Walking the couple of steps to him, I caress my hand down his arm and wrap my palm around his, taking the hilt of the knife.
Gently tugging it away, I grasp his cheek with my other hand, forcing him to look at me.
“I’m okay,” I breathe into him. Pain etches into his features, blazing in the depths of his eyes. “I’m okay.”
"Kit," Callan frowns over at me. "How did things turn bad with you and Michael?"
Closing the space between us, he assesses me, looking over every inch of me. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
Thud.
Gulping, his eyes crease, "did he...?"
"No." I shake my head firmly. "It wasn't that."
"Then what was it?"
"Why were you asking about Nicolas?" Cutter butts in, his brow crashing.
Shit.
"I fucked up," I admit, worrying my lip with my teeth.
"How did you fuck up?" Callan asks.
Dropping my focus to my feet, I squeeze my hands into painful fists, "I mentioned Nicolas coming here that night."
"Fuck." Callan and Cutter say in unison—the word slicing through the air like a blade.
“We need to wake Pres,” Callan informs us, pacing the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry, Callan. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know.” A sob hiccups from my chest.
Jabbing a finger in my direction, he says, “You need to tell me everything that was said. Word for fucking word. Don’t leave anything out.”
My head bobs up and down manically.
Heavy footfalls pound outside the kitchen door drawing our attention. Grease’s hulking frame fills the entire width of the door. Breathing heavily, a slash across his brow, he says, “There are people at the gate.”
The incoming tide envelops me, consuming every inch of my body. A deep sense of dread fills my veins, hardening like ice.
“Who?” Callan asks.
Thud—thud—thud.
“The Carnells.”