25. Hands Off
HANDS OFF
CUTTER
Memories churn inside me like a choppy ocean, surging and punishing. Hitting Nicolas with the pool ball and seeing the life leave his body as he crashed to the floor created a domino effect. That one stupid moment fucked up my life—and Kit’s.
“Listen really carefully.” Callan braces his hands on Kitty’s shoulders, and her eyes flutter up to his. “Tell me exactly what you said to Michael about Nicolas.”
She gulps, her breaths increasing. Tears prick her eyes.
My gaze drops to Callan’s cut dwarfing her.
I’ve never known him to allow someone to wear his cut before now.
It should be my leather on her back. I hate that she didn’t call me to come for her.
I want to be the one she turns to. Every cell in my body aches to scoop her up and run away with her.
Protect her. Love her like I should have all this time.
“That we partied once around the time he went missing, and I got in trouble for bringing him back here,” she mumbles. “Michael freaked out and grabbed me. Kept asking when.”
I’m going to fucking kill that son of a bitch. Did he think putting his hands on a King’s of Sin princess wouldn’t have ramifications?
The bruises coloring her jaw glare at me, causing every muscle in my body to coil tight. My mind is a seething cocktail of fury and alcohol—a lethal combination.
“Why the hell are you telling him anything?” Callan implores.
“I don’t know. I drank too much and we were flirting, and it felt weird not mentioning that I knew Nicolas.” She scrubs her eyes with clenched fists then glares at him. “And I didn’t fucking know Cutter killed him,” she whisper yells.
Of course keeping secrets would come back to bite us in the ass.
This is my fault. I killed Nicolas, and tonight, I drove her straight into Michael’s fucking arms. I shouldn’t have let Claire anywhere near me tonight.
Fuck, this charade should have been done so long ago.
Michael’s bruises are visible on her flesh.
Everything I’ve caused sits under her skin, soul deep.
“Is there something I need to know?” Grease asks from the doorway, his hulk-like frame as tense as mine.
“No. Get everyone up and ready in case shit turns bad then open the gates,” Callan demands, running a hand through his hair, marching back and forth across the kitchen.
“On it.” Grease nods, disappearing from sight.
“What do you want me to do?” Kitty asks, eyeing her brother anxiously.
“Nothing. Go to your room.” Irritation grinds my jaw at his dismissal of her.
Rolling her eyes, she spits out, “Yeah, because that worked out so great last time.” She steps into his path to stop his pacing. “I’m not a kid, Callan. Perhaps if you stopped lying to me about stuff?—”
“It’s not lying. It’s protecting,” he bites out.
“Callan, she’s been through enough. Let’s calm down,” I edge, gaining a glare from them both.
“Do I look protected?” She holds up her wrists. “You forget—I grew up here just like you. I’m as much of a biker brat as you are. But because I have a pussy, I’m treated like I’m not worthy of the club.”
“That’s bullshit,” Callan tuts.
She really is blind to how important she is to the club. She’s the foundation, the soul.
“Is it? Because I’m kept in the dark and you all act like I’m some fragile flower. Can’t know club business, can’t be a brother, can’t fucking date a brother.”
“Let’s not forget why we’re in this mess in the first place. You brought Nicolas here,” Callan retorts, opting for the blame game.
“You’re right. I did. But I didn’t know Cutter was going to kill him.” She says my name like I’m a stranger in the room and my insides turn.
“Do you want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Pres demands, entering the kitchen, pulling a shirt over his head. His hair is a mess, and lines are etched like crevices on one side of his face. Clearly, he was woken up from a deep sleep.
Bowing her head, Kitty blows out an exasperated breath, placing her hands on her hips.
“Michael Carnell put his hands on Kitty because she mentioned bringing Nicolas here the night shit went down,” I say, cracking my neck, trying to control the need to go beat this cunt into the ground.
“I didn’t say it was that night, just around the time he went missing.”
The room shrinks around Pres. His eyes turn to slits. “Why the fuck are you talking to Michael Carnell?”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” Callan interrupts. “They’re at the gate.”
“Well, let’s go and sort this shit out,” Pres orders, leading the way.
Michael put his fucking hands on her. That should be the only thing on our minds right now. Pres didn’t even ask if she was okay.
“My cut,” Callan tells Kitty. She jerks out of the leather and hands it to him.
Eyeballing me across the kitchen, Callan slips into his cut as he strides to the counter and pulls a cleaver from the knife block.
That’s what I’m talking about.
Nodding my head, I take Kitty’s hand and lead her to the bar where everyone gathers. No more of her being sent to her room. She deserves to face this prick.
“Pres?” Dodger asks.
Pres looks around the room, then swipes a hand across his chin, his lips thinning. “We have guests. I want a peaceful resolution, but a show of power doesn’t hurt,” he tells his soldiers, all armed and ready. “There’s been a misunderstanding and I’m going to set it straight.”
“With who?” Green asks, unsteady on his feet. His chest and stomach are bare, his jeans ride too low on his hips showing a bush of pubic hair hanging over the top, his gun shoved down the front.
“Does it fucking matter who?” Pres growls. “Go put some fucking clothes on. You’re an embarrassment.”
Looking at his brother, his eyes almost cross. The fucker is wasted. Most of us are.
Wheels homes in on my hand clasped in Kitty’s, a frown marring his forehead. Kitty tenses and pulls free, folding her arms over her chest. Wheels steadies Green before he falls over and helps him into a seat.
Footfalls pound through the halls. Seconds later, Grease and Diamond enter with Michael Jr. and three of his bodyguards. Like they’ll be enough to take us down.
“Your man relieved us of our weapons—not the same courtesy we show you,” Michael says, his eyes wild, hair sticking up, no tie or jacket, his shirt half tucked into his slacks. I’ve never seen the man less than put together, let alone this disheveled.
“You’re lucky that’s all they stripped you of,” I snap.
Pres raises his hand, hushing me. “When we come to your home, we’re invited,” he informs Michael, raising a brow.
Michael’s lip curls as he surveys the room. “I thought we had an open invite. My brother was apparently here before he went missing off the face of the earth.”
“Your brother was killed by gang members because he was a cokehead and you cut off his supply,” I remind him.
Anger tightens his features, and his fists clench. Take your best shot, asshole.
“Let’s not forget who offered you retribution for that—and we’ve never claimed on it,” Callan cuts in, his tone deep and menacing. The fucker looks like he could take them all out without breaking a sweat.
“Is that because you have shit to hide?” Michael’s eyes shift to the cleaver gripped tightly in Callan’s hand.
“Careful,” Pres warns Michael. “You’re walking a tightrope in oil-soled shoes, son.”
Callan takes a measured step in Michael’s direction. “Nicolas was here partying with Kit one night when we got back from a run. We told her not to bring him here again and sent him on his way. Nothing to hide, nothing to tell, hence why we’ve never mentioned it.”
“What’s with the weapon? You going to kill me, Callan? That doesn’t seem like a man with nothing to hide.”
“Do you have memory loss or have you been snorting your own supply?” Callan seethes through greeted teeth, pointing to Kitty. “You put your fucking hands on my sister.”
Michael blinks before turning his head in her direction. “She caught me off guard.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
Pres moves to Callan’s side and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s all calm down. There’s emotion involved, and that makes us all a little reckless.”
The trio of men in black suits dart their attention in all directions, anxiously out of their depth. Not only are they outnumbered, they’re out-fucking-matched. They’re in the lion’s den covered in blood. Michael’s acting on impulse and that could get him killed.
“Kitty,” Michael attempts.
“Don’t talk to her,” I bark. “You lost that privilege, motherfucker.” I’m hostile, and he’s brazen enough to stare the devil in my eyes for longer than most.
“Does your father know you’re here?” Pres asks.
Turning his attention to Pres, he tilts his head. “No. I just want answers.”
“You got them. Your brother came here one time for an hour, if that, and left. End of story. We would have no fucking reason to lie or to do anything to the kid. The Kings and Carnells are friends. We took care of the scum who hurt him—for you.” Callan takes another step in his direction.
Michael’s chest deflates as he raises his hands to his face and roars into them. “Fuck.” Dropping his hands, he nods, his lips pursed. “I know. I know that. Shit.”
“It’s okay,” Pres assures him, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.
My eyes slide to Grease and Dodger and I jerk my chin toward the bodyguard closest to them.
In one swift movement, Grease swings his arm around the suit’s neck from behind, restraining him as Dodger grabs his arm and slams the guy’s hand on one of the tables.
The poor bastard’s expression is a mix of rage and confusion as he looks back and forth between Callan and Pres in panicked fear.
A zap of power passes through the room, charging the atmosphere.
You can taste it with every inhale, like electricity over the tongue.
Blanching, Michael asks sternly, “What’s going on?
” The other two goons crowd around him in hopes of protecting him from any assault.
I could throw this blade into his skull right now and they wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.
My fingers twitch. Adrenaline sparks inside my chest at the possibility.
Pres calmly proclaims, “I’m a lenient and merciful man.
” He holds his hands up and does a full circle, gaining grunts of confirmation from the brothers.
“You blowing in here at the ass crack of dawn is forgivable,” he tells Michael.
“You’re still grieving, you’ll always be grieving and I can understand that.
” Tension clings to the air like fog over a lake.
“However, actions do have consequences.” Placing a hand to his chest, he pushes his lips together, taking a concerned pause.
“I’m merciful, but when it comes to his sister, my son is not. ”
Pointing the meat cleaver in Michael’s face, Callan growls, his voice deadly, “No one puts fucking bruises on my sister.”
“Callan…” A ghost of fear passes over Michael’s eyes before his features smooth out in resignation. “Do what you have to do.”
“Get him off me,” the guard splutters, attempting to break free from Grease’s hold. Good fucking luck. “Boss?” he asks Michael, who shakes his head no.
Raising the cleaver, Callan brings it down fast and hard, severing the guard’s hand.
Blood sprays, painting over Michael and the other two guards.
An unnatural wail rips through the room and bounces off the walls, settling into the foundation.
A sliver of sunlight creeps through the bar, highlighting the carnage spilling like a red waterfall to the floor.
No one moves. The squelching of blood pissing from the stub is the only sound as the guard passes out like a fucking pussy. Grease releases him, and the guard hits the floor with a thud. “You might want to put some pressure on that,” he informs the other guards.
“If you ever touch my sister again, it will be your head I take. I don’t give a fuck who you are, how long we’ve known each other, or how much money we make together.” Callan holds the cleaver up, blood dripping down the blade and onto his forearm.
Marching over to the table, I stab through the severed hand with my blade and hold it up for Michael to take, resisting the urge to jam it through his eye.
“We showed you mercy tonight because of your father. Don’t make him lose another son,” Pres states.
“I won’t.” Reluctantly, Michael tugs the hand free and slaps it against his guard’s chest, gesturing to the one on the floor bleeding out from a wound that should have been his. “Get him up.”
“Don’t come back here unless you’re invited,” Callan adds, moving toward the bar. He jerks his head toward Diamond, and she maneuvers around Dodger and Grease to make him a drink.
“Which you’ll never be,” Kitty pipes in, coming to stand beside Pres and me. “And if you ever lay a hand on me again, it won’t be my brother you have to worry about.” As quick as a cat, she whips the blade from my hand and jams it into Michael’s shoulder.
Gasping, he stumbles back. His guards drop their injured third and push Michael behind them, stretching their arms out to stop any advance.
“Kitty,” Pres growls. She smiles big and fucking proud.
Yanking the blade out and dropping it with a clank, Michael rolls his neck and nods in acceptance. Around two inches of the blade is covered in blood from where it punctured his flesh—two inches more than he’ll ever give her . Fucker.
Michael turns to leave, stalling when Claire’s voice chimes, “Michael?”
She’s standing at the entrance he came through. She takes in his shoulder then steps back, wheezing when she sees the guard on the floor. “What the hell?”
“Do I know you?” Michael asks, confusion in his tone.
Her gaze flits to mine then lands on Pres before she shakes her head and stammers for her next breath. “N-o…” Moving out of his way, she watches his departure then points behind her. “I’ll be in our room.”
Kitty waltzes off in the other direction, and I turn to follow her when Pres grinds out. “Your wife went that way.”
We stare at each other for a couple silent beats before I grit my teeth and take off after Claire.