Chapter Nine
Ryatt
Dark red splatters of blood created a disturbing tapestry of shapes and stains against the filthy porcelain.
The stench of my own piss, along with the piss of the fucks who’d strung me up, saturated the air.
Sweat dripped from my brow, stinging my eyes.
Zip ties anchored my wrists to the shower nozzle above my head. My arms had gone numb hours ago.
I shifted my weight from my right leg to my left. Sharp shards of pain seared through the muscles. I inhaled. Agony laced every breath. My ribs had to be busted.
In the delirium, my mind drifted to McKelle. She was both soft and fierce. Vulnerable and fucking fearless. I loved the way she laughed, and it broke me to see her tears. I hated how she needed Cruz because I wanted her to need me the same way. Would she cry over me the way she’d cried over Cruz?
I wasn’t stupid. I hadn’t asked McKelle to choose between us because I wanted more time with her. An ultimatum would only have had her back with Cruz sooner. Contemplating my own expiration date had me rethinking my priorities. I’d rather have some part of her than nothing.
But Cruz was an asshole, an asshole who really wasn’t because an asshole would’ve forced McKelle to choose.
He didn’t. An asshole who was already a Heller would keep me out of the MC, but instead he was the asshole who wanted to sponsor me.
The asshole wasn’t trying to push me out, even after knowing I’d slept with McKelle, but seemed to want a truce.
A truce that involved us both being with her.
I’d almost had something good. As usual, I was fucked in the end.
I’d played by the rules. Did treatment for an addiction I didn’t have.
Did probation for charges I wasn’t guilty of—a nervous chuckle bubbled out of me—and I was going to die in a bathtub, in a trap house, for being a narc when I never said anything to the cops.
Fighting a wave of dizziness, nausea surged up my throat and my body convulsed. Dropping my head forward sent fire through my shoulders. I heaved, purging what little I had left in my stomach. Frothy spit and yellow bile contributed to the macabre colors trickling into the tub’s drain.
Drool dribbled over my lips. I breathed through my mouth, but I could taste the vile odors in the small room. I’d been here for hours. I’d taken a beating because I couldn’t convince Drew and Vic and their gangbanger brothers that I hadn’t narced.
I’d known I was fucked the moment I stepped a foot into the halfway house.
I couldn’t blame Treena. Kings held a gun to her head.
Self-preservation had her giving me up. This was my fault.
I should’ve known they’d eventually find me.
Maybe prison would’ve been the better deal.
Although Kings in prison had nothing left to lose.
I was fucked the day I was born. Nothing had changed.
A guy stumbled into the bathroom, pulled out his dick, and took a leak.
The toilet wasn’t any cleaner than the shower.
Tattoos covered his face, and a large W with three dots above the points marked him as a King.
He swayed on his feet. Judging by the bruises and scabs of track marks on his arms, he was high on heroin.
That dealer died in a bathtub, and I was going out the same way.
“You doing okay?” the guy asked.
My vision blurred, my tongue was swollen, and my throat was too dry to speak. And I was naked and covered in blood, vomit, and piss. So no, I wasn’t okay. But that was his point. They weren’t done making me suffer, and no one in this house was going to call for help.
I was fucked.
The guy pulled a baggie from his pocket, twisted around, and sat on the toilet. He focused as he pinched off a piece of heroin and set it on a crinkled piece of foil.
A crash sounding from the living room was followed by raised voices.
“Someone’s pissed. The guys must be back with food.” He smirked. “We need to keep up our strength. And those fucks have the munchies.” He stood and twisted the lock on the bathroom door. “Breathe deep, asshole. You’re going to want to be high.”
He put a straw between his lips, flicked the lighter and chased the bead of heroin across the foil, inhaling the fumes.
I closed my eyes and wondered if maybe I should ask for a hit.
“Drew thinks you should have the same experiences as the Kings you fucked over. You got jumped, but you’re not done hurting. Danny’s wife says he’s got his mouth wired shut from the beatdown he got the first week he was locked up. I’m thinking we’re not done fucking you up.”
Bang! A gun fired. Bang! Another explosion of gunfire blasted through the house.
“Oh, fuck.” The guy sucked harder, trying to finish off his bead.
I shifted my weight again. Every muscle cramped. I couldn’t stop the low groan climbing out of my chest. Maybe I’d get lucky and catch a stray bullet in the head and end this fucking misery.
More thuds and bangs and then an eerie silence emanated from behind the closed door. The guy strained to listen, leaning toward the door, tilting his head, and still smoking his heroin.
The bathroom doorknob jiggled. “Open the fucking door.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.” He crumpled the foil.
Crack! The wood splintered, and the door swung open. The guy stood, and tossed his foil, lighter, and straw into the tub.
I couldn’t breathe, afraid I was hallucinating.
A cocktail of emotions surged through me.
Fear, confusion, shame, anger. But I couldn’t name the one I felt at seeing the Heller I was supposed to hate.
Same messy hair. Same intense eyes. But the devilish smile was a hard line. A muscle ticked in Cruz’s angular jaw.
I coughed out spit and blood.
“Romeo, he’s in here.”
The guy’s wild eyes darted past Cruz. “Who the fuck are you?”
Cruz aimed his weapon. “Unless I ask you a question, shut the fuck up.”
“Are you a cop?”
Cruz cocked his head. “Do I look like a cop?”
“No.” Heroin must have made him stupid. The guy lifted his shirt and pulled his gun.
Bang!
I jolted. My ears rang with the blast. Blood sprayed the bathroom wall. The guy lurched from the impact, and he dropped to the ground with a gaping hole in his chest. The sharp and pungent odor of gunfire blended with the acrid stench of piss and blood.
Cruz was here.
For a moment, my mind tried to make sense of what just happened. Cruz had a gun. Jesus. He pulled the trigger. The guy was fucking dead.
Cruz hollered into the hall behind him. “Romeo! Dozer!”
Romeo appeared in the doorway. “Fucking hell.” He vaulted over the dead guy and stepped into the tub with me. “Ryatt. Fuck. What have they done to you?”
Nothing good. I wanted to speak, but my mouth wasn’t getting the message from my brain.
With the knife from his belt, Romeo sliced through the zip ties, and my weight sagged against him. “I’ve got you.”
I hissed and groaned as my arms dropped to my side, pain flaring hot through my limbs.
“Let me help you.” Romeo’s arms wrapped around my waist as he lowered me to the bottom of the filthy tub.
“I pulled the fucking trigger. Fuck, Romeo. I killed him.”
Cruz and I were having the same mental conversation. Romeo on the other hand was assessing the situation as if a dude wasn’t bleeding out all over the floor.
“Good. Now he’s dead. Get Dozer.”
“Dozer,” he hollered as he set his gun on the counter. “I’m not leaving Ryatt. You go help Dozer.”
Romeo didn’t move. “You okay with Cruz?” he asked me.
My gaze shifted to Cruz, and I nodded.
Romeo stepped out of the tub. “I’ll find his clothes.”
Once he’d stepped over the side of the tub, he rushed out of the room, leaving us alone. Cruz climbed into the tub, sat on the edge, and carefully shifted me between his widespread thighs.
“Fuck, Rizz. I thought I was going to be too late.” He threaded his fingers through my hair, and part of me broke because I’d had the same concern. With a shuddering exhale, I leaned my face against his thigh and tears slipped from my closed eyes.
I didn’t have words, but I guess we didn’t need any. He was here. For whatever fucked up reason, he’d come for me.
“We don’t have long.” He stroked a hand over my head. “I’m going to turn on the shower. Can you stand?”
“I’ll try.” My throat burned with the words.
Cruz leaned forward and spun the spigot. The stench of urine overwhelmed, but Cruz didn’t leave me to clean up alone. He remained in the filth with me until the water ran warm, then he flipped the lever to direct the water to the showerhead.
I shifted to my knees. Cruz wrapped his arms around me and lifted. Needles of pain ripped along my limbs and surged into my legs. My knees buckled, but Cruz held me and, with my back to his chest, we stepped beneath the water.
The first shot of warmth took my breath. I lifted my face, parted my parched lips, and drank. More tears filled my eyes as the taste of bile flushed from my mouth. Rivulets of bloody water sluiced down my torso.
Cruz’s hands roamed over my chest, washing away the blood and filth. My legs trembled as feeling began to return.
“Turn around.” His voice was low and gravelly next to my ear.
I slowly pivoted. Cruz kept one hand on my hip, and the other securely fastened around my waist.
The warm water soothed the bruises and open cuts on my back.
“You’re soaked,” I said and smiled. His jeans were sopping wet, and his shirt clung to his torso.
“I could get undressed.”
Even in this fucked up situation, I chuckled.
“The water feels good.” I wasn’t going to try to dissect my emotions.
Standing here with Cruz, and with a junkie that considered me his enemy dead at my feet, I was baptized into a relationship with Cruz that was going to change us both.
Not only had he come for me, but he’d killed for me.
“Admit it,” Cruz said while using his fingertips to gently rub the coagulated blood from my face. “You were happy to see me come through that door.”