Chapter Six PITT #2
He grimaces, dragging his hand through his slicked back hair before he pushes away from the bar.
He walks with the confidence of a man who has rarely – if ever – met his physical match, but as we head towards the door, he seems barely aware of the way the crowd parts before him, some of the slower patrons even knocking over their chairs to get out of his way.
It’s not just the President patch, either, or the Flyers’ wings etched on his thick neck.
I’ve known a lot of hardcore alphas, and none of them were as effortlessly dominant as Arkin Wallace.
But he stops suddenly as we push out into the cold night air, his eyes flashing as they scan the parking lot. “Is that Abbie?”
My head jerks towards the raised voices coming from a dimly lit corner, my instincts on high alert for my omegas.
Danger.
Hurt.
Protect them, at all costs.
“Shit.” We run towards the sound of her cries, which quickly descend into a string of curses.
As we skid to a stop beside her, it’s not hard to see what’s brought on her fury.
Not a gang of alphas, like I feared, but her beloved Indian queen, barely recognizable after the beating someone has given it.
I assess the damage with a grimace. Headlight smashed, tires slashed, seat ripped off, wires cut, and gravel - or some other road dirt - packed into the engine...
“Who would do this?” Wings asks, his hands linked on top of his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Maybe the same asshole who kills butterflies,” I mutter, drawing sharp glances from both Ark and Wings.
“What the hell does that mean?”
It’s Ark who barks the question at me, but I face them both, knowing I’m about to get my ass handed to me.
And with good reason. “Something at the clinic,” I reply shortly.
“Someone entered the sleeping area while Abbie was napping and covered her bunk in dead butterflies. It’s being investigated, but I should have mentioned it sooner. ”
Ark glares at me, but Wings spins towards Abbie, his eyes wide with shock. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She’s too angry to bend all the way, but I can see a flicker of remorse in her eyes as she says, “I thought it was a prank. I didn’t want to worry you.”
Wings just shakes his head, but Ark is a looming wall of displeasure. “That’s way too personal to just be a prank. If you’re being targeted, you should move to the clubhouse until we identify the threat.”
He nods my way, like we’re all in agreement with that plan, but Abbie folds her arms and glares up at him.
“Oh, yeah? And what if the threat is coming from within the clubhouse?” She glances at her bike and sucks in a harsh breath, her pale cheeks flushing red.
“Maybe they followed you here, and I’m just getting the blowback. ”
Ark’s jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. “No biker would do this. Period.”
I’m not sure I agree with him, but the heat seems to go out of Abbie’s rage, and she turns towards Wings with a helpless groan. “I can’t look at her anymore. Can you take me home, please?”
I turn away to call Cruise, who runs the Flyers’ workshop, giving him the basics so he can organize a pickup.
I also photograph the closest license plates and shoot them off to the club’s security team, telling them to follow up on any witnesses.
I can’t see any obvious CCTV, but I ask them to send someone to talk to the bartenders, in case some asshole was boasting about taking out a bike in the parking lot.
When I’m done, Abbie is sliding on the back of Wings’ bike, her face pale and her grip trembling against his waist. Ark steps close to them, his hand resting briefly on Wings’ shoulder. “I’m not gonna push either of you, but you have a home with us, whenever you want it.”
Wings nods, but Abbie presses her head against his back. “We can talk again. That’s the best I can do.”
He steps back, watching as they ride off, then turns to me with a grim look. “This changes things. I want round-the-clock security. And don’t ever hold back on a report about her again.”
“Sorry, boss.” I can’t give him a blanket promise, because if my omegas asked me to protect their privacy, I would do it in a heartbeat. “You need anything else before I head off?”
“No.” He nods in the direction of their fading taillight. “Just keep them safe. That’s your priority.”
The easiest way to do my president’s bidding – and satisfy my own need to keep them close – is to camp out on her couch.
It’s all quiet in her bedroom, and I doze while keeping one ear scanning my surroundings.
It’s a trick I picked up on the streets and honed in my first club, which was little more than a bunch of outlaws held together by greed and dysfunction.
When it imploded, I made my way north, bouncing around between clubs until I met Ark at a bike rally.
Practically the first words out of his mouth were that loyalty to the wrong kind of club makes you part of the problem, and I should think carefully about the next patch I wore on my back.
Two days later I applied to be an Iron Flyers’ prospect, and I’ve had a home with them ever since.
I open my eyes as Abbie pads into the room, not looking particularly surprised to find me on her couch. I sit up straighter, watching as she heads into the kitchen. “Can't sleep?”
“Restless.” She grabs a glass, then opens the freezer and pulls out a bottle of vodka. “Pissed off, mostly.” She pours a couple of fingers and drinks it down fast, wincing at the burn. “Sad, too, which is why I’m out here drinking instead of in there with Wings.”
She pours another double, and I watch as she tips it down just as fast as the last. “Cruise has your bike. He’ll put her back together, good as new.”
She stares moodily at her empty glass. “Thanks, but I’m tired of having to patch things back up.”
I rise off the couch, grabbing the glass out of her hand and pouring myself a shot. I drink it down, even though I prefer the sweet burn of rum. “Isn't that your job?”
Her hazel eyes are dull and tired as they watch me steal her liquor. “I s’pose. But I know what I’m dealing with there.” Her lips quirk in a bitter smile. “I know the rules, because one thing you can say about biology is that it rarely surprises you.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, setting the glass down between us. “Wings presenting kind of hit me from left field.”
“True.” Her hand flutters up to her neck but stops short of her butterfly ink. “You really think he’ll be safe back at the club?”
“I’ll bet my cut on it.” She raises her brows at me, because even a guy who’s bounced around clubs like I have doesn’t make that wager lightly. I pull one of her chairs away from the table and nod at it. “Sit down. Let me try something that won't give you a hangover in the morning.”
She eyes me warily. “You’re not going to tie me to that thing, are you?”
A dozen filthy images involving complicated knots flicker through my head. “Nothing that exciting. Come on. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
She’s still watching me suspiciously, but she finally circles the island and perches on the edge of the chair.
Even with exhaustion dragging her down, her spine is as straight as an iron bar, and I’m not surprised that she stiffens further when I sweep her hair off her neck.
She’s wearing an old cotton tee and sleep pants, and her scent rises off her in a heady wave.
Focus, asshole.
I touch her lightly at first, waiting for her to get used to the feel of my hands on her shoulders.
As expected, they’re balls of tension, but they slowly soften as I increase the pressure.
I run my thumbs along the meridians, digging into the tight areas to increase blood flow, and she drops her head forward with a moan. “Oh, God. Wicked, wicked hands.”
I smirk as I find a sensitive spot and a shiver plucks at her spine. “I boxed for a while. My corner guy was a retired physio, and he said you should always learn to fix what you break.”
“Smart man,” she sighs, but as my hands slide further down her spine, she stiffens again. “Don’t... not my back.”
I eye her carefully. Everyone has their limits, but I don’t think I’ve hit a ticklish spot. “Okay. But just for the record, this works even better if you’re lying down.”
She smirks at my flirty wink. “Maybe next time, Magic Hands.”
I take the win, carefully massaging her neck until she pushes me away. She gets up to put the vodka back in the freezer and I return to my seat on the couch. “Another couple of nights there and you’ll be the one needing the massage,” she tells me.
I shrug, the humor fading under the reality of her situation. The butterflies were disturbing, but there was real rage leveled against her bike. “Thought any more about who could have done that to your bike?”
She stiffens, all my good work undone with a single question, but it’s too important not to ask. “Do you agree with Ark? That bikers couldn’t do that to a ride?”
“I think we both know that putting on a cut doesn’t cancel out the bad shit.” In fact, Ark knows this better than anyone, but it’s Abbie I need to convince. “I think we should assume these attacks are related. The butterflies to get your attention, and the bike to let you know they’re serious.”
Anger flashes in her eyes, her scent taking on a bitter edge. “Oh, I know they’re serious. What I don’t know is who they are and why they’re targeting me.”
“We’ll find that out,” I assure her, “but in the meantime, we have to prepare for what comes next. Maybe the deadbolts will keep them out, but there are plenty of dark corners between here and the street.”
I don’t need to spell out the dangers that exist beyond that, and her frown deepens. “You think we're safer at the clubhouse?”
“I think they're going after things you love, and that makes you vulnerable.”
Her gaze has been drifting around the room, like she’s mentally checking her defenses, but now her head snaps towards her bedroom door. “Wings...” She swallows, her hand gripping the counter until I can see her knuckles glow. “You think he’s in danger?”
“He’s tough,” I say slowly, “but the two of you can’t prepare for every scenario. And what happens when one of you goes into heat? Or both of you, for that matter? Who's gonna watch your back then?”
Her eyes narrow, but I can see a hint of heat stirring in their depths. “Are you applying for the job?”
I stare straight back at her, because this is another question that’s too important not to ask. “Would you consider me if I did?”
Instead of answering, she turns back to the sink for a glass of water.
She drinks it down then crosses to look out the window.
I don’t know if she’s thinking about my offer or checking the street for potential threats, but there’s a hint of a smile in her eyes when her gaze slides back to mine.
“I haven’t kicked you off my couch yet, have I? ”