Eight
FANG
Shirtless and fresh out of the shower, I lie starfish on my bed, face buried in the pillows. What a fucking day. Gave up trying to sleep when the road grime made my skin itch, and stepped through a hot spray hoping that it would send me off to the land of nod.
No such luck.
The brothers take turns watching the women downstairs.
A couple of the ladies fell asleep in front of the fire—the addict and the brunette that bit my leg, the child tucked beneath the vicious woman’s arm.
But the remainder seemed too wired with residual adrenaline to rest when I called it quits for the night.
A feeling I understand well.
With a sigh, I roll to my back and stare up at the mirror over my bed. It’s fucking epic when I’ve got bunnies in the room but not so much now when it’s just me and the fucker in the reflection who judges me for all my life choices.
Fucking Reno. She had beef with the other girls while she belonged to the club; her sassy attitude always stirred up trouble.
The kind of quick wit and smart mouth you’d expect on a woman who spends her days being manhandled by dirty, sweaty bikers.
Didn’t think much of it then. Figured she’d settle down once she had a kid and got away from the whore’s life.
But if anything, she doubled down. Grew a vocabulary that’d make a sailor blush.
Developed a sense of entitlement I’ve never seen before in any of the club women—bunnies and old ladies alike.
And I knew I’d fucked up.
Worse than when I screwed the Amish girl during Rumspringa.
Facing her brother with the double barrels of his shotgun pointed at me was goddamn meditative in comparison. I’d walk my ass back to their farm in a heartbeat over dealing with Reno for the rest of my life.
But I sealed my fate when Reno gave birth to Molly. Didn’t matter how much of a bitch her mother is; that baby never got a choice in who she was born to. The least I could do was give her the best life possible given the circumstances.
And I already fail at that.
My breath leaves on a heavy exhale, hands scrubbing hard into my face. Waste of fucking time. I’m not getting sleep any time soon. Lying here only makes my frustration worse. May as well get up and see if I can be of use. Maybe take over for whoever is on watch downstairs.
I roll off the side of the bed and slap my bare feet to the floor.
I know what would make me drift off to sleep before my head could hit the pillow.
But the only bunny who lives in-house and is here at this hour is Jezabel, and we’ve never been like that—she’s more like a sister to me.
I don’t want it bad enough to call one of the others in.
Can’t be fucked waiting for them to drive over, and can’t be guaranteed I’ll even be in the mood when they get here.
Sure sign your mental health needs a check-in, buddy.
When the libido packs up and fucks off, all indicators are I’m in for a rough few months while I work the bullshit out of my system.
And the cold timber beneath my feet reminds me that the fight will be made that much more difficult by the time of year; can’t ride my bike to clear my head when there’s fucking snow on the road.
I tug on a clean pair of worn black jeans and a loose T-shirt, snatching a knitted sweater on my way out the door.
The sun’s yet to rise, and it’s colder than a witch’s tit in the house.
The first floor has three rooms with massive fireplaces that are kept roaring in the evenings, but when the brothers turn in, the temperature dives until one of the women arrives early in the morning and restores the flames.
I make a mental note to badger Chaos about central heating for this ghost house and jog down the stairs into the foyer.
Bandit and Floss exit the front parlor, Floss’s head turning to take me in as I approach.
“Finally getting out of here?” I ask.
Bandit nods. “Done all we can. I’ll bring the Mrs back tomorrow to check up on a couple of them.”
“Anything serious?” I ask her. If she so much as mentions that child in context with—
“Keep an eye on Nandi, the one with the head injury. By her account of when it happened, she’s past the first and most critical hours, but it can still cause trouble.”
I nod at her advice.
“The addict girl—Mila—is the only other concern. But I think there are plans to get her into hospital care tomorrow…today,” she corrects herself, “when the sheriff arrives.”
“Marty’s coming then?”
“You might want to check that with Chaos,” Bandit says in his signature grumble. “Later.”
I give a tight nod farewell and let them head out the door to their car. Bandit’s too old to tolerate late nights and icy roads on his bike these days, and for Floss’s sake, he’d rather give her the safety and comfort of a full seat and heater.
One of our prospects, Hustle, sits in the chair near the large front window, legs extended out long before him. Arms folded high on his chest, his stern gaze drifts over the women in the room, a steaming cup of coffee on the side table—no doubt supplied by Floss before she left.
I count the bodies, starting with the brunette and the child spooning together with a thick blanket over them in front of the fire.
The flames are low but alive, meaning somebody’s cared enough to lean over the sleeping ladies and stoke the embers enough that the room stays mild.
The junkie Floss mentioned, Mila, sleeps curled tight at their feet, blanket fisted in her hand and a tight scowl on her otherwise peaceful face.
Nandi stirs on the sofa, but soon settles back into a restless sleep.
“Where’s the redhead?” I ask Hustle with a half-whisper.
He points to the ceiling. “Upstairs.”
I count the women one-by-one again. Of course. “And the short one? Freckles and black hair?”
He tips his head to the right and then meets my gaze. “Having coffee on the porch.”
I frown. “Anyone watching her?”
He smirks. “Yeah.”
Curious about why he finds this so fucking funny, I cross back through the foyer and head outside.
The chilled early-morning air finds the gaps in my sweater, needling my warm skin, the timber cool beneath my bare feet.
Sure enough, to my right sits Freckles, and keeping her company is—the fuck? —Loki.
A weird, prickly feeling washes through me when they stop their hushed conversation, and both turn their head to look at me.
“Hey, brother,” Loki greets.
I assess how close he sits to her, whether he’s given her enough to keep warm, and what her body language says about it all. “What you both doing up?” He’s been with her most of the night.
“I guess the same thing as you,” Loki quips.
My hand drifts to my chest, and I internally curse. Fucking dirty habit. “She’s probably waiting for you to leave so she can run again.”
“She has a name,” Freckles snaps.
“And it would be?” I give her a chance to introduce herself.
Woman chooses to roll her eyes and look away instead.
“You need something?” Loki asks, ice edging his words after my dig toward Freckles.
“Couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d come down and see if any of you want a break. I can take over from Hustle.”
“He’s only just started,” Loki says, shifting to the front of his chair.
“You can take my place. I’m about done for the night.
” He moves his attention to Freckles, missing the tension written in my blunt expression.
“If I don’t see you before you leave, I hope things work out well for you in the future. ”
She mumbles a quiet thanks, eyes tracking his movement as he passes her and walks behind me to enter the house. Fucking friendly already.
A weighted second or two passes before Freckles finally looks my way. “Are you going to sit down?”
“Hadn’t decided.”
Her hair flickers into her face with the soft breeze, and she tucks it behind an ear that’s adorned with a long line of silver rings.
The woman gives off pixie vibes, but only if the pixie ran away from home to join a rock ’n roll band and hooked up with a tattoo artist. She’s edgy, yet adorably cute, which is a weird fucking combination.
“Warm enough?” I ask.
She adjusts the woolen blanket over her legs. “Yeah.”
“Cool.”
The awkward silence resumes.
I glance toward the horizon. The sun barely shifts the hues of the night sky, which means we’ve got time before anyone else wakes up. “You not tired?”
She glares at me from beneath her brow. “I don’t feel okay with leaving myself that vulnerable, yet.”
“You don’t trust us?”
“Would you?” She lifts her chin and holds my stare.
Guess the girl has a point. Sure, we took them out of the Devil’s Breed’s hands, but apart from our words, there’s no evidence of true freedom for them yet. “What would make you feel safer?”
Freckles shrugs. “Not sure.” She stares over the porch rail to the field beyond. “Do you guys farm this place?”
“Nope.” I move around her, yet stay standing before the vacant chair. “Local Amish do.” A soft snort emanates from my left. “What?”
“Weird combination.”
“It works, though.” I study her while she avoids making eye contact.
For a woman who feels unsafe, she sure looks relaxed.
Legs tucked on the seat before her, she leans onto one arm of the chair, fingers fidgeting in her lap.
Her lids are heavy, conveying how tired she actually is, yet she seems content to sit here and look around.
“Had you been there long? In that house?”
She flicks her gaze my way. “What does it matter to you?”
“Just making conversation,” I grumble, folding my arms and choosing to stare at the fields as well.
Our companionable silence settles in again. Enough time passes that my feet start to ache and the first warm hues of sunrise touch the treetops by the river.
Freckles yawns.
“Sure you don’t want to get some sleep?” I tease.
“Like I said,” she says, stifling a second yawn. “I’m tired, just not okay with being unconscious around strangers.”
I twist my neck to look down at her. “Your pals seem okay sleeping in the parlor.”
“Because they didn’t want to be stuck in a room all together again,” she snips. “Weird how small spaces and closed doors might be traumatizing for them, huh?”
I ignore her sarcasm and take a deep breath before I say, “Not for you, though?”
She sighs, studying her hands wrung in the edge of the blanket. “I dunno. I need the privacy, I guess.”
“You could share the room upstairs with your redhead friend.”
“She’s not my friend.”
Right. I glance to the sky and then back to Freckles.
Truth be told, I’m starting to feel the pull of sleep again, too.
We can’t sit here all day, and once everyone wakes up it’ll be impossible for her to get enough quiet to settle down.
Marty will want to talk to her when he arrives with his officers, and God only knows how long it’ll be before she’s back home wherever she belongs.
Something about the woman has me on edge, a gut feeling she could be dangerous. Probably fueled by the fact that the little fighter ran the first second she got. But still. “Come on.” I jerk my head to gesture for her to get out of the chair. “I’ve got somewhere you can feel safer for a while.”
She holds my gaze, brow pinching as she appears to delve behind my eyes for the truth in my words. Guess she finds what she needs, because Freckles moves the blanket aside and slowly rises off the seat, stretching her legs out. “Lead the way, then, Nibbles.”
I lift a brow. “Nibbles?”
She shrugs. “You don’t seem vicious enough for Fang.”
I extend my arm, guiding her into the house. “That’s because you’ve only known me while I’m on my best behavior.”