Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AMES
The prospect hurries me to the truck and helps me into the seat.
I barely notice as he reaches over to fasten the seatbelt, which I’m incapable of doing myself.
The numbness that had accompanied me during my flight across the mountain leaves me like a wave retreating from the shore, and my grief overwhelms me like the tide coming in.
I start to shake, as sobs again tear through me as I try to compute I’ll never see Flynn again.
I’m barely conscious of the journey back to the clubhouse, just grateful that I’m allowed to wallow in my despair, trying to cope with the realisation that if it wasn’t for me, Flynn would never have been there, he wouldn’t have been exposed to my brother.
It shouldn’t have been him who died. It should have been me.
By involving the Kings, I’ve put far too many people in danger. My life isn’t worth theirs.
When we enter Gravity, I have an impulse to open the door and throw myself out. I don’t want to hear the confirmation that Flynn has died, though realistically, I know there’s no way he could have survived.
On the edge of my consciousness, I realise we’ve reached our destination.
The gates open automatically, and the prospect waves at a man who looks like his twin as we drive through.
I’m sore, exhausted, and just want somewhere to go where I can be alone and give into my sorrow, but as the truck pulls to a halt, I see there’s a reception waiting.
The first man to the truck is Stalker. “Thank fuck you’re alive.” His pronouncement is heartfelt. Then, he grimaces as he gets a look at me and shouts to someone behind him. “Short, is Bronwyn here?”
One of the tallest men I’ve ever seen in my life shakes his head. “Nah, she’s at the hospital. Is it an emergency?”
Turning back to me, Stalker asks, “Anything broken?”
For a second, I gaze at him numbly, struggling to understand his simple question.
I doubt he’d comprehend if I answered, only my heart.
When his eyes start to narrow in increasing concern, I force myself to communicate like a human while all I want to do is wail like a wounded animal.
“I’m fine,” I reply, unable to keep the quaver out of my voice.
“Nothing that a shower and a couple of painkillers won’t sort out.
” I hope my face isn’t betraying my lie. I doubt I’ll ever be fine.
He opens the door and holds out his arm to help me out. Out of inborn politeness, I allow his assistance, then have to accept I needed it, as when I step down, my legs refuse to support me. He staggers slightly but bears my weight.
“Sorry, my legs must have seized.” My apology comes automatically. My knees feel like they don’t work anymore, and as for my muscles? They’re stiff and painful.
“Take her up to Rat’s room,” someone shouts out. “She can freshen up in there. Then Prez wants to speak to her.”
I step back and halt when I come up against the solid body of the truck. Shaking my head vigorously, I tell them in a strangled whisper, “I can’t use his room.” It will smell of him, remind me of him. A sob escapes as my voice becomes even quieter, “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Another man steps forward. I recognise him as Saint, the VP. He eyes me up and down, then growls, “Can’t tell you that.”
Hope suddenly floods through me. With sharpened senses, I stammer out my next question. “He… he’s alive?”
Saint moves his head side to side. “Can’t tell you that either. As Woody said, Prez wants to speak to you after you get cleaned up.”
If I can put up with the state I’m in, so can they.
They’ll just have to have their senses offended.
I try to straighten even though every muscle I have protests.
“Take me to see Bullseye now.” If he’s got information about Flynn, I want to hear it.
While earlier I wanted to delay hearing the inevitable, now I don’t want to put up with their stonewalling.
“You’ll feel better once you’re…”
“I’ll feel better once I know what’s going on,” I hiss. And then, taking matters into my own hands, I painfully limp my way toward the clubhouse. When I reach the doorway, a man stands in front of it, blocking my entry.
With a resigned sigh, from behind me, Saint orders, “Step aside, Prospect. Let her in.”
My way clear, I head across the clubroom, remembering the way to Bullseye’s office from before.
Saint moves faster than me—even a snail would have no trouble besting my pace in the state I’m in—and knocks at the door.
When a voice calls out from within, he opens it, and gestures for me to go inside.
Behind his desk, Bullseye’s eyes narrow when he examines me.
“Sorry, Prez,” Saint states. “She insisted on seeing you immediately.”
“You called Bronwyn?” With his gaze still on me, he clearly addresses the question to his VP.
“She’s at the hospital.”
“I don’t give a fuck about this Bronwyn, whoever she is,” I snarl.
“I just want to know what’s happened to...
Rattler.” I use his road name as Flynn was the one he’d shared with me, then take a deep breath as the anger that had bolstered me for a few seconds leaves me in a rush.
Grief rolls back through me as I doubt whether I’m strong enough to hear the answer to the question I just asked.
Bullseye breathes in deeply. “Take a seat, Ames.”
That I do is less from me being obedient, and more that I’m not sure how much longer my overused limbs will support me.
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his desk, his hands clasped. “Ames, I can’t answer your question.”
Startled, I let rip. “Have you not even been to the cabin?” I draw in a deep breath and lean forward, half-standing, supporting myself by resting my hands on his desk.
“He was relying on you to rescue him. And you what? Just left him there?” My eyes open wide.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “I thought your fucking creed was loyalty. You knew Malachi was coming for us. I know you did. You gave Rattler the warning on the phone…”
“Sit down!” His bark sends me back into my seat.
I watch as his hands loosen, and his shoulders go back.
He sits up straight and growls, “We went to the fuckin’ cabin, got there as fast as we could.
But our bikes ain’t got wings.” Pausing, he rakes his hands down his face, and I don’t think I’m imagining the regret that I see in his eyes as he continues, this time more gently.
“Rattler did fuckin’ good. From the number of bodies we found, he’d taken a few of them out.
But him, we didn’t find. I wish I could, Ames, but I can’t tell you whether he’s dead or alive.
I am working on the assumption that the odds are he’s still breathing, and that your brother has taken him with him.
” He leans forward. “Now, can you think of a reason why, and where he might have taken him?”
I breathe in deep as air fills my lungs, and hope enters my heart for the first time in hours.
Placing a hand over my chest, I try to still the too-rapid beating.
Bullseye has to be right. Why would Malachi leave the bodies of his men around, but take Flynn’s?
He must still be alive. For now, but my brother’s got him for some unknown reason, and I doubt he’ll remain safe for long.
Unless I can give Bullseye the information he’s asked for.
Short answer. I can’t. I hold out my hands, palms up, showing I’ve got nothing.
I hate that my words come out as a whine.
“I don’t know what Malachi would want with him.
And I’ve no idea where he might go. Last I knew, he was living in my grandparents’ house in Phoenix, but I think he owned a place in Silverdale.
I don’t know the address, though.” Weakly, I add, “I know nothing about him.” Then, to my shame, my eyes again fill with tears.
“Except that he’d even stoop so low as to take Rattler’s body to fuck with me. ”
I shudder as words tumble out of my mouth.
“Rattler told me to run from the cabin. I wanted to stay with him. He told me you said it was only Malachi coming for him. He, er,” I sob, then try to pull myself together.
“He said some hurtful things to get me to run. Then, once I was away from the cabin, I realised he’d only done it so I wouldn’t stay.
” I gasp in a gulp of air and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
“I… I looked back from a vantage point. There were three fucking cars, Bullseye. Three cars full of men. He didn’t have a chance, and I just left him there.
” I’m completely bawling now, trying to wipe snot from my nose as well as the tears running unchecked down my cheeks.
A tissue is pushed into my hand, I use it, and it immediately turns to mush between my fingers. A full box lands in my lap.
I don’t know if anyone’s speaking. I’m lost in my head, revisiting the scene, seeing the attack, hearing the gunshots and my realisation that Flynn must be dead.
Why is it that when something’s gone, that’s when you realise just how much it meant?
Flynn gave his life for nothing. Even if they hadn’t found his body, Malachi won’t keep him alive.
He has no reason to, and every reason to kill the man that I’d married.
“It should have been me. Flynn shouldn’t have been involved.” My words, punctuated by outright wails, probably can’t be understood.
Through swollen eyes, I register a large man on his haunches in front of me.
I recognise him, he was in the office the last time I was here, but I don’t remember his name.
Whoever he is, he passes a glass of amber liquid into my hand.
He cups my fingers, holding the drink between his palms, as if knowing I’m shaking so much that without help, I’ll probably drop it.
“It’s brandy,” he says gruffly. Then he helps me raise the glass to my lips.