Chapter 12 #2
As I scratched behind her ears, I knew what I said wasn’t an exaggeration.
I also knew she didn’t really know what I was saying, but that she’d likely lose her mind when I left her behind.
Knowing it was for the best, I left my keys and my purse, moving as quickly as I could so she couldn’t follow me.
Just as I thought, Reaper was barking her head off as I made my way toward the group of Stallions. She really knew how to tug at a girl’s heartstrings, but I told myself I made a smart move.
Cobra, Spurs, and Nighthawk were all off their hogs, speaking in hushed voices as I approached.
I noticed there were a couple Copper Kings watching us from where they stood up by the clubhouse—one of them leaning against the railing while the other stood with his arms folded across his chest. Neither of them was Carmy, but that didn’t ease the anxious feeling I had in my belly.
I turned at the rumble of an approaching bike and recognized Nomad with his cowboy hat right away. No sooner had he parked and cut his engine than he was off his hog and headed for our destination.
“What are we waitin’ for?” he called over his shoulder.
None of the guys bothered to answer, merely falling in stride with him instead. Like Cobra said earlier, nobody stopped me as I hurried after them. It was when we began our ascent up the short set of stairs that we met resistance.
The Copper King who was leaning against the railing straightened and blocked both Nomad and Nighthawk from the door. The other King did his part to block Spurs and Cobra, and the knot in my stomach twisted tighter.
“State your business.”
“You know why we’re here. Don’t waste my time,” Nighthawk replied.
“Don’t waste ours. You’re a man short,” spoke the other.
“Seems there’s been a misunderstandin’,” drawled Cobra conversationally. “You lost one of yours, which sounds like a you problem. As for ours, we’re not leavin’ here without him.”
“Patch on your kutte tells me you’re no one I need to be talkin’ to. Patch on mine should tell you I’m conversin’ with you out of courtesy.” Nighthawk paused long enough to lean forward before he finished, “I’m just about out of words. Move out of our way.”
The two Kings hesitated for a beat. After a silent exchange, they cleared a path to the door. I was somewhat relieved for as long as it took us to cross the threshold into the clubhouse. I took two steps inside, and my breath caught. The place had hardly changed.
Unlike the Stallions’ lair, this one was shaped more like a den.
There were steps a few paces away from the door which descended into the main room, the area cluttered with mismatched furniture, a bar, and a couple pool tables.
On the far side of the room was an exposed set of stairs that led up to an open loft space.
I didn’t need to see up there to remember what it looked like.
My memories were clear enough I could practically smell the scent of weed permeating the place.
There was a huge Copper King flag that hung suspended from the middle of the tall ceiling, the black fabric with the coiled copper snake in the center an imposing message—or maybe just a show of pride, depending on who looked at it.
But it wasn’t the familiarity of the space and the memories it brought back that left me aghast.
It wasn’t the crowd of men who stood around the center of the room, none of whom even noticed our entrance.
It wasn’t even my subconscious recognition of the man with the bloodied fists, his back to us as his shoulders rose and fell with his labored breaths.
In an instant, what seized my lungs and stopped my heart was the sight of Pistol, tied to a chair, completely and utterly defenseless.
“What the fuck?” Nomad all but snarled.
The sound of his words wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the music and the next round of punches delivered. Ribs. Gut. Jaw. Blow after blow, each eliciting a noise more sickening than the last.
Both Spurs and Nomad were the first to make a move. Seemingly acting with one accord, Cobra and Nighthawk held each of them back while they waited for the beating to stop.
I didn’t know where to settle my gaze, my mouth hanging open as I looked between the Stallions, then at Pistol, then back at the Stallions.
They weren’t doing anything!
“You talk, we stop,” said one of the Kings.
My focus snapped in his direction, but only for a second.
“He’s got nothin’ to fuckin’ say,” bellowed Nighthawk, finally earning everyone’s attention.
I lost track of who was talking the moment the man with the bloody fists spun to look back at us.
I saw it on his face the second he realized it was me standing there.
His brow twitched in a frown of confusion that was there and gone as quickly as it came, immediately replaced by a scowl of sheer and utter disapproval.
The expression pierced my heart straight through.
As if this scene wasn’t shitty enough already…
Pistol spat blood at Carmy’s feet, and the sneer that curled my brother’s lip made my breath catch. Again.
I then watched as Pistol leaned back in his chair in stubborn defiance.
I wanted to yell. To scream. To protest. Anything to prevent what was coming.
Before I could utter a sound, Carmy backhanded Pistol’s face so hard, it sounded like a punch.
When Carmy wound himself up for another blow, this time with a closed fist, I lost my mind for long enough to come unglued from where I stood.
Without second guessing myself, I bolted across the room, pushing my way past anyone who stood in my way.
It didn’t matter how little we knew each other.
I didn’t care that he wasn’t mine and I wasn’t his in all the ways that mattered.
All I could think about was Pistol’s handsome face, now so bloodied and bruised I could hardly recognize him—and nobody was doing anything to stop it.
Not Nighthawk. Not Cobra. Not even Pistol.
Whatever tactical strategy these men were playing, I couldn’t take it anymore.
But I could put an end to Pistol’s torture, and so I would.
“Lyla!”
As I hurried across the room, I didn’t bother registering which Stallion was calling my name in warning. Neither did I cower in fear of my brother.
I knew he wouldn’t hit me.
I knew it.
“Stop!” I cried, catching his elbow with both hands and yanking with all my might.
I wasn’t at all surprised when he shrugged me off with ease.
Anticipating I would be no match against him, I took advantage of his pause and threw myself into Pistol’s lap, wrapping my arms around him as I shielded his head with my own and yelled, “Stop! He’s my husband, Carmy!
Stop—can’t you see you’ve made your point? ”
I braced for the worst, sealing my eyes closed tight as I curled around Pistol, uncertain what to expect at my admission.
A moment of silence passed, and then another. I then heard it as Carmine took a shuffling step back. I knew Pistol heard it, too. I was sure of this as I felt him go slack in my arms, leaning into me, like the well of his bravado had run dry.
My heart was pounding fast in my chest, and I realized I was practically panting. Without letting go of Pistol, I peered over my shoulder and found my brother staring at me, a blank expression on his face.
“Untie him,” Nighthawk said. I didn’t break my stare with Carmine as the Stallion continued, “We didn’t come here to start a war, but you’ll have yourself a fight if you don’t let him go. Now.”
“You’re here,” replied the King who spoke earlier. “Means you got our message. You can have your man back when you give us ours.”