Ripper #3
“Why would your club care?” she said. Ripper thought about Butcher, Wade, Princess, and Harlow.
He thought about the eleven women they'd carried out of hell.
Then he thought about the men they hadn't found yet and the names still being pulled from Richard Kane's records.
They were the people who'd made money off women like Sarah.
“Because somebody should care,” he breathed.
Sarah stared at him, and Ripper stood. He needed air and a cigarette.
Hell, he needed to get the fuck away from those blue eyes before he did something stupid like promise her everything would be okay, or offer her his house, or kill every remaining name on Richard Kane's list. He’d probably still do that last one, though.
“I'll talk to Butcher,” he offered.
“I didn't ask you to,” she insisted.
“Nope, but you didn’t have to,” he said.
“Ripper,” she warned.
He looked at her. “You said you don't know where you're going tomorrow when they let you out of here.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“I know a guy who owns a clubhouse with empty rooms,” he said.
Her mouth twitched. “You mean Butcher?” she asked.
“Yep, that's the asshole I’m talking about,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Does he know you call him that?”
“Yep, and I do it frequently,” he said. Ripper picked up his cut from the back of the chair. “Finish your cinnamon roll.”
“Stop telling me what to do,” she said.
“Nope,” he breathed on his way to the door.
“I'm beginning to understand why they call you Ripper,” she called after him.
He paused, and Sarah's smile disappeared. “What?”
“Nothing,” she whispered.
“No. What did you say?” he asked. Ripper slipped on his cut.
“You don't want to know,” she insisted.
“Now I definitely want to know,” he said.
“Too bad,” she breathed.
He headed toward the door. “Tomorrow, sweetheart.”
“Asshole,” she breathed under her breath. Ripper stopped, not sure that he had heard her correctly. He turned slowly, and Sarah's eyes widened. For half a second, she looked like she thought she'd gone too far.
Ripper grinned. “Now you sound like Harlow.” Sarah laughed, and he walked into the hallway before he could enjoy that sound too much. He made it halfway to the elevator before he stopped and looked back through the open doorway; he could see Sarah eating the cinnamon roll.
His phone vibrated, and he pulled it from his pocket. It was Butcher. Ripper answered. “Prez.”
“You at the hospital?” Butcher asked.
Ripper frowned. “How the fuck do you know?”
“Because you've been there every goddamn day,” he said.
“Who told you?” Ripper asked.
“Everybody.” Fuck. Butcher laughed. “You got a problem, brother?”
“Nope,” Ripper breathed.
“Bullshit,” Butcher said.
Ripper pressed the elevator button. “She gets discharged tomorrow.”
“Where's she going?” Butcher asked.
“That's why I'm calling,” Ripper said.
“You didn't call me, asshole,” Butcher said.
“Was about to,” Ripper said.
Butcher laughed again. “We've got rooms.”
“I told her that you’d say that,” Ripper said.
“She willing to stay at the club?” Butcher asked.
“Don't know.” The elevator opened, and Ripper stepped inside. “But she needs somewhere she feels safe.”
“We'll make it happen,” Butcher promised.
Ripper nodded. “Good.”
The doors started closing. “Ripper,” Butcher said.
“What?” he asked.
“Don't fuck this up,” Butcher ordered.
His jaw tightened. “Not planning to.”
Butcher was quiet for a moment. “She isn't ready for whatever the hell is happening in your head.” Ripper stared at his reflection in the elevator doors. He knew that better than anyone.
“Nothing's happening,” Ripper lied. Butcher laughed so hard Ripper pulled the phone away from his ear. “Fuck you.”
“See you at church,” Butcher ordered. The call ended, and Ripper shoved the phone into his pocket.
Nothing was happening. Sarah was a woman the club had rescued, and he was checking on her and making sure she ate.
He was making sure she had somewhere safe to go, and that was it.
Except he knew what coffee she liked, and now he knew cinnamon rolls made her smile.
He knew exactly how many bites she'd taken without meaning to count.
He knew she wasn't afraid of him. And he knew he'd already decided he was coming back tomorrow before she'd asked.
The elevator doors opened, and Ripper walked toward the hospital exit.
Butcher was wrong. Nothing was happening.
Nothing fucking could happen because Sarah needed time, safety, and choices.
She needed a chance to figure out who she was after everything those bastards had taken from her.
What she absolutely did not need was a violent biker with blood on his hands looking at her like she was already becoming something important.
Ripper pushed through the hospital doors, lit a cigarette, and took one drag.
Then looked back at the fourth-floor windows.
“Fuck.” Because for the first time in a long fucking time, Ripper had found something that scared him.
It wasn’t a gun, a fight, and it wasn’t dying.
A twenty-three-year-old blonde with bruises on her face and enough fire left inside her to call him an asshole.
And the terrifying part was he was already looking forward to hearing her say it again.