Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DRIFTER
Ihead straight for the bar, anger pouring from me. I brace myself against the dark wood and hang my head. Just when everything is getting better, I manage to fuck it all up . . . again.
Andy was one of her closest friends at secondary school, but he was always on the sidelines waiting for me to mess up so he could slide his way in. When he left for London, I was secretly relieved because it meant I didn’t need to watch my back anymore.
So, when I heard her speaking to him, I saw red. There was no way I was going to sit back and let him take what’s mine.
The urge to grab a whiskey to numb the anger and stress is strong, but as quickly as that thought crosses my mind, it vanishes again. I can’t. I need to show Hell that I’m willing to do whatever it takes, and if that means being sober for the rest of my life, so be it.
Clay approaches me. “Pres, we need to figure out what we’re doing with our ‘visitor’. We can’t keep him much longer. It’s getting risky.”
He’s right. The longer we keep him here, the more likely we are to be discovered.
Clay looks at me and I can tell he wants to say something else that’s playing on his mind.
“Spit the fucker out, Clay,” I snap.
He runs his hand round the back of his neck. “Well, this shit’s not healthy. I know he fucked the club over, but he’s been here weeks now. It’s not like you. You’re using him as a punchbag.”
I sigh. This fucker was right again, seeing right through me. It’s why he’s my VP.
“I’ll sort it,” I say firmly.
“You can’t deal the blows to him because you fucked up,” he adds, arching a judgemental brow.
“Fuck, Clay, I said I’d sort it,” I growl. “Don’t fucking push it.”
He laughs. “Pres, sometimes you need telling, and right in this moment, you need to hear it. There’re whispers that you’re losing it, so you need to fucking get your shit together.”
My priority right now is getting Hell back, but he’s right. I need to pull myself together so she can see I’m still the man she fell in love with.
I head for the basement. It’s time to end this fucker.
He lifts his head, watching me descend the stairs. His body is bruised and battered. His left eye is swollen and closed, but he still manages a smirk as I approach.
“Missed me?” he croaks, his voice hoarse from lack of water.
For the first time in months, I feel like I’m thinking clearly.
“I have to say,” I circle his chair as he tries to follow my movement, “I’m getting a little bored of you now.”
“Aww, did the bitch take you back?” he asks, laughing.
My fist crashes against his jaw, the sound echoing through the room. He spits blood on the floor, and it appears brighter against the dried-up claret on the concrete.
“Did I hit a nerve?” he asks, grinning.
“Not at all,” I reply calmly. “Tell me, what was the plan? You’ve been sniffing around my patch for months, sending kids to do your fucking dirty work.”
“You’ll have to kill me, motherfucker.”
“Yep, that is the plan.” I pull a knife out my kutte, the metal glinting under the single light. “But I thought we could have a little fun first.” I dig the knife into his thigh, the corrugated edges pulling against his muscle as I twist it. He screams out in pain, pulling against his restraints.
“So, again, I’ll ask . . . what,” I turn the knife again, and he lets out a squeal, “was,” I pull the knife out, “your,” I dig the knife into his opposite thigh, “intentions?”
“Fuck you,” he spits through gritted teeth, his breathing rapid.
I drag the knife up the length of his thigh, tearing flesh as I force it all the way to his groin.
“Not the answer I wanted,” I whisper in his ear as his head lolls forward. The man has a high pain threshold, I’ll give him that.
I grab a handful of his hair and pull his head back. His eyes roll from the pain.
I slap his face. “Nuh-uh you don’t.”
I release him, and he groans as his head drops forward. I leave the knife in situ, crouching down in front of him.
“I wanna know if you had any other plans,” I growl. “You hit my garage. You hit my strip club. You dealt your shit on my patch. Fuck, you even had the balls to take my woman.”
He shakes his head, a small gasp escaping his lips.
“I can’t hear you.” I lift his head to look at me.
His eyes stare at me, that flicker of light beginning to erode.
“What did you say?” I lean in closer. “Maybe I won’t kill you. There are things worth more than death in this life.” I arch a brow at the idea, standing.
“We were going to take the clubhouse,” he croaks.
“What?” I laugh, “You thought you could take this?”
“It’s not as safe as you think,” he murmurs. I pull the knife from his leg and he groans louder. “Just fucking end it.”
“Tell me what you mean first,” I demand.
“We were going to torch the fucking place. Boom!”
That familiar feeling of rage begins to creep in, but staying calm and in control has got me further in this short time than I’ve managed in weeks.
I walk behind his chair, pulling back his head and placing the blade against his neck. He closes his eyes, ready.
“How?” I ask, my heart beating rapidly in my chest.
“Check your foundations,” he whispers.
I stiffen before running the blade along the thin layer of skin. It slices right through, severing his artery. Blood spurts from his neck, spilling on the floor. I watch as he makes a long gurgling sound, then goes limp.
I take the knife, wiping it on the back of his shirt, then I pick up my phone and dial Clay’s number.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Check the foundations of the clubhouse,” I say firmly. “And, Clay, we need clean-up down here.”
“On it,” is all he says before disconnecting the call.
ROCHELLE
As I walk into the lounge, it’s empty. Usually, in early evening, it’s a hive of activity. The only time it’s this quiet is when there are issues.
“Hazel, where is everyone?” I ask.
“Church,” she says before going back to wiping down the tables.
I sit on the sofa, resting my feet on the table in front of me. It seems eerily quiet, and I wonder why church has been called so urgently.
I rest my head back on the sofa, and my stomach tightens, making me wince.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and as I take it out, I see there is no caller I.D.
“Hello?” I hear sobs down the line. “Hello, can I help you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t know who else to call.” The voice is a woman’s. It’s low, like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear her.
“Who is this?”
The line crackles as if she’s covering the speaker.
“Marissa, from the Steel Delinquents,” she whispers, her voice cracks, full of emotion.
That’s when it registers that it’s the young girl I handed my number to.
I stand up and feel a tightening again. This time, it goes right into my back.
“Where are you?” I ask, rubbing my bump.
The men all file out of church, and as Drifter walks past me, I grab his arm. He looks at me with concern etched across his features when I wince again.
“You okay?” he mouths, seeing the phone held to my ear.
“I don’t know. I ran out, and I’m hiding behind some skips. I didn’t know who else to call. They’re out searching for me,” she rushes out, and I detect the hysteria climbing in her voice.
“Give me a minute, Marissa.” I pull Drifter to one side. “I need your help. I need to get to her,” I say, covering the speaker with my hand.
He shakes his head, confused. “Who?”
“It’s a young girl at the Steel Delinquents––” Before I’ve even finished, he’s shaking his head and walking away.
I grab hold of his arm and another wave of pain has me gripping his arm tightly as I let out a whimper. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing, just Braxton Hicks or something.”
He takes hold of my arm, placing his other around my shoulder and guiding me to a chair.
“Sit down,” he orders.
“She needs help, Drifter. They’re holding her against her will.”
“You need to stop stressing about others and look after yourself. It’s not good for the baby.”
“Please,” I beg. “I promised I’d help her. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens.”
“Sit down,” he orders again, holding the back of the chair.
“If you’re not going to help her, I will,” I snap, pushing back on him slightly.
“I’ll sort it, but for fuck’s sake, Hell, you need to look after yourself. That baby needs you to relax, so please sit down.”
I lower myself into the seat. “Where are you?” I ask, going back to the call.
“I have no idea,” she whispers.
“Send me your location pin. We’ve got some men on the way.”
She disconnects the call, and a few moments later, there’s a text with a location pin on the map.
Drifter looks over my shoulder and nods before making his way across the lounge and sending Slayer and Joker to go to her location.
He comes back across. “Sorted. Now, let’s get you back upstairs to rest,” he says, grabbing hold of my hand and helping me to my feet.
Once upstairs, he pulls the duvet back and helps me climb into bed. He sits on the edge, looking at me with eyes full of regret.
“Hell—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt.
“No,” he says sharply. “I’ve given you time and space.”
I arch a brow. “Sitting outside the room stalking me is not space.”
He looks down at his hands, and for the first time in years, he looks guilty. “You need to hear me out.”
I sigh heavily but nod. I’m exhausted and don’t have the energy to argue any longer.
“I am sorry,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Please, just listen. I hate this arguing, and I know I’ve messed up .
. . numerous times recently. And I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I don’t want to argue.
It’s not good for you or our baby. I’m sorry for acting like a grade-A fucking arsehole, but hearing you speak to Andy had me seeing red.
And before you say it, I know I have no right to.
” I close my mouth and let him continue.
“I will not give up on us, though, and if that means I never have another woman again, so be it. But right now, can we at least go back to talking?”
I take a breath, then smile.