Chapter Six
Rebel
My work for the night isn’t done. We have eyes on Kivisto and people out looking for Storm, but I won’t go home to bed. I’m too wired.
Raven couldn’t stop me checking the security footage in the bar, watching how that asshole reacted to Kinsley. It was my fault she knocked into his chair, but his response was fucking out of line. I didn’t see the full extent of what happened because she blocked my view.
I was pissed at him calling her a bitch. My anger has reached dangerous levels knowing he shoved her too. If I had seen that, he wouldn’t have walked out of there.
Men like that, who react so fast to put their hands on a woman, are the kind who do more than act like an asshole. How far does he go when he loses his temper?
It didn’t take long for Blaze to get back to me with details about Mark Lancaster, where he lives, works, and his arrest record. All of it proves me right. This isn’t a guy who just yells at women.
I can’t help but smile thinking about what she would do if she knew where I was going and what I was about to do. Probably try to kick my ass.
All I’m doing is teaching the fucker a lesson, making him see the error of his ways. It’ll help a lot of other women, not just her.
I get where she is coming from, women should and can stand up for themselves. My sister is a fucking hellcat, no one in that bar messes with her. And Nashville’s woman took on Kivisto and chased him off before he could hurt Ellie any more than he already had.
The closer I get to his house, the deeper my guilt at scaring Kinsley churns in my gut.
I’m being a hypocritical bastard. Trying to justify it as me protecting the club and him being a straight-up abuser is a stretch.
I grabbed her, pulled a gun on her, and have been nothing but an asshole to her since.
None of that stops me parking down the block, covering my lower face with a bandana and walking through the alleyway to the back of his house. The properties here are squeezed together, it’s not the nicest of neighborhoods, an added layer of protection for me. Any scumbag could break in.
This fucker is unlucky it’s me.
It doesn’t take much to break the lock on his back door.
I can hear the TV as soon as I come in, it’s loud enough to drown out the sound of me moving through his kitchen.
Which is filthy as fuck. Dirty dishes, food spilled all over the counters, green shit growing on a half-eaten spoonful of cereal.
Who the hell lives like this?
He’s sitting on the couch watching porn. I pause when the guy on the TV slaps the woman and pushes her down, pinning her to a bed. It’s only a movie, but its degradation and abuse porn. Makes me even madder and less careful.
He hears me coming at the last second and tries to jump out of his chair, but his pants are down, his hands in his underwear. That confirms everything I already knew about this motherfucker.
I slam my elbow into the side of his face and follow up with a throat punch, incapacitating him. He falls to the ground, gasping and choking as I round the chair and watch him, fighting to breathe.
To help him out, I kick him in the face, giving him something else to focus on.
He tries to scream, but nothing comes out.
At least he is lying on his front, I only have a quick and unfortunate glance at his hairy ass and not his dick.
On the screen behind me, a woman is screaming, and the sounds of punching and slapping fill the room.
“You like watching women being beaten? That is a fucking turn on for you?”
He still can’t speak, spluttering and coughing.
“You walked into the wrong bar tonight, and you touched the wrong woman. It’s about time someone gave you the treatment you’ve been giving women for far too long.”
I move to stand over him pressing my foot on his forearm. He tries to fight me off and push himself up. I’m too strong for him.
“You prey on women to make you feel good. You’re going to find out how that feels.”
Taking what I brought with me from my pocket, he sees what is coming for him.
Now he screams, but it’s croaky as fuck and no one can hear it over the noise from the TV.
“You touched what doesn’t belong to you, fucker. Now you won’t be touching anything again, including your own filthy little cock.”
I press my foot down harder to hold him in place and swing the hammer down on his hand. He screams every time I hit one of his fingers, shattering every bone in each one, and for good measure I break his wrist too.
He’s been crying and fighting until that point, now he passes out from the pain. I don’t spare him a glance as I smash his TV, silencing the fucking violence, or break his cellphone until its tiny pieces of broken plastic and glass. He’s beginning to wake when I walk back out the way I came in.
As I ride to the clubhouse, for the first time in weeks I let a genuine smile creep across my lips. Even if he could, he won’t call anyone and tell them the truth. He knows who we are and what it would mean to go against us. Fucker got off lightly tonight.
I’m still feeling pretty chipper when I get back.
“You get laid or something?” Razer asks when I walk by him and grab a drink. He is reading a ratty as shit paperback at the table in the kitchen area.
When I suggested having people stay at the clubhouse to protect it from any attacks, I didn’t think Razer would take on the duty.
Being our road captain, most of what Razer does is analyze and mitigate threats against the club.
He’s a worst-case scenario kind of guy, but you wouldn’t know that in day-to-day life.
He doesn’t have much family, getting involved in the club through dating Fury’s sister years ago.
“Or something,” I say, swinging the hammer at the side of my leg.
“This a side thing?”
“Teaching someone they don’t get to touch things they don’t own.”
“Well, shit,” he laughs. “Gotta get your kicks somewhere, I guess. You hanging around?”
“Too wired to sleep.”
“I was about to walk about, check shit out.”
I glance at his book, he’s almost at the end. “Don’t get up.”
“Why, thank you,” he turns the page and goes back to reading.
With the bar closed and most of the brothers gone to their own homes for the night, everywhere is quiet. My mind goes back to seeing Kinsley for the first time, and the concern I felt about the potential for an attack on the clubhouse.
How wrong I’d been that night. It’s a wonder she even gives me the time of day after what I did. And here I am going after a guy who put his hands on her.
That guy needed a lesson about hurting all women. I will not feel bad, not after what he was watching and his arrests.
The church still has exterior lights on, highlighting the spire. I heard the priest say it’s a beacon for anyone who needs to find their way, showing they’re always welcome in the church.
Makes me wonder about something. I don't see anyone when I cross the street, checking the surroundings, and take the few steps up to the large double doors. When I try the handle, the door doesn’t budge.
Does that say something about the church and its bullshit message, or is it a sign of the times that not even a church is safe from criminals?
Knowing what I do, the latter is more likely. That church is full of expensive shit that can be stripped and sold. I’m not a religious person. Why believe in a god who can let people hurt each other the way they do? It doesn’t mean I look down on those who have faith.
Stryker is one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met, the damage he has done to so many people is untold. Both in the ring and for the club. He spends time in the church. I’ve never asked why.
He’s private, and we all respect that. It’s hard to believe he could be asking for forgiveness for his sins, of which we all have many.
Look at me on the steps of a church, getting all philosophical.
To the side of the steps is the path that leads to the building where Kinsley is staying. There are security lights, but to me, that tells people there might be something down there worth investigating.
There is a wall separating it from the street, the one she is planning to do her artwork on. Unless you’re standing here, on the church steps, you wouldn’t know about it.
The Blackhawk Disciples have always protected the church. In the old days, it was about monitoring people coming and going close to the clubhouse. Now it’s about building a sense of community.
Yes, Nero wants to make sure everyone is happy and safe and not touched by what we do, but if he felt that strongly, he’d move us away from this neighborhood.
I’ve been friends with Nero since we were River and Noah, two middle school kids who used to run around getting into all kinds of trouble. We’ve fought plenty during our decades-long friendship, but we always have and always will have each other’s back, even if we’re not always aligned.
I spare one last glance down the alleyway and let my mind wander to what she might be doing, then come to my senses, remember who the fuck I am, and go back to the clubhouse.
A few hours later, I wake up on the couch when Zephyr plonks his ass down and drops his artificial leg on the coffee table, making a loud bang. He could get an upgrade, he has more money than most of us, but he keeps the heavy, fake skin looking monstrosity.
It’s a health hazard and makes him limp even more than a one-legged man should. When shit goes down, it makes a great weapon. You’ve never seen weird, till you watch an old man with a ponytail and a bandana beating the shit out of someone with his false leg.
He gives me a sideways stare and lifts his chin as he turns on the TV. One of these days we’re gonna find the old coot dead on this couch.
“Fuck,” I grunt, turning my head to get the crick out of my neck.
Getting up and stretching out my back doesn’t help. A prospect gives me his cigarettes and lighter when I ask if anyone has any. I don’t smoke often enough to carry them with me, but want one now.