Page 6 of Riot’s Revenge

“Crowbar.”

That explained the bruising.

I glanced briefly toward the quiet biker. “You got a name?”

“Riot.”

Of course it was. “You all named after disasters or something?”

That earned me a laugh from him, low and rough enough to distract me for half a second longer than it should have. I went back to the ribs before he noticed. “Help me keep him still.”

Riot moved immediately without argument, stepping close enough for me to catch the faint smell of smoke and rain clinging to his clothes beneath the leather. He followed instructions, and one large hand settled against Reaper’s shoulder while the other steadied his side carefully, fingers spread just enough to avoid the worst bruising.

“Breathe through it,” Riot said quietly, and Reaper’s breathing eased almost immediately beneath my hands.

The older biker appeared in the doorway a moment later, arms folded tightly across his chest. He tried for calm, but his eyes kept flicking toward Reaper’s ribs like he expected the situation to get worse every time the man breathed. “How bad?”

Reaper rolled his eyes immediately. “Jesus Christ, I’m not dying.”

“You’re one smartass comment away from it,” the older man snapped.

Riot barely looked up from where he stood beside me. “Sit down, Shadow.”

It surprised me when the older biker actually listened.

I sent Reaper off for an x-ray, cleaned up what I could, wrapped what needed wrapping, and pretended not to notice how the whole room seemed to shift every time Riot or Shadow moved.

An hour later they were finally leaving. Reaper walked slower, Ghost looked less pale, and Tiny had an ice pack pressed against his face. Shadow paused near the door long enough to nod once. It felt a little like respect. Then Riot stopped beside the reception desk, close enough that I could feel heat radiating off him. “You got a name, nurse?” he asked, tilting down his sunglasses so I could see his tired green eyes.

“Maria.”

For half a second, his eyes held mine and my heart skipped a beat. He was handsome in a rough, terrifying kind of way. Then he nodded once like he was filing it away somewhere before tapping the desk twice and turning toward the door.

The clinic suddenly felt quieter and much larger without them in it. I could still smell cigarette smoke and rain lingering in the doorway they’d disappeared through. I blamed it on exhaustion, picked my pen back up and tried very hard not to think about green eyes and low voices while I finished my paperwork.

4

RIOT

The next morning, nobody in the clubhouse looked like they’d slept. I certainly hadn’t. My head was pounding from too much whiskey, too little sleep, and the constant low buzz of anger that had settled over the club after what happened to Reaper and Ghost. The air still smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and dried blood from the night before. Half-naked women wandered between the tables wearing cut-offs and yesterday’s makeup while prospects cleaned broken glass and empty bottles off the floor around them.

Somebody had music blasting through the speakers despite half the brothers looking hungover enough to kill someone over the noise. Usually, mornings after a long night looked relaxed around the clubhouse. Hungover. Lazy. Brothers sprawled across couches drinking coffee or nursing beers while old rock music played low in the background.

The Kings hitting our guys had changed something. The atmosphere inside the clubhouse felt tight, meaner than usual, like everybody was waiting for an excuse to break something.

We were in church, business as usual in theory, but even that felt different.

Reaper looked like absolute shit and still refused to sit the fuck down. Every movement pulled at his ribs, and I could tell from the way his eyes kept tightening that he was in more pain than he wanted anyone to notice.

I leaned back in my chair, fighting off a yawn, while Spider spread photographs across the scarred church table beneath the yellow overhead lights.

Burner phones. Ammo crates. An abandoned warehouse near the river. The Kings had cleared out fast.

Spider spread another set of photographs across the table, the paper scraping softly against the wood.

“The Kings vanished before sunrise,” he said. “Warehouse was almost empty when I got eyes on it. Just a few of them left.”

“Coward fucks,” Boxer muttered from beside me.