Page 11 of Vengeance (Ruthless MC 4)
So now we can ride home. Rest for a few days until the next assignment. Maybe even enjoy our Christmas. We’ve got a whole season of Stranger Things to binge.
But something keeps revving in my gut—like an engine refusing to turn over—as we walk away from the Savages’ clubhouse and all the bikers scrambling to put the fire out.
I dropped Doc off myself this morning, and the house seemed fine. Hell, she rushed inside like I was something she was trying to escape.
That spark I feel whenever we’re standing face-to-face? No, she wants no part of it. That’s nothing new. She’s been saying, “No, Spark, bad dog!” for years now.
But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off with her—more than her usual juggling two diametrically opposing jobs energy.
And I guess she’s on Hyena and Des-E’s minds too. Instead of heading to our safe house like we always do after enforcing on another club and actually leaving members alive, Hyena says, “I want to go to the roadhouse. Check on Doc.”
He doesn't believe her. Neither does Des-E, who nods along with Hyena. A mountain in full agreement.
I don't believe her either. The urge to follow her into the house and secure the perimeter gnawed at me even as I'd turn the motorcycle around to ride off. A hunger to protect her and keep her safe burned in my gut.
But then I reminded myself of one crucial fact—the same one I remind my brothers of now: “She isn’t ours.”
“But—” Hyena starts to protest.
“She isn’t ours,” I repeat. “She made it clear she doesn’t want us. And acting like she’s ours is a slippery slope. You saw how upset she got when Hyena punched the Bandit. And that’s not even the worst we’ve done to guys who tried to talk shit about her behind her back. She can’t handle us. We’ve discussed this. We have to leave her alone.”
Hyena and Des-E look away from me and fold their arms. They’re from completely different backgrounds, but they wear sullen twin looks.
I get how they feel. But I can’t let any of that sympathy show on my face. If I break, even for a second, they’ll convince me to bust into her house and make sure she’s protected—whether she wants that from us or not.
Not ours, not ours, not ours…
I chant that in my head as I tell them, “Let’s go home.”
“Fuck!” Hyena yells at the sky. But then he mutters, “Okay.”
Des-E just shakes his head and leads the way back to our bikes.
So it’s decided…until it isn’t.
Hyena’s personal phone rings just as we’re approaching the place a half mile down the road where we parked our Harleys so the Savages wouldn’t hear us approaching.
He pulls out his phone without missing a step. But we all stop short when he says, “Hold on, it’s Doc.”
“Put it on speaker,” Des-E barks.
Hyena does, and we all stand around his phone as he says, “Hey Doc, what’s up?”
That’s when we hear the sound of wood cracking in the distance. And the woman who’s steadily refused to ask us for anything other than our drink orders over the years cries out in a rush.
“Help! Please help! My aunt’s boyfriend just busted into my room. His name is Tito. He’s the leader of the—”
There’s a sharp smack, and she breaks off with a cry. Then comes a muffled thunk. I don’t have to be in the room to know what happened.
He hit her.
Rage boils my blood in an instant, filling my head with static.
That motherfucker hit her so hard, he knocked her to the ground.
Then he starts threatening her in Spanish.
The hot rage gives way to icy fear as I listen to his words.
No, the Reapers aren’t white supremacists. Just the opposite. We’re a multi-lingual Brown and White gang. If you don’t speak Spanish when you join, you’re required to learn before you can graduate from prospect to full member.
So we understand exactly what he’s yelling. He’s telling her that he’s going to put his dick in every hole she has, and then he’s going to put a hole in her head with his gun.
He tells her that. And we’re over ten miles away.
CHAPTER 6
DOC
I awake with a start in a bed—a big, nice-smelling, incredibly soft bed. And a huge, honkin’ headache where all my memories should be.
Where am I?
None of the beds in my day-to-day life are this big. Or soft. I sleep on cots in the on-call rooms, on the floor of the roadhouse, or on the same mattress I’ve had since I was seventeen. I make myself as narrow as possible every night to avoid all the lumps and raised springs. And I wake pressed against shelves, floors, and walls, not in sheets that smell and feel like warm spring days.
What the heck?
As if in answer to my question, memories suddenly come flooding back, pushing past the headache.
