Cash (The Henchmen MC Book 2) (6 page)

Also a good point.

We had been in church for almost an hour and we had gotten nowhere. I imagined the Mallicks and Lyon and Hailstorm all having similarly fruitless meetings, a thought that made me feel marginally better.

“We need to reach out,” I said, biting the inside my cheek and reaching for the bottle of whiskey and pouring a round. “I'll take Repo and go see the Mallicks. You can grab Summer and go see Lyon. I've already talked to Lo, but I will check in again.”

“Who the fuck you wanna send to check in with Lex?” Reign asked, a cruel little smile on his lips.

“Wolf,” I suggested with a shrug. Out of all of us, he would be the one most likely to keep his rage under control. He wasn't an easy fuck to rile. That being said, when he was riled, it took a small army to hold him back.

“Where the fuck
is
Wolf? Repo asked suddenly, looking around.

Reign and I straightened, looking around. “The fuck?” I asked, not seeing his face. How the fuck had I missed that?

“Did anyone call him?” Reign asked, looking at Repo for the answer.

“Sent out a mass text, man. But you know Wolf, he don't answer for shit.”

That was true too.

“I'll drop over tomorrow after we see the Mallicks. You know him... he takes off into the woods to hunt or fish or some shit and we don't hear from him for days,” I said, shrugging.

“Right,” Reign agreed, nodding his head. “Well, I don't think there's any real threat to any of us individually so you all can go home, but be sharp, keep an eye out, check in. I want you all here by tomorrow afternoon to tell me if you have heard anything. Repo, Vin, Jazz, Shredder,” he said, addressing the men who immediately straightened, “you guys good to stay here and hold shit down?”

“Always,” Repo agreed first. Had he been anyone else, he'd be called a kiss-ass, but being the lethal fuck he was, he was just a loyal brother. Anyone who said any differently would regret the hell out of it.

“Alright,” Reign said, standing. “Stay, drink, fuck, leave, I don't care,” he said, giving his men a sly smile. “I got a woman at home who needs some... comforting.”

With that, he was gone.

A moment later, his bike rumbled off.

“Want us to call some bitches?” Repo asked, sounding about as excited about the idea as I was, meaning, not at all. Usually, I was the one commanding we get some skirts in the clubhouse, but suddenly, I was just bone deep fucking tired. Taking one look at Repo, I saw the same exhaustion. He had, after all, been the one who needed to spring into action, round up the men, assess the grounds for threats, put out a fucking burning shed. He'd had a night. He wanted his bed. And, for once, he wanted it to sleep in. It was exactly what I wanted too.

“You do what you got to do. I got to get some sleep,” I said, nodding at Repo who looked relieved to be able to follow my lead. “I got meetings and shit tomorrow. Don't want to be showing up hungover. This is serious shit.”

The men nodded, but I saw one go right into his phone, hitting digits. No doubt, he was calling bitches. Which was fine. They could have their fun.

I'd had enough excitement for one day.

Six

Lo

I didn't even get four feet before I was snatched from behind, hauled off my feet, leaving me peddling air as I tried to reach behind me and claw at his face.

“You fucked up, Willow,” he said close to my ear, sounding like his teeth were clamped together. “All this fucking time, taking careful steps, staying under the radar. You finally, finally fucked up.”

He sounded excited about that fact. Hell, he
was
excited about that prospect. I knew that because I knew the bastard. I also knew that because I could feel his cock pressing at me through my jeans as I tried to swing my legs up then slam them back into him. My feet met thigh, but not with enough momentum to cause any kind of damage.

It could not be happening.

Fucking, fucking no.

I felt the hysteria rise up, frantic and useless, making my head feel light and my throat feel tight. Every bit of self-defense training, every endless hour spend grappling in that very position just flew out of my head, leaving me clawing at his arms like some pedestrian caught on the street.

“Not even gonna ask where you fucked up, Wills? How unlike you,” he growled, shoving me forward. The side of my face (along with the rest of my body) collided with the wall hard enough for my vision to go white for a second. But I wasn't granted the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness. What I got was a forearm pressed hard against the back of my neck and a hard, unyielding male body pushing mine harder into the wall.

“Let me go,” I said, wishing my voice would come out stronger. “You have no fucking idea what you are doing.”

“Oh, bitch, I know exactly what I am doing,” his voice grumbled as his hand went up under the back of my tee, snaking around my belly, effectively making me wish I could claw the skin off so I could never have to feel his touch on it again. “Been a long, long time. Skin is still so soft,” he said, low, almost seductive. I felt my stomach churn as his fingers toyed with the underside of my bra.

All I could think was: no.

Finding a bit of clarity, my foot slammed down on the top of his and I cocked an elbow, shoving it into his ribs, surprising him enough for his hand to drop from my neck and giving me space to turn. Before he even sucked in his breath, my fist landed true, hitting hard into his nose and I watched in satisfied disgust as blood started pouring out.

“Stupid cunt,” he growled and lunged and I knew I was in for it.

I was trained. I was skilled.

That being said, I was still a woman and no matter how skilled you make yourself, no matter how good you become, you will always have a physical disadvantage against a man well over six-feet and built like a linebacker.

I never subscribed to sexism, but I also knew certain limitations came with my sex.

I just hoped I made it out alive as his arm cocked back and I felt the full force of a grown man's strength catch the side of my jaw, sending me flying. The explosion of pain radiated out from the strike point until the whole side of my face started to throb as I tried to push myself up off the floor, tried to gain my feet and my advantage of wiry quickness. But before I even had my upper body lifted up, his knees were at the sides of my hips, pinning me back down to the floor.

“You're never going to get away with this,” I said, trying to beat back the old, familiar tug of genuine fear. It had been so long since I felt it, since I knew how fucked I truly was, how utterly devoid of hope, of rescue. I always had my men and women. I always had someone at my back. For the first time in more years than I cared to think about, I was completely and utterly alone.

“What? You gonna get your hacker friends to track me down? Get your sniper friends to take me out?” My eyes must have widened or my mouth opened, because his handsome, evil face turned out an ugly sneer. “Didn't think I'd know about them?” he asked, shaking his head. “Not as clever as you've always thought you were, Willow.” He sat his ass back on his heels, watching me for a minute. I could have squirmed. I could have struck out, but the energy would have been wasted. It would be better to wait, to see where he planned to go from there, conserve my strength until I had a real shot. He clicked his tongue. “I guess I have to teach you a lesson, huh?”

I guess I have to teach you a lesson, huh?

Those ten words.

Fuck.

Those ten words had the nausea rising up my throat, threatening the very real likelihood of vomiting all over myself. But then he shifted his weight and I had a split second to register his fists rising before the pain started.

It felt like it went on forever, fists pounding into my jaw, my cheekbones, my stomach, his boots in my ribs, my back. There was no way to explain the pain of a beating, to describe how the sensations were all distinctly singular, but at the same time, how they all started to meld together, until it was all there was in the world: crippling, unthinkable pain that you prayed would hurt enough for your body to give up and let you pass out.

All I could hear was his grunting, his angry voice calling out, “bitch, slut, cunt, whore” with each blow. Then, some time later, I heard screaming. I wasn't even aware that it was coming from me until I felt the rough, rawness of my throat.

Then, suddenly, I heard the shots. At first, I heard them with genuine relief: it was over. He shot me. I was going to die.
Thank god
.

But then I felt only confusion as he sat back on his heels, his brows drawing together, like he was confused too.

“We're coming for you, mother fucker!” I heard shouted from outside.

Then suddenly, the weight was off of me. My head turned to the side to watch as he ran toward the door where, I imagined, he would try to take off into the old junkyard out back. I watched the door for a while. Five, ten minutes, I wasn't sure how long, but I was positive he was coming back. When longer passed and he didn't, I slowly tried to push myself up. The pain in my center was screaming out the very real likelihood of broken ribs and I felt the tears streaming hot and fast down my cheeks, burning into the open cuts I knew were spread across my face.

God fucking damn it.

“Fuck,” I groaned, biting into my swollen lip as I felt the pain bring with it light-headedness and the threat of unconsciousness. I wasn't going to pass out. I was going to get my feet and I was going to get the fuck out of my safe house and I was going to...

I didn't know what I was going to do.

I couldn't go back to Hailstorm. I couldn't show up there looking how I knew I must have been looking. I couldn't answer their questions and bring them trouble. I needed to find another way to handle it. I needed...

“Shit,” I cried out, not even caring how loud I was as I took slow, careful steps toward the door.

Okay. I had to
focus.

First, I needed to get out of the house. I needed to get to my car. From there, I needed to get to a store and get elastic bandages, peroxide, triple antibiotic, and gauze. Then I needed to get to a gas station with an outside entrance to a bathroom and get cleaned up. From there... I had no fucking idea, but that was enough to keep be busy for a couple hours.

I pushed the front door open and stepped into my front lawn and froze.

There, standing on the sidewalk, staring at my house, was a group of the gang members from across the street.

Gunshots. There were gunshots. From outside.
No way.

“We didn't step
one mother fucking foot
on your property,” the leader called, waving his gun around carelessly.

“I was screaming,” I heard myself say, my voice raspy and raw, but it was an accusation.

“Bitch,” he said, shaking his head. “You got yourself roughed up. That sucks and all, but I wasn't putting my cock on the line in case that threat you delivered earlier meant
not even if I am screaming for help
.”

I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, pulling out all the cash I had inside which must have been close to five-hundred bucks. “I need someone to get me some stuff from the store. The rest is yours to keep,” I said, thinking it would likely be a better idea to not show up at some store looking how I looked. The leader jerked his chin toward one of his guys who stalked forward toward me and reached for the cash. “Peroxide, elastic bandages, triple antibiotic, and gauze.”

“Got it,” he said, wincing a little at the mess I knew my face was before he ran off.

“Ain't gonna ask what happened 'cause it ain't my business. But we see him again, you want a shout out?”

I moved over toward my car, opening the door and sitting inside, my legs in the driveway. “You see him again, I want fifty fucking bullets ripping his body apart,” I said honestly. “You do that, you get a quarter of a mill from me the next day.”

One of his brows went up before he gave me an small smile. “I might let my women sell themselves,” he started oddly, “but I don't fucking put my hands on them.”

“A pimp with morals,” I said, attempting a smile, but it hurt too much. “Color me surprised.”

“Just sayin',” he went on, not seeming the least bit offended, “that shit don't fly. We see him, they're identifying him by dental records.”

I looked down at my hands, feeling weak for the first time in thirteen years. I didn't like it. It didn't sit right. “Kick the fucker's teeth in too,” I mumbled, a little surprised at the vengeance in my voice. That wasn't me. I didn't go into things hot. I never let my feelings cloud a mission. That wasn't to say I didn't get angry, I didn't get bone-deep livid at some of the stuff I had seen, but I always took that and kept it locked up so I could be clear-headed.

“Here,” I heard someone say, and I heard the rustling of a plastic bag and looked up to see the kid I sent to the store coming up, holding out the bag.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the bag from him and carefully sliding my legs into the car. “Can one of you go grab my cell off the floor inside? I'll give you my number. You get him? You call me. I'll be by with the money once I make sure its the right body.”