Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book Five)

By C.D. Breadner

Gregory "Knuckles" O'Shay is a man trying to make two halves into a whole. He's the clown, the tension breaker, and the designated assassin for the Red Rebels MC of Markham, California. He'll kill you as easily as he makes you laugh, if his president wills it. The club is his family, the only people he'd put his life on the line for. A new assignment requires Knuckle's deadly expertise, but this task that is supposed to buy protection for his club is twisting his conscience.

Danielle Prince is the new coroner in Markham County, poised to take over when the previous long-serving coroner retires. Her life is as simple as she can make it, and revolves completely around her daughters and her work. Living next door to a Red Rebel has never given her pause until she meets Knuckles O'Shay, and watches as her youngest daughter makes friends with the biker over the building of a new motorcycle.

With Knuckles, Danielle finds a new measure of exhilaration that she had thought she could live without, but she has to decide whether to open her family to this new experience, whether to take that risk.

With the Prince family, Knuckles finds a new measure of contentment. As he tries to pass off his wet work as just another club duty, the draw of a traditional family makes him question why some lives are easily taken, while others leave a deep mark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.D. Breadner
• Release date: Feb 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370695331

C.D. Breadner

C.D. Breadner is a self-published author. Her first novel (Sin Eater, 2013) was the beginning of The Sin Eater series and she looks to branch into other genres since there are many kinds of creative juices following through her. Recently she was christened a contributing author to The Freak Circle(www.freakcirclepress.com); a collective of amazing and supportive writers. She also has a second series on the go, following the lives of the Red Rebels MC. She lives in a cosy home in the woods with her wonderful husband and two German Shepherds.

Book preview

A Word Before We Begin…

In December of 2014 the Freak Circle Press authors offered up a few short stories as a holiday gift to our readers. This was the start of Knuckles’ story and can be found on the Freak Circle Press website here. The prologue is directly lifted from that short.

Also, some may say this is very similar sounding to a fanfiction I completed a few years ago. Final Wisdom is a story I really enjoyed telling, and having someone else publish it as her own work was a shock. And yet it brought me to the Freak Circle Press so I guess all is not a lost cause. I assure you this novel is a separate work, even if the premise is similar. If you’d like to read Final Wisdom, it’s available free here.

Prologue

Knuckles climbed out of the pick-up he’d borrowed from the Red Rebels’ VP, Tank, and squinted in the afternoon sun up at his own piece of property. American dream and all that shit. Never in his life had he expected to buy a house, it had never entered his realm of consideration until about a year ago. He’d always lived at the clubhouse, never needed to pay rent, and he had a nice amount of money stashed away. With the extra Sachetti cash coming in they’d be in the black for quite a while.

It wasn’t just the cash, though. There was nothing wrong with living at the clubhouse. They had girls that cleaned up after the members who lived at the hotel. Meals were cooked there, too. And pussy on tap for whenever you wanted it. Too bad none of that did a single thing for the constant unease, the buzzing that was getting worse and worse with each passing year.

It wasn’t even a desire to start using again. That had been gone for a long time. This was something else. If it had been closer to his big, triumphant, return home following two tours in Iraq he’d say PTSD. But in truth, none of the shit they’d done and the shit he’d seen done had affected him. He’d worried that meant he was fucked up beyond repair since around him men he’d served with were swallowing bullets months after holding their babies in their arms for the first time. What the hell was wrong with him that it felt like he hadn’t missed a step?

But he had, maybe. It was hidden in a fog of heroin nightmares and hallucinations. But he’d been into that shit before signing up and shipping out. It was just easier to get shit in the desert than it was here.

It didn’t matter now; he just needed somewhere quiet where he could be on his own. Maybe he was chasing solitude, or maybe he was finally growing the fuck up. Either way, a place of his own became a new fixation and renting an apartment was a ridiculous waste of cash. Better to own something.

This wasn’t a great neighborhood in Markham, just a lot of older people. All the houses were one-level, squat boxes. They owed their personality to awnings or flower beds or whether they had a garage. This one did, that was required since he had an ancient Sportster frame he was looking to turn into something special. His ride was just a bike with the requisite Red Rebels logo on the gas tank, but as far as customizing he hadn’t gone to the lengths the others had. Tiny’s bike had taken three years for him to build, and it was all found parts with a prime paint job. Knuckles loved that bike almost as much as Tiny did, not that he’d ever admitted it.

So, he’d bought a house, he’d build his own bike, and he’d become as much a part of the fabric of Markham as the members who grew up here. There was something calm and centering in that decision. Growing up they’d moved constantly since his old man was in the Army, so there was no home for him. He’d been born in Louisiana but he couldn’t remember having lived there. The longest they’d stayed anywhere was five years in Idaho, so that was the closest thing to a home he’d had and he hated it. He was a teenager by then, ready to strike out and be unique from everyone else, and his classmates hadn’t appreciated the goth-rock look and recreational drug use. There were a few friends who did, but, honestly, he wouldn’t be able to recite their names back. His brother tolerated him, but their time had been limited.

Now he had real friends, real family. A real home.

The roar of straight pipes brought him around to the curb in front of his scraggly, brown lawn. Fritter and Buck pulled to a stop in front of the house, dismounted and removed their safety gear with broad grins.

Holy shit, Knuckles, Fritter drawled with that deep south accent. You’re all grown up, son.

Thanks, old man, Knuckles returned with a grin. It was ridiculous since he had a few years on the smartass.

You’re easy to help move anyway, Buck mumbled, peering into the back of the pick-up. Sure enough, there were just a few trash bags of clothes. Some furniture was coming later today that would need to be assembled but for the time being he wanted to get to cleaning. There was a huge box of cleaning supplies in with the clothes.

One might think he was a bachelor so grit, grime, and dust shouldn’t bother him. But his time in the service, as well as having a drill sergeant mother, made him a bit of a neat freak. He hated dust, couldn’t stand soap scum in a sink, and clutter gave him migraines. His house would have required furniture and no more. No shelves for fucking photos or knick-knacks. A place to sit his ass down, rest his head, and sleep. Women weren’t coming by here either. That was for the clubhouse, this would be his refuge.

As he made his way up the walk to the front door his hackles rose, the feeling that he was being watched had him turning his head to the right. There was a white wooden picket fence between his driveway and the house next door with grass growing wild and unchecked all the way along the side. A mop of cinnamon-colored hair was easily spotted over the top of it, and he had to grin. There was a cute-as-a-button little girl watching the proceedings, elbows on the edge of the fence. Her big blue eyes were wide, and she was so freaking cute he actually laughed. For her part, she looked a bit shell shocked.

Hey there, he said, and without answering the girl turned on her heel and darted off to the front of her own house.

Buck was laughing behind him, having seen the entire exchange. Making a good impression on the neighbors already.

Knuckles shook his head. Kids are adaptable. She’ll be my best friend before long.

That sounds a little sick, man, Fritter warned, waiting while he tried to unlock his front door.

Don’t be perverted, Knuckles shot back. Fuck, it gives me the creeps just having you say that shit.

Fritter just laughed. Asshole.

Chapter One

No dogs, that was one thing he noted as he entered the dingy trailer, making sure the door eased closed behind him, silent.

All the windows were covered, even a sun blocker stuck to the windshield by the visors. Knuckles wouldn’t have to worry about prying eyes, and not just because of the curtains. It was also Christmas Eve and as near as he could tell this little trailer park was empty at this point; mid-afternoon.

On a small table between two built-in benches a small lamp sat, unplugged. That would work. With gloved hands, Knuckles picked up the lamp, grabbed the cord close to the base, and tore it free.

His own philosophy on an assassination was pretty simple; usually the weapon shouldn’t be personally tied to the assassin. A found object belonging to the victim worked best. No way to be connected to him, no security footage of a skinny six-foot guy with a weird haircut, huge beard and tattoos buying a hammer two hours before someone is bludgeoned to death with one. And obviously, less chance of fingerprints or DNA being transferred.

Sachetti’s lackey, Anthony Guidinger, regularly provided the weapons he wanted used. Uncharacteristically, Knuckles was reluctant to follow all orders. He didn’t know where the guns, in particular, had been, who had handled the ammo. In short, he didn’t trust the prick.

So, while he had a length of nylon rope on him, and his mandate was to strangle this target, this wasn’t going down as requested.

Found weapon it was. Made him feel a bit better about this entire fucked up situation.

The trailer’s standard floor plan took him down a nap-carpeted, narrow path, past a neat-as-a-pin galley kitchen, and a bathroom. At the end was an open passage, the folding accordion door standing open, as though in welcome.

He let his eyes adjust. Back here the windows were darkened with the added assistance of black out blinds. The only light was from a red-light digital alarm clock. He wished it was one of those neon green ones. They light shit up like day.

His main point of reference was the soft, even tone of someone not quite snoring. It helped orient the position of the bed.

Drawing closer to the bed, shapes became discernable. The sheets were bright white, so the dark head on the pillow stood out. The man slept on his side, facing the opposite direction.

The electrical cord creaked as he tightened the ends around both fists. It was time to take a moment to visualize how this whole thing was going to go down. Picture the possible problems, find his rage.

Usually, rage came easily. He’d kill to protect the Red Rebels MC. To protect his brothers, their families, their reputation, and their financial interests.

This contract killing was to technically protect the interests of the club and its agreement with Don Michael Sachetti. To Knuckles, this was on par with his own code.

However, there was no frame of reference on why this person was going to be killed. What had this guy specifically done to bring Knuckles to his freakishly tidy mobile home in a shitty trailer park? Was he just a sad sack that couldn’t keep up with his drug debt? Was he a real prick that had hurt someone important to the Sachetti organization? No way of knowing.

So instead, he recalled Buck and Gertie, so obviously in love, starting their family and optimistic for the future. One day those kids might need braces, or, hopefully, funds for college. Rose and Tank and their soon-to-arrive rug rat. Jayce’s family, as fragmented as it might be. He and Trinny really needed the Rebels to keep their business stable for when Trinny and the kids moved back.

And especially Fritter and Sharon. After the losing their baby, they’d been waiting and willing to build a home for a little boy that really, really needed their love. That part was easy. Knuckles’ duty came about specifically for them, and it was worth it.

He struck quickly, silently.

Attacking a sleeping man was a chicken shit move, but risking being caught was a threat to the club itself. He couldn’t risk being seen, and night would have been better, but Guidinger had set this up and made it sound urgent that it had to go down now. Technically, Knuckles was more worried about Doc Webber dying in her own home and his brother Tiny being framed for it. As fucking punishment by gangsters.

Okay, so maybe that was another source of rage he could draw on.

The cord slid down the pillow under the weight of the guy’s head, but it snagged on his ear. With a grunted curse, Knuckles got a knee on the mattress to change his angle.

Luckily the guy woke up and attempted to sit up right then. That helped the cord slip down to his throat, so with no hesitation Knuckles yanked hard, back towards his own body, leveraging his height. The dude was small, and it was enough to slide him in Knuckles’ direction.

He ignored the gasps and grunts, keeping his eyes on the alarm clock read out. Hands pushed and pulled at his grip, but the cord was locked in place.

Knuckles kept his breathing normal by sheer force of will. That’s how he missed the movement when the struggles were one-handed.

Something felt different when the man suddenly moved more towards Knuckles, twisting his torso as he did so. It didn’t gain him any slack, it was more like he rolled nearly onto his back.

Knuckles had to lean down to keep the tension on the cord, but suddenly a hot paid speared his side.

He had no illusions over what had happened. The asshole obviously slept with a blade.

Now the rage flooded through his veins, vision running into Red Mode. He went from detached, business-like calm to instant self-defense anger in the blink of an eye.

With all his strength, he wrenched the man’s entire weight to the left, dragging him off the bed. Something hit the ground right before the guy’s feet did, and Knuckles was working under the assumption that was the guy’s shank.

Now the mark was really struggling, but Knuckles was still standing and a fuck of a lot more motivated for this to be over. He pulled on the cord more, and his fingers were going numb but with the cord strung around his palms there was no way to lessen the hold. Slowly, he could feel the target’s windpipe start to give way.

Die you fucker, just fucking die, he was chanting to himself, as though his words would help this poor ass along to his just rewards.

The struggles didn’t die off gradually. Eventually the life left the body Knuckles was holding up by the neck, but now that the clock wasn’t in his line of sight Knuckles didn’t know how much time had passed. So, he stayed on the side of caution and counted to two hundred and forty once the twitching stopped.

With a thud the body dropped, then Knuckles groped for a light source. There was a small lamp on a shelf next to the bed. He flicked it on, then surveyed the situation.

Drops of crimson dotted the stark white bed sheets. That would belong to the killer. Shit. With a criminal record came a DNA profile. That couldn’t be left like that.

Gingerly he pulled up on his hoodie, then cringed. Shit, yeah, that hurt. Like a strong pinch, pain shot through his ribs. He was bleeding between two ribs on his right side, bleeding like a fucking sieve to be exact. He needed to stop that up first.

In the small bathroom, he pulled a white hand towel off a shelf hanging over the can. He held it to the bleeding and tied Guidinger’s nylon rope around his torso to hold the towel in place.

In the kitchen, he found a bottle of vodka after pulling open two cupboards, sleeves down over his gloves. He wasn’t sure about blood on the gloves.

Back in the bedroom, Knuckles doused the bloodspots on the mattress and—shit, yeah—the carpet, too. He followed his own sprinkling of DNA to the bathroom, pouring out the booze as he went, then came back to stand next to the body. As he set the bottle down he spotted the folding knife, picked it up, tucked the blade away, and stuffed it in the front pocket of his hoodie.

Next, he dug the lighter out of his back pocket and touched it to the vodka on the bed and backed up as it caught.

To leave the trailer he used his foot to open the door, then casually strolled south down the hard-packed dirt back the way he came.

The plan had been to walk back to Markham once the job was done. It’d taken fifty minutes to walk here from Markham, without bleeding, of course. That hadn’t really been part of his hit strategy. It was already obvious he couldn’t walk that far. Sticky warmth was sliding down his side and under the waistband of his jeans. Thank Christ they were dark wash or whatever the fuck the term was.

Before he arrived at the highway, he stopped at a trailer and quietly stole some water from a garden hose hanging from a rack suspended on a four-by-four stuck in the dirt. Hands washed clean, he stuffed the gloves into his hoodie pocket, too. Then, at the highway, he risked thumbing a ride.

Four cars passed, and he knew he wasn’t getting charity from a stranger. Hell, he wouldn’t stop for himself. Just once he wished he’d told the guys where he’d been and when they should start to worry.

A rust bucket pick up rolled past, and when he saw the brake lights came to life Knuckles damn near wept. The truck stopped on the side shoulder and he somewhat jogged to the driver’s window. Loped was a more accurate description. On the way, he noticed the Nevada license plate. Someone passing through. This good Samaritan was a double stroke of luck.

Where you headed? the driver asked, thumbing his dusty ball cap higher up on his forehead. His arm came back down to sling through the open window.

Bar outside of Markham. Hair of the Dog. You know it?

I think so. I’m headed through to Hazeldale myself. Climb in.

Feeling a little under the weather, Knuckles said, almost apologetic, just as he swayed on his feet and braced one hand on the truck’s door panel. You mind if I ride in the back? I think I need the fresh air.

A hand went up as the driver shrugged. Your call, he quipped, settling his cap lower again. Not very comfortable.

Knuckles waved that off. Better than puking in your cab, man.

The man laughed. Can’t argue with that. Climb on in.

With a tap on the door in thanks Knuckles circled to the tail gate, stepped up onto the bumper and swung a leg into the truck bed. The motion nearly made him swoon, but he got a foot in and eventually settled his aching self with his back against the truck cab. Without a signal from the new passenger, the truck lurched forward.

Knuckles grit his teeth against the hot flare of pain in his ribs. He lifted the hoodie, wincing to see how red the towel was now. Shit, he was gonna bleed out if he didn’t get to help soon.

The movement of the truck was special torture, but expediting his ass somewhere with a phone was terribly important. Teeth clenched until his jaw was aching, and he might have passed out at some point. Next thing he knew the driver was shaking his shoulder, letting him know they’d arrived. Knuckles came awake with a jolt, hands striking out in opposite directions.

His driver didn’t seem offended. He chuckled, lifting his cap to scratch his forehead. Are you sure you wanna be here, son? Seems the last thing you need is another drink.

Knuckles attempted a smile and stumbled to his feet. My friend is meeting me here. No problem. He reached into his back pocket, looking down. Dark jeans, blood didn’t show. Thank Christ. And the motion lit up his side like a fucking barbecue grill. Let me give you some cash for gas.

Don’t sweat it, son. Just get yourself some sleep.

Well, if the guy wanted to assume he was drunk that was fine by him. Looking down again Knuckles wondered at his luck that his hands weren’t coated in blood. The driver helped him over the tailgate, steadying his shoulder when he lurched one way. His head swam but he fought for his focus to stay with him. Luckily, he could position himself so that the man came nowhere near the part of his hoodie that was no doubt saturated with blood.

With a few more generic expressions of concern and a sincere Merry Christmas, the driver eventually left him standing at the front door of Dog’s. Instead of stumbling through the bar, Knuckles circled to the rear employee entrance. He knocked since the metal security door had a coded doorknob. It took three attempts before anyone heard him. The waitress was a lifer that he recognized, and the look on her face told him everything he needed to know about his appearance.

Knuckles? You look like shit.

Where’s Dog? I need to make a call for a pick up.

She moved out of the way and was saying Get in here and lay down, when he passed out again.

-oOo-

Knuckles remembered seeing Tiny and being so relieved he teared up a bit. He had actual bandages on his side, and that damn bloody towel in the grocery bag Dog gave them. Along with the knife. That fucking knife.

There was no memory of how he’d gotten back to his room at the motel. Before he could think he was struggling to sit up, because he thought, in a spell of stupor-inducing pain, he’d just been kicked in the ribs.

The stabbing jolt of pain came back. Flat on his back, he could breathe again. Pushing the blankets out of the way, he lifted just his head to examine what was going on. A stark white square, taped neatly all around the edges. Light was pouring in around the curtains, which meant he’d lived to the next day. It had been damn near sundown when he’d arrived at Dog’s.

Good news, then.

Turning his head, the alarm clock informed him it was four in the afternoon. He’d paid Sleepytown an extended visit.

With a sigh, he was just girding his balls to try climbing out of bed when the door opened. Neenie came in with a tray. Seeing him, she smiled but it was shaky. Her eyes were red.

Hey, he mumbled, hearing the gravel in his voice. What’s up?

Just…just bringing you something to eat. I was hoping you’d be awake. We were getting worried.

She wouldn’t look at him. All that was said during the incredibly complex process of setting down the tray on the nightstand, avoiding his gaze all the while.

Neenie? What’s going on?

She shook her head, wiping at her eyes. I’ll tell Jayce you’re awake. Then she was gone.

The soup in the bowl next to him steamed, and as the smell of good old beef and barley soup hit his nose his stomach grumbled. Stress and mystery aside, he was hungry.

With both hands behind his hips, Knuckles eased himself upward so he could lean against the headboard. Cupping the bowl in one hand, he held it close to his chin and tried a few mouthfuls. Shit, that was good. Bit hot, but he could deal.

The door opened and he grinned at Jayce, setting the bowl aside. Well, I’m still alive so I’m guessing Fox paid us a visit? Then his own grin faded, noticing his Prez’s expression. The guy looked pale, and as he watched the rest of the Rebels file into his room, their faces carrying the same heavy mood.

Correction, not everyone was in his room. One person was missing. With the somber atmosphere and everyone’s collective misery so apparent, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened.

Knuckles swallowed hard. Ah, shit.

Jayce began softly. A few things happened while you were out, Knuck.

Where’s Tiny? he asked, voice cracking. But he knew. He fucking knew it already.

Jayce parked his ass on the side of the bed, and that’s when Knuckles saw his Prez had been crying. Like I said. We had some things happen while you were out.

Chapter Two

Danielle Prince stood close to her boss, Chad McTavish. They’d been on their way to the autopsy suite but there was a hell of a stand-off going on in the hallway. She swallowed hard as the gurney, loaded with a black body bag, was in a danger zone outside the double doors they were headed to.

Deputy Unger was embroiled in a shouting match, not with the current sheriff, but with the former sheriff, Sharon Downey.

Danielle hadn’t known Sheriff Downey well, but she’d liked her. She’d arrived in Markham just long enough to see Downey lose her bid for county sheriff. The scandal surrounding the election had never bothered Danielle, either. She’d seen the Red Rebel that had captured the sheriff’s affections. She couldn’t blame her.

This, however, was high drama that was worrisome.

Where’s Troy or Martin? Sharon was asking, calm lost. She was pissed. "Where’s the sheriff for that matter?"

Unger had always been off, to Danielle. Now, as he got in Sharon’s face, Danielle felt the urge to come to her aid. Which was ridiculous.

You are a civilian, Unger snarled. You are in the way.

"I am not letting you in that room with the body, Sharon said evenly, tone all too calm. It’s a conflict. You shot him. The sheriff should be here debriefing you and putting you on administrative leave."

Behind them, the doors heading into the basement morgue slammed open. Danielle felt divine relief to see Deputy Kerry Troy there. Despite the bandage across his nose and the blood already pooling around his swollen eyes, it was good to see him. This was a good cop, and a person she knew to be good to his core.

Sharon, you can’t be down here.

When the blonde’s eyes cut to Troy, Danielle felt her grief like a boot to the gut. "He’s trying to observe the autopsy. Where the fuck is Turnbull?"

On his way. Sharon, you need to go home. I’ll take care of this. Now Troy pushed between Danielle and McTavish, giving them a head-nod greeting. Then he stopped in front of the county’s newest officer. Go back to the sheriff’s office. You’re done here.

I was just—

Nope. Troy was shaking his head. Go upstairs. You know this’ll fuck up the investigation.

That’s what he wants! Sharon shouted, her voice sounding seconds away from sobbing. "He shot him, Troy!"

I know. I was there. I really need you to let me do this. Now his hand rested on Sharon’s arm. I got him, Sharon. You know you can’t be here.

Danielle’s own eyes prickled as Sharon nodded, her entire face crumpling.

Troy’s voice softened by half. It’s okay. Then he pointed to Unger. You. Upstairs. Now.

Go with her, McTavish told her, not unkindly.

Danielle blinked, stupidly. Me?

Yes.

I don’t know her—

Make sure she’s got someone coming to get her.

Now Danielle understood. Somehow, Sharon might also be in danger. From Unger? She was just guessing.

She did as told, and followed the new officer and Downey through the double doors at the foot of the stairs and up the half flight to the main level of Markham Medical. Without further drama, Unger peeled off to the right and headed for the glass doors leading out to the drop off zone. His cruiser was parked right there. Sharon waited until he was pulling away before slumping down on the generic hospital furniture.

She’d been about to offer to get a glass of water or cup of coffee, then she stopped, instantly uncomfortable as the woman started crying.

Spotting a box of Kleenex on the reception desk, Danielle grabbed it quickly and helped herself to a few tissues. The admitting nurse just gave her an understanding smile.

With the box and a handful of plucked samples held out before her, she could only lean down, clear her throat, and say, Umm, Ms. Downey?

The blonde sat up, startled, then laughed at her own reaction. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.

Danielle shrugged. It’s okay. But I think you need these.

Sharon was nodding as the accepted the wad of tissues. Thank you. Danielle, right?

She nodded, surprised to be known to the former Sheriff. Yep.

You’re in the house next to where I used to live.

Right. We were neighbors…for about four days, I think?

Sharon laughed, wiping her eyes. I wasn’t actually living there at the time.

No, that’s right. There’d been a fire at your place.

Yeah. That’s one way to put it.

Danielle sat two spots down, keeping the tissues on her lap. Are you going to be okay?

Sharon finished blowing her nose. What’s that?

Are you going to be okay?

I’ll be fine. Sorry. I got a little hot down there.

Shaking her head, Danielle waved her off. No, it’s understandable. We wouldn’t have done the autopsy if he was in the room anyway. Not sure we could have convinced him to leave.

Sharon nodded, simply adding Thank you.

Do you want me to call someone to come and get you? Her offer was drowned out by about four—or so it seemed—motorcycles stopping at the curb right outside the patient drop off door.

No, she replied dryly, getting to her feet. I think my ride just pulled up.

Danielle stood as well, just as a man burst into the reception area. She recognized him as Downey’s…boyfriend? The word seemed silly when once a person saw him.

Dammit, Sharon. What the hell?

Personally, she would have shriveled at that sharp tone, but of course the woman who used to be sheriff was much tougher than all that. She stood taller, poking a finger in the center of the man’s chest. I had to make sure it was done right. That asshole was trying to get into the room with Tiny’s body… and then the spine softened and her face crumpled again, head bowing down as sobs shook her shoulders. With one step, she face-planted in her man’s chest.

Stunned, Danielle watched his anger soften into grief and concern. You could almost ignore the tattoos, the wild hair, the boots, and kutte. His large arms curled around her back, drawing her in. Sharon went with it, stepping in close and letting herself be held as she shook. I know, baby, he drawled, the southern accent suddenly a lot more obvious. I know. Resting his head alongside his woman’s, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in sorrow of his own.

She was spying, intruding on this moment. But the way he’d gone from raging badass to supportive rock at the sight of his woman’s tears made her ache. She had no idea what for, but it felt a lot like jealousy.

Finally getting her wits about her, Danielle returned the Kleenex to the front desk and made her way back down to the morgue without drawing any attention.

When she entered the autopsy suite McTavish was just getting suited up, and he motioned for her to do the same. Turning to face the unzipped body bag, Danielle could only remember the grief of his friends upstairs, and she couldn’t say she didn’t get a bit morose as she also prepared to get to work.

Chapter Three

Knuckles clenched his jaw as he took his seat, just a rolling computer desk chair, at the board table where the Red Rebels of Markham, California, conducted their business. Fuck, any hit to the ribs was debilitating enough. Add stitches and swelling and he wanted to cry every time he had to stand or sit.

When the white pain stars stopped dancing across his vision he leaned into the reclining back, the relief immediate. He let out a long breath, then caught Spaz staring at him.

What? he barked, running a hand through his hair. Something in my teeth?

Are you okay?

Fuck off.

Spaz waved a hand to show he was done being nice. Whatever. Knuckles knew he was being a miserable prick but he was sidelined again, unfit to ride until the hole in his side let him sit on a bike without breaking a sweat within ten minutes.

This did not make him happy. He didn’t even own a cage.

From the moment he’d woken up with the stabbing wound in his side he’d been staying in his old dorm room. He missed his little house. He missed the odd moment alone. And being fussed over like an invalid wasn’t as much fun as one might think.

He fucking hated this.

Not to mention the empty seat at the table. His brother had gone down on the road and he’d been passed out from pain and blood loss in the back stall of the clubhouse. That would never, ever sit right with him if he lived to be a thousand years old.

The tightness in his chest this time wasn’t lost freedom or physical pain. It hit him every time he saw that damn chair. Not to mention that buzzing noise was getting worse, right at the back of his skull.

When Jayce entered the room, and took his seat he stopped his moping and turned to face the Prez, even if he wasn’t on today’s run.

Another run through Hueneme, Jayce announced. I don’t see any issues with this. We’re running the club van this time.

Another twinge. Tiny’s truck had been willed to his relief driver, Mark. Another smart move since it remained private property and without a warrant the cops couldn’t inspect it without permission, which was good because that truck had moved some suspect shit and had some odd storage compartments that were hard to explain.

Spaz will take the van. The rest run standard formation in front and behind. Extra cautious until we’re out of Markham County. The drop is in San Francisco again, so we come back into Markham clean.

Normally Spaz didn’t go on a lot of runs. This was because Knuckles was laid up. And Jayce was on the run because Tank’s old lady, Rose, was a week past her due date for their first baby.

And Knuckles had to sit around and contemplate his navel.

The discussion continued around him—who would take which position, and all the other jovial posturing that usually came with it—but he couldn’t follow or take part.

He was just not himself.

Also, we’ve been holding onto these keys. As you know, Tiny’s truck ended up in the stall. Buck had it detailed. Clark confirmed that anything not specified in his will was to go to the club. So, it’s registered now as club property. The keys skid across the plastic-veneered table, stopping in front of Knuckles. I think you need your own wheels. I can only imagine you’re getting a bit stir crazy there, Knuck.

After blinking at the keys, he looked up at the assembled group. I…I can’t drive that thing.

You need to be able to get places. I’m sure you want to go home at some point, Tank rumbled, his smile small but real. The rest of us need our wheels for our women. Until you can ride, use the truck. You’re fucking cranky and we’re about tired of it.

There were a few chuckles, and he scooped the keys up, thumb running over the leather dealership key chain that was still soft it was so new. He swallowed hard. Okay. Thanks guys.

All right. We leave in twenty, guys.

The group stood in unison, Knuckle included, and filed out into the main room. Neenie rose from the sofa where she’d been sitting, walking towards him with rolling hips, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder. Her smile was small and private.

It made his stomach turn over.

Okay, so this was something else that was all fucked up. With all that female fussing over his recuperation, the women also wanted to get him back in the saddle, so to speak. Neenie had become his preference in the weeks leading up to being stabbed. She’d told him she’d do the work, and everything had been fine until the moment they got into his room. Then...nothing.

A thirty-six-year-old man should not need fucking Cialis when a woman who could link her ankles behind her head was ready to give you a reverse cowboy. But he was as flaccid as a wet sock and she left him with a huff. He’d gone back to the clubhouse in time to see her dropping to her knees in front of Rusty.

Shouldn’t have bothered him at all. But some part of his brain wished she was more fucking worried about him than her sweetbutt position with the club. All she wanted was to fuck and he wanted her concern. Christ.

Now she slid her hands around his waist. You’re staying behind this time? Spaz told me.

He nodded and pushed her hands away. They made his skin crawl. Yeah. Still can’t ride.

She was looking down at her hands, like the fact they weren’t on him anymore was a feat of fucking magic or something. Is everything okay?

I’m good, he lied even as the back of his neck twitched. I just need to get to my house. Get some laundry done.

I can wash your—

I got it, he snapped and strode past her to the door, hands tight on those truck keys.

Out in the fresh air he felt better. Much better. Maybe it was just cabin fever. He’d been on the grounds for two months now. He’d bought the house from Downey for a reason.

Quiet. Just time alone with his own brain. There were some things you couldn’t talk out with anyone but yourself.

At that thought he could almost hear the Army shrink chiding him for trying to be Superman and telling him that he was right to feel wrong about what had happened.

His panic and stupidity had gotten Tiny killed. It was hard not to see it that way. He had brought evidence of a homicide into the clubhouse at the same time that the cops might be coming after Tiny. Either way, it was a huge mess that he’d made, and to keep him from being arrested his brother had gone down.

He shrugged the kutte down his arms, folded it, and tossed it across the truck’s cab.