Blood (Kings if Sin MC #1)

11. Secrets and bullets

CHAPTER 11

SECRETS AND BULLETS

T repidation washes over me as I pull in at the location sent via text. The place is a desolate, run-down shack in the middle of nowhere. A faded sign half hanging off the front of the building reads ‘ Willie's motors’ . There are rusting cars older than me scattered around the place and an old gas pump with a piece of cardboard taped to it stating,

Out of use!

In black marker. Stepping out of the car I scan my surroundings looking for life but there's just stretches of nothing. I remember coming here when I was young, but it didn't seem so derelict then. Moving towards the door, I tap my knuckles on the windowpane before entering.

Dust lines every surface, the place doesn't look like it's been used in years. “In here,” A gravelly voice calls out from a back room.

Following the sound, I find myself in a small office with the man I remember as Smokey, seated behind a small metal desk. Time hasn't been good to him. He looks frail and weathered, like the rusting cars out front. “There you go,” he gestures to the package I came for, sliding it across the desk toward me.

I stare down at the box, my gut clenching. “This was a favor to your old man. Don’t tell anyone where they came from, you get me?”

“Yes.” My voice is shaky as I pick up the box and drop the cash on the counter. It’s taken me days to work up the courage to come here.

“Off you go then.” He jerks his chin to the door I just came through.

Hurrying out the building I get into my car and pull out of the parking lot, beginning the six-hour drive back to the motel.

* * *

I hit my mother’s number to call, and she picks up on the third ring with a heavy exhale, blowing smoke from her cigarette. “Hello?”

“Mom, it’s me.” I brush lint from my pant leg, needing to distract myself. When I speak to her, I think too much of our shared losses. It fucking hurts.

“Princess, where are you?” She sounds tired. I look around at the gas station I’m parked in. A couple are arguing about which pump to use while their kid pulls faces at a truck driver.

“Have the police been back in contact?” I draw my gaze away and focus on dirt caught in the air vent.

“They have nothing. You know what they’re like. Unless more bodies show up, they’ll just think it’s because she’s a biker brat—trash.”

“Don’t say that.” I clench the phone, my eyes closing.

“Tyler’s been looking for you,” she says, changing the subject. I’m going to have to see him soon or he’ll really come looking for me.

“I know.” There’s a pause while she sucks on her cigarette. I take the moment to unscrew the cap on my drink and swig some down.

“When are you coming home?” A horn blasts in the distance, making me jump. Rubbing my hand over my eyes and shrugging to no one, I sigh.

“When I have answers.” A scruffy heavy-set man approaches my car. His cap has a candy logo printed across it. I search the lot for his truck, spying it on the end of a row of them.

“I love you, Princess,” Mom murmurs.

“I love you too.” My heart aches as I end the call.

Lowering my window just enough to hear him, the guy digs into his pocket, and I immediately go into defense mode, locking the door and opening the glove box to have easy access to the handgun I keep in there.

Retrieving a wedge of cash, he asks, “Want to keep me company for an hour, sweetheart?”

An hour, he’s being generous to himself. I’d rather be hit by his truck and then backed up over. Grabbing my gun, I point it at the glass. “Only if you like pain, asshole.” I sneer, clocking his wedding ring. Holding his hands up, he chuckles and backs away. Pig .

I shove the gun back into the glove compartment before I turn the engine over and pull out of the gas station, checking in my rearview to make sure he’s not following. I read a newspaper article one time that said they found a legit torture room kitted out in the back of a big rig. The driver used to prowl for victims at gas stations and motels. A shiver races up my spine.

* * *

I trim an hour of the travel time by not stopping again. With my foot flat on the gas, the world whizzes past the window, the setting sun dusting the scenery in an orange blush.

Too many hours later, I get back to the motel. I’m physically and mentally exhausted, and my emotions are at war inside me. I didn’t want to get close to the kings, but the closer I got to the motel, the more at peace I felt. I feel the pull intensifying toward the Kings. I like being around them. Callan set my world on fire, and I don’t want to put it out.

Taking a few days’ break from seeing him has done nothing to stop the craving to feel him. I need to recalibrate. Drawing the curtains, I lie on the bed and stare up at a stain on the ceiling. Boredom claims me fast. Grabbing my phone, I flit through the messages from Kitty.

Kitty: You broke Georgina’s nose?

Kitty: Where are you? Come to the club.

Kitty: Why aren’t you here? Callan’s told Georgina to spend some time away from the club!!! I think he might be sweet on you.

Kitty: You ignoring me? It’s been days.

Me: Not feeling great.

I hit send and throw my phone on the comforter. Leaning over the bed, I grab my bag. My fingers tremble and my insides churn as I take out the box.

I open the lid and run my fingers across the metal casings. Picking one up, I roll it in my palm, feeling its weight. Her initials are engraved into the shell and her ashes are mixed with the gun powder inside. Whoever is responsible for Harley’s murder will die by her hand from the grave.

My phone buzzes again.

Kitty: We’re at Ray’s. Callan said he’s coming to get you.

What? He can’t come here.

Me: Tell him to stay there. I’m coming.

Shoving the box under the bed, I grab a sweater and make my way to the bar. A slight breeze has me wrapping my arms around myself. The streets are empty, a couple of cars pass by but I’m able to jog across the road without having to use the crosswalk.

The place is empty when I arrive. Only Cutter, Kitty, and Callan occupy a table by the door. Kitty is saying something about Tim when I walk in.

“What the fuck do you care? Tell me you’re not sweet on him, Kitty. For fuck’s sake. I’m not dealing with you shacking up with my brothers in my club,” Callan grumbles, scratching at his chin. Cutter is eyeballing her like he can project his thoughts directly into her skull.

“He’s not a brother yet.” She offers Callan a middle finger. “And what the hell did you think was going to happen? I was raised by a biker, around bikers, in a biker club. Of course, I’m going to end up with one.” She scoffs. I edge forward aware they haven’t noticed me yet.

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Pulling a knife from a hilt on his boot, he stabs it into the table. Cutter flinches, his eyes focusing on the knife standing in blatant warning.

Kitty flings her arms up. “Guess what? You don’t have anything to do with it. It’s my life, my pussy, my choice—so shut the fuck up, and back off.” Callan’s eyes finally lift to find mine, and he exhales a heavy breath.

Kitty is a badass bitch, and I stand with her on this one. “I’m going to get a drink.” I point toward the bar and slink away, knowing Callan will follow, giving Kitty time with Cutter, who is peeling the label from his bottle of beer as if it offended him. “Where is everyone?” I ask Ray. He dries and hangs a glass.

“We closed an hour ago, gorgeous. The boys sometimes stay for some peace.” He winks, uncorking a bottle of red and pouring me a glass. “On the house.” It’s funny hearing him call a man of Callan’s stature a boy.

Callan is by my side within the next second. “My sister drives me crazy. How are you feeling? Kit said you’ve been sick.”

“I’m fine, and your sister is strong-willed and knows her own mind—it’s a good thing. Know what battles to pick,” I tell him, trying to find something to concentrate on so I don’t fall victim to his eyes, smile, or smirk dammit.

“Have you been avoiding me?” His scent washes over me as he draws closer. I want to bottle it and soak my pillows with it.

“No.” I cover my lie with the wine glass, taking a gulp.

“Liar.” He smirks, tugging on a strand of my hair. “You want to come for a ride?” My stomach somersaults. A prickle of heat zaps up my spine. His thumb brushes against my jawline, and goosebumps scatter along my skin. It’s a big fucking deal to be offered a ride on a club member’s bike.

“Callan, bring us drinks,” Kitty barks. His jaw tightens, irritation flashing in his eyes.

“Sisters,” he groans.

The ever-present ache throbs in my chest. His brow pinches, watching me. He grips my upper arm, sensing the pain emanating from me. My lips part as tears sting the corners of my eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”

Fuck, saying that rips a piece of my heart out.

Callan’s face hardens, his attention swaying from me to someone coming through the door. Gripping my arm tighter, he shoves me toward Kitty. She grabs me and pulls me into the booth as Cutter jumps to his feet. My heart roars in my ears, adrenaline spiking, making my hands shake.

“Nobody fucking move,” a guy wearing a balaclava shouts, gripping a sawed-off shotgun. There’s another guy behind him, dressed all in black, holding a pistol out toward Cutter.

“Wrong establishment. I suggest you leave.” Callan stands there, casual as shit, his large frame intimidating. His glare alone is enough to make anyone piss their pants.

“Shut the fuck up and back off.” The guy in front waves around his shotgun, his movements jerky. “You,” he barks to Ray, “empty the cash register and show us where you keep the safe.” The other guy nervously surveys the room with wide eyes.

“I don’t have a safe.” Ray backs away, his hands up in surrender.

“Bullshit!” the guy snarls, jerking the shotgun forward.

“Winslow, they’re Kings of Sin. Let’s get out of here, man. It was supposed to be empty,” the guy with the pistol says with a rattle in his voice as he paces.

“Why’d you use my name? And fuck them. I ain’t leaving without the money.”

Ray lowers himself, flitting his gaze to Callan.

“Listen to your friend, Winslow,” Callan warns, his eyes tracking the guy’s every movement.

“Don’t say my fucking name,” he thunders through the still space. There’s no music, no movement, just breathing and malice.

The guy with the pistol stills while watching the interaction nervously. He begins lowering his weapon as his friend takes a step toward Callan, his shotgun pointed at Callan’s chest.

“I will kill you,” he warns, his finger jittery as it hovers over the trigger. Darkness creeps into my vision. Bees swarm inside my head. Would I care if Callan dies? Isn’t that what I want in the long run—for all of them to pay the price for Harley? A tsunami of sadness swarms over me at the thought of him dying. I almost choke on it.

“I suggest you leave if you want to keep breathing,” Callan says with such calm that it’s unnerving. He shows zero fear in the face of danger, but there’s enough coursing through me for the pair of us.

The man is unstable. His eyes flit to Callan and the patch on his chest. “Fuck. Fuck.” He jerks the gun.

“Just walk away, man,” Cutter warns, his hand inching toward the knife sheathed at his hip.

“Shut up,” Winslow roars swinging his gaze to Cutter but keeping the gun aimed at Callan.

“I need to do something,” I whisper to Kitty. She shakes her head no, tightening her grip on me, but fuck this. This guy’s going to kill Callan out of fear, then we’ll all be next. No witnesses. Grabbing the empty bottle of beer discarded on the table, I move fast, pulling myself free from Kitty and leaping out of the seat. Winslow’s body begins to turn, and the room blurs with movement from all directions.

I crash the bottle over his head, and gunshots ring out, piercing the air. Noise and chaos explode. Callan grabs the man’s wrist, rotating his body away from me. A glint of metal passes by my face as Callan pins Winslow’s arm to the bar and stabs a blade through his palm.

A gut-wrenching screech hollers from the man’s lips, shock and pain blanching his features. Blood oozes around the blade. His other arm goes limp with the gun still in his grip. Instinctively I snatch the gun away, moving back out of reach. I clench my eyes shut to stop the spinning. Echoes of gunfire ring in my ears, drowning out the sound of my racing heart. I turn to Callan, franticly searching his body for injury.

He palms my cheeks, bringing my eyes to his. “Are you okay?”

With trembling lips, I manage to say, “Yes.” My head bobbing like a dashboard toy. Taking the gun from me, he aims it at Winslow, who is desperately trying to free the knife from his hand and failing.

“Cover your ears,” he tells me before he checks that the gun is loaded and aims at Winslow’s leg before he shoots. The blast splinters the wood of the bar and shatters Winslow’s kneecap. Blood and chunks of flesh mixed with shards of wood burst through the air, splashing up my feet.

Sobbing, the man clings to the bar, his bottom leg completely detached from the top. The knife holding him hostage slices through skin and bone as his weight sags. “You should have left when you had the chance,” Callan taunts. A crimson puddle forming around his boots.

“Callan!” Kitty bellows, jerking our attention to her. She’s on the floor with Cutter in her lap, her hands covering his stomach as blood seeps through her fingers.

“He’s shot! Help me!”