Tyrant (Kings of Carnage MC: Alabama #1)

Chapter 9

Tyrant

F uck. I’m hungover.

It’s the first thing that comes to mind as I become conscious to the outside world once more. I slept hard; I was basically dead to everything until now. Parting my lids is a feat all on its own. Thankfully, the curtains and the shade are still closed from yesterday, so it’s not too ungodly bright in the room. It’s dark, save for the light coming from the bathroom. The door’s shut, so it shines from the crack at the bottom near the floor. The only other light comes from under the bedroom door and it’s of the natural variety, so I’m guessing the adjacent living area’s curtains are wide open. It’ll probably hurt my head ambling out there, but maybe instead of going anywhere for a while, Blair will be good with calling up some room service. We can do dinner or something later if we’re both coherent enough to drag ourselves out of bed. We definitely can’t drink as much as we did last night, or I won’t be able to ride tomorrow. I doubt she will either.

I shift around, my head swimming in the process. Apparently, the pain meds I downed before I fell asleep weren’t strong enough. At least, I hope I was smart enough to remember to take them. I have no clue; I remember fuck all about last night. We went to the concert, we drank some, fucked, drank some more, danced around a bit. Which is nuts because I’m not a dancer on my good days and neither is Blair, so I can only imagine what two drunk fools looked like trying to tear it up to some metal music. After that, though, my mind goes fuzzy. I can’t believe I let myself get that sloshed. When was the last time it happened?

I was a teen? I think? Fuck. It hurts to use my brain.

Stretching out my arm, the bed feels cold in Blair’s spot. Poor woman. I feel like shit, so she must feel like death. I hope she hasn’t been sick all night with no one to help her while I’ve slept alone in the bed like a giant jackass. But I think we must’ve fucked some more because I’m not wearing any clothes, and if we hadn’t fucked again, I probably would’ve passed out on top of the covers in my clothes, too drunk and worn out to care.

I have to piss too. I do the gentlemanly thing and wait for her to come out. I’ll keep the bed warm for her so it’s toasty when she crawls under the covers.

I must doze off because the next time I wake up, my dick feels like it’s going to explode from needing to pee so badly. I hop up, groaning as I do. My head still pounds, but it’s not as horrible as it was the first time I woke up. It’s too dark to see if there’s anything on the nightstand as far as pain reliever goes, so I’ll deal with it after I relieve myself. “Blair,” I call out, and my voice escapes in a rasp. It’s deeper than usual, which tells me I was probably cheering about something, or maybe it’s from yelling over the loud music. “Sugar? I need to piss.”

I get no response, so I lean my head against the bathroom door, pressing my ear to it. I don’t want to rush her if she’s puking or something. “Sugar?” I mumble again and get nothing. “‘Kay, if you’re shitting, now’s the time to speak up because I’m fixin’ to open this door and check on you.”

Nothing.

I test the door handle, finding it unlocked. With a twist, I discover the bathroom empty. Well, hell, if I’d have known, I’d relieved myself earlier. I’m glad she’s not in here, though, as she must not be feeling too worse for wear. Maybe after I take some aspirin or something, and we eat, I can sink back into that perfect pussy of hers. It was pure heaven, and I’d love to get another feel for it as well as taste her until her voice is shot from screaming my name. Definitely later, the screaming my name part, that is.

I finish washing my hands, then my face, and use my cup from brushing my teeth to get some water. I leave the bathroom light on and head back into the room, searching around. There’s nothing on the nightstands but my phone. I remember the hotel adding some pain relievers in Blair’s bags they brought up, so I move to those next, rifling through the stuff all over the dresser until I find the tiny travel tube. I toss four back, two extras for good measure, and drink down the entire cup of water. I give myself about ten minutes to collect my thoughts, find my boxer briefs, drink more water, and finally make my way out into the common area. I can easily make out the couch from the doorway, finding it empty.

Glancing around as I step into the other room, there’s no sign of Blair anywhere. There’s a paper on the small table so I go to it, expecting a note telling me she’s getting coffee or at the pool soaking up the vitamin D.

I find nothing of the sort. Just a thicker piece of cardstock with decorative writing. In big, fancy letters along the top, it has Marriage License . Then, lower it includes both of our names and is signed by witnesses. It’s even been notarized. This isn’t a form you fill out or whatever, it’s a goddamn license!

What in the fuck?

I don’t remember anything about a goddamn wedding, but apparently mine was last night. Or early this morning at two a.m. according to this. Holy fuck. Nah, this can’t be real.

“Blair?” I demand, louder, even though she’s obviously not in the room. She could be hiding under the bed, but she’s not weird like that, just quiet. Something compels me to glance down at my left hand, and sure as shit…there’s a band there. Chilling on my ring finger like it belongs there or some shit when it absolutely does not.

This fucking city, man. It’s all I can think as I shake my head and storm back into the bedroom. This time I flip on the lights. I make sure they’re all on and every surface is lit up. I search over everything, looking for what? I haven’t a clue, but I’m sure as fuck not missing anything after that doozy on the table. I begin to notice a pattern and not a good one. Little things here and there I remember Blair had in certain spots around the hotel room. I remember it because yesterday I was silently marveling over how having her shit everywhere didn’t bother me. Not even a little bit. On the contrary, it sorta felt like it belonged there, and I was cool with it. My gaze slides over everything, realizing her bag is gone. I immediately head to my wallet. I thought I could trust her, but obviously, I was blinded to her being a female. I let down my guard in places I wouldn’t normally, especially not so quickly.

There’s very little cash in my wallet. As I start thumbing through the bills left, that I have situated in certain ways so I don’t get confused if I’m in a hurry and grab the wrong amount, I realize I have no idea how much I spent last night. I don’t think she’d take money from me, but it’s starting to hit me. I know virtually nothing about this woman. I have her name and the way her pussy felt wrapped around my cock last night to go off of. Part of me hopes she was smart enough to take at least a little cash. I don’t want her to go hungry or anything.

Striding back into the other room, I grab a Gatorade from the mini fridge, knowing the miniature sized red beverage is probably something ridiculous, like eight bucks. I’m too distracted to care at the moment as I go back to stare at the paper once more.

Marriage License.

Fuck. What in the hell am I supposed to do now? We’re married and she’s gone. Of course, this would happen to my ass. I knew I hated this fucking city for a reason. It’s cursed or something, I swear.

With nothing else to lose, I call the first person who comes to mind. Havoc. My prez and lifelong friend.

“Yeah,” he mutters, sounding distracted. He’s chipper today. I wonder if the fucker was woken up too early.

“I think I did something stupid,” I reply, picking up and staring at the thick piece of paper once again. I’m caught between wanting to be furious with myself, needing to puke, and also thinking it could be worse. I got off easy after allowing myself to get drunk badly enough last night that I essentially blacked out. I just hope my bike is still parked downstairs where it should be, and I don’t have the cops looking for me for whatever the fuck.

“Am I supposed to be surprised?”

“Fuck off,” I grumble, making him chuckle. I can’t bring myself to say it aloud, so I do the next best thing. I snap a pic and send it through text. Chicken shit? Nah, just thinking if he has to read it, he won’t give me as much shit over it.

“The fuck?” he barks out in surprise.

“Yeah. I think I got married last night.” My other hand rakes through my hair as I let loose a heavy sigh.

“You think? This says you did,” he clarifies, but in this particular instance, I’m able to read and comprehend what’s in front of me just fine.

Not that I want to, with my jilted bride nowhere to be found. I think her taking off is the part stinging me the most. Why not stick around so we can laugh about it, then get it taken care of? I’m not knocking marriage or anything, although it’s not something I pictured for myself anytime soon. I doubt she wants to be stuck to me, a one-percenter biker she knows nothing about. Now that I’m thinking of it, I did way more talking than she ever did. I was trying to make her feel comfortable with being alone with a man twice her size. I was an idiot. I never let my guard down, even with a woman. Unless you’re one of my brothers, then you’re assed out when it comes to information, thoughts, feelings, you name it with me. Blair’s my exception, it appears.

Wincing, I admit, “I was drunk.”

“ How drunk?”

“Let’s just say I don’t remember it. Any of it. We were at the concert enjoying ourselves, getting hammered, then nothing. Blackness.”

“Fuck. You need to get it annulled.”

“Just one more problem.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“ G-O-N-E, ” I spell out the word. “Disappeared like a fuckin’ ghost.”

He sighs. “You need to come home, Tyrant. Jesus Christ .”

“Yeah. On my way.”

“Ride safe.”

“You too,” I respond and end the call. I can’t believe I got married, in Vegas of all places. My hand lands on my forehead once more, squeezing, and then I head back to the bedroom. I fall back onto the bed with a groan, wondering how in the hell I can fix this mess.

Wracking my mind, I lie there for far too long, attempting to figure out what else went down the night before that would make Blair pop smoke without so much as a goodbye. No longer stuck on feeling sorry for myself with my hangover, I down another sports drink and order a sandwich from room service. My reservation is for another night and part of me wants to remain here in case she returns, but the realist in me is damn certain it won't happen.

Havoc is probably right about me needing to leave. I almost text the others to see what they think, but then hold off. What would I say at this point without coming off sounding like a pansy ass dipshit?

After I finish my food and internally attempt to rationalize all the reasons I should stay, I come up short and decide to go ahead and check out early. I find the same lady from yesterday at the front desk. She's frazzled again, it seems, I would be, too, having to deal with assholes all day. I’d probably end up shooting one of them and be hauled off to the slammer. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I’m staying the fuck out of jail in Las Vegas. They probably get so many perps it’d be months before I finally saw a fucking judge for bail. Besides, I don’t need to be on the law’s radar anywhere with the jobs I help Creed with. Cleaning up dead bodies unofficially is frowned upon. I like to think of it as me doing a service for the community, think of all the extra work I’m saving them from having to do.

“You alright?” She probably thinks I’m a dick after yesterday, not that I care. I’m only asking so she doesn’t lump me in with the group of other assholes she has to deal with on the daily.

She waves me off, replying, “Yes, thanks. I've received around twenty calls from people looking for a woman. They all swear she's in Las Vegas and is in the area. What they don't seem to realize is that no matter how many times I repeat it, is there's like a million people here, in the area!”

I nod. I’ve noticed and it's too busy for me. Other people wouldn't get it unless they were to experience it for themselves.

“We hope you’ve enjoyed your stay, and I apologize for the hold-up yesterday with the computers. They’ve implemented a new system recently that’s supposed to make it more secure for everyone, when in reality, all it’s accomplished is making my job harder by always crashing.”

“Appreciate it.” I hand over the two keycards, still in the little paper jacket she’d given us with the room number scrawled across the front.

“It's a shame you and your wife didn't get to finish out your stay,” she says absently while putting the keys in a box and pecking at her keyboard.

“My wife?” How on earth would this woman know we’re married?

She nods, smiling. “I saw her leave this morning too.” She drops the small bomb on me as she waits for her printer to comply.

I'm instantly intrigued and interested in knowing every single detail from this morning. "She mention anything on her way out?" I can’t help but ask, a glutton for punishment at this point.

Her brow screws up with worry as she takes the freshly printed paper and hands it to me. "No. She only asked where the closest bus station is, then said she was too stiff to ride all the way home with you. She didn't mention a complaint or anything, do you need to speak with a manager?"

"Nah. Thanks, you've been...helpful." With the new information at the front of my mind, I fold my receipt, tuck it into my pocket, and head outside to get my motorcycle. I wonder where it is exactly that Blair plans to go?

As I wait for valet to find the key to my chopper and do whatever they need to, I pull up the bus schedule on my cell and check for the closest station to Huntsville leaving from Las Vegas. She'd wanted to be dropped off by the Alabama state line, so I know she'll pick a spot around there. The search results show all three bus stations here, closest to the hotel, had routes heading in that direction with a bus leaving about an hour before I woke up. Based on the arrival times in Alabama, it looks like I may beat her there.

I've been on buses plenty of times before, as they’re a cheap way to travel and a lot less monitored. The stations are often nothing special, old and dirty, and typically surrounded by dealers or prostitutes. It's a decent place to hang out if you want to get robbed, stabbed, or propositioned for money. I hope she's smart enough to keep her head down and stay with a crowd. If she's alone, like I have a feeling she wants to be, she could end up in a bad spot and fast.

My chest suddenly seems tight at the thought of someone hurting her. Absentmindedly, I rub at the area while my gut twists. I don't know why I even care. It's not as if I know her well enough to have developed a case of feelings, but fuck, I kinda have. It has to be the marriage license and fucking her that's messing with my head. Both seem to be taunting me on an endless loop, driving in the details that I’m a dumbass. I never should’ve let my guard down. Mistake one-oh-one many rookies make, but not me. Never me. Until I met her.

I wonder if Blair is even her real name? Wouldn’t doubt it if it wasn’t. And the last name on the paper? Real or fake, I wonder.

I don’t think she'd still be around at any of the local bus stations, so it's useless to waste the time checking. She knows I probably would if I caught wind of her asking about the closest station to the hotel, I’ve already proved to her that I’m interested in her. The valet finally hands over my key and I load up. I have about the same amount of shit with me as I did when I left to come up here, except I notice two things missing right away. My hat and extra sunglasses are no longer in my saddlebag where we’d left them yesterday. Looks like my gut was right, and my girl wasn't planning on returning to the hotel again.

Why does the knowledge irritate me so badly? And why in the hell do I miss how she felt wrapped around me from the back of my bike? It’s going to be a long trip, no matter how fast I let the wind carry me.

With the thoughts silently torturing me, I pull up my directions and begin the long ride home. Alone.