Part 22 (1/2)

He needed something to occupy his mind, something that didn't have to do with whether he would spend the rest of his life in a cage. Because when he turned his mind from that, all that was left was Faith.

He hadn't seen or heard from her in years, but a whole chunk of his mind was devoted to his memories and feelings of her. He jacked off, feeling abysmally guilty, to his few memories of being inside her. The longer he was away from anything remotely like a life, the bigger the 'Faith' part of his head became. It wouldn't be long before he was consumed by her. Then, he knew he'd go mad, locked away and eaten alive by memory.

Muse and Tug were waiting outside the out-processing center. Tug had a van, with an empty trailer hooked up. Muse was sitting astride his Knuckle. Next to him was Demon's chopper, his kutte lying across the saddle.

They'd cut it f.u.c.king close. Almost seven months inside. Demon had given his lawyer the go-ahead to prepare a guilty plea and stave off a trial, when the witness had disappeared and the case had fallen apart.

Grinning, Muse dismounted and grabbed Demon's kutte, then came forward, with a slight hitch yet in his gait. They embraced, and Muse held out the kutte for Demon to slide on.

”You want to go back with Tug, grab some p.u.s.s.y?”

Demon didn't answer. Alabama club p.u.s.s.y wasn't his thing, no matter how long he'd gone without. He wasn't dragged through life by his d.i.c.k like some of his brothers were.

”Or there's a job in South Dakota.”

That was more like it. He grinned. ”Good one?”

”Good bank. A little exercise.”

'Exercise' was what they called it when there was somebody to hurt. He nodded. ”Let's ride.”

He was free. And as long as the kutte was on his back, and Muse was at his side, he was home.

Close enough, anyway.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

”Faith. It's Hoosier, darlin'.”

Faith unlocked the door. She was already dressed; she'd gotten up the second Michael had left the room, and she'd been pacing, straining her ears to try to make sense of the sounds she was hearing. It had been gunfire that had woken them up. Even if she hadn't known it right away, Michael's quick response would have made her sure of it.

Hoosier opened the door before she could, and he caught her up in a tight hug. She grabbed fistfuls of his t-s.h.i.+rt and held on. ”Where's Michael?”

”Shhh. No questions. We got company. You were sleepin' alone back here, right? Don't know anything. You remember the play?”

She had a million questions, but she also knew what he was saying. Law was here. Michael was not. Which most likely meant he was off responding to whatever had been done here. The thought made her sick with worry, but she nodded. ”Right.”

”Okay. C'mon. Hold tight, darlin'. It's gonna be okay.”

It was lucky that shock and horror were the appropriate responses to the scene in the Hall, because Faith was racked with both before her eyes and brain had even made complete sense of it all. The smell hit her first-the acrid, lingering tang of gunfire and the copper of blood, and the heavy, woodsy-sweet aroma of liquor. That smell, she made visual sense of first-the shelves behind the bar had been destroyed, and mingled liquor was still pooled on the floor, oozing from behind the bar.

The gunfire and blood made sense next. Black-bagged bodies were being carried out on stretchers. Faith counted four bags, but there could have been more. Four dead, and more injured. The Hall was full of EMTs, and Faith saw Michael's friend, Muse, being rolled out, his old lady following with him, trying to keep hold of his hand. Faith couldn't remember her name.

She was struck, in the midst of this chaos, by the renewed realization that this was not her club. Most of the people she'd known were gone. Looking around the room, she couldn't even be sure who was a member and who was a civilian.

A female deputy came up and began asking questions. Faith answered-her name, her address. She started to give her Venice Beach address, then caught herself and gave her mother's instead, feeling a sharp pang of loss and nostalgia for her old life. The questions were brief; she said that she had been sleeping, saw nothing, knew nothing, knew of no enemies. All of that was actually true. The only lie she told was that she had been sleeping alone.

Handed a card and freed from the deputy, Faith went looking for Bibi. If Hoosier was still here, then Bibi probably was, too. Tucker was at Bart and Riley's.

And that was another weird thing about this club. Their VP lived in a mansion and was married to Riley Chase. Another was married to a model-she'd been at the party earlier, and Faith had recognized her. That was crazy. The club she'd grown up in had had several celebrity clients at the bike shop, but they had not been hobn.o.bbing with the rich and famous themselves.

Bibi was in the kitchen-not doing anything, just leaning against the counter, staring at the floor. When she saw Faith, she came forward, her arms out, and Faith tucked herself in for a hug.

”You okay, baby?”

”Yeah. Worried.”

”I know. We just have to wait. They won't let me even make a f.u.c.kin' pot of coffee. The whole clubhouse is a crime scene.”

”Did anyplace else get hit?”

”Hush, Faith. Not the time or place for questions.”

”But Tucker?”

Bibi leaned back and brushed Faith's hair from her face. ”He's okay. We're heading to Bart and Riley's as soon as they let us out of here. Until then, we stay out of the way and wait.”

Bart and Riley lived in a big house deep in the foothills on the mountain edge of Madrone. Its architecture was traditional California Spanish-earthy stucco, red tile, arched doors and windows, heavy, rustic woodwork. The interior was wide and airy, with lots of two-story rooms and windows everywhere.

The decor was casual and accessible, not the chichi Architectural Digest ensembles Faith had been expecting. Most of the flooring was tile, but there were funky area rugs scattered throughout, and all the furniture and decorative objects were normal and kid friendly. And there were toys everywhere. Bart and Riley's daughter, Lexi, was five, and their son, Ian, was three. With two-year-old Tucker, they were the only small children in the club. But their presence was huge in this house on this night, even while they slept. Just being surrounded by the evidence of their play lightened the somber mood as the survivors of the attack on the clubhouse settled in to wait for the rest of the club.

J.R. and his wife, Veda, were there, too. The whole club was being pulled in for something like a lockdown here in this mansion.

Bart led the patches who were present into his study. Finally free to use a kitchen, Bibi gathered up the old ladies and moved in on Riley's expansive s.p.a.ce. Riley herself sat down at her breakfast table, resting her hands on her huge belly. She really did look like she should have popped already.

Feeling the awkward unreality of walking up to a celebrity to have a little chat, Faith went over to Riley. ”Can I get you anything?” That was weird, too-asking the woman of the house if she could get her anything from her own kitchen.

But Riley just smiled. ”No, thanks. But help yourself.”

Faith sat down. ”I'm not really in the mood for food or drink.”

”I hear you.” She rubbed her hands over her belly.

”When are you due?”

”Just a couple of weeks. I'm so ready to see my feet again.”

Riley and Bart's pending new addition wasn't something Faith really wanted to talk about. It stirred up memories and worries.

After an awkward moment, Riley asked, ”How's your mom? Did they send somebody after her?”

Faith hadn't even thought about her mother. She was the only one who wasn't being pulled in. Feeling guilty, she considered whether she should ask Hoosier to send someone for her. But Margot was with Jose. And she didn't want her anywhere near where Michael might be, especially not if she might be feeling stress. ”No, I think she's okay. It would really freak her out to move her in the middle of the night, and the nurse who's with her is a huge guy. She's better staying put.”