Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5) Page 2

  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.