Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC #5)(15)

“Fuck,” I hissed through my teeth. I threw my phone down with a force that sent barbs of pain through my midsection.

The f*cker was right. I had no option but to go back to him. No one to fall back on but myself. And I was doing a pretty crappy job right now. But if I wanted to stay fed—and, more importantly, stay high—it was my only option. Lily would, of course, offer to sell her kidney for me if that was what it came to, but no way in hell was I letting that happen.

So, after slamming the phone down, I answered the door. I wasn’t afraid of what I’d find on the other side. Fear was useless and not something I’d felt since that night all those years ago. I wasn’t scared of opening the door.

Though I was confused.

I frowned at the skinny redhead in front of me. He looked like a pizza boy, tall, lanky, splotched in freckles, and looking like he had barely gone through puberty. “Wow, Dominos is really edging up their uniforms,” I exclaimed, taking in his leather vest, jeans and boots. “I dig it. But you seem to have forgotten your pizza. And I didn’t order one.”

I tried to close the door and was not surprised when his skinny arm stopped me. There was astounding strength behind it.

“Lucky sent me,” he declared, his voice way deeper than I expected. “I’m here to look out for you. I’m Skid.”

I tilted my head. “Yeah, I didn’t order a pizza and I certainly didn’t order a Skid to look out for me,” I replied. “What is with you bikers and the names? Seriously dude, Skid? What’s wrong with freaking Scott? Or Bob? Just once I’d like to meet a biker with a normal name and normal bone structure,” I babbled. Despite his teenage geek appearance, he managed to work it, almost like he should’ve been strutting down a runway or something.

He regarded me expressionless, though the corner of his mouth did a little twitch. “Sorry, ma’am, but I was informed you’d throw some ‘spitfire-type sass’”—he finger-quoted a certain biker—“and I was instructed to tell you that I’m authorized to knock you unconscious and then transport you to the clubhouse.” He quirked a brow. “Please don’t make me knock you unconscious.”

I stared at him. “I really can’t tell if you’re joking,” I said, raising my own brow. “But I’m not joking when I say if you call me ma’am again, I’ll throat-punch you.”

He didn’t grin but his mouth twitched. “I’ve also been told to get rid of any stains on the carpet.”

I grinned, opening the door wider. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, Skippy?” I asked. “I happen to hate cleaning, and you’ve just worn me down. No threats of unconsciousness needed.” I stood back and let him in. The back of his leather cut had the ‘prospect’ rocker. Figured considering I heard they got all the crappy jobs.

I was guessing I was the crappiest job of them all.

With the help of my painkillers, I forgot that readily enough. “We’re going to have to do something about that name, though. I just can’t call you Skid.” I scrunched up my nose, folding my arms. “You’re gonna have to tell me your real name. I promise I won’t tell.” I crossed my fingers over my chest.

He stopped his perusal of the bloodstain in the middle of our rug—thanks, Dylan—and stared at me. “You aren’t to be standing,” he said instead of answering me.

I frowned at him. “What now?”

“That’s another instruction. ‘Make sure she doesn’t move that sweet ass anywhere but the john.’” He used finger quotes but I didn’t need them.

“I’m so killing him,” I muttered.

Skid kept staring at me.

“You’ll take me bodily to the sofa if I won’t move, won’t you?” I surmised.

He nodded gravely. “There was talk of zip-ties if you weren’t cooperative.”

I supposed I should have been angry. Furious, most likely. But nothing seemed to bother me with the magic painkillers. So I stomped to the sofa.

“You gonna tell me your name?” I asked while I watched him inspect the blood.

“It’s Skid.”

I grinned. “So we’re gonna play it that way. Okay, Karl.”

No response.

“Not Karl? That’s cool, I’ve got Google and buttloads of time,” I informed him.

Apparently I did. And now that I had a babysitter who was going to be watching me, I had to make sure I used that time wisely. Namely not shooting up in the bathroom.





One week later


You need to stop, the voice pleaded. No. It was small and childlike, an echo of the plea from that horrible night eleven years ago. Only that time I wasn’t fighting against a monster in the night, but myself.

And I was losing.

I tried. My f*cking hardest. After Lucky left that night, with nothing but a gangly biker and healing bruises to remember him by, I’d tried to gather up the mess I called a life and give sobriety a crack.

I lasted about two days. Then the itch, the horrible shaking, the sickening yearning got the best of me. I welcomed the filth back with a relief. Found solace in the nothing.

It didn’t matter that my finances were becoming dangerously depleted since I couldn’t work looking like a bruised peach. Only one thing mattered.