Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(140)

My old man. It hurt to think about him. I'd stabbed him in the back and heaped more chaos on his life, and I seriously wondered if he'd want me if I got out of this alive.

No. You can't think about that.

I nodded, agreeing with the only comfort I had in my head. I had to stay focused. I had to put emotion aside, even if I was screaming down the road like a crazy girl, throwing myself to hell on a whim.

I crossed three states I'd never been to before the trip up. My eyes felt like they were going to fall out by the time the sun came up. But I kept going, crazed and determined to show my face in Redding, to face the consequences.

Someone had to pay for all this. And since daddy was gone, it had to be me.

I was ready to pay the very high price. Anything for a chance at keeping her safe. No one else needed to die for my father's mistakes. If there was suffering, then it was earmarked for me. I'd see myself crucified before Christa or my poor sweet sister.

It was almost noon when I finally got into town. My body got a second wind as I drove toward the clubhouse on the outskirts, ready to floor it at any sign of cops or bikers.

Nothing was going to stop me from seeing the demon face to face. Nothing.

The place certainly didn't look like a war zone when I pulled up. It was just like I remembered. A hard faced man with Grizzlies patches came wandering up to the gate. It was Crack, the foul tempered VP, with two other greasy long haired men behind him.

I got out and stepped up to the gate, leaving the vehicle running.

His gun was out and pointed at me before I said a word. “What the f*ck are you doing here, bitch?”

“I need to see Fang. It's about the video that's hurting your Prez, and the woman you dickheads are holding against her will.”

Crack's fat nose twitched, his nostrils flaring. He nodded to the two big men next to him.

“Open the f*cking gate. Pat her ass down before she goes inside.” He looked at the SUV behind me. “Somebody get that f*cking thing in here too. We can use another rig after losing two to the cartel last week...”

I'm sorry, Saffron, I whispered in my head.

The thick iron bars slid open. Rough hands grabbed me and forced me behind the gate. They threw me to the wall and slid over me, rugged and unwelcome, taking much longer than they really needed to feel for weapons in my pockets.

I didn't have any, of course.

No, they were enjoying this.

I'd tucked my wallet into my jeans at the last stop for gas. Had to hold my breath when the mean looking man pulled it out and bent it in half. One wrong angle, and they'd find what I had there for Plan B, in case Fang didn't want to cooperate and free the redhead.

I held my breath as his hands passed over it. He missed. Bastard was too busy feeling my ass instead.

Sloppy. Typical. Perfect.

“Get your ass inside,” Crack ordered. “I'll take you to the Prez myself.”

The familiar stink of the clubhouse burned my nose. All the cleaning I'd done when I was first captured hadn't done a damned thing. It smelled like f*cking, blood, and alcohol, all mixed together, worse than the feral stink of death.

Crack marched me down a different hallway, one I'd never seen before, past the office and the big room Fang reserved for himself. An old metal storage door at the end waited. He tore it open in one fist, grabbing me with his free hand and shoving me inside.

My knees hit cement. The door slammed behind me.

“Oh my God.” I struggled to stand, shaking my head when I saw her.

Appropriately enough, the room looked like a dungeon. It was bare, spartan, eerily cleaner than the rest of the clubhouse. Nothing inside except a few dirty rags in the corner, and the poor woman slumped in the chair in front of me.

Christa looked worse in person than she did on video. My heart sank to my knees, and I walked toward her cautiously, wondering if she was even conscious.

“Christa? Can you hear me? It's Missy Thomas. I hired you.” The last sentence stuffed a lump in my throat.

She didn't move until I touched her shoulder. She jerked awake, her dirty red hair flopping. Her eyes darted around and she moaned, scared out of her pale skin. And who could blame her?

“What? Missy? What're you doing here?”

I ran my fingers through her hair, trying to be reassuring. “I've come to get you out. I'm taking your place.”

“You're crazy!” she sputtered. Her swollen lips were bad – it sounded like she was talking with food in her mouth. “They'll kill you. Kill us both.”

“No. You have to trust me. Just stay quiet, wait until tonight. I've got a plan.”

Sure. Now, I did. I'd thrown it together at the gas station near the California border, the same place where I tucked the little goodie I picked up at the general store across the street. I hoped like hell I remembered how to pick locks the way daddy taught me.

I refused to say more. There was no point upsetting her, or getting her hopes up. It was hard to judge her mental state too. I had to stay quiet, wait for the devil to come calling, hoping he'd gloat and then walk away until tomorrow.

It must've been an hour or two before the thick door opened. Fang glowered in the hallway, entering alone and leaving his demonic posse behind him.

Christa flinched and whimpered when he walked past. I was sitting in an empty corner, and I stood up. My heart raced on pure instinct, but I wasn't afraid. My focus was all there, and it guided me, let me look the monster right in his black eyes.