Crash (Brazen Bulls MC #1)(69)

“What?” Rad asked.

“We crash the van and set it on fire. We know how to start a damn engine fire. I know one of those off-ramps Si’s talkin’ about, where the road falls off into a ravine on one side.”

“How the hell can we make that happen right?”

“Because I’ll do it. When we get to the off-ramp, I’ll take over. I’ll drive off into the ravine and crash the thing into a tree. I’ll get the fire goin’ just right to obliterate the f*ckhead, and I’ll climb back up. Then it’s just a crash—no foul play to dig into.”

“That’s suicide.”

Gunner laughed at Ox. “Nah, man. Not that far a drop. Might get a little banged up, but we all know I got a hard head and nine lives.”

“No,” Rad said. “This is not the time for you to play chicken with Death, Gun.”

Gunner crossed his arms over his chest. “You got another way, Sarge? It’s not just about protecting your lady. This is about all of us. That f*ckhead’s patch makes it a club problem. I f*ck up plenty. Let me do something to make things right.”

Rad could think of no other way.

“Okay. Keep his kutte. We might need it.”



oOo



With Willa draped over his arms, Rad unlocked the back door and stepped in. Ollie was right there, tags jingling as he bounced and wagged. Then he saw Willa and went still. He whined and sniffed at her hand, which hung limp. He whined again.

Rad kept the door open. “You wanna go outside, bud? I know you gotta pee.”

Ollie stared longingly out the door but didn’t move. Another whine, and he licked Willa’s hand.

There was no way the dog was leaving her right now. Rad closed the door. “She’s gonna be okay, boy. Just needs water and rest, and we’re gonna take care of her. C’mon, let’s make her better.”

He laid her on her bed and stripped her, tossing her defiled clothes into a trash bag. Then he stripped himself and lifted her into his arms again. She barely stirred.

Ollie followed, whining.

In the shower, he held her up with one arm and washed her with the other, smoothing her almond-scented gel over her body, lathering her hair twice to get it clean.

She finally began to rouse as he rinsed the shampoo from her hair. She didn’t come fully awake, but she struggled weakly and moaned. He heard his name.

“Right here, Wills. I’m right here.”

“Need you,” she slurred.

“I know. Wake up, baby. Come on back.”

But she’d settled into her vexing, mysterious deep sleep again.

When he had her clean and dry, he tucked her into bed. Ollie sat at the side, next to her, and set his block head on her hand.

“Come on outside, Ollie. Let’s get you a pee.”

Willa’s dog whined but didn’t move.

“Ollie. Come.” Rad snapped his fingers.

Ollie came. When they got to the back door, he hesitated again, but he obeyed Rad and went out. Then he ran like a greyhound to his special area. When he came back, he seemed lighter.

“Good boy. Okay. Let’s get inside and take care of Momma.”

In the kitchen, he filled Ollie’s bowls and tossed him a Milk-Bone. He found a pitcher and filled it with water and ice, and he carried it, with a glass and a bottle of aspirin, back to the bedroom.

He set everything on the nightstand and slid into bed next to Willa. A minute later, Ollie came in. He ignored his bed and lay on the floor next to his mom.

Rad leaned on an elbow and watched her sleep, worrying that her breathing wasn’t deep enough. He studied the bruises and scratches on her face and felt ferocious rage—at Smithers most of all, but at himself, too, for not protecting her.

And at Willa, for crashing headlong into this danger.

He was so f*cking furious, his head throbbed. His stomach ached. But he lay still and kept calm. His first priority was Willa, to bring her back from all of it.

He thought of his brothers, cleaning up their mess. He thought of Gunner, laughing yet again at death. When he went to the clubhouse, he wanted to see that crazy, grinning mug alive and well.

Gunner had told him Willa would need to sleep it off, and she’d probably be dehydrated and feel like she had the worst hangover of her life when she woke.

So he’d stay with her and see her through it. Then they would talk. Boy, would they.

Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, Rad rested his head on the pillow and watched her breathe.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN



Willa opened her eyes—and then slammed them closed again when hot white blades of light sank into her head. Her eyelids were not enough protection, so she wrapped her arms over her head. Jesus, her head hurt.

The bed moved, and it felt like she’d been pitched wildly on a stormy ocean. Her stomach rolled.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” she groaned, trying to swallow her gorge back down. But her throat felt like its sides had stuck together.

“Easy, Wills. I closed the curtains. See if that helps.” The bed moved again, and she made a sound at the back of her throat that was like a grainy creak.

She eased her arms from her face and slowly peeled her eyelids up. It was still too bright—pitch black was too bright—but she could bear it.

Rad was sitting on the side of the bed, at her hip. She blinked until his smeared edges sharpened up and she could see him—bare-chested, hair tousled, dark bags under his eyes and a deep crease between them.