Cash (The Henchmen MC Book 2) Read online

  It felt like it went on forever, fists pounding into my jaw, my cheekbones, my stomach, his boots in my ribs, my back. There was no way to explain the pain of a beating, to describe how the sensations were all distinctly singular, but at the same time, how they all started to meld together, until it was all there was in the world: crippling, unthinkable pain that you prayed would hurt enough for your body to give up and let you pass out.

  All I could hear was his grunting, his angry voice calling out, “bitch, slut, cunt, whore” with each blow. Then, some time later, I heard screaming. I wasn't even aware that it was coming from me until I felt the rough, rawness of my throat.

  Then, suddenly, I heard the shots. At first, I heard them with genuine relief: it was over. He shot me. I was going to die. Thank god.

  But then I felt only confusion as he sat back on his heels, his brows drawing together, like he was confused too.

  “We're coming for you, mother fucker!” I heard shouted from outside.

  Then suddenly, the weight was off of me. My head turned to the side to watch as he ran toward the door where, I imagined, he would try to take off into the old junkyard out back. I watched the door for a while. Five, ten minutes, I wasn't sure how long, but I was positive he was coming back. When longer passed and he didn't, I slowly tried to push myself up. The pain in my center was screaming out the very real likelihood of broken ribs and I felt the tears streaming hot and fast down my cheeks, burning into the open cuts I knew were spread across my face.

  God fucking damn it.

  “Fuck,” I groaned, biting into my swollen lip as I felt the pain bring with it light-headedness and the threat of unconsciousness. I wasn't going to pass out. I was going to get my feet and I was going to get the fuck out of my safe house and I was going to...

  I didn't know what I was going to do.

  I couldn't go back to Hailstorm. I couldn't show up there looking how I knew I must have been looking. I couldn't answer their questions and bring them trouble. I needed to find another way to handle it. I needed...

  “Shit,” I cried out, not even caring how loud I was as I took slow, careful steps toward the door.

  Okay. I had to focus.

  First, I needed to get out of the house. I needed to get to my car. From there, I needed to get to a store and get elastic bandages, peroxide, triple antibiotic, and gauze. Then I needed to get to a gas station with an outside entrance to a bathroom and get cleaned up. From there... I had no fucking idea, but that was enough to keep be busy for a couple hours.

  I pushed the front door open and stepped into my front lawn and froze.

  There, standing on the sidewalk, staring at my house, was a group of the gang members from across the street.

  Gunshots. There were gunshots. From outside. No way.

  “We didn't step one mother fucking foot on your property,” the leader called, waving his gun around carelessly.

  “I was screaming,” I heard myself say, my voice raspy and raw, but it was an accusation.

  “Bitch,” he said, shaking his head. “You got yourself roughed up. That sucks and all, but I wasn't putting my cock on the line in case that threat you delivered earlier meant not even if I am screaming for help.”

  I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, pulling out all the cash I had inside which must have been close to five-hundred bucks. “I need someone to get me some stuff from the store. The rest is yours to keep,” I said, thinking it would likely be a better idea to not show up at some store looking how I looked. The leader jerked his chin toward one of his guys who stalked forward toward me and reached for the cash. “Peroxide, elastic bandages, triple antibiotic, and gauze.”

  “Got it,” he said, wincing a little at the mess I knew my face was before he ran off.

  “Ain't gonna ask what happened 'cause it ain't my business. But we see him again, you want a shout out?”

  I moved over toward my car, opening the door and sitting inside, my legs in the driveway. “You see him again, I want fifty fucking bullets ripping his body apart,” I said honestly. “You do that, you get a quarter of a mill from me the next day.”

  One of his brows went up before he gave me an small smile. “I might let my women sell themselves,” he started oddly, “but I don't fucking put my hands on them.”

  “A pimp with morals,” I said, attempting a smile, but it hurt too much. “Color me surprised.”

  “Just sayin',” he went on, not seeming the least bit offended, “that shit don't fly. We see him, they're identifying him by dental records.”

  I looked down at my hands, feeling weak for the first time in thirteen years. I didn't like it. It didn't sit right. “Kick the fucker's teeth in too,” I mumbled, a little surprised at the vengeance in my voice. That wasn't me. I didn't go into things hot. I never let my feelings cloud a mission. That wasn't to say I didn't get angry, I didn't get bone-deep livid at some of the stuff I had seen, but I always took that and kept it locked up so I could be clear-headed.

  “Here,” I heard someone say, and I heard the rustling of a plastic bag and looked up to see the kid I sent to the store coming up, holding out the bag.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the bag from him and carefully sliding my legs into the car. “Can one of you go grab my cell off the floor inside? I'll give you my number. You get him? You call me. I'll be by with the money once I make sure its the right body.”

  “Slick got a picture,” the leader told me. “We'll make sure we got the right guy before we kill him,” he said, giving me an odd smile.

  “Alright,” I said, slipping my key into the ignition as someone came back with my cell. I rattled off the number, gave them a small nod, then got the fuck out of there.

  It was nearing the latest part of the night, or earliest part of the morning, depending on whether you slept or not. The gas station was long abandoned and the guy behind the counter inside had his feet propped up, watching some rerun on the TV, his back to me. I pulled up to the bathroom and dragged myself inside. Taking as deep a breath as my aching ribs would allow, I looked up into the mirror.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumbled, shaking my head at my reflection. I wasn't particularly a vain woman, but I knew there was going to be a scar or two. My left eye was swollen, but not to the point of closing. My right eye was blackened so bad it looked like it was the effect of poorly applied makeup. My nose, bleeding. My cheek, bruised and bleeding. My jaw, bruised. I reached down, lifting my shirt and tucking it up under my bra.

  The bruising was just starting, a smattering of deep purple and blue. I sucked in a breath, trying to gauge if they were broke, cracked, or just bruised. I decided on cracked, eternally the optimist and ever the hater of hospitals, and started the long, slow, painful process of binding them up.

  Finished, I pushed my shirt back down and set to cleaning my face. I watched my eyes in reflection, knowing what I had to do. And hating it. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was shame. But whatever it was, made a coiling sensation tighten in my stomach.

  “It's the only way,” I said into the quiet of the room, my voice echoing back to me, trying to will myself to believe it.

  I went into my car and waited for sunrise then I drove there with a pit in my stomach.

  By the time I pulled up to the gate, I was ready to crawl out of my skin.

  I tried to climb out of my car without wincing, failed, but walked up to the men outside the gate like I wasn't half-broken, like I could raise all kinds of hell if I needed to. Before I was even half-way there, one of the probates was running inside to, presumably, find someone with more authority to deal with me.

  “Whoa whoa whoa... dunno what you are doing...” one of the probates started, obviously not knowing who I was.

  “I need to talk to Reign.”

  “Listen, lady...” he started again.

  “He owes me. I am calling it in.”

  “I don't know who you...”

  “My name is Lo,” I sa
id, my voice getting loud. “I fucking saved Summer and Reign owes me. This is me calling it in!” I was shouting and I was too hurt, too tired, and too embarrassed to care.

  I heard the crunching of shoes as the other guy came back with, I hoped, Reign.

  “Lo?”

  Oh, shit.

  Anyone, literally fucking anyone but him...

  I sucked in a breath, pulled my shoulders back, tucked my pride away, and turned.

  Seven

  Cash

  I had barely gotten four hours of rest when someone was pounding on my fucking door at the compound.

  “Someone better be fucking dead,” I growled, climbing out of bed while pulling jeans up my legs. I swung open the door, eyes still adjusting to being awake. “What?” I asked the probate whose name I hadn't thought to ask yet.

  “There's some woman at the gate saying she's calling in a favor Reign owes her.”

  I felt my lips quirk up. “Reign owes some chick a favor?” I asked, reaching for a tee out of my dresser, slipping into my shoes, then following him into the hall. “This I got to see.”

  “This is me calling it in!” a familiar voice screamed and I felt the lazy smirk turn into a full-on grin. Lo. Lo was calling in her favor. And I got to be the one to deal with her. Maybe that was good enough reason to lose a few hours of sleep.

  “Lo?” I asked, my tone amused as I moved through the gate the probate opened for me.

  Her shoulders squared, no doubt less than thrilled to hear my voice, which only made my smile widen.

  But then she turned to me fully and the smile fell away with what felt like a kick to my gut. Her gorgeous face was fucking... brutalized. Her eyes swollen and blackened, bruises were darkening over her cheeks and jaw. There were cuts where fists must have landed multiple times. She winced as she took a step forward, making my eyes fall to her torso where you could see the unmistakable bulge of elastic wrappings through her tight t-shirt.

  “What the fuck?” I heard myself hiss.

  I knew Lo was a badass. She had a reputation that made most men's seem warm and fuzzy. She had done some shit in her life, she had ordered things done in her life, that most people couldn't fathom. She was trained, she was ruthless, and she was accustomed to being down in the trenches with her men. It stood to reason that she had gotten herself into sticky situations before, that she had gotten herself roughed up.

  But... fuck.

  It looked like someone had used her face as his own personal punching bag.

  Now, if there's anything anyone knows about me: it was that I loved me some women. I loved them in all their pain-in-the-ass perfection. And to see that someone dared raised their hand to that perfection? Yeah... that shit would never fly with me.

  “I'm calling it in, Cash,” she said, raising her chin slightly.

  “Honey, what happened to your face?” I asked, getting close.

  “Call Reign,” she said, ignoring my question.

  “Lo, what happened to your face?” I pressed again, hand raising and brushing across her bruised jaw. She flinched and I felt the kick to my gut again.

  “You have to help me,” she said, her eyes looking almost glassy for a second. “Please call Reign.” There was a hint of genuine desperation in her voice that was so very much unlike her that I knew there was no way I wasn't going to help her.

  “Lo, let's get you out of here for a bit, okay?” I asked, reaching for her arm, glad when she didn't flinch away from my touch.

  “I need to talk to Reign.”

  “I'll talk to Reign,” I agreed as I led her back toward her little hatchback, but steering her toward the passenger door, opening it for her. “Get in,” I said, my tone soft. When she attempted a brow raise and opened her mouth to object, I shook my head. “Get in the fucking car, babe.” She huffed, but slowly lowered herself in. I moved around the hood, nodding at the probates. “Tell Repo I will text him about the Mallicks when I deal with this shit.”

  “Should we call the Prez?”

  “You keep this shit to your fucking selves until I say otherwise, understood?” I asked, my voice dipping low and threatening and it was so unlike the Cash they knew that they immediately straightened.

  “Yeah, man. No problem.”

  “Won't say shit,” the other agreed.

  “See that you don't,” I agreed, getting behind the driver's seat and adjusting it back. “Keys, Lo,” I said, extending my hand to her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, handing them over without a fight.

  “Can you get the belt on?” I asked instead, knowing she wouldn't like the answer to her question. Her arm cocked back but her breath hissed out of her mouth.

  “I'm fine,” she said, waving her hand.

  I gave her a tight-lipped smile, leaning across her body to grab the belt, making our faces close. Her eyes immediately fell to her lap. It was so submissive that I started to imagine all the awful ways I could make the fucker who made her act like that way. The belt clicked. “You alright?” I asked, not moving away.

  “I'm fine,” she said immediately, knee-jerk.

  “Lo,” I said and paused, waiting for her gaze to lift. It did, hesitantly. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes searched mine for a moment and her lip trembled slightly when she finally admitted, “No.”

  Shit.

  “Well, we'll see what we can do about that, yeah?” I asked, winking at her, then moving back into my seat. She needed the space to pull herself together. She would never forgive herself if she broke down in front of me.

  So I put the car into drive and I drove away while she took as deep of breaths as her ribs would allow and pulled it together.

  I kept my mouth shut despite having a dozen questions I wanted to ask: Who had beat her? Did she know them? Was this linked to the bombings? Why wasn't she going to Hailstorm for help? What could I do to erase that haunted look in her eyes?

  The list went on and on.

  In the end, all I could do was drive. She didn't need my questions. She needed a bed to lie down on, some pain medicine, maybe a shot or two, and some sleep.

  I could wait.

  Eight

  Lo

  I wasn't going to cry. Hell to the no. That was not going to happen. It was certainly not going to happen in front of fucking Cash... no matter how nice he was being to me. Actually, the nice thing might have been why I was all teary-eyed in the first place. If he would just be his normal cocky, flirty, pain in the ass self, I probably would have just felt irritated and sexually frustrated. But, no, he had to go and be sweet. The bastard.

  I blinked away the tears and worked through the hitch in my breathing, watching out the side window as we passed through the industrial side of town where The Henchmen clubhouse was located, through the part that was sketchy, but not scary, then into the 'burbs.

  My eyes slanted toward him, my brows drawing together. Where the hell could he possibly be taking me in the suburbs? Then, like the beginning of some really awful sitcom, he pulled past a huge wooden sign boasting the name “Oliver Grove Townhouses” and we drove down a seemingly endless winding road of connected, identical half-homes.

  By the time Cash pulled my car up in front of one that was no different from the others except for its empty flowerbeds, well, my mouth was hanging open.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked, turning slightly to look at him, hearing one of the girls across the street playing a game of hopscotch (yes, hopscotch... I did say it was like a bad sitcom!) squealed loudly.

  “Got a problem with my house, baby?” he asked, giving me a boyish smile as he unbelted himself and then me.

  “You live here?” I asked, my tone a complete accusation.

  As an answer, he just grinned bigger, getting out of the car and waving at the girls across the street.

  “Cash!” they screamed like he was a long-absent, favorite uncle.

  I gritted my teeth and climbed out
of the car, careful to keep my face tilted away from the girls who, well, didn't need to see that kind of shit at their ages, and making my way slowly toward the house.

  “Is that your girlfriend?” one of them said in that teasing girl tone and I felt myself wanting to smile, but it hurt too much.

  “Hey, be cool,” Cash said to them and they giggled.

  “Is she pretty?” the more determined of the two pressed.

  I winced, standing facing his front door, looking at my feet.

  “The prettiest,” he said, making my belly do a weird fluttery thing and I fought the urge to look over at him. “Next to you two,” he added and there was more giggling. “Now get. I have to get my guest inside.”

  “Fiiiiine,” they chorused and I could hear their feet taking off across the street.

  “You're good with kids,” I remarked, feeling awkward as he slipped a key into his lock and opened the door.

  “Lot of the men have kids,” he said, shrugging off the compliment.

  He stepped into his house, moving toward the kitchen that was situated just behind the living room of the open floor plan. Everything inside screamed “bachelor”, from the empty wooden floors to the deep burnt orange color of the walls that were without any kind of art, to the worn and comfortable looking black leather couches facing the unnecessarily giant flatscreen. There were no throw pillows on the couches and no curtains on the windows, just woven wooden shades.

  I turned toward the kitchen, watching him through the cutout in the wall, smelling fresh coffee brewing and it was almost enough to make me want to cry again. “Why do you live here?” I asked, needing to keep the conversation on safe topics.

  Cash leaned his arms down on the counter and ducked his head to watch me. “Last fucking place in the world you would think to look for a one-percenter, ya know?” he asked with a devilish little grin and I felt a fluttering in an area decidedly lower than my stomach. God, but he was just a walking, talking, grinning temptation.