Ink (The Haven Series) (42 page)

There was nothing he could do and he hated how it was twisting him up inside.

“She ain’t even fucking
thirty
,” Sketch choked out.

The icy fingers of dread that had slipped around Colton’s heart seemed to tighten their grip.

***

Stood under the steaming hot jet of his shower, Sam braced his hands against the wall and let the water beat down on the back of his neck and his shoulders in a bid to relieve the tension knotting his muscles.

He’d told himself that if the girl died, he’d have no choice but to tell Colton everything he knew but, torn as he was over what to do for the best, he was really hoping it wasn’t going to come to that. And not just because of the hell he knew it would unleash either. Callie was, in his eyes, good for Colt – cute, sure, but also with a real chilled out vibe and yet strong enough to step up for his brother when she was needed. To see her now seemingly paying the price for her connection to him was sickening. Sam knew all too well how hard it was to see someone innocent suffer for the lives lived by him and his brothers.

Avenging her would be Colton’s right and justice needed to be served. But he had a bad feeling that too would come with a price. Hangarounds were a dime a dozen – getting shot of one who’d so cruelly lashed out in cold blood against a girl was nothing to him. Add in that the girl was important to Colt and either one of them would gladly snap his neck without ever losing a beat. What was troubling the sergeant though was the reason behind it all. Why a hangaround would go after Callie ...

So far Sam could only jump to one of two conclusions. He didn’t like either of them.

Shutting off the shower and reaching for a towel, he rubbed it roughly over his hair and then slung it around his waist to return to his room. Once there, he dressed quickly. He hadn’t intended to waste any time and, given the lack of sleep, the shower had only been a compromise to keep him functioning clearly.

He had some seriously heavy shit to take care of now.

***

“... so the next forty-eight hours will be critical,” the doctor said, winding up his summary of Callie’s condition to the two men staring back at him, obviously wary over their presence. “Given the seriousness of the situation, family may sit with Calista, but strictly family members only and limited to one person at a time, clear?”

For once, it was left to Colton to be the cool-headed one, relatively speaking at least, and he tramped heavily on Sketch’s foot the minute the tattooist looked like opening his mouth. “One, she prefers Callie,” he growled in correction. “And two, we’re all that girl’s got. We ain’t looking for any trouble, but we ain’t letting her out of our sight. You saw what was done to her, doc.”

“Yes. And no doubt the police will want to take statements from you both--”

“Hang on ...” Colton’s eyes darkened in anger as he glared down at the doctor in his white coat, with his neatly gelled hair and heavy-framed glasses. “You think this is down to
us
? You think we’d hurt her like that? Leave her bleeding on the floor?”

“What the hell, man?” Sketch added, outraged at even the thought of the accusation. “If we were gonna do that, what the hell would we bring her here for, huh? You tell me
that
, Mr Med School!”

“Domestic violence has a terrible way of escalating, without anyone even meaning for it to happen ...” the doctor tried, lifting his jaw in determination not to be swayed – but trailing off at the thunderous look on the biker’s face.

“If I wrap my hand round your throat and squeeze ‘til your head pops, you can be damn sure I’ll mean for it to happen,” Colton snarled. But he forced himself to take a step back, as if to put himself out of the way of temptation, and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t give a fuck what you think of me as long as you help her. I know jack-shit about all this medical stuff – I ain’t gonna question you or get in your way. But I ain’t leaving the girl and that ain’t negotiable, clear?”

The doctor swallowed hard under the intense, black gaze. “Clear.”

***

“You gonna ask?”

There was no answer, but Sam still knew without turning around that he wasn’t alone. That was why he’d asked the question in the first place. He’d known the minute he’d stepped into the bar of the clubhouse that someone was sat in the darkest corner. Just that feeling of being watched had been the give-away, but the drifting cigar smoke had confirmed it.

“Ask what?”

“How she is?” Sam sighed at the blank look on his president’s face and shook his head. “Tell me I got this wrong then. Tell me this is gonna end with us in the ring – you kicking my ass for doubting you.”

“Jesus, Sam, what’s with you? If I wanted melodrama, I’d get myself an old lady,” Will laughed. But the humour never quite reached his already hardening eyes. “So you gonna spit this shit out or what?”

“We got a guy working out there with a bum hand. Reckon he might have bit off more than he could chew, maybe got himself stuck with a pencil ...”

“A pencil? What kinda pussy whines about a little jab – and what’s he doing with a
pencil
anyway? Don’t tell me he’s writing poetry?”

Rubbing a weary hand over his face at Will’s flippancy, Sam inwardly braced himself to take the inevitable plunge. “Only gonna ask you once, man, and if you got any respect for me, you ain’t gonna give me any bullshit.”

The president leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head as he regarded his sergeant with an air of nonchalance. “Last time I checked our patches, you were the one owing me the respect, son. But go on.”

Sam chewed on his lip, then met Will’s gaze steadily. “Did you send some hangaround after Callie Delaney?”

“She say that? Let me guess, the little bitch went running scared to Colt with some doe-eyed sob story and the pair of you just lapped it up,” Will rolled his own eyes in impatience. “Frankly, I dunno which one of you I’m more disappointed in. Look, just call it a test of her metal – although, by the sounds of it, not one she passed.”

“You gotta be shitting me!” Sam exploded in anger and disbelief, even as his heart sank into his boots at the enormity of what it all meant. “Have you got any idea what you’ve
done
, man? I’ve spent all night actually wishing those fucking gangbangers had gone after her!”

“You wanna remember who the fuck you’re talking too?” the president barked, shoving his chair backwards as he rose with enough force to nearly topple it over. “I’m still the one calling the shots round here, Sam. You wanna get yourself in line, brother.” But, despite glaring darkly at the younger man, Will slammed the lid back down on his temper and forced a smile on his face as he shrugged. “Don’t go blowing this outta proportion. So I told Trey to maybe shake the bitch up a little. So what? You’re all so convinced she’s loyal, trustworthy ... I just wanted to see how quick she’d crumble.”

“Not too fucking quick,” Sam said grimly, still hardly able to believe what he was hearing. Although what the man in front of him was capable of really shouldn’t have been any shock to him. “She was the one who rammed that pencil in your boy’s hand. Pity it wasn’t his throat.”

Will’s eyebrows rose at that and he actually chuckled. “Well, well. Looks like the little pussycat got claws.”

“I’d be more worried about the bite of the fucking Rottweiler who’s in love with her.”

“Jesus Christ ...” the president sighed, sounding like he was losing what little patience he had left. “Look, I gotta admit I already kinda realised I may have been wrong about her, so fine - I’ll back off. Okay? She stood up to the feds and to Trey, the background checks were clean, she’s got you two vouching for her ... So I guess we’re good. And sure, she’s a little teary-eyed now, but a dose of whatever passes for TLC between the sheets from Colt and I’m sure she’ll get the fuck over it. Now, we done here? Can I go back to running a goddamn MC or should I go ahead and set up some kinda full-time crèche for you kids?”

“Ain’t gonna cut it, man. Do you even hear yourself? This is all one big game to you ...”

“It ain’t that. It ain’t
ever
that. But if you’re expecting me to apologise to the little lady, you got a long wait on your hands, buddy,” Will shook his head, as he turned to gather up his pack of cigars and his lighter from the table. “I’ll square things with Colt, but then this shit is done. Besides, it ain’t like there was ever any real threat – sounds like Trey was in more danger than she was.”

“He definitely thought so,” Sam said heavily, something in his tone making the president stop in his tracks. “Dammit, Will, your bullshit little stunt backfired. You ain’t even asked that asshole what happened yet and he’s too dumb to get his ass the hell outta Dodge. Or did you not even tell him who his target was? Forget to mention that she had a connection to one of your own brothers? She fought back, Will – Callie fought back. And that
chickenshit little bastard
stabbed
her. He stabbed her in the fucking
chest!
I dunno how a little thing like her even made it into surgery, but if she don’t make it out ...”

“That ... That wasn’t the deal,” Will managed, a floored look on his face – even though he quickly squared his shoulders in an attempt at defiance. “That shit ain’t on me.”

“Tell that to Colton.”

“Your loyalty is supposed to be to
me
,” Will snapped, seeming to lose his grip on the handle he had on his composure. “Not to Colton and not to whatever pussy he’s nailing this week.”

“We go back a helluva long way, man,” Sam said quietly. “But my loyalty? Above everything, it’s to this
club
. And, all things considered, I don’t think you get to question that.”

“Forget loyalty then - I’m starting to think you ain’t got the
balls
to be my sergeant,” came the sneer, but it was clearly tinged with desperation and they both knew it. “Taylor, Callie, that tight little redhead ... Guess we know your kryptonite, bro.”

“Lashing out without thinking the second you get it in your head someone’s done you wrong. I guess Taylor really was her father’s daughter. Will, we both know you ain’t been right ever since that all went down – going off half-cocked after Dixie, now this. You’re going to pull this club down with you and I can’t stand by and let it happen,” Sam said. “This shit goes to the table, man. And if you’re still holding the gavel by the end of it, I’ll patch out. Because if that girl dies and Colt comes after you ... I can’t guarantee I’ll stand in his way.”

***

Critical, but stable. Callie was still fighting, this time caught up in her own internal battle.

With the doctors keeping her sedated, she still hadn’t opened her eyes yet and Colton realised with a jolt just how grateful he would be to finally look into those soft gray eyes again. He and Sketch were taking it in turns to keep watch by her bedside, each hating to give way to the other at half-hourly intervals.

Sketch talked to her, almost constantly. Colton didn’t know what about, just that every time he looked in the window from the corridor, he could see the tattooist’s lips moving. Or maybe he was praying. Sketch was hardly the bible-bashing type, but he did have some kind of belief in a higher power – as attested to by the inked cross with the solar flare etched on the back of his shoulder.

Colton didn’t talk. There was plenty he felt he should say, but he didn’t know where to start. He didn’t pray either. He didn’t figure there was any kind of god who’d listen to the likes of him. Once, he thought he’d felt her fingers flex under his. But the steady rhythm of the machines she was hooked up to never faltered, so he sat back down and tried to stop holding his breath.

He stayed and he watched and he held her hand. And he swore to himself that he’d never let anything like this happen to her again. He’d do whatever it took to keep that vow.

Sketch had already figured out exactly how he could do that. Colton didn’t like it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right. If they got her through this, maybe there was only one way to make sure she would be safe.

Drastic times …

***

CHAPTER 49

Sitting at the head of the table, Will watched with unseeing eyes as he twisted the gavel in his hands. It was small, but weighty and he’d wielded it for a hell of a long time. For more than thirty years, longer than his daughter had been alive, he’d brought it down on some pretty heavy decisions.

For more than three decades, he’d led his club from the front. He’d made plans, waged war, exacted revenge. He’d ruled with that little wooden gavel, instead of the proverbial rod of iron.

And he’d fucked up.

Admitting it had never been an option before. Even if he wasn’t the goddamn president, he just wasn’t that kind of guy. He didn’t back down, didn’t show weakness. Ever. Changing tack was one thing, shit-storms were fluid situations - everyone understood that. But confessing to being forced into a u-turn? Nuh-uh, not on his watch.

Wiping his hands over his face and scratching his fingers through his beard, he reached for his lighter – some cheap piece of shit since he’d misplaced his Zippo – and turned those same unseeing eyes on the tiny flickering flame as he sparked it up and let it go out, over and over.