The Cut by Carol Lynne: Kings of Bedlam MC Series, Book One (7 page)

“Of course you do.” He reached over without taking his eyes off the road, and placed his hand on her arm.

“People don’t…,” she stopped herself before she could say more. How could she explain that she’d become so used to being invisible to those around her that any kind attention made her feel anxious? Simply put, people didn’t care about people like her. It had been a hard truth to accept, but she had done so years earlier, and the last thing she needed was Stake or the police trying to make her feel otherwise. It wouldn’t last anyway, and she’d be back to living her life alone. Better to put an end to his protective instincts.

“Gordon didn’t rape me,” she said after a moment.

“What’re you talking about?”

“He couldn’t…” She groaned. It was torture to realize her body wasn’t even good enough for a man like the sheriff. “He couldn’t get hard.” She shook her head.

“Thank fuck,” Stake growled.

“So there’s no need to take me to the hospital. They won’t find anything,” she explained.

“You’re kidding, right? You’re covered in cuts and bruises. It doesn’t matter whether or not he stuck his dick in you.” He turned off the gravel road onto the county highway that would take them to San Antonio. “He attacked you in your home and you fought back. No judge in the country would fault you for what you did, and that’s why we need documented proof of your injuries.” He reached across the seat and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Can you tell me exactly what happened? I’m sorry, but Cecil will want to know in case Gordon tries anything.”

It was obvious he was going to keep up the protector gig, so she decided to give him what he asked for. “I was getting ready to burn some stuff in the barrel out back when Gordon came out of nowhere. He hit me and knocked me to the ground. That’s when he tore my shirt off,” she said. The unemotional quality of her own voice as she ticked off the events like a shopping list should have worried her, but the opposite was true. She’d get through this and go on like she always did.

They rode for another minute or so before he prompted her again. “How’d you get inside?”

“I stabbed him with a stick, and I ran,” she whispered, hoping the softer tone would hide her indifference. She should be angry or sad or…something, but she felt removed from the night’s events, like they’d happened to someone else.

“And Gordon followed you into the house?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did he break the door?”

“No. He pushed me through it. Then he handcuffed me to the leg of the couch.” She remembered the way he’d used her own knife to cut her. “I think he wanted me to be afraid. To scream.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “But he couldn’t…” The image of Gordon’s flaccid cock came to mind. His anger at his own inability to grow hard seemed to fuel his rage toward her.

“Get hard,” Stake added.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “He said it was because I disgusted him. He uncuffed me and told me to get on my hands and knees because he couldn’t look at my face any longer.” She closed her eyes, experiencing the humiliation all over again. “He’d used the knife earlier, and then forgot about it. I moved to my hands and knees like he’d ordered, but instead of waiting for him to hit me again, I grabbed the knife.”

Stake made a sound deep in his chest that she didn’t understand. Was he angry? Had she been wrong to fight back? “I cut him,” she confessed.

“How bad?” he growled again.

Santana flinched and plastered herself against the passenger door. “I don’t know.” Oh God, what had she done? “They’ll arrest me, won’t they?”

“Not if I can help it. That’s why I’m taking you to San Antonio.” He reached over and set his hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing.”

“Did I?” She wasn’t sure. She remembered his threats. “He said he was going to kill me whether I let him fuck me or not. I begged him to do it before he touched me. I think that was the wrong thing to say.”

“Nothing you did was wrong.”

She looked at him. His jaw was clenched and his grip on the steering wheel had grown so tight his knuckles were white. She wondered if he was sorry he’d been the one to find her. “Why’d you come back tonight?”

“Because I needed to apologize for the way I left. I hope you understand why I had to back away before, but Ellie’s not around to keep me away now.” He held out his hand. “Will you let me back in?”

She stared at the large hand, knowing he was the only person who stood between her and the rest of the world. Without her mom, she had no one. Taking a leap of faith, she put her hand in his. “I still don’t understand while you’re helping me, but thank you.”

“Don’t.” His throat moved as he swallowed several times before continuing, “Don’t thank me. I’m just grateful that you can forgive me enough to let me help.”

Chapter Three

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when they pulled to a stop in front of the house. Stake turned off the engine and looked down at Santana, sleeping fitfully with her head on his thigh. By the time she’d finished talking to the doctor, police and rape counselor, she’d worn herself out, and the last thing he wanted was to wake her, but they both needed a shower and a warm bed.

“We’re here,” he said, brushing her hair away from her face. He barely recognized her delicate features under the bruises. Thankfully, the police had been as disgusted by the sight of her wounds as the hospital staff and had promised to do everything they could to build a case against the sheriff. Because the crime had occurred outside of their jurisdiction, the San Antonio Police Department had contacted the Texas Rangers.

Although Cecil might not agree with his decision, Stake had taken off his cut before carrying Santana into the hospital. He loved his club, but he didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to it in case the brothers had to step in to deal with Gordon. As it was, the police had eyeballed his ink. Luckily, his T-shirt hid the Kings of Bedlam tattoo that covered his entire back.

With a groan, she sat up. “At your place?”

“Yeah.” He climbed out of the truck and went around to open the passenger door. “The yard’s uneven, so it’ll be easier if I carry you.”

She slowly shook her head. “I can walk. Just help me get out, and point me in the right direction.”

Fuck
, he silently cursed. After her meeting with the rape counselor, she’d seemed distant. She might have given in enough to rest her head on his thigh for the drive home, but she’d barely said two words to him. As her current caregiver, he’d also had a few words with the counselor. He’d been told to be patient with her, but not allow her to shut down.

“Come on,” he urged, holding out his hand.

In her borrowed light blue scrubs, she ignored his gesture and clutched Ellie’s blanket in her arms. “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay with you? It might be better if you took me home.”

“I’m not taking you back there. Besides, the cops’ll be all over your place processing the crime scene and taking care of your mom’s body.”

Several tears dripped slowly down her face. “Where will they take her?”

“To the funeral home in town. I told ‘em I’d call later today after I had a chance to speak with you.” He held his hand out again, hoping Santana would let him help.

“She wanted to be cremated and her ashes sprinkled over Dad’s grave, but I’m not sure if they’ll allow that.”

“Probably not, but I tend to make my own rules.” He reached for her. “The faster we get inside, the sooner you can take a bath or a shower, whichever you prefer.” Although the knife wounds and scrapes from the door had broken the skin, none of her injuries had required stitches.

“I think a shower first,” she replied, bracing her hands on his shoulders.

“Okay.” He lifted her out of the truck and set her gently on the ground. “I’ll make you something to eat while you do that.”

“You don’t have to,” she argued.

He turned her to face him and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I’ve never in my life wanted to take care of someone. Until now,” he added. “Don’t fuckin’ push me away.”

Her tongue darted out to slide over the split in her lower lip. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me, but I won’t push you away.”

He pulled her closer and held her for a few moments before kissing her forehead. He didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he was too old to second guess himself. Santana needed to heal physically and emotionally before he could even think of taking it to the next level, and although it might kill him, he’d give her the time.

* * * *

Santana exited the bathroom, wearing a faded Harley T-shirt Stake had loaned her. The hot shower had soothed her aching muscles but had done little to ease her mind. So much had happened in the last twelve hours, and while she should be grieving for her mother, all her thoughts centered on Stake. She assumed that made her a selfish bitch, but she didn’t give a fuck. He’d shown her more kindness in a day then she’d received in years.

“You hungry?” he asked from the kitchen doorway.

She wasn’t, but how could she say no? “I could eat.” She glanced down, wondering if the hem of the T-shirt hit too high on her thighs. “Maybe I should put on some pants first.”

“I don’t have anything that’ll fit you.” He turned and headed back into the kitchen. “You used to like my waffles. Hope you still do.”

Unable to keep a smile from her face, she nodded. “I haven’t had them since you helped Dad get Momma into bed after one of her spells.” They’d always called her mother’s drunken tirades spells for some reason. She supposed it made her dad feel better about the woman he loved, but Santana had always seen them for what they truly were. Ellie had been a mean drunk who’d hated her own daughter and hadn’t been afraid to say it when she was at her worst. Between her mother’s words and her father’s punishments, Santana had never felt safe in her own home.

“Well, sit your sweet ass down, and eat all you want.” He opened the refrigerator and withdrew a carton of orange juice.

She eased herself into a chair and stared up at him. “Do you really think I have a sweet ass?”

He dropped into a seat across from her. He didn’t say anything while he poured two glasses of orange juice. Setting the carton on the table, he shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Oh.” She took a sip of her juice. She was bruised and swollen. Of course, he hadn’t meant it. Lowering her gaze, she stared at the waffle on her plate.

“Fuck,” he grumbled and got to his feet. He grabbed his vest off a peg beside the door. “You’re tying me into knots.” He shrugged into his colors. “I made up the guest room for ya.”

“Wait!” She stood, ready to go after him if she needed to. “Where’re you going?”

He leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “Your place, I guess. I need to check in with the investigators. I’ll pack up your clothes if you want.”

She finger-brushed her hair down to cover the bruised side of her face as she resumed her seat. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Putting you on the spot. I didn’t mean to…”

“No,” he said, cutting her off. “You were attacked last night. I’m the one who fucked up. I shouldn’t have said something like that to you.”

She glanced up from her plate to meet his gaze. “I liked it.”

He groaned and pushed away from the wall. “When you’re done eating, get some sleep.”

The front door slammed shut, and once again, she was alone. Without him sitting across from her, the waffles no longer had the same appeal. Still, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so she squeezed syrup out of the bottle and dug in.

Each bite reminded her of how much her life had changed in a day. The counselor she’d spoken to at the hospital tried to warn her that her thoughts and emotions would be all over the place, but she doubted they were supposed to be centered around a sexy biker.

Although the legal term for what Sheriff Gordon did was attempted rape and battery, the only thing that worried her were the physical injuries she’d sustained. The emotional damage that everyone seemed concerned with weren’t an issue for her. At first, she’d thought she was in some kind of shock or denial, but the longer she listened to the counselor, the more confident she was in her own feelings. Gordon was a piece of shit who believed she was nothing but a body to be beaten and used, and while she knew she didn’t deserve what he did to her, it hadn’t come as a surprise.

It was nothing she could explain to an outside observer, but what Gordon did to her with his fists and words didn’t emotionally feel any different than the way her own parents and the townspeople had treated her most of her life. Sure, physically, Gordon had hurt her, but that was the extent of the situation. It was hard to feel degraded by Gordon’s actions when she’d rarely felt little else in her daily life.

Finished with her waffle, she carried her plate to the sink. She wasn’t about to follow Stake’s instructions and leave the dishes, especially because the man had a dishwasher. How lazy did he think she was? It only took ten minutes to completely clean the kitchen and wrap the uneaten waffles in foil.

At the end of a short hallway off the living room were two doors, one open, welcoming her inside, and one closed. With a simple twist of her wrist, she stepped into Stake’s bedroom. Sure, she knew it was the wrong thing to do, but she couldn’t help herself. The rest of the house was simple, yet clean and comfortable, but the bedroom seemed to tell its own story.