Wrath (5 page)

Oh no
…

I tried again.  This time, it twitched in its bed, but it wasn’t about to roll over. 

Fuck. 
Fuuuuuck.

I tried one more time. 

There was a pitiful
thump-thunk
and then the car died altogether.

Nope
.  That was that.

I punched the steering wheel. 

Really
?

I didn’t have any other way home.  The buses were done for the night, and I’d be damned if I was going to stay with Kat.  It was looking like I’d have to ask her for a ride home, and that meant staying at least an hour longer waiting for her to close up. I was already running on next to no sleep and I didn’t want to inconvenience her further.

This was her business.  Her money.  I couldn’t ask her to close up early for me.

Fuck
.  Fuck.  Fucks-a-lot.

“You okay?” a man asked near my window.

I yipped and started in my seat, instinctively grabbing the windowsill to steady myself.

It was Wrath. 

“Wow,” he chuckled.

That voice.  I actually shuddered, all the way down through my hips to my toes. 

Shit
.  Shit-shit-shit.

When I spoke, my voice still rang a few octaves higher than usual.  “
I
am fine.  My piece of shit car, on the other hand, is not.”

When he grinned, I twitched again.  Jesus, who was this guy?

“Try turning it on,” he suggested gently.

I didn’t even mouth off.  I just shot him a look and turned the key – again.

The engine ignored us. 

“Not the battery then.  Gotta take it in for a diagnostic.”  Wrath determined.

The engine clunked and groaned, sounding distinctly ill.  Without a word, he stepped carefully around to the front of the car and popped the hood.  I would be lying if I said I didn’t lean a little farther out of the window to stare at the line of his shoulder.  If I sucked on my tongue a bit harder, who could blame me?  The way the broad back flowed down that long, long waist into a delightfully toned –

Okay! Cool it, girl!

I slumped back into the car, fiercely red and fanning myself lightly with a stray napkin, as if it was just the night that was warm. 

Meanwhile, he seemed oblivious to the fact that I shredded the napkin one-handed, much less why. 

There was the soft sound of a caps being pulled free and screwed back on, and a light clank, and then the bit of that broad hand that he was leaning on tapped on the side of the car.

“Shit.  Okay, yeah, it needs to be looked at,” he leaned back out from under the hood.  “We’ll get it into the shop and get it going.”

I took breath, but of course I said the wrong thing.  “I can’t afford that.” 

I glanced away out to the waiting night, the far off flashing lights of the freeway and the murky, moonlit sky.  I shouldn’t have said that, but once it was out it was out.

He just wiped his hands and looked me straight in the eyes.  “It’s fine.  We’ll figure something out.  How are you getting home?”  I was intensely aware of how sharp and intense that gaze was, how he inspected everything in such detail, without wavering.

I had to look away, and it was a relief when he turned back to the engine.  My eyes swung back to his body then, fluttering over every inch of him like a crazed moth to an exquisite lamp.

That was when I saw it.  The gleam of something shiny on his leg, peeking out from under the hem of his jeans.  No, it wasn’t
on
his leg.  It
was
his leg. 

My mouth formed an “O” of surprise.  He had a prosthetic.  He was missing a leg.   So that was why he limped... 

I examined him then with new eyes, my gaze raking up and down his body with new appreciation.  Now, though, I was looking for details about who he was, as opposed to – um – what he had. 

I hadn’t been able to see all of him before, when I was standing behind a bar, but I could now.  The street lights highlighted the tattoo on his left forearm.  Army.  Between the contrasting lights of moon and street lights, I could also see the swirls of burns licking around the tattoo, lightly marring the design.

So he was a soldier.  And he’d been hurt.

What had happened?

He was still distracted, already peering under the hood of my car, so I had the chance to compose myself.

As he closed the hood with deliberate firmness, he looked me over.  “You going to stay with your cousin?”

“Can’t.  Have to be at school.”  Couldn’t afford a cab either.  Shit.

“Want a ride?”

Yes
.

“No, I couldn’t.”  I answered automatically and instantly fought the urge to smack myself right there in front of him.  I couldn’t breathe right much less think.  I’d had it bad before, but not like this.  What was wrong with me?

He didn’t argue with me, just grabbed his cellphone and dialed someone. 

When they picked up, I heard him say, “Hey man, you back at the clubhouse? Yeah.  I got, a car broken down in front of Kat’s.  Mauve Ford Tempo.  Yeah,” he laughed.  That
laugh
… I wriggled in my seat slightly, trying to keep my cool.

“Yeah, there are still some on the road.  Can you have someone come by tomorrow morning and tow it before work? Great.  Thanks, man.”

When he was done, he looked at me.  “Rage’ll bring your car to the shop in the morning.  For now, we need to get your ass home.  And don’t try it.  I won’t have you walking.  You can handle yourself, but you’re tired.  Woman tired and walking alone? Munhall is no place for that shit.”

I was used to watching my own back, and I knew he was right.

“Fine.” 

Without another word, I followed him over to his bike. 

It was a sleek number.  Black and chrome: a deathtrap on wheels.  A solid trim, too.  

Honestly, I was surprised.  I expected him to have a car or a truck, or something.  Something easier to drive.

“You want me to ride this thing?” I asked, eying it.  It was nice but the truth was, that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay on it.

“It’s perfectly safe.”  He grinned and handed me a helmet.  “Brain bucket.  You wear it.  Just in case.”

“Why don’t you have two?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Bullshit.”

He just shrugged.  “Get on the damn bike.” 

I stuck my tongue and made a mental note that he probably didn’t drive other people around often. 

He chuckled at me after he climbed on, scooting up so that I would have plenty of room on the back of the bench.  That “plenty of room” wasn’t as much room as I needed to keep my pulse steady, but it kept me from making an idiot of myself.

It felt both strange and natural to climb onto the bike and wrapped my arms around his waist.

I could feel the roil of muscles under his leather coat, my hand sneaking around to feel what I noticed in the club.  Dear god, what did he do?  Weight-lift twenty-three hours a day?  Pull-ups.  It had to be pull-ups.  A lot of ‘em…

“Hold on tight,” he said as he drew my arms up around his chest.  Barely able to breathe, I squirmed a bit, very aware of how my front molded to his back.

He started the thing up, and before I knew it we were headed out of the parking lot and out onto the road.

It was crazy, the way the bike rumbled down the nearly empty streets of Pittsburgh’s outskirts.  The engine shook through my body like thunder as we roared down Braddock Avenue and headed into the city. 

We passed through the run-down sections of town and into the wealthy areas, but I barely noticed.  I was too busy trying not to scream with the fear and thrill of it all.  The wind rushed past me as he passed cars, their engines like mewling kittens next to the roar of his bike. 

As we weaved through the traffic of Pittsburgh, I found myself smiling in a way I hadn’t in years.  My heart raced, but not just because of the ride, because of the man who was driving.  I looked at the back of his neck, pondering on him.  He was so strong and he carried himself proudly.  I remembered how his eyes had gotten so cold when he looked at ol’ Johnny.  But he was kinder than I would have guessed. 

My fingers itched to run through the short hairs along the back of his neck, but I knew I was more likely to choke him than sneak a touch, so I kept the urge to myself.  The rumbling of the damned bike between my legs didn’t help, but I honestly didn’t want it to. 

I grinned and decided to enjoy myself, using the rest of the ride to play with all sorts of ideas.  Like what I’d like to do, and maybe how I could get to a point where that would actually happen. 

And oh man, the things I wanted to do…

It was a very nice ride indeed. 

Aidan

It felt awkward showing up to the garage without my tools.  I missed the weight of them, the way they shifted the balance of my bike.  The extra pull mattered. 

It was funny, the stuff that you realized once you were missing a leg.  Losing a leg had taken several pounds off me, making things like balancing on a bike particularly hard.

My toolbox added just enough extra weight to compensate for what I was missing. 

Sure the adaptations made to my bike helped, but that didn't mean it wasn't tricky.  Riding a bike was delicate business to begin with.  Everyone thought it was just about looking tough and mashing the gas, but handling one of these fine beasts well took a fine touch.  You had to listen to the bike. 

She would tell you when you needed to push limits, and she rewarded you when you let her push you. 

I knew better than most that my old Indian Chieftain wasn’t alive – that she was a combination of parts and carefully-fitted gears.  She was flawed and needed care, and she would not stay perfect forever. 

I also knew she was a thrumming beauty, purring and roaring in ecstasy so long as I did my best by her.  I knew how to care for her, and she was important to me.  So that’s what I did. 

What was more, riding was one of the few things I thought I'd never be able to do again.  I had been a lucky son of a bitch to have so many people willing to help me when I first came home. 

Of course, the help hadn’t lasted.  I had known it wouldn’t.  After a while people forgot about you.  They get distracted by everything else.  Sometimes I resented it, especially when I faced a world that tried to write me off, but that was what it was.  I knew I had to get up and make it work.   And I made myself remember that without the help I wouldn't have been able to transition into my new life at all. 

I shut the thoughts away, refusing to dwell on the past year and a half.  I wasn’t ashamed of it.  That was the good part.

I turned my attention to the clubhouse.  It stared back at me, daring me to become part of its future. 

The tap of knuckles on the doorframe beside me shook me out of it, and I realized I needed to get to work.  My boss hadn’t been trying to hustle me back to work, though.

"Hey, man.”  Rage grinned at me as he came over.  "Get to the club house.  We have some shit to discuss."

I nodded, but before leaving, I turned to the garage parking lot, searching for Emma's Tempo.  It was in a line of cars, right next to some old junkers that the guys kept around for parts. 

I smiled, thinking about how pissed she had been when I demanded that she let me help her.  I had liked telling her what to do, in part because there’d been no guarantee she’d do it.

I knew her type.  She couldn’t let anyone help.  She was all in her own little world, one she wanted to make and take. 

I didn’t mind it.  I was that type.  But she looked so fucking hot when her nose wrinkled up like that, and I’d gotten a rush, knowing she had no other choice but to accept what I was offering.  She had needed my help.  And I knew I could provide it. 

I followed Rage into the clubhouse, through the bar entrance into a larger walled off seating area.  Not everyone was pleased to see me there.

"What's the new hire doing in here?" Tommy asked.  Kid had decided to try to drive me out.  All I could think about as I looked at him was how the dumbass had dropped a wrench on his own face.

Rage calmed that sore spot down.  "Wrath isn’t just our mechanic.  He's helping with some club protection.  He’ll come along on a few runs.  We need him in the loop for certain things and this conversation pertains to him."

Tommy had lost track of the conversation before it even got started.  "
Wrath
?” he sputtered, looking ill.  “This douche nozzle gets a fucking handle before me?"

Douche nozzle
, huh?

I wasn't going to be insulted in front of anyone.  I didn't care if the little shit was young and stupid, there was no way I was gonna let him piss on me.  World didn’t work like that. 

If the military taught a man nothing else, it was that if you let anyone push you around, they’d do it forever.  That lesson was so ingrained in me that I had grabbed that little shit by the collar and forced him face-first onto the table.  No frills, nothing smart ass.  Just straight up force.

When I spoke, I made sure he heard every fucking word. 

"You will not fuck with me, Tommy.  You will not call me anything but Wrath and sir.  You got that?"

I was ten times stronger than he could ever be and every bone in his body knew it.  But his mouth didn’t have the sense to shut up. 

"Boss, are you serious?"  The kid looked over at Rage, hoping favor would fly his way.

He underestimated the value of a good mechanic to the MC.

Rage didn’t play games and he didn’t pull shit.  He looked that kid right in the eye and told him straight: "You fucking heard the man, prospect.  He wants to be called Wrath, you call him that, or you get what you fucking deserve.” 

The kid opened his mouth again to argue, and that just wasn’t right.  I slammed him against the table, his chin going down first, his front teeth biting into his own lip. 

"Fuck," the kid bawled.

Unfazed, I released him.  “You see that man there?” I said, my years of service staining my voice hard and tough and blunt.  “That’s your President.  That’s your commander in chief.  He calls the shots.  He makes sure you have your moment to say what you think, and that your brothers do too, and then
he
makes the decision.  And it doesn’t matter if you don’t like it.  It doesn’t matter what you think.  You follow his orders, because when shit hits the fan, he’ll be right up in that mess with you.  He’ll lead you out of it or go down trying.  That’s leadership.  That’s what makes you strong.  Rage is your leader and you will damn well show him that respect.”

When I stepped back, the ringing in my ears began to fade.  I couldn’t tell if Tommy had gotten me or not, but the rest of the room definitely had.  They stared at me, respect and watchfulness apparent in most of their eyes. 

Rage did know how to lead.  He didn’t let the moment pass.  "Anyone else got any objections?" he asked.  He looked straight at Thrash, his right-hand man.  I knew that look. 

Apparently the two’d had some words, because a lot of shit passed between them unsaid in that moment.

Thrash was the best kind of second in command.  He knew how and when to back his President, when to speak up and when he’d steer better from the sidelines. 

Today, he nodded and said for everyone, "No.  No problem.” 

Then he turned to address the rest of the club.  “Got us a hang around,” he announced, pulling them in like a quality chief before turning back to me.  “Sergeant Crowne, you are a special case, I hear.  Decorated war veteran.  So here’s how it is.  You prove your shit here, you nut up when we need you, and you'll get a patch if you want it.  Simple as that.” 

Thrash's eyes were as cold as mine. 

Fuck.  I was in the middle of club politics, but this wasn’t a back-patting session.

I nodded and kept my mouth shut.

Thrash went on and with a warning.  "If you fucking think about double crossing us, I will make sure that you have nothing left to live for.  You feel me?"

Again I nodded.  It was fair.  Thrash was VP, and he meant every word.

"Got it."

Like that, the tension eased.  The meeting went on.

"Good, now that we have that shit settled we have some bigger issues to talk about.”

Tommy jumped in, his eyes skittering away from me to voice his bewilderment with another matter.  “Like that broken down jalopy in the freaking parking lot? What in the hell are we going to do with that?”

Kid just couldn’t stay out of it, could he?

Luckily, Rage answered him on that.  “Kat needed a favor.” 

Clearly he saw something in this prospect.  He was willing to let the kid get his ass kicked if necessary.  He was also willing to teach him with patience.  I made a mental note of that.  He might allow the kid to be reminded of the hierarchy.  You didn’t know where you fit in, you got yourself or others killed.  But Rage wasn’t a petty leader either.  He might have let me kick the kid’s ass, but I’d be an idiot to pick on the kid or push him around just for fun.

That, too, was good leadership.

“Kat wants it fixed.  It gets fixed.”  Rage’s eyes flashed as he explained.  Clearly he’d had a conversation with Kat last night.  I wondered what it had been about.

“Whose it for?” another cut asked.

“Kat’s cousin.  New hire.  Lady’s a bartender, not a stripper.”  A faint grin twitched his lips as he said, “That’s just a head’s up.  You forget, I gotta feeling she’ll remind you.”

Thrash glanced down at Tommy with far less patience than Rage had and said, “In the meantime, someone has to pick her up from school and take her to work and back home.  You gonna do that, little prospect?”

There was no way in hell I wanted her wrapping her arms around that shithead, or anyone else.

“I’ll do it,” I volunteered, keeping my voice level.  “Brought her home last night.  Know where she lives.  Won’t be hard.”  I drove her right up to her dorm room last night.  Watched her turn to me and smile, wave goodbye.

I wanted to see her do that again.

“Good.  It’s settled.”  Thrash nodded his approval.

“What we really need to focus on now is shit like the ride Strike wants us taking next week,” Rage said.

"Irish mob? What for?" an old man with a hoarse voice asked.  I gave the fellow a good look over.  He looked a bit like Layla.  Same eyes.  Must've been family.  A dad, maybe an uncle.

"He needs extra muscle on a supply run.  Nothing too dangerous, but he's gotten hit a couple of times the past few months.  Legit shit, not his heroine.  Needs to pick up some - what the fuck was it? Tropic fruit or some shit, in reefer containers.” 

Some knucklehead chuckled, but one look from Rage and he choked it down. 

“Fruit?” Tommy sputtered.  Jesus, did this kid ever think before he spoke?

But he wasn’t the only one who was confused and Rage knew it.  "They are expensive,” he explained to the room.  “Load is worth over a hundred grand.”  That earned a few low whistles.  “Refrigerated containers are not cheap and he wants to ensure the load stays intact.”  He looked around.  "Anyone need to pass on this job?"

"That's a lot of pineapple," the raspy-voiced man said.

"If he's mob, why don't the mob do it?" Tommy asked, shaking his head. 

"You know the deal with Strike.  His old man won’t provide any resources, or any muscle.  Strike got us out of a jam and we owe him.  Don't come if you don't want, but if you don’t, don't expect to get patched in.” 

I was starting to wonder why the hell this kid was even in the damn club to begin with.  He seemed dumber than a bunch of bricks.  And unwilling to commit.

"I'm in.  What's the plan?" I asked.  I didn't need to think twice.  Rage hired me without a complaint, didn't look twice at my disability, and not once had he doubted my abilities.  I’d back him.

And if there was another reason for my willingness?  Well, it wouldn’t hurt anyone.  This was a mission.  I knew how to work on a mission, how to survive.  My time in the military was the only time in my life that I'd ever thrived.  Fixing shit in combat zones might not sound as glamorous as carting a piece, but it was damned risky.  I’d been right in the mix of things.  The guys had known me, needed me.  We’d depended on one another. 

I wanted that back, and I was glad to have something new to consume me now.  Even if it was just a small protection job. 

I wasn’t worried about the club accepting me.  Worry about that shit and you’d never make it anywhere.  Their President knew my worth.  I’d work my ass off.  Show my loyalty.  Do the legwork.  My work would either win ‘em or it wouldn’t.  Either way, I was earning a paycheck and grabbing ahold of an opportunity.

Besides, I'd done runs like this before.  Several.  Part of being a 91B in the army meant that you went on runs whenever there was a mission that involved wheeled vehicles.  Machines could break down anywhere. 

Dependability, capability, and punctuality.  I knew the rules.  I knew what worked.

Rage went on with the briefing, running over the details.  "We need at least six of us supplementing Strike's company.  He'll be with us, on his bike, and we'll be escorting the delivery.  Like I said, it isn't heroin.  This time."

"Who's in?" Thrash asked, looking around the room.  There really weren’t many of us.  Thrash, Rage, and I made three.  Tommy made four.  And there were only two other choices left.  But neither of the two old men sitting at the table could go.

"I'm in.  Crowe?" Thrash said.

"Yeah, I'm in."

Rage said, "I'd prefer you both at home base.  I'm planning on taking Garth and William…”

I began to tune them out, my mind already focusing on what I had to do.  My shift was due to start soon.  I wanted to get back to the vehicles, blow some steam.  But I was with the boss, so what nervous energy I had would have to wait.