Page 50 of Scotch: Unraveled

“Understand,” Boss answers. I don’t fully get it, but it has to do with respect. Boss has a woman, so unless there’s no one left to help, he doesn’t touch me. Yes, he helped me up and I’m leaning against Blue, but that falls under “unless there’s no one else” with Rory seeing to his girls. Blue doesn’t have a woman and I belong to Scotch. Which means from this point on, Blue doesn’t touch me, either, because you don’t touch another brother’s woman. It’s archaic, bordering on barbaric. But that’s the way of it. And really, if they bothered to ask me my vote, I’d vote Scotch. It’s selfish. I know how selfish I’m being, the babies being away from their dad for so long, but I love him and down to the smallest cell in my body, I know nobody would protect me the way he would.

“Carriers are too bulky,” Blue announces, pulling me back to the here and now. “It’ll draw less attention if we carry them, yeah?”

Okay, well that worries me. I’d feel better if they were in carriers and what about driving us home? How will we get them out of this godforsaken bedsore on the ass of this country? But when I hear Rory say, “Right, yeah,” I know that’s what they’re going to do because as much as I love them and as much as I think of them as my girls, legally, they aren’t. They’re all his and he has the final say.

Rory fastens the clean diaper I’d had each girl sitting on around their perspective bums, kissing first Maisie and handing her off to Boss. Then kissing Mollie before handing her off to Blue.

Then Boss walks, supporting Macie with a hand to her neck, spanning the back of her head, and one at her thighs, to peek out around the corner, scanning the warehouse. He uses his chin to gesture to Blue that the coast is clear and Blue, holding Mollie exactly the same way, steps behind Boss. The men bend low and run.

“Girls,” I sort of whisper-cry.

“I trust my brothers with their lives, baby. They’ll be good.” Then Rory scoops me up into his arms and I get the impression that he’s planning to carry me out. He can’t carry me out. If baby carriers are too bulky and will garner too much attention, then what’s a full-grown woman being carried through a warehouse going to attract?

“Put me down. I can walk.”

“Baby, you can hardly stand. There’s no way you can walk on it.”

“I have to. We have no chance of getting out of here unseen with you carrying me and you know it.”

He peeks out the door, then back over to me several times, then grunts. Taking my hand, he tugs. We crouch low, well as low as I can crouch with a bum leg, and I hobble behind him, biting my bottom lip to keep the sound of my crying down. A tight squeeze of the hand he’s holding lets me know he gets my pain.

“Lean into me, baby,” he whispers. “Keep the weight off that foot.” He drops my hand to wrap an arm around my waist. I drape an arm around his neck and lean in. We move together as one unit. He moves. I move.

We’ve dropped behind the first crate when we’re almost caught by several scowling bikers. Moving fast, Rory pushes me down around the side of the crate out of view and he ducks to drop around the other side. It looks like he’s preparing to take them on.

My heart is beating ten miles a minute. Thud, thud, thud against my ribcage. It kills to breathe so hard. When will something go right?

“Where you goin’, cunt?” Sonofabitch. Whenever that something right will come, it’s clearly not right now. Not with Rodrick standing above me, calling me a cunt.

I stare up at him. Swear to the good lord above, I’ve got nothing left. I can’t outrun him. I know it and by the ugly smirk on his face, he knows it, too. Instead of trying, I shrink into a ball, pushing against the wall of the crate, wishing beyond anything that I had the power to fuse myself with the wall of the crate in order to disappear from his line of sight.

So when he lifts his foot, I don’t even flinch. I knew he was going to lift it probably before he did. And when that metal toe makes contact with my chest, I lose my breath, gasping for air. Unable to even cough. The kick was to distract me, to keep me from seeing his real weapon, his closed fist poised and ready to strike. I do the only thing left in my arsenal. I force my body to go limp and play dead. The last time he beat me, after I passed out for real, he’d dumped me in room. The man clearly gets off on pain. If I deny him pain, then hopefully he’ll move on.

“Wake up,” he hisses at me. When I don’t, he kicks me. “Wake up, cunt,” He shouts in my face. I feel his breath against my skin but I refuse to give him even a twitch of my eyelid. I hope what I’m doing gives Rory enough time to figure out how to get us out of here. “Fine,” Rodrick says to me. “Not gonna play, then I’m done with ya.”

“Rodrick,” Scud calls to him, that’s Scud’s voice. “Quit dickin’ around. We got product to move”

I feel Rodrick’s body heat come close and his sour breath on my cheek. He flicks my face and says low, “Don’t know if yer out, dead or playin’ ’possum, but you ain’t gettin’ away again.” I force my eyes open, only slits, and stare into the face of true evil. There’s purpose there, in his eyes. Intent. Lifting his hand again, I know it’s going to be the last time he lifts it because I catch the glint of a knife that he skillfully swipes from a holder on his belt, lifting it over his head, ready to plunge it in my head or my neck. This is the kill shot. This is where I die. In a warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

Just as he brings the knife down, Rory lunges at him, knocking Rodrick off-balance but giving himself away. How in the hell does he expect to get out alive, back to his daughters who need him, giving away his position?

I’ve never seen this Rory before. This Rory, the man who savagely beats the living hell out of the deputy with bare hands, is no longer the father, the partner, the lover I know. This is the biker and it scares the hell out of me. Not that I think he’d ever hurt me, but he’s like a machine the way he beats Rodrick. Over and over, fist connects with flesh. I don’t want him to take a life. I don’t want him to have to live with that for the rest of his.

“Stop.” It’s the only word I can croak out. Rory looks down at Rodrick with his fist raised midway, coming up from a strike. He turns to me and stands, scooping me up to run. But the commotion has brought too much attention on us. Horde are descending, blocking our exit.

I’ve heard the sayingmy world stoppedbefore. And honestly, right up until now, I thought it had. How stupid I was. Because as long as Rory was coming for me, my world might have slowed down considerably, but it didn’t stop. And I know that with certainty because it happens now.

Now.

Right.

Fucking.

Now.

A gunshot rattles the metal walls of the warehouse, echoing loudly around the room. Guns are bad, but it’s the way Rory’s body jerks a split second after the gunshot rings. That’s when it happens. That’s how I know the difference.

Still, he tries to keep running. Blood spiderwebs along the shirt he wears under his cut and that doesn’t stop him. The second gunshot, now that’s what drops him. His knees buckle and we fall, hitting the cement floor hard. Then right there, in front of a crowd of men, Rodrick discharges his weapon for a third time. The shot pierces Rory’s neck and there’s more blood than I’ve ever seen oozing from the love of my life.

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