Page 134 of Indecent Lies

She watched Ajax quietly taking care of his wife, with his arm around her shoulder and his lips occasionally at her temple and his quietly spoken “Latria mou.” Whatever fragile relationship Rider had with his dad, and it was slowly rebuilding itself, there was no mistaking how Ajax worshipped his wife.

Finally—God, finally someone came out and gave the news she’d been praying for, he’d come through just fine and Rider was in recovery.

The cops came a few hours earlier, it was left to Preacher and Hawk to deal with Charlie Timmons, she’d back up whatever lie the boys told, but she had no words right then while she tried desperately to hold all her pieces together.

All the what ifs and things she should have said and done running rampant through her mind.

It was only when she finally got eyes on her man that her composure disintegrated and it was Ajax who held her up in his arms while she sobbed as Rider laid out in the bed, oblivious to the mass wave of relief going through everyone.

“See, littlenýfi,” He’d called her that for months and one day she had to ask Annie what it meant. Ajax was calling her daughter in law. “That boy of mine is tough. Dry your eyes so he doesn’t see you upset or he’ll climb out of that bed.”

Zara gave a watery laugh. Rider would too.

She learned the bullet nicked an artery and he’d needed a transfusion.

If not for the quick thinking of the Butcher to use his belt to cut off the bleeding, Rider would be dead.

She hugged Tad so hard when he came through the door, dry blood soaking his clothes.

For the next hours, the boys streamed in and out.

Rider’s parents and uncle stayed.

Gia and Hawk stayed. Hawk quietly talking to Gia on his lap.

Zara kept vigil by Rider’s bed, holding his hand to her lips.

Breathing life into her biker-man.

No life at all without him, so he didn’t have a choice but to recover.

As his queen of his MC as he liked to call her, she was unyielding on this.

* * *

Down the hall, not in a private room like the prez, Tag took himself along the corridor for a minute and pushed his head around the door. The woman looked tiny on the bed covered over with the peach blanket.

He knew these hallways well; he’d been here often enough when he had to bring his dad in for excessive drinking years ago. The smell was the same.

Exhaustion, malnourished and drugs in her system the nurse outside told him when he let her know he was the one who found her, he didn’t tell the nurse the circumstances that this chick was held in a sex ring. The bruises all over her too thin body told those stories.

Approaching the bed, she didn’t wake, she hardly made a noise at all if not for her chest rising, he would be sure she was dead.

Marianna, her name, he found that out from the nurse too. He couldn’t pronounce her surname and wouldn’t try to.

She was pretty, he knew that much.

Not understated. Her prettiness was in your face, even with her pale pallor and scraped back black hair. She had full lips and long, long lashes that coasted over her cheeks.

He knew her eyes were almost silver.

He couldn’t fathom what she’d been through, only that he’d helped her, but when she’d blinked open her drug filled eyes as he carried her out, they were nearly glowing silver.

Some of the women who were in better states had fled before the cops turned up. Most of them were transported to the hospital.

She’d clung to him tight and desperate with her nails in his shoulder blades as if terrified he’d throw her away, begged in broken English for him to help her.

Sir, please help. Please help me.

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