Page 18 of More than Enough
“Okay. Texting you the address.” He tapped it out, pressed Send, and quickly heard the ding of a bell in the background as it came through on Wolf’s end.
“Got it. See you soon, brother.”
Blade disconnected the call, staring at the woods just beyond the driveway. There could be a dozen men hiding there, and he’d never know. He retrieved his gun from the bike, relieved to find it still there. Either they hadn’t seen the bike—not too much of a stretch since he’d parked in the shadows intentionally—or they hadn’t given a shit, something he didn’t believe for one minute. Regardless, everything was still where he’d left it. He glanced back at the words scrawled on her car, the fury roaring back in an instant.Won’t save ’em. Don’t give a shit. They’d threatened Jenn, and she was his. “Cannot stand.”
He turned and strode to the door, lifting his hand to knock. It opened before he could connect, and then he had an armful of soft and sweet-smelling woman, albeit an angry one.
Fourteen
Blade
With his arms folded across his chest, Blade looked down the five steps to the backyard of the clubhouse, where Wolf and Monk each gripped a shoulder of the men kneeling in front of them. In the flickering light of torches and firepit, he saw the two restrained men carried visibly bloodied and bruised marks from their time with his brothers, something that settled a tiny part of Blade’s rage.
It was less than a day since the assholes had started their ill-conceived idea of terrorizing Jenn. Surveillance footage from the diner and grocery store’s systems had given Gibby all the club needed to know to determine who the bad actors were. He’d pulled Blade in a couple of hours ago to tell him they were bringing the two men to the clubhouse and asked for his approval on how to handle the situation.
That consideration had been a nod to Jenn’s place in Blade’s life, no matter she didn’t have a Protected by patch yet. She would, and Gibby knew it.
Terror dealt to Jenn would be met with terror, and their physical mistreatment of her would be matched by what they’d endure.
And Blade didn’t give one single flying fuck what it said about him that he was looking forward to it.
“How you want to do this, brother?” Gibby’s quiet question wasn’t to benefit their trusted members arranged in a rough semicircle around the men. Blade let his lip curl in a sneer as he stared down at the two ex-prospects. From the widening of their eyes, whites showing, the prearranged tactic was working.
“Hard.” The man on the left tried to jerk free of Wolf’s hold, but with wrists bound behind him, he quickly found himself yanked back upright, made to look up at where Blade stood next to Gibby. “One of ’em put their hands on a woman. Hard enough to mark her throat. Marked her. On a club run.” He shook his head. “That shit cannot stand.”
“What woman?” Neptune’s question was right on cue, and Blade angled his head towards his brother in thanks.
“Woman at the diner. Waitress just doin’ her job.” Teeth gritted, he forced out the next part of the script. “Woman says no. A man’s got an obligation. Obligation to leave her the fuck alone.”
“The woman, this waitress, did she say no?” Wolf’s man tried again to pull free and was met with a more forceful response.
Blade waited until Wolf had the man on his knees again before he answered, letting the silence drag out for long moments as the man cleared dirt and grass from his mouth, spitting and hacking, bending his head to the side as blood flowed freely from a cut that had opened over one eye.
“You asked if she said no.” He lifted his chin, unfolding his arms so his clenched fists hung at his sides. “She did.” He took a step forwards, balancing his boots on the very edge of the porch. “Now, ask me who she is.”
His demand was met with silence from Wolf and Neptune, and Blade allowed it for a moment before roaring down at the two men on their knees, making it clear who he was addressing. “Ask me. Ask me who she is.”
Neptune’s captive opened his mouth, silently gawping like a fish on a hook. Wolf’s man glared up at him, his face a wash of crimson.
Blade rocked back on his heels, then forwards, letting gravity take hold, running down the steps in a rush, skidding to a stop in front of the men. They both flinched back as he reached for their throats, fingers of each hand finding the desired mark, his thumbs digging in deep and cutting off all air. They struggled, but with Wolf and Neptune standing on the ropes anchoring their legs together, they never had a chance of escaping. Not really.
“Ask. Me.” He bent at the waist, shoving his face close to theirs as he relaxed his grip slightly, granting them the ability to pull in a shallow breath. “Fuckin’askme.”
“Who is she?” Neptune’s man finally found his voice, and Blade focused his attention on him.
“She’s mine.” He clamped back down, watching as the men’s faces turned red, then purple, eyes bulging in their sockets as they struggled for air. For life.
In the end, it was Jenn who saved them, even if they’d never know. Her face, as he’d seen her only hours ago, flashed through his thoughts. Soft, sweet, staring up at him from the pillow with that just-kissed haze she wore so well. So beautiful, and all his. The idea that he’d be touching her tonight with these same hands made him pull back. With clenched fists on his hips, he watched the two men heave and retch, writhing on the ground in front of him.
“Prez.” This was off-script, and he didn’t know if Gibby would give him this or not. After all was said and done, the Borderline Freaks MC weren’t an outlaw crew, not really. They didn’t fly the diamond and didn’t refer to themselves as one-percenters. But to protect the club, to protect the life, he thought he could talk Gibby into the idea.
“Yeah, brother?” Blade turned to see Gibby’d taken a seat on the top step and was meticulously cleaning under his nails with the tip of a blade. He’d paused and looked up, his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair hanging low over one eye. “Whatcha need, man?”
“We cut ’em.” Gibby nodded. “We called around.” Another nod, slower as Gibby tried to follow Blade’s logic. “Made a statement.” No response this time, no reaction. “A short-term statement. I think we need something that’ll last a fuck of a lot longer.”
Gibby lifted his chin as he folded the naked blade back into the handle and shoved it into his pocket. “Whatcha thinkin’, brother?”
“Give ’em a long-lasting anti-patch.” He flicked a finger at a leather rectangle sewn to his vest. Positioned over his heart, it featured the initials that made up the club’s name. BFMC. “Pair this with an interdictory circle. Makes a statement of not just no, but fuck no.” These coveted patches were made in batches here at the clubhouse, using blank leather and a branding iron, and were only given to a member when they’d reached their second year with the club. He noted the instant when Gibby put it all together, and instead of the flinch he expected, he saw a steely resolve instead.
