Chasing Claire (Hells Saints Motorcycle Club) (24 page)

As Dolly fought to regain a semblance of control, the SUV begin to slow down to a less frenetic speed and the tension in her body released a little bit. Every mile brought them closer to safety. The rhythm of the engine lulled her shocked mind into a blessed stupor.

A blare of horns suddenly startled her into a foggy awareness. The SUV’s speed had reduced dramatically and it was now careening between the lanes of the highway. Dolly’s eyes flew open and she took a hard look at her son.

Reno’s face had turned an ashen gray, and his eyes struggled to stay open. Her son’s foot had fallen off the gas pedal and his grip was slipping off the steering wheel. He was slumped over, trying his best to hold on. To her horror, a crimson spot of dark, wet blood had begun to seep through the left side of his shirt.

Her son was bleeding.

“Reno. Reno? Reno!” Dolly repeated her son’s name over and over again.

“I’m okay, Mom,” he managed to groan out. “But you’re going to have to grab the wheel. Motherfucking sons of bitches shot me.”

“It’s okay, honey. I got it. Lean to the side. Can you lean to the side, Reno?” Dolly fought to keep her voice steady.

She reached over, grabbed the wheel, and somehow managed to maneuver the car over to the breakdown lane.

“Honey, I’m going to pull you over toward me. Can you help me slide you over?” Dolly tugged and pulled at her son.

Reno did his best to move, but it took every bit of strength he had left.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Dolly whispered.

“Ma,” Reno ground out. “In about a minute, I’m going to pass out. You’ve got to make some sort of a compress and put pressure on the wounds. Can you do that, Ma?” Reno’s eyes were glazed over and his words were barely above a whisper.

Dolly thought quickly. “I got some blankets and clean rags in the trunk.”

Reno nodded and leaned heavily against her.

She opened the door to the stopped vehicle and tugged her son over to the passenger side. Then Dolly quickly ran around to the back of the Escalade. She unlocked the trunk and grabbed the blankets and clean rags that she always kept handy. When she climbed back into the car on the driver’s side, she saw that her son had lost consciousness. She worked quickly in the confines of the vehicle. Dolly tore open Reno’s thin T-shirt. There was so much blood. She had no idea where it came from. She moved Reno carefully and found a bleeding wound on his side. Dolly’s eyes swam and her mouth filled with the bitter bile of pure fear, but somehow, she found the strength to control that terror as she folded the towels up into a pad and applied pressure to the wound. Then Dolly tore off a strip of blanket and wrapped the makeshift bandage tight against him.

Blood continued to flow over her hand. Where was it coming from?

When Dolly lifted her eyes to her son’s shoulder, she found her answer.

Reno had been shot twice.

Dolly repeated the steps and once again attempted to staunch the flow of blood.

Reno’s eyes flickered as he fought his way back. She knew that the pressure must be agony for him. Reno winced and let out a low groan. His hand flexed with what strength remained and knotted into a loose fist. The scent of fresh blood filled the air.

Reno’s eyes met hers.

“No hospital, Ma . . . promise me . . . Jules will know what to do . . . He’ll know . . .”

“I know, baby. Don’t worry, son, I’ll get you to him.” Dolly tried her best to reassure him.

She had to get him help. He was losing a lot of blood.

Live or die. His life was in her hands.

She would not let her baby boy succumb.

Dolly straightened her spine, and fought back the tears and the terror. With fear in her heart and a prayer on her lips, Dolly covered her son with a thick blanket.

Then she threw the car into gear and moved it back into traffic.

Despite what she had promised, Dolly’s first reaction was to bring her son directly to the closest emergency room, and then deal with the consequences later. Whatever they were, they would be better than a dead Reno.

She would gladly do prison time for the four deaths at the cemetery, if it meant that her son would be free to live out the rest of his life.

But when she thought about it again, she knew that bringing Reno to a hospital would mean police officers, and detectives, and probably even the FBI. From experience, she knew that once it was revealed that Reno was one of Prosper’s boys, they would arrest first and ask later. She couldn’t even be sure, given the standards of small-town justice, that Reno would get the medical care that he needed. And even if he did, there was a better than good chance that her son would wake up from surgery only to find himself handcuffed to a bed and facing serious time. She knew that Reno would rather be dead than spend the next twenty-five caged in a prison cell.

Damn it.

Dolly glanced over at her son and saw he had his eyes open again.

When her eyes touched his, she knew he could see the pain, the love, and the indecision written on his mother’s face.

“Ma, I’d rather be dead . . .”

Tears filled Dolly’s eyes.

“I know that, son. I know.”

“Then no fucking hospitals. You promised me, Ma. You promised . . . Call it in . . . Call my brothers . . . Jules’ll know . . .” Then her boy mercifully closed his eyes again and passed out.

Holy Mother of God.

Dolly couldn’t lose her boy. She could not lose her baby. She knew that it was true; she knew that Jules had patched up at least half of the brothers before. But Reno had lost a lot of blood.

Think, Dolly. Think.

She willed herself to keep calm and follow the speed limit. She reminded herself for the millionth time that she could not risk getting pulled over or even worse, get into some sort of accident. She prayed in earnest to Mother Mary and then to the archangel Michael.

The off-ramp to the clubhouse came into view just as the bars returned to the cell phone. Dolly had the presence of mind to use the untraceable prepay that Reno carried with him. She made a desperate call to the clubhouse. Thank God Prosper answered. In a stream of somewhat incoherent babblings, she let him know what had happened.

His voice calmed her. He spoke quietly and deliberately. He somehow got her to tell him what her exact location was so that he could send an escort detail out to meet them. Prosper asked Dolly a few more questions about the extent of Reno’s injuries. Then he reassured her that Jules was at the clubhouse and on standby. Prosper handed off the phone to Jules and he asked her a few more questions. Prosper made Dolly stay on the line with him until she heard
the distant rumble of pipes and caught sight of the boys cresting the horizon a few miles off.

Dolly hung up the phone then. Her boy was going to live through this. No question. Whatever it took. Whatever he needed.

Reno was not going to die.

Not today. Not on her watch. And if that meant that she had to raise an army to keep him alive, then that is exactly what she would do.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then Dolly picked up the cell and dialed one more number. She gave her name to the woman who answered the phone. There was a moment of hesitation then a series of clicks. Then the receptionist was back on the line.

“I’ve been instructed to put you right through, Mrs. McCabe. Please hold while I connect.”

After a few moments of questions and answers, Dolly ended the call. While she was not certain that she had done the right thing, she knew for sure that now she had covered all the bases. Whatever happened next, life or death, she could be reassured in her own heart and mind that she had done all she could to get her only child, her baby boy, the kind of help that she knew he needed.

And that was all that mattered.

Would there be repercussions for her actions today?

Absolutely.

There was no doubt about it.

But she would have to deal with them later. And that was just fine with her.

CHAPTER 37

T
he guy next to me looked up from his small electronic game. For the last twenty minutes, he had been playing an online video game. The entire storyline seemed to center around a herd of zombies and a group of cowboys who took turns hiding behind things and then randomly popped up to shoot at each other.

The game was inane—childish and crudely conceived. It was not even close to the most mediocre game on the market. And still, it was infinitely more interesting than Dr. Charto’s stupid presentation.

“My turn,” I whispered to him. “Hand it over.”

My classmate and would-be zombie assassin held my eyes in commiseration. “You have got to be shitting me. Still? She is still reading that?”

I nodded, shrugged, and held my hand out to receive the game.

He shook his head and handed it over. Then he reached for his phone and started to text his girl exactly what he would like to be doing if he wasn’t stuck in Psych Seminar 102.

Who could blame him? I had some of those same thoughts myself.

I spent the next ten minutes killing the thirteen zombies hiding in the train station, thus securing my lead and winning the game.

I looked up at the wall clock. Ten minutes to go. Almost over. I snuck a peek at my classmate’s phone and smirked. Although I was tempted to do some sexting of my own, I forced myself to refocus.
Despite the slight video game lapse, I was determined to do well in the class. I worked and reworked every assignment that was given, I was never late for a lecture and I never missed a class. I was so determined to do well that up until recently I actually sat right in the first row of the lecture hall and had listened intently to everything that the professor had to say.

Then I snapped.

The final straw came for me when I gave what I thought was an intelligent response to one of the professor’s bullshit questions. And she rolled her eyes at me.

She rolled her eyes.

I could take a lot; I
had
taken a lot. But the sting of that public humiliation hurt like a thousand angry yellow jackets. After that I just gave up. So now I sat in the back row, shadowed in the cool dark of the lecture hall. And while I still paid attention, from the safety of those distant seats, I did a few eye rolls myself.

My stomach rumbled as I sighed deeply. Eight more minutes to go.

While the guy to the left of me spelled out the words
blow job
in all capital letters on his phone, the girl to the right of me checked out the price of tickets to Cancun. She turned to me with a smile and said, “Just a few more weeks until margaritas on the beach.”

I smiled back.

Then I watched as she widened her eyes and licked her lips. “Now, this just got real interesting.”

I followed her line of vision.

Someone had opened the door to the lecture hall, and whoever it was cast a large shadow against Sylvia Charto’s extremely boring but painstakingly prepared presentation. And that someone was the last someone that I would ever expect to see in Psych 102.

I watched in fascinated silence with the other ninety-nine students in the darkened auditorium as the instructor took in his worn
leather chaps, outlaw cut, long dark hair, and bulging biceps. She stared at Crow as if he were a rotting piece of meat.

Every other woman in that room stared at Crow as if he were dessert.

The professor took one long last look at the Hells Saints soldier. Then she spoke in a voice that dripped with outward disdain.

“Just how many of you
are
there?”

“You want to rein that shit in now, Sylvie, and shut right the fuck up,” Crow growled loudly at her.

Apparently, Reno had shared.

I could feel the shock and the silent cheer that filled the room.

Professor Charto paled and grabbed the corner of her desk for support.

Then she shut right the fuck up.

I watched on in stunned disbelief as Crow’s eyes quickly skimmed the lecture hall. Then he turned and nodded to the prospect who stood with his arms crossed and his feet firmly planted in front of the entrance. At his boss’s signal, he reached over, flipped on the switch and released a flood of bright fluorescent light. Crow stood front and center of one hundred suddenly silent psychology students and ran his eyes up and down the rows of stadium seating.

I tried to make my way to the main aisle as quickly as possible.

“Excuse me . . . Sorry . . . Pardon me,” I murmured as I stumbled over feet and backpacks.

The industrial lighting did not quite hit that back row and as I continued forging forward, I saw the look of frustration cross Crow’s face. Suddenly, he cupped his hands to the sides of his mouth and shouted for me.

“
Claire
!” he yelled out.

Oh, my God. Did I hear that right?

When he bellowed out my name for the second time, I was sure that I had.

Panic.

There was a distinct and underlying tenor of panic in Crow’s voice when he called out to me.

Jesus.

Panic?

There had been only one other time that I’d heard anything even close to it from one of the Hells Saints brothers. And that had been the time that Raine was in the hospital about to deliver Willow much too early. That strangled sound had come from Diego when he had thought that he might lose my sister and the baby. That had been the time that Ellie had kidnapped and tried to kill us both.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

I finally reached the center aisle and took the steps two at a time. My classmates sat in their seats mesmerized by the somewhat bizarre scene that had unexpectedly unfolded before them.

The bad had found me.

CHAPTER 38

I
’m here! I’m coming.” I ran toward the podium. Without sparing a glance at the instructor, I threw myself at Crow. I didn’t ask any questions, I didn’t pause or hesitate. I followed silently along as he grabbed my hand and led me out of the door to where Pipe, Riker, and two prospects waited for us. They started their engines the minute they saw us. The sound of pipes rumbled loudly through the air, blowing hot exhaust onto the expensive turf of the Hill Crown College campus. Evidently, the brothers had not seen the “No Vehicle Beyond This Point” posters that were plastered all over the area.