Renegade: Desert Knights MC (9 page)

I had never heard this story before. I hadn’t even bothered to ask. I knew my mom grew up in the Desert Knights--her own daddy was a Vietnam vet and the founding father. But I just thought she got married off to the first MC man my Grandpa approved of. Knowing she picked that man was unbelievable to me.

“Why him? Did you know he was like this, Mom?” I stare into her deep brown eyes, a mirror reflection of mine as she struggles to answer me back.

“I didn’t know. Power does strange things to a man, even a good one.” A lifetime of pain washes over her, and I can tell that the word “regret” is on the tip of her tongue. But she could never say it. She is too much of an indoctrinated lady to say it out loud, let alone to her daughter. Still, she adds, “But you, Tory, you’re smarter than me. You’re smarter than all of us. And if this guy Anton is what you think he is, then I trust you, and I’ll take whatever comes from it.”

“Mom, I can’t ju—”

“Tory Walsh, I won’t let you give up on this so easily. If this is what you want, then you go get it. I’m your mama, and it’s my job to protect you no matter what. And I promise you that I will have your back.” Her voice cracks as she stammers, “Someone in this house deserves that happier ending. Just promise me something.”

“What?” I ask timidly.

“Promise me that this is the right decision for you, and that you’re not doing it just because of your father. Promise me that you’re picking Anton because you care for him and he cares for you. I can’t bear to see you get hurt over a guy who you just leapt at because we sheltered you for too long.”

I pull her in closer to me, my arms wrapping around the shell of my mother, as I whisper the only words I can think to say, “Thank you.”

Something’s not right. I know it. I can feel it. The hair on the back of my neck is practically standing up as I scan the darkened room for the cause. There’s gotta be a reason why Tory left me here alone, waiting for her.

What just happened between us wasn’t a fluke. It couldn’t have been. She wanted it more than I did—and I really, truly wanted it. Seeing her face twist in pleasure was one of the greatest, sexiest moments of my life. And it’s a memory I don’t plan on erasing for a long while. But then she just disappeared before the action started to heat up? From what little I know about her, that doesn’t seem right.

Then, another, probably more sensible, voice in my head points out that she is a virgin and virgins are basically cold fish when it comes to this stuff. At her age and in this club, she’s an old maid. Most girls lost their v-card way back in high school—or at least fooled around. But she’s fresh meat, totally untouched. And while I was certainly impressed, I could tell by how she wanted me to take over that there was part of her that was unsure.

And that’s the problem when you take on a virgin: they can turn on you. They fear guys like me with our muscles, position, and rough exterior. It’s intimidating to most, even the experienced ones who spread their legs for anyone. I wouldn’t blame her for running.

But this was Tory. This was the girl who bandaged the hand of a guy who just broke a glass table with her fist. This was the girl who invited a man she just met to have lunch with her father. She was more fearless than I could ever be for things like this. And I wouldn’t peg her as the type to run away.

I walk over to my jeans, which are still lying on the floor where we discarded them, and find my cell in the back pocket. There are few text from the boys in the bar asking me where I am and why I’m not enjoying a drink. There’s even a photo from Leo posing with some hot piece of ass I haven’t seen before. But there’s nothing from Tory.

There’s nothing else for me to do but call it. Wherever she went, whatever she had to do, I would have to find out later. Right now, I just had to get back to the bar before any of the Walsh boys grew suspicious. Despite everything, I could still turn this night around by getting into my guys’ heads about what was going on with upper management.

The bar is more crowded than when I last left it. It seems like half the club and their women are crowding around the bar, ordering off my tab. As I waltz back in, Rusty the bartender holds up my credit card with a look on his face that says he isn’t quite sure what he should do. I holler out as loudly as possible, “One more round, boys! Then this guy is tapped out!”

There’s a rush of burly men towards the bar, each with their hands and glasses eagerly raised. Rusty fills up their empty cups one by one until all the guys in the crowd return to their stools and chairs. Through their part, I spot Brandon Walsh. He’s stewing in the corner, a glass of golden whiskey sloshing in his hands. He’s flanked by a few of his men from earlier in the day, including Haunch, my new partner.

I suck in deeply, puffing out my chest, as I grab a glass of some cheap beer and head over to where a group of my friendlies are sitting and chatting. Leo pushes the little blonde bimbo off his lap to greet me, his arm pulling me in for a large bear hug. He’s already good and drunk as he shouts to the rest of the group, “To the best man I know. May he always reign as the one, true leader!”

I pull his arm down and sit him back on his chair. His body sways against mine, and I can tell this just ain’t the alcohol talking. What he just said could get him in deep shit with the Walsh family, let alone killed by Brandon if he took offense. I glance over to him, but Brandon doesn’t seem to even notice. He’s too busy gesturing over to April Lauder, who is practically screwing her boy, Derek, on one of the booths.

I turn my attention back to Leo, as I reprimand him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demand. “You can’t say that shit anymore.”

“Whatever, Anton!” he says, practically incoherent. “Everyone in this bar knows who our real brother is, and it ain’t no pussy like Bra—”

My hand shoots up before he can say it, covering his mouth and pushing him in for another hug to drown out his shouts. The rest of our group watches with wide, shocked mouths. No one is sure what to say, but a few nod their heads in agreement. It seems that Leo has been doing all the talking while I’m away, and it’s actually working.

A big man we call Hooch leans over across the table and whispers lowly, “Don’t worry about it, Anton. We got your back. The Walsh kid pulls something like he did today, they all have hell to pay.”

Another kid, maybe only eighteen years old, chimes in, “He’s right. Not a man in this bar who ain’t willing to put it on the line for you, Anton. You say the words, and we’re there.”

I’m honestly touched. I mean, I had a hunch the guys felt this way, but hearing it said out loud was a whole different story. Loyalty and brotherhood were the reasons why I wanted to be a Desert Knight despite all the shit with my mom and being a bastard child. Now I’m finally being accepted, and not only that, revered. Maybe Brandon and Clay Walsh did have reason to worry about me. My army was clearly already assembling right before their eyes.

I sit with that little bit of confidence the rest of the night, as I listen to the men talk about their weeks, their runs, their women. They want to know about the incident with the Black Senators, and I gladly (and very loudly) recall how we managed to just barely escape near-death with a whole lot a cash and an even bigger stash. The entire bar with the exception of Brandon and now Clay seem to be totally wrapped up in my every word.

Despite the attention, it’s the quiet moments that are eating me up on the inside. It’s the time when a woman walks by, her shirt almost completely open, her ass hanging out of a pair of denim shorts, that I have a moment to think about Tory. Just the smell of another’s perfume sends me back to her, when I leaned her back and took a plump pink nipple to my mouth.

It ramps up as I suck down even more drinks. And by last call, I’m wasted on the thought of her. I can’t let this be it. Before Clay and Brandon can get up to cover their bills, I’m already racing out the door, my feet huffing it to my bike. It roars on my command before taking off down the road, back towards the house I shouldn’t be within a thousand feet of. The death wish that awaits me just makes me ride harder and faster towards Tory and her castle.

I park my bike a few blocks from the Walsh home in a parking lot of an all-night fast food place. It’s well hidden from anyone passing by, but I yank a few garbage cans in front of it just in case. Then I take off towards her home. The whole time, my ears were perked and listening for the sound of the boys beating me back to their homes and to Tory.

From their neighbor’s yard, I spotted my way in. A large oak tree leaned against a window where one desk lamp was still illuminating a bubblegum pink room. It had to be Tory’s. My only shot up there was to scurry up the tree like a little kid and hope that the branches would hold my weight so I could leap up and over to the second floor bedroom’s window.

Climbing the tree is easier said than done. As soon as I’m past the trunk, the limbs begin swaying and cracking from my weight. I know that any wrong move could mean I’m a second away from sending me crashing down to the ground. And the last thing I want is for whomever is inside to notice me sneaking up to a bedroom at two or three in the morning.

But I have bigger problems than that. Right before I’m ready to start knocking on the window, the sound of the Walsh choppers comes roaring up the block. I pull in closer to the tree’s center, praying that I’m concealed enough. When the boys pull in, their headlights aim right at me, blinding me with the sharp white light pointed directly in my eyes. I hang on even tighter.

Yet, they don’t seem to even notice me. They stammer in drunkenly, talking about something one of Brandon’s boys did that night. I can hear the conversation continue well past their front door being closed and locked. I wait, watching the lights of two of the rooms spark and light up. And through the curtains, I can see Brandon Walsh flop into bed without even undressing and the outline of Clay Walsh moving up through the hallway straight towards Tory’s bedroom.

Tory’s room flashes bright yellow as a door flings open. Clay walks in and pulls off a cover from Tory’s bed revealing Tory curled up around a pillow. I can just make out her red, swollen eyes and her terrified glances, as he surveys her room. He checks in every crevice and hiding spot but comes up empty, almost disappointedly so, before leaving the room without even helping her tidy it back up. Another light pops on, and Clay undresses behind a curtain and then hops into bed.

I’m still focused on Tory and her shaking hands. She rushes over to the closet door he has flung open and a few coats he removed from a hanger on the door. She moves tiredly through the motions, as if she is resound in the fact that she deserves to be terrorized like this. I have to make my move. I can’t stand to see her like this.

I reach over to a smaller branch and slide my legs across the line of the bark till I’m at the windowsill. With one hand holding onto a limb above my head, I lean over and tap gently against the window. Tory turns towards me, completely frightened. Nothing in her even softens when she recognizes me lingering among the branches. Still, she walks quickly to the window and lifts it up and open for me to slip in.

I begin to speak, “Tory, what the he—?”

Her hand flies up to my mouth, covering it quickly. She places a finger to her lips, as she guides me over to the side of her bed facing away from the door. I slump down onto the lumpy mattress before turning back to her, waiting for her to make the first move. Her warm, soft hand slides down the length of my bare neck, her fingertips sweetly caressing at my stubble and dry skin.

Those fairy tale eyes lock in on mine, as she asks as quietly as possible, “What are you doing here, Anton?”

And in that moment, I don’t know what to say or how to answer. I have no idea why I am here, risking both of our lives. So I give her the basic answer, the answer that just scratches the surface of what I am feeling. “I had to know what happened to you. Why the hell did you leave me?”

A small smirk crosses her face as she explains, “I didn’t leave you. My dad caught me outside the bathroom. He doesn’t know that we were together. He thinks I snuck out to see you so I could apologize for what happened at lunch.”

“Shit.” I finally notice the way she is turning her cheek away from me. My thumb reaches up to spin the other side to face me. Before I can see it, I already know what it is. The stormy colors of a large bruise take up nearly half of her cheek. And that’s not even half of that. As she lifts her chin, I spot the brown, dim finger marks around her neck.

Something in me bursts, as I immediately stand, my hands knotting into thick fists.
Motherfucker
, I think to myself. I don’t say that out loud, though. Instead, I look down at her as I command, “We have to go. You can’t stay here anymore. That fucking bastard is not allowed to do that to you.”

She follows me yanking me back down. Her voice raises slightly, as she points at the wall her bed leans up against, “Anton, no. You don’t understand. If I leave, he will kill my mom.” 

“You can’t stay here, Tory. I’m not going to let that twisted son of a bitch do this to you.”

I pull her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. She rocks slightly, and I can feel her holding back the tears threatening to fall. As she pulls up and away, I reach out towards her, gently pulling her in for a long, drawn out kiss. I don’t want to hear her protests. I don’t want her to tell me no. I just want to protect her for as long as I can in this embrace.

Her small hands find their way to my chest and gather up the material of my t-shirt in her fists. She pulls me in tighter as the waves of our body hit us again. Her tongue slips into my mouth, exploring and plunging head first into our union. As she comes closer to me, I can’t help but hook a finger under the strap of her tank top, the same one she took off for me hours earlier. The material slides down easily over the curve of her tan skin.

She pulls away and watches helplessly as I trace a line along the top of her breasts from shoulder to shoulder. I reach out to one of her hands to place it on my thigh so that she is mere centimeters from my crotch. She turns away from me, so I trace the nape of her neck with my nose. She shudders, and I can’t tell if it’s out of pleasure or pain. Probably both. Weakly, she bats me away. “We can’t, Anton,” she insists, though it’s not the kind of tone that tells me “
no
.”