Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (11 page)

"You're quoting the handbook
I
wrote now? Shit. You have the worst fucking timing." Shep groaned.

"How long would you have let me stay in a house like that?" Pretty Boy asked lowly. "He broke his arm, Shep. The kid's twelve years old. How many bones need broken before you're willing to do something?"

Shep inhaled sharply. "You must want this bad if you're fighting dirty so quick."

He wet his lips. "Please, Shep. You know what I owe Etta. Just try."

Shep rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "I'll bring it to vote, but that's all I'm promising."

"That's all I'm asking. Thank you!" He grinned and clapped a hand on Shep's shoulder.

They both froze. Shep's pupils ate at the blue of his eyes, his breath becoming shallow and ragged. He covered the hand on his shoulder for a second, his palm sliding over the cool silver of Pretty Boy's thumb ring. He shivered.

"Listen, I gotta go." Shep's hand dropped and he stepped away. "Tell Etta you'll call her after the vote, okay?"

He nodded and watched Shep high-tail it out of there. Apparently, they wouldn’t be acknowledging what happened any time soon.

One tiny step forward. Four fucking miles back.

Chapter Eleven

 We don't kill for business; we kill to protect our own.

 And that shit's personal.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Shep was already on his way to Pretty Boy's trailer when Eddie's warehouse blew like it was the fuckin' Fourth of July. The boom nearly rocked him off his bike, the ground quaking under his tires. A plume of smoke, dark as a Texas twister. stormed across the sky, streaked with fire.

 He hadn't been able to shake the desperate feeling that something really fucking bad was going to happen all day. He tried to convince himself he was being paranoid. No one knew what had happened between him and Pretty Boy after hours at Perdition. So there'd be no fall out. But karma was a twisted bitch, and he'd learned the hard way she was out to get him.

He should have seen this coming. He'd been so focused on his own shit, he hadn't been thinking about the club.

He couldn't remember the last time that was true.

He pulled to a stop, letting out a low whistle as the flames climbed higher into the night sky. It had to have been that bastard, Beauregard. Taking out his competition's product stores.

Product stores.

Pretty Boy stored the packaged shine at his trailer. And he was her best salesman. If Shep was trying to put her out of business …

Fuck.

Shep had no memory of the rest of the ride to the trailer park. He could have teleported for all he knew—one second he was staring at Eddie's warehouse going up in smoke, the next he was kicking down his stand just outside the park. The air smelled like bad barbecue and a dark plume of smoke rose from the back corner. He grabbed his gun out of the saddlebag and tucked it in the back of his jeans.

As he approached the area, he heard voices. And punches.

His fists clenched. This was going to end badly.

The trailer was just bits and pieces scattered across the lot. Parts of the lawn were still on fire. Oddly, the faux picket fence remained untouched. Somebody on Beauregard's team had a way with explosives.

Good to know.

Black scorch marks streaked out from the remains of the trailer, speckled with chunks of what used to be furniture, pillows, clothes, toys—everything Pretty Boy owned in the world. Gone. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He rounded the corner and two muscled thugs came into view. Shep’s stomach clenched. They held Pretty Boy on his knees between them. Shep could smell the blood in the air over the smoke, even skulking behind the fence where he was. He clenched his fists. Beauregard—the bastard—faced Pretty Boy, wiping his knuckles on a bleached white handkerchief he'd pulled from his suit. His blond hair haloed his face, a mockery of the violence he inflicted.

He had his back to Shep.

The biker circled around behind the trailer, sneaking through the weed garden to hop the fence where he couldn't be seen. He approached carefully. The thugs were focused on their boss and Pretty Boy … was probably focusing on whether or not he still had all his teeth. Dammit. He had to come up on Beauregard slow. But that meant he wasn't going to be able to block his next shot.

"You realize we could have avoided all of this unpleasantness if you'd just agreed to sell for me." Beauregard sighed, sounding put upon. "A man with your skills? Do you know how much you could make with me? Enough to escape living in JoeBob's trailer park. Hell, you might be able to afford a home without, you know—wheels."

"Let me think about that," Pretty Boy rasped. There was a slash of blood drying on his lip. "On second thought, nah—you can still go fuck yourself."

Beauregard nodded at one of the thugs and they backhanded Pretty Boy across the jaw so hard Shep heard teeth clacking together. He couldn't have stayed put if he tried.

Pretty Boy started to shake and a low, choked laughter escaped his cracked lips.

"Never seen a fighter take a hit like you." Beauregard's tone was admiring. "Most guys start yelling, making threats and the like. Don't see a lot of them laugh when they're pissed off."

Pretty Boy rocked back on his heels, only wheezing a little bit. His eyes lit up, a wide smile curving his face.

"What's so funny?" Beauregard asked.

"For they know …" Pretty boy smirked.

Shep pressed the cold metal barrel of his gun into the back of Beauregard's head and whispered in his ear, "When their Shepherd is near."

Beauregard’s back stiffened. The clicking sound of guns being cocked as his men trained their guns on Shep, but he stood behind their fearless leader, careful not to give them a clear line of sight. "I don't think you want to do that, Shep."

"Like hell I don't. Nothing would please me more than splattering your brains in the dirt.”

"You shoot me and your body will hit the ground right after mine," Beauregard promised. He gestured to his thugs.

"As long as yours hits first, I can square with that. Normally I would tell you to look in my eyes to see how fucking serious I am, but as I have a gun to your head, you're not really in a position to comply." Shep dug the barrel in a little deeper. "So consider this. I'm an honorable man. And if I'm willing to shoot you in the back, shit just got real serious. You got me?"

Beauregard nodded slightly.

Shep's lips grazed the asshole's ear as he spoke. "If the next words out of your mouth aren't 'let him go', they will be your last and these will be mine."

"Let him go," Beauregard ordered, his tone clipped.

Shep eased back a bit, gun still cocked and pointed straight at Beauregard's thick skull, tracking him as he turned to face Shep. "Now, why don't you boys go on and get outta here, before I'm inclined to do somethin' stupid."

Beauregard—the jackass—smirked like he had a secret. "My, my, Shep. I expected this over what happened to Miss Eddie. But all this fuss over a prospect? Didn't realize how special this one was." He cocked his head to the side, glancing at Pretty Boy and then back at Shep. Shep could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to work out what exactly was going on between them.

Anger cramped his jaw muscle and Shep smiled. He touched the tip of his tongue to his eyetooth. Watching Pretty Boy knock some dickwad on his ass in the ring, all raw aggression and no fear got to Shep like nothing else could. His reaction to seeing Pretty Boy taking a punch while he couldn't fight back was just as visceral, but had a much darker bent. Even the 'better angels' of Shep's nature were bloodthirsty now.

 "My brothers are everything to me. If you would like a demonstration of my devotion, I'll gladly oblige you."

Beauregard waved his hand and his guys backed away from Pretty Boy, keeping their guns on Shep and looking to their boss. "I believe I mistook you for the voice of reason in your little organization. Always a little more reasonable, more patient, a little clever than the rest. I even heard you was a man of God once." He steepled his hands in a mockery of a prayer.

"You'll find I may have wandered astray of the straight and narrow." Shep moved a few steps back. "But some of the Good Lord's teaching stuck after we parted ways. I was always particular to the bit about wrath, if you take my meanin'."

"Astray of the
straight
and narrow?" Beauregard leaned forward, lowering his voice so his words stayed just between them. "How's the rest of the old MC feel about that?"

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," Shep said flatly, forcing his eyes away from Pretty Boy.

"I could use a man of your—how did you put it? Devotion?" Beauregard smiled. "I would reward your loyalty without judging you."

Shep shook his head. "I'm a Horseman till I die. And certainly until you die." He smirked. "'Specially if you keep yammering."

"Such loyalty. I wonder if you'll feel the same when you see how quickly they drop you." He raised a brow. "Once they know your little secret."

Shep tried to keep his face blank. The rumor that Beauregard's great granddaddy had sold his soul for that moonshine recipe was horseshit. The Beauregards
were
the devil’s spawn. "I’d mosey on outta here if I were you. My trigger finger's gittin' awfully itchy."

Beauregard's smile deepened and he didn’t seem a bit concerned about the pistol aimed at him. "Just remember, you always have a place with me."

"Trust me, I gotta real special place for you, too." Menace crept in his soft tones. "With lots of sun-bleached bones and coyotes to keep you company."

The bastard tilted his head and smiled wide, calling to his thugs, "C'mon boys, we’ve got more work to do. And it looks like we've overstayed our welcome."

Shep kept his gun trained on Beauregard until his SUV roared to life, then dropped to his knees next to Pretty Boy, who sagged against him. "Knew you’d … come for me, he choked out.

"Shut up." Shep checked his pulse and began checking his torso for injury.

Pretty Boy hissed in pain and wheezed, "Careful … ribs … broken …"

Shep sat back on his heels. "Which one?"

"Don’t know. All of 'em?" His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into Shep's arms.

"Pretty Boy?
Noah?
Noah!" Shep's heart pounded in his chest as he shifted Noah's weight to one arm and dug out his phone with the other to call 911. It never even occurred to him to call Duke and see if he thought he could handle it. "Hang on, ok? You're going to be ok."

Shep cradled him until the paramedics pried him out of his arms, certain of only one thing. Beauregard better pray that Noah was okay. Or Shep would come down on him with the fury of God's own fury, consequences to the club be damned.

Chapter Twelve

 We take care of our own. Period.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Pretty Boy glared at the man in the blue scrubs looking at him expectantly as he thrust forward an ugly, bleached wheelchair. "Abso-fucking-lutely not."

After four nauseatingly frustrating hours of arguing with hospital interns and tearing into anyone who dared look at him sideways, Shep finally got all the releases signed to take Pretty Boy out of the hospital. The guys and Eddie had all dropped by, sneaking him better food, giving him shit to stay occupied for the night. Eddie had left flowers. It hadn't been hell, and okay, so he'd kind of soaked up the attention and let himself be taken care of for a bit.

But that didn't mean he was riding out in one of those fucking things. And the asshole could stop looking at him like he should've known this was coming. Living poor didn't leave room for insurance—he was used to the 'treat and street' routine from doctors. He'd never had anyone pay his bill in full by the time they'd gotten the IV in before.

Hospitals sucked. Having brothers—family—that gave a shit? Worth the broken ribs.

Shep ducked his head in the room, twirling a pair of keys around his thumb. "Hey. What the fuck is the hold up?"

"I don't need no wheelchair." Pretty Boy crossed his arms, only slightly wincing.

"Sir, you have to, it's hosp—"

Shep didn't even wait to hear the nurse's riff on hospital policy. He grabbed Pretty Boy's hips, lined him up with the wheelchair and shoved him in it. "I don't have the patience for this. Shut up and let's go home."

"Sorry," Pretty Boy muttered, a little lightheaded. Shep had never been so touchy with him before. But then, it had been a long time since he'd seen the poor bastard this strung out.

On the ride home, Pretty Boy stared out the car window and sighed. "So, Coyote's just letting anyone drive his truck these days?"

Shep frowned. "I didn't even ask. They said you were ready to go and he handed me the keys."

Pretty Boy snorted. He lit a cigarette and cracked his window. "Christ that's good."

Shep shot a sideways glance at him. He was dressed in a pair of Shep's worn jeans with blown out knees and his faded Johnny Cash t-shirt. Pretty Boy shifted in the loose clothing. Usually he hated wearing other people's clothes. He'd dived through too many dollar bins at the Goodwill for it to ever sit quite right. Ever since he'd started earning on his own, his guiltiest pleasure was a brand new shirt off the clearance rack at WalMart.

But Shep's clothes? It felt good. Intimate. Comforting.

 He cleared his throat, flicking his ash out the open window. "So, I was just thinking about it. No one asked me where I was going to stay."

"You don't have to worry about that." Shep turned to look him in the eye for a minute before focusing back on the road.

"No, I know," he whispered. He'd pieced it together while he was waiting on the paperwork. His default was to start working on a series of couches to crash on, who owed him favors, who might need something he could provide. When the going got tough, the tough got hustling.