Misfit (Death Dwellers MC #6) (57 page)

Cash raced behind the Torpedo motherfucker, ignoring the screams and squeals of patients, visitors, physicians, and nurses, not caring that he sent a food server sprawling, along with the tray she held. Fee’s image rose in his head. Bandaged and helpless in that fucking hospital bed, she touched a place deep within him, that only Stretch had ever reached.

For weeks, he’d managed to live without them, never thinking he might lose either of them in such an irrevocable manner as death. Now, managing to survive her attack, she was still in danger.

Rage bubbled up, overshadowing Cash’s crippling fear. Because he couldn’t imagine life without them, fear was his worst enemy. Besides, he had to concentrate on the immediate matter at hand—the motherfucker who’d walked into Fee’s room.

He and Outlaw had fanned out in the hallway, to head off the stupid motherfucker at the other side. With the square layout, centered around the nurses’ station and then the bank of elevators, it made sense.

Peeling alarms annoyed Cash. Voices blared over the intercom, calling for security and requesting all patients remain in their rooms.

The Torp reached the hallway for the elevator and Outlaw grabbed him by the throat. The asshole screamed at the top of his lungs, shocking the fuck out of them. Outlaw lost his hold on him, while a team of security rushed them from the opposite direction. The fucker leaped toward the stairwell door.

Outlaw didn’t hesitate, running after him, the glint of his nine flashing. Cash took off after them, their combined footsteps pounding on the concrete stairs.

Outlaw raised his gun.

“Fuck. Don’t, Outlaw,” Cash called.

The appearance of the Torp motherfucker infuriated Outlaw to recklessness. On the flip side, what kind of gall did that motherfucker have walking into Fee’s room? Cash felt like pulling too, except that shit landed you in jail.

He wouldn’t do well in jail. At all.

By the time they bounded down five floors and reached ground level, Outlaw’s piece had disappeared. Cash flew through the door and right into a line of hospital security and Portland PD, some of them wrestling Outlaw and the Torp to the ground while others drew their guns and aimed at Cash.

In the back of a police cruiser, hands cuffed behind his back, Cash cursed under his breath, thinking of Fee and Stretch. He better not leave her side. If these assholes were bold enough to go to her room, then who knew what the fuck they’d do.

They could’ve allowed the Torp to walk away, as if they’d never noticed his colors. But when a motherfucker took off running, it created a chain reaction. Assholes didn’t suddenly sprint away in a hospital unless he had fucked up intentions. He could’ve ran out of fear, but the motherfucker hadn’t been too scared to walk into the room in the first place.

Gun in hand, Stretch spun around, listening to the sound of the alarms and the voices over the loud speaker. He considered going after Outlaw and Cash, then changed his mind. Not only wouldn’t he catch up to them, he’d leave Fee alone and vulnerable. Cash and Outlaw could take care of themselves. Fee, on the other hand, needed him.

“Fuck!” Stretch cursed his injury and the situation. If he’d walked in on Counts stabbing Fee, he couldn’t have bested him in a physical match. He was a fucking cripple. Each time an emergency arose his handicap became apparent.

Have surgery, asshole.

Stretch shoved the thought away. His handicap didn’t matter. For Fee, he’d fight to the death. To protect her. To save her.

A sound behind him grabbed his attention. He realized the alarms had stopped and the intercom had silenced. What did that mean?

Fee grunted. Looking in her direction, he found her struggling to sit up, her face contorted in pain.

“Don’t move another fucking muscle, Fee.”

“C-Cash. C-Christopher. M-my help.”

“You’re injured. You can’t help them. Stay the fuck in that bed. They’ll be back in a minute.”

Hazy brown eyes narrowed. “N-need my h-help.”

Daring her to move, Stretch dropped into the chair near her bed. Before he spoke again, the door opened and a nurse walked in. The woman nodded to Stretch, then went to Fee, ignoring her frustrated look. She really thought she could get her little ass out of bed and help Cash and Outlaw.

What the fuck was she thinking? She was recovering. However, he understood. His liabilities frustrated him…His thoughts slammed to a halt.

In obvious pain, she wasn’t pitying herself or even thinking of herself. She was ready to get up and-and be his warrior princess.

Stretch sat in stunned silence, processing Fee’s attitude and his own.

Everything Cash tried to get him to understand hit Stretch. He could have surgery, continue with physical therapy, or just rejoin the land of the living. Believing he shouldn’t have pain wouldn’t be easy to overcome but he didn’t have to be such a whiny asshole.

Once again, he glanced at Fee as the nurse departed. Fee had already fallen asleep. That fast, she’d gone from struggling to move, to sleeping. However, watching her as the time passed and he waited for Outlaw and Cash to return did more for Stretch than anyone had in a while. In those moments, he realized he had no control over Hanson’s death or Fee’s attack. One had put him at the wrong place at the wrong time, and the other had him at the right place at the right time. The best time. Fucking serendipity. He’d saved Fee. Now, he had to save himself. Get his leg repaired, so he could stand proud. So he’d have the strength to defend himself and Fee, with or without a weapon.

She looked pale and delicate, reminding Stretch how fragile life was, but how strong
she
was. Her sweetness hid a will of tempered still. Unbreakable. Unshakeable.

What a mighty fine woman.

Standing, he went to her and touched her hair, finding it as silky as he remembered. He caressed her cheeks. Her lips. Lightly felt the bandages at her throat and knew he was being given a second chance at happiness. He knew she loved Cash.
Stretch
loved Cash, too. Like Cash, he was afraid of Outlaw, but he had to talk to Cash, tell him if he changed, then, maybe, Outlaw would accept them as a couple. Meggie would get him to accept them. They had to try, though. The alternative was living without each other, and Stretch no longer wanted that.

Taking her bandaged hand in his, he bent and kissed it. She’d been stabbed on her arms, legs, and thighs, sustaining defensive wounds to her hands. Noah was a fucking dead man. Stretch wished he’d be the one to avenge Fee with that fucking coward.

“Mr. King?”

Looking toward the voice, he found a detective staring in Fee’s direction. Even if he hadn’t had a badge clipped to his belt, Stretch would’ve recognized a cop.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Tracoli.”

Fuck. What did it mean to have a detective there but not Outlaw and Cash? He knew what that meant. Hours had passed without hearing from them. He wouldn’t panic. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m here to question you about the incident that started in this room and led to the arrests of Christopher Caldwell and Cash McCall, two fellow members of your gang.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Blabbing to the cops was a betrayal against club code, so he gave the only acceptable responses. “I didn’t see anything.”

Tracoli looked at Fee.

“She’s asleep, jackass.”

“I see.” Studying Stretch’s cut, the asshole gave him a long look.

Instead of shrinking away, Stretch stood taller, proud of his colors, the meaning of brotherhood.

The detective presented a semblance of a smile and held out a card. “If you recall that you
did
, in fact, witness something, give me a call.”

Smiling, Stretch ripped the card, allowing each piece to drift to the floor.

Tracoli offered a glacial grin and nodded. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised, and walked out.

Stretch reached for his phone.
Outlaw and Cash have been arrested, chasing a Torp who came to Fee’s room
, he texted Johnnie.

Stay with Fee. I’ll handle it
, Johnnie responded a moment later.

At the station, instead of being booked immediately, a cop removed Cash’s handcuffs and led him to an interrogation room. Of course, they’d question him. He wore his cut and the Death Dwellers had created a lot of fucking chaos over the years in Portland. Most recently, the bombing of the Torpedoes. They’d manufactured evidence to place the blame on another MC.
Still.
This was the opportunity of a fucking lifetime for some ambitious asshole.

After what seemed like hours, two detectives strolled in.

“Good evening, Cash,” the older one said.

Evening?
He’d been waiting for hours.

“I’m Detective Landry.” He pointed to the fresh-faced kid. “This is Detective Greenlee.”

Cash glowered at them. He might not want to go to jail, but he wouldn’t fucking turn on his club to stay
out
of the tank.

Detective Landry placed his ankle on his knee, imitating a casual pose. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Hear your side of things.”

“I want an attorney.” Lawyering up should’ve shut them the fuck up, but not these two, determined to achieve their fifteen minutes of fame off
his
ass. No fucking way.

“Making a terroristic threat is a serious charge,” Detective Greenlee added.

Fuck. A what?
To keep his expression blank, Cash clenched his jaw, ignoring how hot the room suddenly seemed as he turned the detective’s words over in his head. A fucking terrorist threat. Were they fucking serious? That shit carried jail time,
serious
fucking jail time. Forty fucking years at a minimum or some shit like that.

The two badges fell silent and looked at him.

“I want an attorney,” Cash repeated.

“Do you want to go down based on what Christopher said?” Detective Landry pressed.

“Fuck you.”

Detective Greenlee sighed. “Cash, do you really think he’ll take the rap? He says you ran after Scott and he came after you to protect you.”

As if. Not only
wouldn’t
Outlaw pass the blame, he wouldn’t even fucking talk.

“Nice try. Now, get the fuck out of my face. I’m not talking to you without my lawyer present.”

“Do you know Scott?” Landry shifted his weight.

No, he didn’t know Scott, but Cash assumed it was the Torp motherfucker.
Thank you, asshole.
He now had very useful information to assist in hunting Noah. He’d start by scalping and gelding
Scott. 

“Did you have a beef with Scott as Christopher said? Rival clubs.”

As Christopher said, huh? Outlaw knew
Scott
as much as Cash did.
Nice try, motherfucker.

Cash folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t talking, so there was no fucking need to waste his eyesight on those pricks.

“He’s not going to fucking talk,” Greenlee grumbled.

Chairs scraped on the floor, indicating the detectives were standing. A moment later, the snick of the door told Cash he was once again alone.