Taken by the Bikers (Screaming Eagles MC)

“911? Are you nuts?” Hero throws me a glare like he suspects exactly that, though he looks drawn. Worried. “Assuming he doesn't die, they'll drag him off to stand trial for not doing anything. You don't think they'll side with the cops?”

“What if he dies here?” I snap back. “Then the trial doesn't matter, does it? He'd at least have a chance.”

Hawk's phone dings. “Doc's on his way. Cool your heels. If we need a hospital, he'll make the call.”

I feel a little useless now that I've helped the little I know how, but they don't make me leave. When I do, I'm sure I’ll be guided back to the storeroom anyway. They're not going to take their eyes off me again. I pull away from the bed a little, giving Viking space to keep the pressure up, while Bear's mopping Quickshot's sweaty brow with a damp cloth.

Hero drops into a chair and rests his face in his palms. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles while shaking his head. “He's just a fucking kid.”

Wild Child puts his hand on Hero's shoulder. “He's eighteen. You were grown up before that. Shit happens.”

“Grown? Maybe. My circumstances were different. I had to fight my way up. He just needed some direction. I'd figured he'd be pretty safe here.” Hero sounds heartbroken.

Wild Child laughs. “He was picking fights with everyone he met, including you. That's like picking a fight with a fucking locomotive. He was off the hook and look what joining the club did for him? You can talk to him now. That's your doing.” He squeezes Hero's shoulder.

“Sure doesn't feel like it. I should've pointed him at a youth club instead.”

King snorts. “Fuck that shit. He would've kicked the asses of everyone there, and come out of it with a jail sentence. You saved him. Fucking hero.”

“What the fuck do I do if he dies? His mom lives just down the street from mine. I don't want to be the one to tell her, but it'd be my responsibility.” Hero stands suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. He looks like he wants to punch something. “Fuck.”

“This isn't your fault.” King's tone is surprisingly gentle. “It's the fault of the guy who shot him. This is the wreck Hawthorne is making of the city.”

I look down at my bloody hands, not missing the symbolism. Blood on a Hawthorne's hands. Only mine's from trying to help, and that has to count for something, right? “That cop should be in jail,” I say.

“But he never will be, will he?” Hero growls. “Welcome to the land of the fucking free. Whatever. I bet you're fucking thrilled.”

“What? Didn't you hear me? I don't want anyone getting shot. I don't know Quickshot, but he seems nice enough. He argued for you guys, which I should appreciate. Otherwise I'd probably just have been shot and tossed in a ditch somewhere.” My fingers squelch when I squeeze them into fists. Gross. “You guys were the bogeymen when I grew up. I didn't have monsters under my bed. I had rabid bikers who would steal me off the street and do unspeakable things to me.”

“I'm good at unspeakable things, if you're interested,” says Wild Child with a smirk.

“Yeah, thanks,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. Of course, that only drags Wild Child's glance that way. “I'm good. If I need any unspeakable things, I'll make sure to ask anyone but you.”

Despite his sour mood, Hero chuckles. Wild Child punches the shoulder he was holding supportively only a few moments earlier. “Fuck off.” There isn't any real animosity in it, though. The longer I'm here, the more obvious it's becoming how close the guys are. Was it King who said something about finding your family? Was it them he meant?

The door bursts open, and in comes a stocky man with a tight, well-kept white beard and hard eyes. He's still wearing scrubs, but instead of Crocs, he's got motorcycle boots on. Tattoos around his wrists disappear into his sleeves. He takes in the room in a moment, then heads for the bed. “Let me take a look at him. Viking, Bear, stay with me. The rest of you, out.”

A moment later, we're all outside the door, and I don't know exactly what to do with myself.

King waves for me to follow him towards the bathrooms. “You can wash the blood out.”

Yeah, that'd be nice. Ugh.

Just before I enter, he stops me with a strong grip on my shoulder. For once, there's no accusation in his dark eyes. “Thank you. Quickshot's one of my guys, and he means a lot to Hero.”

“It was the decent thing to do.” Then I push the door open with my elbow and go looking for some soap and water.

13

EMILY

Grobnok the Barbarian slashes brutally downward, cleaving the slithering slug monster from right between its eye stalks to its mucusy foot muscle. With a wet squelch of separating flesh, it falls apart around Grobnok's blade. The nubile princess Clitoria—I kid you not—comes bouncing toward him, completely heedless of how her blouse has been torn away during the battle, her bouncing breasts large, but surprisingly pert. She wraps herself around him, her full lips and roaming hands promising the kind of reward only big, sweaty, loincloth-wearing saviors get.