Rage (Royal Bastards MC 2)

“Willa, go upstairs to our son,” I tell her. Milo’s face sparks with fury.

“Don’t fucking move, Willa!” he roars, waving his gun between her and me as I begin taking menacing steps toward him.

“Stop fucking moving,” he orders.

“Willa, you don’t have to fear this bitch. Go upstairs to our son,” I tell her again. She’s spent her life afraid of him, saw him as the boogeyman, and it fucking hurts more than I can stand that it took her away from me for so long. I understand the shit he pumped her mind full of, but I missed seeing my son growing up. He grew up, though. He didn’t burn in a fire along with her. They lived. They’re breathing mere feet away from me. I refuse to believe this is how it ends, by the hand of this lunatic. His finger gets twitchy as he aims his gun at me. He’s ready to shoot. His eyes go wide as they cut to Willa fleeing. He moves his arm forward slightly, and I take a shot, hitting him in the chest. His arm swings out toward me, but he flies back as Jameson swings out his leg, taking out Milo’s ankles. I’m on him in a heartbeat, plowing the butt of my gun into his nose, head, mouth.

Whack, whack, whack.

“Motherfucker,” I roar as his blood spurts out, decorating my face in the paint of this fucking war that’s been raging for over a decade. I drive all the pain, all the anger, all the suffering into his fucking face until I’m punching through his skull and he’s nothing but pulp.

I sit back on my haunches, my chest heaving, hands coated in skin, bone, and brain matter, reveling in finally ending this fucker’s life the way I wanted years ago, releasing the sorrow for the years I lost.

“Gabe, call my woman. I need this bullet out.” Jameson cringes. He’s pale, losing blood. Shit. Swiping the crap off my hands, I rip off his cut and tear through his shirt. “We need to get the bullet out now,” I warn him.

“Call Monroe, Gabe,” he wheezes.

“There’s no time.”

“Don’t you put those gross brain fingers inside me. Gabe…Gabe…argh, motherfucking cuuunnnttt…” His eyes close as the pain knocks him out. I dig inside, feeling it at my fingertips. “Come on, you bastard.” I grip it with my edge of my fingernails, pulling the fucker until it squelches out of the hole. Blood seeps in its wake. I ball up part of his shirt and push it against the wound. Pulling my cell out of my pocket with the other hand, I call in the doctor.

I need to move the body before she gets here or Willa sees. Laying Jameson’s cut over the ball of material to hold it in place, I grab Jameson’s feet, drag him to the doorway, lift him under the armpits, and wrangle him as delicately as possible into the truck. Fucker is heavy. His breathing is even, thank fuck. Next to his truck is the black sedan that has been following me. A spark of regret flares inside me. I could have ended that cunt months ago if I’d been more vigilant and caught him. Fuck him. Going back inside, I scrub down my hands in the ice bucket behind the bar and call upstairs.

“Willa, it’s Gabe. I’m coming up.” She appears at the top of the stairs, a bat in one hand, our son tucked under her other arm. “It’s okay,” I tell her, hating the way she’s trembling. “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “It’s over—for good this time.” I keep my voice calm despite my heart racing. She practically falls into my arms as a soul-shattering cry rips from her chest. The sound will haunt me for the rest of my days on this earth. “You’re safe, I promise.” And I fucking mean it. Nothing will ever break that promise. I guide them out of the back entrance and into Jameson’s truck. “Is he okay?” the boy asks, looking up at me for the first time. An overwhelming heat blooms in my chest. Green eyes the same color as mine peer up at me. It’s like looking at a reflection of a much younger me. “He’ll be fine.” I ruffle his hair, not knowing how to be around him. What am I supposed to do?

“James.” Willa smiles, her red eyes swollen. “Jameson is who you’re named after. Remember the stories I told you about your daddy and his best friend?”

“Yeah, you said they were soldiers.”

“They are.” She sniffles, cupping his face. “They are, baby. This is your daddy.”

Twiddling his thumbs, the boy looks down at the dirt and kicks at a stone before looking back up at me and saying, “Hi.” It’s simple, so fucking simple, and it makes me the happiest I’ve felt in an age.