Cash (The Henchmen MC 2)

“Wasn't Breaker,” Eli, the quietest, but also the most lethal of the brothers, spoke up confidently. “He's a hands-on kinda guy.” His eyes met mine and held. “People recognize their own kind,” he explained, looking down at his hands for a second. “You told me that Lex was beaten to death in an alley, then yeah, you can point at Breaker. But placing bombs? Too impersonal. Not his style.”

“I'll get in contact, feel things out,” I said, starting to feel bone-deep tired. There was fucking too much going on with the bombs, the accusations, whatever the fuck was going on with Lo... all of it. It needed to get it all the fuck sorted out so things could go back to normal- drinking, and riding, and women.

We walked back out to the car a few minutes later, Repo taking my glare with a defiant chin raise. “Think next time you share information with me before sending me in there and making me look dumb, yeah?”

He stopped at the passenger side of the car, arms spread out over the roof. “Don't blame me for you dropping the ball. There's bombs and you take off the next day and no one sees you for hours?”

“Careful, kid,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my head on straight. I was tired, I was confused, and I was in no position to get into a fight with one of the men, especially considering that he was absolutely fucking right. I should have been at the club. I should have been there setting things to right the second I knew there was a bombing, not fucking around at Hailstorm. I should have been gathering information, not undressing Lo.

“Ain't calling you out,” he said, holding up his hands. “Just pointing some shit out before someone else starts saying them in less of a brotherly way.”

“Cut me some slack this week, Repo. Got a lot of shit I'm dealing with.” With that, and no further explanation, I drove us back to the compound. I showed my face for a while, talking to the members hanging around, making sure no one could say I wasn't there for them.

Finally, around dinner time, I got back in Lo's car and went back to my place to find her still passed out. So I ordered food and waited.

She must have woken up startled by the unfamiliar surroundings, flying up, forgetting about her ribs. The cry she let out had me running up the stairs, stalling outside the door to give her a second to pull herself together. If there was one thing Lo had in spades, aside from the best rack I had ever seen, it was pride. She would never forgive me for seeing her when she was upset.

Watching her slowly lift up my tee and bunch it under her tits... fuck, fuck me. I tried to keep my eyes down, to focus only on the nasty bruises across her ribs. But, well, I was a man after all and she had the fucking perfect body- long, strong legs, flat belly, flare of hips, and she had her hands just high enough for me to see the soft underside of her perfect tits. It took every damn bit of self-control I had to not let my fingers brush there.

She followed me downstairs a few minutes later, wearing nothing but my oversize tee and those black panties with the pink lace trim.

“I got a bit of everything,” I said, unable to let any silence hang for too long. I was used to different types of women- women who liked to talk and bitch and fill the silences. Lo seemed perfectly content to not say anything at all and I wondered if that was just how she was- guarded, private, introspective or if it was from spending so much time around her men at Hailstorm.

She reached into the brown bag, pulling out white take-away containers, opening the tops, and setting them in the middle of the table. I watched as she took a plate and loaded up, feeling myself grin when she took enough to feed two growing teenage boys.

“What's your poison, Lo?” I asked, moving into the kitchen for drinks.

“Beer is fine if your taste is as good as your brother's,” she said and I watched as she stared down at the dining table for a minute before deciding to move over to the living room and plopped herself down on the couch, reaching for the remote, making herself at home.

I gave her beer, made my plate, and sat down next to her, looking at the survivalist show she picked off of on-demand. “So are you going to tell me what favor you are calling in?”

“I want to talk to Reign,” she said, staring pointedly at the TV.

“Honey,” I said, sitting up and placing my plate on the coffee table, “I'm the one who got you somewhere safe, got you some medicine, let you sleep, wrapped you up, and fed you. You don't think you can tell me why I needed to do all that?”

“Cash it's...”

“Lo,” I cut her off, shaking my head.

She sighed, putting her plate down, almost all eaten. She probably would have finished it if I hadn't distracted her. She took a breath before she turned to me. “Cash, I run a survivalist camp full of ex military who are really, really good at killing people in various ways. I didn't get to where I am today without making a shitton of enemies. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, they pop up and create trouble.”

“So that's all you're going to give me?”

“It's all I have to give. I was in my safe house. It was dark. I have a general description and the direction he took off in. The gang that runs that street are looking for him too.”

“Seriously? I mean I know you keep a lot of shitty company, Lo, but a street gang?”

“They bought me medical supplies,” she defended. “And they said if they got their hands on him, he'd be identifiable by dental records only.”