Sugar (The Henchmen MC 12)

But I knew.

The second I felt it, I knew.

"You stupid fuck," I growled, making Peyton stiffen, seeming to sense in my voice that something was really wrong even as my arm pushed her forward, got her further away from him.

"You're the stupid fuck. Taking what was mine."

"Go," I told Peyton, gaze holding hers. I couldn't see what she could, but her blue eyes - she'd stopped wearing the contacts - were strange. I expected panic, fear, uncertainty. But what I found there was more like curiosity, assessment, and maybe even - if I wasn't completely misreading it - anger.

"What a stupid gun."

Yep.

That was my girl's comment.

Not to scream, beg, cry.

Nope.

Criticize the man's gun.

"Tell your bitch to shut her cunt mouth," he demanded, moving in closer.

"Yep, that's me. Miss Cunt-mouth," she agreed. "So, the greasy hair thing. Is that because you don't realize how disgusting you are or..." she went on, making me close my eyes for a long second, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to tell her to shut up.

"Not the time for a conversation on beauty tips, Peyt," I said pointedly.

"It's always the time for beauty tips. I mean leather? Real leather? In this day and age? Disgusting."

I didn't know if she was trying to distract him, confuse him, or both, trying to keep him engaged in her instead of me until someone walked past or something. But it seemed to be working.

The muzzle lessened just enough.

Enough that I could fly around, grabbing the gun and knocking it out of his hand.

I lost sight of Peyton as I fought my old president, finding him about a hundred pounds heavier than I remembered him, harder to push around. And, well, he had batshit crazy on his side in a fight as well. I didn't know what had happened to him, what had driven him mad, but it was right there in his eyes - wild and almost inhuman.

"Fuck," I growled when his fist caught me in the kidney, sending me down on the ground hard, clutching my stomach as the pain rolled through me.

And he was advancing on me, rambling, ranting nearly incoherently about his money, ungrateful bikers, loyalty, and something about the rally not going as planned as he reached back inside his waistband.

I'd gotten the one gun away from him.

But it seemed he came with a backup.

I tried to force my body to get up, to knock him off his feet, to do something.

But just when I saw the glint of metal in the moonlight, there was a bang - loud and unmistakable - and he dropped his gun, hands going to clutch a brand new hole he had in his gut, blood seeping deep red through his shirt, covering his pale hands.

Surprise seeming to bank down the pain, I scrambled up, grabbing his gun on the way as he fell down on his knees.

Keeping the gun aimed at my old president, my gaze went to find Peyton standing there, his gun in her hand down at her side.

And fucking smiling.

"I guess this makes me a ride-or-die bitch, right?" she asked, the gun still smoking in her hand.

Jesus Christ.

This woman.

My free hand ran up the back of my neck.

"Yeah, baby, this makes you a ride-or-die bitch," I agreed, watching as she beamed just a little brighter.

Reaching inside my pocket, I scrolled through my contacts, finding the right number, then hitting send.

"Got a problem, bleeding out from a gunshot wound to the gut," I said to Virgin who must have turned off the TV or something because it got quiet and a few guys grumbled. "Time to bring someone else in. We need some hands. And I need someone to take Peyton," I added, ignoring the look she was giving me. "Yeah, down by Jefferson in the alley between the old cleaner and the old..."

"New Age shop," Peyton supplied, even if she was still scowling at me.

"New Age shop," I relayed.

"Two minutes," I told Peyton, as if she needed the comfort of that.

"Well, if you didn't point your silly gun at my man, you wouldn't be hurting now," she said as my old prez started groaning, rocking a bit.

He wasn't going to make it.

Gut wounds got ugly.

All that nasty shit in the intestines seeped out and gave you a raging infection that killed you before they could even get a solid dose of antibiotics in you.

"Baby," I tried in what I hoped was a soft voice, trying to take her attention off the man bleeding and oozing to death on the ground by her. Right now, she was okay. Great, even. But once the adrenaline wore off, once the reality settled in, this shit was going to come back. The fewer memories she had of watching a man bleeding from a hole she put in him, the better for the processing of these events.