Holding On (Ruthless Sinners MC 2)

“Yeah, I remember.” I couldn’t help but get a kick that she liked my clothes as much as she did, especially when they swallowed her like they did. “I’ll try and find some more just like them.”

“Um-hmm.”

She sounded weak, like she was barely hanging on, so I reached over and placed my hand on her forehead and discovered she was burning up. Damn, that wasn’t a good sign, so I picked up my phone and messaged Doc to let him know we were on our way back to the clubhouse. As soon as we arrived, I got out of the truck and rushed over to the passenger side to get Remington. She was sound asleep and didn’t seem to notice when I lifted her into my arms. Her body was completely limp as I carried her down to the infirmary. When I walked in, Doc was there waiting for us. “Bring her over to the gurney.”

She was still out of it when I set her down. “What’s wrong with her, Doc?”

“Hard to say just yet.” He placed his hand on her forehead. “But if her fever is any indication, I’d say she’s got an infection somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I’m trying to figure that out.” He lifted her shirt and started checking the stitches at her abdomen. After they looked okay, he moved up to the wound near her collarbone. He pressed down on the red, swollen area and said, “I think this is our problem.”

“The sutures?”

“Could be or the fact she was stabbed with a dirty, fucking knife.”

I glanced down at her, and my chest tightened when I saw how pale and fragile she looked. It was hard to believe just a couple of hours ago she was sitting at the table with Ada and me. She seemed fine. Better than fine. I thought she was on the mend, but looking at her now, I realized just how wrong I really was. “She was fine a couple of hours ago.”

“Infections can take time to set in.” He rushed over to the cabinet and took out an IV kit as he said, “Regardless, she’s gonna need a rather strong round of antibiotics. Hopefully, that will do the trick, or I’ll have to open her back up so she doesn’t go septic on us.”

“Fuck.”

“I’ve got this, brother.” He nodded his head over to the door. “Menace was asking about you earlier. Why don’t you go see what he wants, and I’ll get with you after I’ve taken care of her?”

“Okay.” I reluctantly started walking over to the door. Just before I stepped out of the room, I turned back to Doc and asked, “Is she gonna be okay?”

“If I have anything to say about it, she will be.”

“Thanks, Doc.” I closed the door and rushed down the hall to find Menace. I’d just made it to his room when I heard him call out to me. “Yo, Shotgun! I’ve been looking for you.”

“I just got back. What’s going on?”

“We got ’em.”

I knew he was talking about Abernathy and McKinney. “Seriously?”

“Fuck yeah. ’Bout a half hour ago.” Looking quite proud of himself, he continued, “They were drinking down at one of their hangouts and were both feeling pretty fucking good until we tackled their sorry asses in the back alley.”

“Where are they now?”

“We took them down to your holding rooms.”

During my time as the Sinners’ enforcer, I’d constructed three different holding rooms filled with various tools and restraints I used to extract intel from assholes like Abernathy and McKinney. It was a place where I could cut loose and release my inner demons, and at that moment, I was eager to unleash those demons on the men in those two rooms. Not only did I want to make them pay for hurting Remington like they had, but I also needed to find out everything they knew about Long and that fucking Detective Mathews. “Give me a couple of hours.”

“You got it.”

With that, I turned and headed to the first holding room. When I walked in, I found Drake Abernathy standing in the middle of the room with his hands bound above his head. Like the picture Menace had shown me, the guy was young with tattoos covering his arms and neck. He was average-sized, several inches shorter than me, and about a hundred and ninety pounds with dark, beady eyes and a scar under his left eye. Menace and Country had roughed him up a little. He had a couple of bruises and scratches on his arms and face, but they were nothing like what he was about to get. A snarl crossed his face as I approached. “Who the fuck are you?”

Instead of answering, I slammed my fist into his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs, then stood there glaring at him as he tried to catch his breath. When he finally recovered, he spat, “You don’t know who you’re messing with, motherfucker. You and your boys have fucked-up big time. Fuck. You’re as good as fucking dead.”