Ink (The Haven Series) (41 page)

***

He’d fucked up ... He’d fucked up so goddamn
bad
...

His heart was pounding in his chest, hard enough and loud enough for it to seem to him like it might even drown out the distinctive sound of the Harley pulling up in front of the studio. He was crouched behind a dumpster round the back, panting for breath and sweating so much he just had to pull off the ski mask. But the cooler air on his flushed face brought little comfort.

Racking a hand through his dishevelled hair, he winced and set about peeling off the glove on his right hand to assess the damage. He examined the deep, livid wound in the centre of his palm and had to bite his lip to keep from crying out when he clenched his fist anyway. In his mind, he deserved the pain - both for fucking up and for having ever let himself get caught up in this insanity.

Knowing he was dealing with a strong little bitch was one thing, he still hadn’t been prepared for her stabbing him with a fucking
pencil
of all things. Just like he hadn’t planned on losing his cool when things started to crumble. He’d panicked. He’d been out to prove himself and now one moment of recklessness was going to end up costing him everything.

He didn’t know what terrified him more - news of his screw-up getting back to the man calling the shots, or the Fallen killer coming after him. Not that the end result was likely to be too different either way.

The moment that knife sank into the girl’s chest had sealed his fate. Nothing could ever take that back.

***

“Blowing up in his face ain’t exactly gonna help the situation,” Sam sighed as he watched his even more stoic than usual brother simply turn on his heel and walk off, putting himself between the retreating figure and the hot-headed tattooist.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” Sketch rounded furiously on the well-meaning biker - despite seeming to know, probably only too well, that his anger was being misdirected. But just as quickly, he’d turned his back on him again and lashed out, punching the nearest wall in his frustration.

Eyeing the security guard who was not so discreetly turning his attention to them, Sam shook his head once in his direction and clapped a hand on Sketch’s shoulder to steer him firmly towards a chair. “Sit your ass down, man. You’re making the natives restless.”

According to the paramedics, beyond yelling at them to help the girl when they arrived at the scene – no doubt in more colourful language than they’d recalled – Colton, in contrast to Sketch’s current state, had given them no trouble. Although it sounded like the intensity of his vigil, as they worked to stabilise Callie for the urgent ride to the nearest hospital, had been more than enough on its own to leave them distinctly intimidated by the dangerously hard-faced biker.

Apparently he hadn’t spoken on the way, at least not beyond one brusque question on how she was doing. Instead, he’d just held her hand tightly and watched everything that was being done to try to help her. And now, faced with a tirade from Sketch the second they clapped eyes on each other in the middle of the ER waiting room, he’d borne it without reply.

To be honest, Sam had half feared that Colton was brewing to just quietly and without fuss slice someone’s head off. And that, in that moment, maybe Sketch would have seemed as good a target as any. Friend or not.

“That’s twice I’ve had to haul ass to this goddamn hospital this month, not knowing what the fuck I’m gonna find when I get here. That girl ... She gets shot at, her head split open, and now stabbed –
stabbed
, for fuck’s sake!”

“Shot at?” The long-suffering sergeant looked puzzled for a second, before it dawned on him and he
shook his head. “Jesus, Sketch, that was a lifetime ago! Build a bridge and get the fuck over it already. In case you ain’t noticed, we got more pressing concerns right now ...”

“Don’t pull that cute crap with me, blondie,” the near seething tattooist warned, raking his fingers through his short dreads in his agitation. “I ain’t some clubhouse bimbo.”

“No shit,” Sam sighed, dropping into another of the uncomfortable plastic chairs opposite him. “Come on, dude, I get that you’re upset, but there ain’t any point taking it out on Colt. You know he never woulda wanted this.”

“Didn’t stop him though. Dragging her into his shit. That fucking club ...”

“Hang on, you don’t know this is connected to the club. Could be anything. Could be a good ole fashioned break-in gone wrong. Beyond inking the guys, Callie ain’t involved in anything to do with the club – it ain’t like she’s an old lady, so there’s no disclosure and she ain’t gonna be on anyone’s radar.”

“Well, it sure looks like she’s on someone’s fucking radar to me!” Sketch snapped, quickly getting wound up again, only for Sam to reach across and push him back down in his seat.

“Are you
trying
to get us kicked outta here?” he demanded. “Christ ... Look, I know she’s like family to you and I get it. But she’s my friend too, okay? You think I
like
seeing her hurt like that? All I’m saying is ... ease up on Colton. You gotta know by now how he feels about her – even if he doesn’t. This is really killing him, bro ...”

Seeming to deflate in front of his eyes, Sketch wiped his hands over his face and forced himself to take a deep breath. When he looked up, the anger was gone to be replaced by something else. Something scared, but almost resigned. “There’s only one person this is killing,” he said bluntly. “And that’s Callie.”

Caught off-guard, Sam could only stare back at him in dismay before setting his jaw and shaking his head as he got to his feet again. “You can’t talk like that, man,” he said tightly, jabbing an accusing finger in Sketch’s direction. “You can’t give up on her like that!”

The tension was palpable and the guard was looking their way again, but the tattooist didn’t move from his seat.

“You should probably go check Colt ain’t terrorising the doctors,” came the flat response, after a long pause.

And, not knowing what else he could say, Sam went.

***

At the sound of boots behind him, Colton turned sharply from where he’d been staring out across the ambulance bay, his hands clenched into fists as they gripped the railing he was leaning on. He may have needed to walk away or risk planting a fist in Sketch’s big mouth, but he damn sure wasn’t going to let that shit get in the way of any news ...

“No news,” Sam said quickly, seeming to read his mind as he approached. “Not yet. How you holding up, bro?”

Colton shrugged. For once, he wasn’t even thinking about playing his cards close to his chest – he just didn’t know what the hell there was to say.

“You know Sketch is just freaking ‘cause he’s worried. His way of dealing.”

They’d been here before, albeit when the stakes were significantly less high, so he did know. But just like he knew it only hit a nerve because he feared there was more than a grain of truth in what had been said, whether in the heat of the moment or not. He’d been there. He’d been too late, but he’d still been there and it hadn’t looked like the botched robbery Sam kept trying to suggest. Nothing looked to be missing, the cash register hadn’t been touched, and it just felt ...
personal
. One way or another, he would find out the whole story though. Because he was going to track down the bastard who’d done this and he was going to make him sing like a little bird.

Right before he ripped his wings off. In a manner of speaking.

“I should be out there finding the prick,” he growled.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam shook his head, a serious look in his eyes. “You gotta be right here, dude. You gotta be here for Callie ...”

“Ain’t that the exact opposite of the truth,” Colton snorted bitterly. “Look, if this is supposed to be those goddamn gangbangers tryin’ to send some bullshit message to the club, we need--”

“Colt, for fuck’s sake, that girl’s in there fighting for her
life!
” Sam finally snapped, gesturing wildly as his voice got louder and louder and his tone got angrier and angrier. “Man the fuck up and get your ass in there! The club comes first – you think anyone knows that more than me? But it’ll deal, it always does. And it’s got me and Will, and Johnny and Jake, and a whole shitting clubhouse full of guys to make sure it does. Callie? She’s got Sketch climbing the walls in there and you stewing out here – she
needs
you, you asshole!”

For a long moment, Colton didn’t speak. But his dark eyes had widened barely perceptibly, taken aback as he was by the outburst from the usually easy-going sergeant. He’d never underestimate his brother’s deadly capabilities, he just wasn’t used to the show of temper. “You done?”

Seemingly defeated, Sam took a deep calming breath and nodded.

“Then go find that Dante guy and make sure he told us everything. I’m gonna go talk to a doctor – find out what the hell’s taking so long.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his brother’s mouth. “You got it, bro.”

***

At the exact same time that Colton was brushing a gentle kiss against Callie’s temple without caring who saw, as she was about to be wheeled unconscious into an elevator and taken for surgery, Sam was parking up his bike in the club's yard.

It had been a hell of a long night and, in the early morning light, he knew that crashing for even a couple of hours would have felt pretty damn amazing. But he had a job to do – as, by the looks of it, did the prospects who were already opening up the garage workshops.

“Bit early, ain’t it?” he commented, as he strode past on his way to the main clubhouse.

“Gotta take a look at the
Vegas bikes before they head out,” Dozer, who actually looked the most awake of any of them, filled in.

Sam stopped in his tracks. “They heading back?”

“Think they're needed at home,” Dozer shrugged. “Can’t have them breakin’ down on the way, ‘specially with just the two of them.”

“Damn straight,” the sergeant nodded, scanning his eye over the little rag-tag workforce. “So no half-assed job, you hear me? And I need to see Chip before they go, so if any of you lot see him in here, you get him to check in with me before you let his ass on a bike. You all got that?”

“Got it, sarge!” Dozer answered for all of them, snapping off a jaunty little salute before tossing a wrench to one of the hangarounds focused on tidying away discarded tools in the corner. “Here, catch – hey, watch it, shithead!”

The latter came as the wrench clattered loudly to the floor, making Sam wince and the others swear as the cringing guy it had been intended for stuck his bandaged right hand under his arm.

“Nice work, Dozy - throw shit at the fucking cripple,” Sam sighed wryly. “What happened to you anyway?”

“Caught it with a chisel,” came the mumbled reply.

“Do I even want to know what you were doing with a chisel? No, don’t even start telling me - I ain’t got time for this crap. Just don’t forget - you see Chip, you give him my message.” And with that, Sam was on his way again. Only something was already whirring in his brain.

Guy grabs for shit with his right hand ... Guy’s right handed ... Wouldn’t use a chisel with his left ... Or would he ...

It seemed like nothing. It probably was nothing. Except for that mumbled response, an uneasy look and a gut feeling. And one tiny detail that had grabbed him, even among the shock of the night’s events.

The pencil. They’d found it on the studio floor, gore over the sharp point. It had to be the pencil that the stunned customer who’d found Callie had blurted out that she’d apparently used to try to defend herself – by jamming it into her attacker’s hand.

His mind reeling, Sam forced himself to keep walking.

***

CHAPTER 48

It had been a helluva night, but the early morning light brought no reprieve. For anyone.

Callie’s emergency surgery had been a success – in so far as the long, delicate process to remove the blade brutally embedded in her chest went at least. But then her lung had collapsed. The doctors had been ready for that complication though. What they hadn’t banked on had been finally getting her to recovery, only for her heart to give out under the pressure.

Colton had been there. He’d been in the recovery area all along, since they wouldn’t let him go with her to surgery, pacing the floor as he waited and waited. That first glimpse of her, pale and fragile and hooked up to a dozen machines, had hit him like a punch to the gut. Yet it was nothing compared to the moment - just as he reached for her hand, warily eyeing the iv line – that she crashed right in front of him.

It felt like his own heart had stopped.

Under no other circumstances would he have allowed himself to be shouldered out of the way as he was, or to be bustled from the room and resigned to watching through a window as teams of doctors worked to save his girl. But, with waves of helplessness and anger washing over him again and again, he had known they were the only ones who could do anything to help her.

Dark eyes never leaving her, his hands had pressed against the glass, clenching into fists as the medics shocked Callie’s lifeless body over and over. They’d upped and upped the charge until it racked through her and sent her arching off the bed. Frozen beside him, his back to the window and his head down, Sketch hadn’t been able to even watch. Colton hadn’t blamed him - it had taken him every ounce of restraint he had to keep from storming in and levelling his gun at someone’s head to make them try harder.