Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC): Vegas Titans Series Page 14

  There’s a buzzing in my ears and my skeleton feels like it’s shaking, but through the shock I’m hit with sudden clarity: Colt is using me as bait. I’m a sitting duck, and there’s no way out...other than falling down.

  “Colt, stop!” Dominic shouts. He stands, his frame filling the doorway. “She’s not the one you want. Take me instead.” Dominic throws his gun down on the ground and raises his hands in the air, a gesture of surrender. “I’m unarmed. I’ll trade you, me for her.”

  For the first time, I hear Colt’s voice. It’s cold and clear and high, raised in laughter.

  “This isn’t a negotiation, Thorne,” he rasps. “This is payback. You brought her into this, and neither one of you are getting out.”

  There’s another gunshot, and Dominic drops to the floor. Jesus! No. Has he been hit or did he duck? I can’t fucking tell.

  “Dominic!” I wail, pointlessly. No one can hear me.

  “You fucking bastard!” Dominic shouts, rolling to cover.

  Now I can’t see him. I’ve lost him.

  “You thought you could destroy everything I have, and I’d just disappear?” Colt shouts. “You thought it would be clean? This isn’t over until you’re both dead.”

  “You started this!” Dominic shoots back. “With your human trafficking and your fucked up club in my territory. You knew you’d never get away with it, that the Sons wouldn’t just disappear without a fight. You work for the devil, you pay the price.”

  Colt laughs again. “Sons of Lucifer. Leviathan Corp. Different names, same devil. Time to pay.”

  Another gunshot rings out, and another, snapping a second chain from the same side of my cage. The bottom pane of glass shatters, leaving nothing between me and the ground far below.

  Now only two chains are still attached and the cage begins to pitch to the side, uneven. The glass is smooth, there are no handholds, and I flop and tumble along the sloping surface as it tilts toward the ground.

  I’m sliding down.

  “Harper!” Dominic shouts.

  Screaming, I grab at anything—but there’s nothing. Before I can get a hold of the cage’s edge Colt fires again, severing a third chain.

  The entire cage is dangling from one chain, now, one corner of the cube anchored to the ceiling and the rest of the box spilling down. I wedge my legs and arms as wide as I can, trying to use my limbs as a plug to stop myself from tumbling out altogether. But my muscles are shaking with the effort.

  I can’t hold it.

  I’m going to fall.

  “No!” I scream! “Please!”

  My fingers are digging desperately into the thin seam of metal around the upper rim of the glass, my bare feet cutting in to the bottom edge, but I’m slipping.

  I hear more gunshots, but I can’t tell anymore who shoots at whom. There’s a splintering sound, like crystal breaking.

  “Harper!”

  Gravity suspends. Time stops.

  “Dominic!” I scream. “Help me!”

  I’m watching myself fall from far away, out of my body—like someone outside who has shaken a snow-globe: Harper is floating down, sparkling shards of shattered glass cascading around her like falling icicles. She looks so small, so thoroughly fucked.

  Someone is shouting. Someone is shooting a gun. But those sounds are distant, muffled by the fall and the cold and the shock.

  “Harper!”

  But then I hit something, or something catches me, and the quiet out-of-body peace implodes. All around me there’s crashing and glittering and darkness. I’m covered with something heavy, unable to see.

  I hear the tinkling of breaking glass splintering into the concrete around me. I feel the air knocked out of my chest cavity, like belly flopping into a pool.

  But while my fall is broken, my body is not.

  The dust settles, and I find myself curled in a ball, wrapped in Dominic’s arms. He’s caught me and thrown his body around me like a shield. There are bits of glass sparkling in his hair, all over his leather jacket.

  “Dominic,” I gasp.

  “Harper you alright?”

  We’re both breathless, somewhat stunned by the impact and the glass. And our reunion is cut short by more gunfire.

  “Find cover!” Dominic pushes me away like a hot potato and I’m rolling until I thump into something, an overturned table. I scramble behind it, only realizing once I’m safely hidden that Dominic hasn’t followed me.

  “Dominic?”

  Peeking out, I see him crawling through the glass, firing up at the balcony. He tries to stand but stumbles to the ground, groaning. I see him clutching his thigh.

  “Dominic!”

  I jump up to run to him but he waves me away. “Harper, run! Get out of here!”

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Colt growls.

  There’s more gunfire, this time in my direction.

  “Harper, get down!” Dominic yells.

  I scream and duck, throwing my arms over my head. When the blasts fall silent I hear running footsteps and look up, breathless. For a second I can’t see either of the men in the dark.

  “Guess you’re empty, Colt.”

  “Guessed wrong, Thorne.”

  There’s one final shot, then a groan. Then silence.

  “Dominic?”

  The footsteps resume, but it’s not Dominic’s footsteps that I hear. These sound like dress shoes. Colt has come out of nowhere, standing over Dominic in triumph.

  “No!” I shout, realizing that Dominic’s been shot.

  That Colt is beating him lifeless.

  My legs have gone wobbly, but I force myself to stand and stumble toward the sounds of punches and grunts. Dominic is down, and Colt is kicking him in the ribs, face, belly.

  “No!”

  I don’t even recognize my own voice, its primal war cry.

  I don’t even realize what I am doing until a huge shard of the shattered cage glass is in my hands, a lethal weapon. It bites into my skin but I barely feel it until I’ve jumped onto Colt’s back and I’m stabbing the glass down like a guillotine into his neck, pushing until I can’t push anymore, screaming for all I’m worth.

  The glass is cutting me, but killing Colt. All I can think is: stop him.

  There’s a horrible gargling sound. Colt’s body shudders and slackens under me until he falls to his knees. I tumble on top, my fingers still clutching the glass. Colt goes still, and I can feel the heat of his blood soaking through both of our shirts.

  He’s dead.

  Colt is dead.

  I’ve killed a man.

  I’m sobbing with effort and shock and pain, but the realization of what I’ve done propels me up and off the pile of bodies. Colt is lying facedown covering Dominic, who hasn’t moved.

  “Dominic?” I whimper. “Dominic, can you hear me?”

  Using all my strength, I roll Colt off of Dominic and frantically feel for breath, for a pulse.

  “Please, please, Dominic, please still be beating.”

  There it is, his pulse - faint, but present.

  “Thank god,” I murmur.

  But he’s unconscious. This isn’t good.

  In the dark, it’s impossible to see where he’s been shot.

  “Flashlight,” I remember. He had a flashlight.

  I grope blindly along the dark ground, shards of glass cutting my already bleeding hands. It takes what feels like a lifetime, but I finally find the flashlight and switch it on, pointing it at Dominic.

  He’s covered in blood and I almost vomit before reminding myself that it might not be his; Colt bled out all over him.

  Scrambling closer, I rub Dominic’s skin gently, trying to find a wound.

  “Please, baby,” I beg.

  His head is ok, but there’s bad swelling on one side from being hit. His neck is fine too. I can’t find a bullet hole in his chest, but it feels like a rib or two are broken. Finally I find a wound in his shoulder and one in his thigh, close to the hip.

  There’
s so much blood.

  “Jesus, please, no,” I pray, using my hands to try to plug the wound. I can feel his blood oozing between my fingers. “No, please god, no.”

  Like an answer to prayer, I hear the sound of salvation: motorcycle engines just outside the Depraved Club warehouse, roaring closer every second. It must be the Sons.

  “Help!” I scream.

  I can hear men’s voices, and I recognize Dirty and Charlie Foxtrot’s shapes in the doorway. Of course Dominic would have called the club to meet him here. Of course they would be coming, just in time.

  “Over here!” I shout, desperately. “Dominic’s shot, bad! Hurry!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Harper

  The clock on the wall is torturing me. I’m convinced the second-hand is telling hours or days, not seconds. Time stopped when Dominic went in to surgery.

  Peering through the blinds, I see that darkness has fallen outside. It’s at least midnight. In spite of the stress and the waiting my stomach growls to remind me that I’ve had nothing to eat all day. As if I could possibly eat.

  I’ve given up fidgeting and pacing. Now, I’m draped over a waiting room chair like a limp rag, helpless to speed up the grim march of time. Literally all my fingernails are chewed off and I can’t feel my face from crying.

  When the door to the makeshift operating room opens I spring up from the chair, almost afraid to find out the results.

  “How is he?” I hear myself whisper.

  Charlie Foxtrot, Grindhouse Gus, and Dirtbeard rise to stand too, towering at either side of me like bodyguards.

  They look almost comical here, their huge bodies too large and too muscular to be in this tastefully decorated private practice suite. I’m amazed Dirty’s weight didn’t snap his chair like a matchbox.

  Their Sons of Lucifer colors, leather jackets, and tattoos are a jarring juxtaposition with the fine art on the walls and the slender, mid-century waiting room furniture. This should be the poster for a reality show or something—motorcycle clubs meet the old money set.

  The thought almost makes me laugh, but as funny as the MC guys look here I can’t manage to smile; they are just as scared as I am, just as pale, just as desperate for Dominic to pull through. Grindhouse Gus is holding his bandana in his hands, twisting it anxiously.

  The doctor blinks at the club-members with piercing blue eyes full of suspicion and distrust. With a weary sigh, he pulls the mask off his face and smoothes his moustache back in place.

  “He’ll live,” the doctor announces.

  There’s a collective collapse as all of us breathe deeply for the first time in hours.

  Grindhouse crosses himself, drawing a raised eyebrow from Dirty. Charlie is nodding, his face rigid in an attempt to hide emotion. I can’t feel my cheeks, but I’m vaguely sure they’re stretched in a smile. Dirtbeard gives my shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

  “Luckily, the bullet in his shoulder passed through cleanly. And the bullet in his thigh missed the femoral artery,” explains the doctor. “However, that bullet did manage to lodge in the femur and cause splintering and internal bleeding. A fasciotomy put that to rights and the bleeding has stopped, but the wound is serious. Otherwise, he’s stable but badly beaten. Three broken ribs, a cracked radius, and a minor concussion.”

  Holy fuck.

  “He’s young and in good condition,” the doctor concludes. “With proper rest and physical therapy he should make a full recovery.”

  Charlie Foxtrot drops back into his chair with a groan of relief. “Thank god we don’t have to find a new president,” he says, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

  Dirty smacks him over the top of the head.

  “Ow,” Charlie complains.

  I shoot Charlie a look and get back to business, giving the doctor a wan smile. “How long do you think his recovery will take?”

  The sharp blue eyes fix on me with a flicker of disdain, their cool intelligence both tired and irked. I feel his judgment deep, deep in my bones.

  “Oh, a few weeks,” he says. “Months, maybe. Depends on the level of care and patient cooperation. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He turns his back to me, and I gather my courage.

  “Dad,” I gulp, halting him. “Can I come in with you and talk to you, privately?”

  The doctor gives me a cool, sidelong glance over his shoulder before shrugging and walking ahead of me, propping the door open behind him with his foot.

  “Guess that’s a yes,” I mutter, following.

  My father’s private practice is small, only three exam rooms, a hall, a reception area, and a waiting room. He’s only there two days a week, when he’s not at Moutainview Hospital or board meetings, but he still dropped everything to open his doors and convert the place to an emergency surgery for Dominic. He didn’t ask why we couldn’t go to the hospital: he just did what I asked.

  He answered my desperate call to help. He just saved the life of the man I love. But he seems to be having trouble looking at me.

  Reminding myself of this, I take a deep breath.

  “Dad…”

  “You’re covered in blood,” my father comments, his back to me. “His?”

  I don’t answer, instead pulled toward the patient’s bed. The tiny exam room is unrecognizable to me: everything’s been sterilized and moved around. In the middle of the room, Dominic is laying still on a hospital bed, sleeping peacefully. His thigh is wrapped and raised, his eyes closed. A huge bandage covers his shoulder, but his bare chest rises and falls with steady breath.

  The sight of him pricks my eyes with tears, and I can feel my face crumpling as I brush my fingertips over his lips.

  “Sit down, Harper.”

  My father’s voice is soft but firm and I react habitually, seeking to obey. There’s a steel chair in the corner and I plant myself in it, watching while my father and his nurse continue to clean up and put the room to rights.

  Once everything’s been stripped and changed and cleaned, my dad waves the nurse away and we are left alone. He leans against the sink, staring at me.

  For a moment, neither of us seems to know what to say.

  “Doctor Augustus Rothschild Sinclair,” I manage, “Thank you. I can never thank you enough for what you’ve just done.”

  “No, I suppose not,” my father replies coldly. “But perhaps you could favor me with an explanation: gunshot wound, gang members. Tell me what this is about.”

  “I think I’d better not,” I say.

  His moustache is twitching the way it does when he disapproves, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he rummages in the cabinet behind his head for some supplies.

  “Let’s see to those hands of yours.”

  My hands—I’d forgotten about them. I hold them out for inspection and my father removes the Band-Aids I’d slapped on, examining the cuts I received from the glass at the Depraved Club. Without comment, he douses them with iodine. It stings like a motherfucker.

  Then he reaches for a needle and thread.

  “Woah, stitches? No painkiller?” I object.

  Surprising me, my dad pulls a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet.

  “I didn’t think whiskey was approved by the American Medical Association anymore as an anesthetic, Dad.”

  He surprises me even more by taking a swig himself before passing me the bottle. I drink, aware of his sharp gaze on me all the time. When I set down the bottle he takes my hands in his, studying the cuts. Something drips onto my skin, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s his tears.

  “Dad,” I whisper. “What is it?”

  But far be it from a Sinclair to answer a direct question.

  “Your brother told me about your confrontation the other day,” Dad says. “The gentleman he described as your client, is that this fellow?”

  I swallow and nod. “Dominic, yes. He was my client.”

  “Among other things?”

  When I don’t deny it, it’s a heavy moment and I try
to shift the focus. “We settled the case yesterday, Dad. A huge success. Next, my firm will be taking down one of the largest crime corporations on the eastern seaboard, largely thanks to Dominic and his work.”

  “Your brother mentioned this person and you have a history.”

  So changing the subject didn’t work. “My brother is an asshole. But, yes, that’s true. A history, and a future.”

  The statement hangs between us while Dad makes the first stitch in my skin.

  Gritting my teeth through the pain, I can’t stop my own tears from falling.

  Dad’s eyes flicker up to my face before returning to his work. “It doesn’t seem wise, Harper, your involvement with this type of man. What kind of scum gets himself shot and beaten in the middle of the day, and drags my daughter into it? It’s unforgivable.”

  “Dad, he saved my life today.”

  “I’ll be damned if I allow my only daughter to permit herself to sink into an abusive situation while there’s breath in my body to fight against it.”

  At that, I jerk my hand away and hiss, “You’ve got it wrong, Dad. Dominic is not scum! He’s brave, and just, and strong. He’s done more good—god, you don’t even remotely know what type of person he is! You’re just like Haden, judging people based on their bank accounts. It’s not right!”

  “Harper, I didn’t mean—”

  “You don’t know him, his courage, his loyalty. I love him, Dad. I’ve loved him since I was eighteen, and now I finally get to be with him, and I almost lose him. You don’t know how scared I was today. You have no idea.”

  “Harper, let me—”

  But I’m on a rampage now and can’t stop to listen. “I’m so grateful you saved him, Dad. I am! But I’m afraid today is probably not the end. We won our case, but there’s another case we were working on together—taking down an international human trafficking syndicate, dangerous people. They’ll be after him, after us. But Dominic isn’t dangerous. At least, not to me. Dominic would never abuse me. He saved my life today, Dad. He saved me.”

  My father sighs and raises his eyebrows, gently taking my hands back and silently wrapping them with clean gauze. When he’s finished, he holds my hands lightly in his.

  “It seems to me, you’re the one that saved Dominic,” he says.