No Man's Land: A Rebel Wayfarers MC & Incoherent MC Crossover Novel Page 3

  If the Jailbreakers were on lockdown with families in play, that meant— “Graceless. His ole lady? Is Dottie—”

  Pickle’s head went side to side, and Rampage made a pained sound. “Fuck.”

  I’d sat at their table for many a meal, her softly scolding Roger, Graceless’ government name, about his manners. Dottie was a sweet woman who worked hard and loved the club nearly as much as her ole man had.

  “Where’d they leave her?” I hadn’t seen her at the shack. Only two rooms and both mapped easily even in my state. No way I would have missed seeing her if she were there.

  “Tow driver called it in about thirty minutes ago. He was picking up an abandoned car and found her in the back seat. No doubt they did her after they got what they really wanted.” I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Pickle’s clear pain. “From what was said, it was quick at least.”

  Sometimes a body had to take comfort in the small things.

  Rampage asked the room, “Know where the EMT’s at?”

  Two men pointed towards a hallway, and one said, “Second door on the left.”

  That short pause had settled into my bones, and it turned out starting walking a second time was so much harder than the first. My heavy head dragged at my neck, and I watched my boots stumbling and twisting underneath me until I was walking on air, leather of my soles never striking the floor as my brothers took my weight, lifting me up.

  The room swirled, corners coming close and receding in turn until I was disoriented. A high bed stood central to the space, and along the walls were cabinets with sinks and drawers. It looked like a clinic, and that struck me funny.

  I heard Pickle’s muttered question, “What’s he laughing at?”

  “No idea. He’s been in and out of it since we got there.” Ears buzzing, I nearly missed his next words as the bed came up to meet my back. “It’s a goddamned miracle he made it.”

  My gaze stuck on a dark spot on the faraway ceiling, a fleck, a speck, a tiny dot of something that grew until it swallowed me whole.

  Into the Darkness

  Talia

  When Talia’s brother had first called, she’d been annoyed at being woken in the middle of the afternoon. Working third shift on the ambulance meant her days only held the most restless of slumber, and she had been chasing a sweet dream before the jangle of his ringtone dragged her back to consciousness. They had a texting relationship, and she knew he wouldn’t dial unless it was dire, so she’d shoved that irritation down and answered.

  Three minutes later, she’d dashed water in her face and shoved her feet into utility boots on her way out the door.

  Ewell had launched his MC years ago, needing to surround himself with strong men with morals. Their neighborhood growing up hadn’t been the best, and he’d wandered down a bleak path for a very long time, finally dragging his life out of the darkness by strength of will. The club provided the framework to be the man he should have always been, and he saw it as a chance to give others the same opportunity.

  They were the Jailbreakers, and their name didn’t refer to any bent towards busting brothers out of jail but focused on tearing down the prisons men made for themselves. The learned behaviors that conspired to send them behind bars again and again. If Ewell, known as Sparks to his men, could put a stop to the cycle, he could keep more men free—like him.

  As a male-dominated club, they’d had their fair share of altercations. When she’d gained enough knowledge from her studies to be useful, Ewell started calling her for help as needed. For a long time, she had gotten more practice stitching up his men than the pig feet the medical school issued. She gained her EMT license, ready to work the rest of her way through school. With the club’s frequent need for assistance, she’d been doubly glad for the breadth of knowledge since.

  As the club had grown, so had the scope of the altercations, until they no longer had one-on-one fights but club versus club. Ewell and his men knew outing her as their medical professional would scrap her license and ruin her professional plans, so they were careful to keep Talia hidden from all but the most trusted of their friends. Seeing how Ewell had developed into a mentor for his men, maturing in ways she hadn’t thought possible, she’d do anything for the club.

  After arriving at the clubhouse today, she’d laid out supplies based on threadbare information. Male victim—duh, it’s always the men—gunshot and stabbed. Talia’d been making coffee when the unmistakable sound of women and children trickled in from the front rooms. Having family at the compound wasn’t unheard of since the Jailbreakers were family oriented, but with her being called in too, this was unusual enough to note.

  When a mass of motorcycles had roared up, she’d watched through the window as a van had driven into view and immediately been surrounded by Ewell and his men. More men in black leather vests crowded around, all bearing the patch of the Incoherent MC, another club with roots in the area. What in the world? The back doors opened, and she’d gasped. There were six boots in view, three pair, toes up, all unmoving.

  Ewell greeted one of the men, and there was a muted mumble through the glass of the window as they briefly discussed something; then the van shifted and moved. A moment later, three men came around the side. The two on either side of the one who was clearly her patient held him upright, and he seemed barely conscious until he stopped next to Ewell. His head lifted and he said something.

  He was gorgeous. Dark brown hair hung down either side of his face, and the apparent pain he was in made his brows gather together. With widely spaced dark eyes framed by cut cheekbones, and the added enhancement of a trimmed beard a shade darker than his hair, this man was everything any woman could want. His surge of energy faded as the moment ended, and his helpers started towards the front of the house.

  When she rounded the corner to the hallway by the treatment room, she pushed past the men crowded around the door to the place she thought of as hers, shoving between them without apology. They were between her and the patient, and all she could think of was what she’d already heard and seen.

  Women and children in the clubhouse unexpectedly.

  Three dead men.

  For some unknown reason, a friendly but rival club had brought those men here to her brother.

  One of theirs was walking wounded, a man who, despite his clear pain and exhaustion, paused to pay respects to Ewell.

  It all added up to something very bad going down, and she and her brother’s club were right in the middle of it.

  ***

  Talia

  Inside the treatment room, the men positioned the injured man on the table as she pulled on gloves. My patient. He was out, which she decided to count as a boon. From the amount of blood soaking his clothing, she wanted him as calm and peaceful as possible.

  “What happened?” Prepared for the need to cut his clothes off for treatment, Talia approached the table with scissors in hand and was surprised to find them plucked from her grip. Whirling to glare at the man who held them overhead, she snapped, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “His cut stays on.” He gave her nothing more than that, and she let her gaze drop to the man’s nameplate.

  “Pickle?” He nodded. Without looking, she pointed at the man on the table behind her. “You want me to help him?” Pickle’s mouth pulled to the side, but he nodded. “Then you got to trust me.”

  “His cut stays on.” Now the other man in the room chimed in, and she tossed a dark glare his direction. “Sister.”

  Breaking the stare, she lifted a hand and tried to hide her surprise, thumbnail scratching her eyebrow. She knew from Ewell what this man had just called her was as much an honorific as ma’am. Pulling in a deep breath, she rolled her lips and shook her head, huffing air out her nose.

  “You’re already on my last nerve.” There was a chuckle from the doorway, where Ewell parted the crowd and walked in. Ignoring the men who were frustrating her, she barked out, “They won’t let me treat him. Why did you call
me here if I’m not going to be allowed to do my job?”

  “Sparks.” Pickle addressed her brother, and she knew she’d lost any ground she might have gained. Men. “His cut stays on.”

  “Then his cut stays on.” Ewell slipped an arm around Talia’s waist and tugged her sideways for a hug. “But you get the fuck out of my sister’s way and let her do her goddamned job.”

  Pickle shoved the scissors her direction, and she yanked them from his hand with her own version of a biker’s scowl. Turning back to the table, Talia was once again struck by how handsome the man lying there was. But he was also pale, tinged with gray, and she knew she had to get to work.

  One arm of his shirt had been ripped wide, with a makeshift bandage placed around the bicep. The hidden wound seemed to be the source of much of the blood soaking his clothing. Upon closer visual inspection, she saw a smaller tear in the fabric along his side, also surrounded by a decent amount of blood.

  The second IMC member crowded close, and Talia flicked her hair back with a huff, glaring at him. This man, Rampage by his nameplate, gave her a concise rundown she didn’t expect, ratcheting up her opinion of him by about a dozen notches.

  “Upper arm is a GSW, through and through. He's got a stab wound in the abdominal upper-left quadrant by what appeared to be a ten-inch double-edged blade, removed before we arrived on scene. He’s presenting with tenderness on that side, but there’s also significant contusions indicative of blunt force trauma. Closed head injury with one distinct subdural hematoma and a secondary smaller one, both without palpable skull fractures. Respiration, pulse, both within normal range. Nominal confusion, but he’s been in and out. Pupils normal and reactive, when he’s got his peepers open.” Rampage paused a beat then said, “If you’ll pass me the scissors, I’ll get his shirt off under his cut so you can look at his side.”

  Wordlessly, Talia handed them over, then ignored him working on the other side of the patient while she untangled the knots holding the strips of fabric in place on his arm. They worked together like that as she cleaned the hole bored through the flesh of the patient’s arm before using tidy stitches to close the wound.

  She had just finished bandaging the arm, about ready to move to the stab wound, when the man groaned and his eyes flickered, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. She bent over him with her hand on his other shoulder, prepared to hold him in place if he woke up combative. His eyes opened halfway, sleepy and unfocused, and so dark blue it was as if a piece of the evening sky had fallen there. Up this close, the dark hair at his temples was springy, curling in Florida’s ever-present humidity. His gaze latched onto her, and Talia forgot to breathe. Even in this state, his stare was powerful. One corner of his mouth curved up, and he blinked languidly, as if nothing was going on, as if he hadn’t been beaten, shot, and stabbed and wasn’t still bleeding on her table.

  “An angel,” he murmured, and a weight landed on the back of her neck. His hand curved around and pulled down, down, down, until her lips brushed his. Gentle and soft, more a yearning caress than a kiss—still the electricity that sizzled through her was raw and powerful. Then he relaxed, losing consciousness again, eyes drifting closed as his hand fell away.

  “God damn you, Hitch,” Rampage muttered as she straightened. Talia turned to look at him, startled. He offered a wink, mouth twisted in a fake pout. “Even half dead as he is, he finds the prettiest woman in the room to hit on.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” Men.

  He ducked his head, and she turned back to Hitch—her patient.

  ***

  Hitch

  Voices faded in and out. Whispers and murmurs, rough rumbling conversations that hovered on the edges of my mind. I was dreaming, but it felt so real, and I knew in my gut I was safe.

  “Without imaging, I can’t know for sure what kind of internal damage has been done.” The woman’s words were stark and spare, no discernable accent, but that was the norm for this stretch of Florida with such an influx of people from all over. Finding a true Floridian was rare.

  There was the tiniest catch in her voice when she said, “The trajectory means it’s likely low enough to have missed his kidney, spleen, pancreas, and stomach, but unless you let me take him to the hospital, we can’t rule out bowel involvement.”

  Uh, nope. Not happening. They couldn’t take me to a hospital, not without causing a whole lot of trouble. Even if I went on my own, given who I was and the club I claimed as my home, there’d be questions, an investigation, and the last thing any man like me wanted to do was invite the po-po all up in our shit.

  My eyes wouldn’t behave, staying stubbornly closed against all my attempts to pry them open. Same with my lips, those damned traitorous bastards.

  A touch against the side of my face jolted me, the cool glide of a hand up and over my brow, then down along my cheek. The contact felt so good I wanted to lean into it, make it stay. There was a dusting of a caress across my lips that stroked my memory.

  There’d been a woman. So goddamned beautiful, leaning over me. Dark hair twisted into a ponytail over one shoulder, she’d stared into me with her gorgeous brown eyes, sinking so deep I knew she’d seen the dark stains on my soul.

  I’d kissed her. Kissed her and felt a connection that yet pulled at a space in my chest I’d thought forever empty.

  The sounds became a mumbled buzz before thinning out to nothing.

  My last memory was something I held tight to as I slid back into the darkness.

  She’d kissed me back.

  She’s an Angel

  Talia

  She stared at Ewell, worrying the edge of her lip with her teeth. He knew enough to give her a little space so she could think through his request to stay at the clubhouse for the foreseeable future. He’d backed off a couple of steps to have a quiet conversation with two more IMC patch wearers who’d shown up not long ago. One was nondescript, a man who looked like he’d had a hard life but wasn’t bitter about it. The other practically oozed danger. It flashed from his eyes when he’d stalked in, owning the room, no matter it belonged to her brother and his club. Bearded, long dark hair tied back into a thick braid, and even clubbed at the end it hung to the middle of his back.

  She angled her gaze to where Hit—her patient was resting. It had become harder to keep a distance since he’d kissed her, but Talia was determined to be as professional as possible. He grimaced, muttering something unintelligible, and she pressed a hand to his forehead again. Still cool, thank God. Not only had Rampage opposed calling an ambulance—oh, the irony, since we’re both EMTs—but so had her brother.

  “Talia?” Ewell called her name, and three pairs of eyes locked on her. “We need someone to look at the bodies.” He glanced at the two men, then back to her. “Please. Twisted”—he gestured towards the dark-haired man, and she stiffened. That name was one everyone who lived on the coast recognized. “He has a guy, but he can’t be here for a few hours.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed and was pulling away from the table when a hand grabbed her wrist. With a gasp, she looked down to see Hitch was awake and staring straight at her. It had been hours since she’d finished patching him up, and this was the first attentiveness he’d shown. “Hey—”

  He cut her off with a brief shake of his head. His lips moved, but there was no sound.

  “What?”

  He mouthed something again, and she bent closer only to find she’d been duped when his other hand wrapped around the back of her neck, tugging her down. Bristly cheek pressed to hers, his mouth was beside her ear as he whispered, “Be careful, angel.” There was a gentle glide against her cheek that could only be his lips as she pulled away. This time, instead of lapsing directly into unconsciousness, he stared right at her as he struggled to get an arm underneath him. Rampage helped pull him upright, taking the strain off Hitch’s arm.

  “Twisted.” Hitch’s voice was clear if raspy, and his gaze left her to go to where Ewell stood with Twisted and the other biker. “Ragm
an.” He swallowed hard and winced. “What do we know?”

  “Not here, brother.” Hair raised all along her arms. Twisted’s intonation was smooth and dark, the sound a deadly ocean undertow would make if given voice. “Not with citizens.”

  She shook her head. “Sparks.” His nose wrinkled when she called his club name, knowing how she disliked using it. With her brother, with their family, there was a story behind everything, and this one could have ended in a different, deadly way. “Where are they?” She couldn’t bring herself to say anything else.

  Hitch’s grip on her wrist tightened, and she flinched, surprised he held her with such strength. His voice was a harsh growl when he said, “I’ll go with you.” She turned to argue, but he was still staring across the room. “Brothers.” Disappointment crossed his face, and he dipped his chin. “Much as I want to be in whatever comes next, I’m a liability right now and know it. Don’t delay on me to do what you need to do.”

  “So noted, my brother. But we got a bit of waitin’ to do,” Twisted said. “Mayhap you will, mayhap you won’t. We’ll see when it’s time.”

  “Talia.” Ewell’s tone was cautioning, but when Hitch pulled on her arm, she didn’t resist, stepping closer to where he sat.

  Something about the man was intriguing, beyond his looks and that surprising warning. The hours spent at his bedside hadn’t been enough. She needed to know more about him. Moth to a flame.

  “I’m good, Sparks.” She let the half smile she’d given her brother slip from her lips before looking at Hitch. “Can you even stand? I’m not going to carry you.” She knew her opinion was no threat for whatever he wanted to do and was unsurprised when he didn’t answer.