Page 48 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

Sometimes I swear it’s like I’m talking to a teen boy who only thinks with his dick. Not reality. Not consequences. Just pussy. Pussy. Pussy.

“That’s not true and you know it.” Sighing at his stupidity, I pause to gather my thoughts.

“I’m pretty sure those two orgasms, no three, sucked all the common sense out of your brain.

Get it together, Rot.” I clap my hands and shake them at him as I punctuate the following words. “We. Can’t. Rape. Necro.”

I turn to Coffin and find him gritting his teeth.

Aw. Shit.

He was taken against his will by women, and Rot is over here flippantly talking about rape.

“I would never do that,” I promise, hating that he had to hear it.

Dipping his chin in confirmation, Coffin rumbles a low, “I know.”

“Rot didn’t mean it.” I swing my gaze to the biker on the desk, and he mouths a stricken, I’m sorry.

I understand. I do.

He was trying to fix things. To help in his own weird way.

All the color drains from Rot’s face as he hops down and raises his hands as a peace offering. “She’s right, brother. I was bein’ an idiot. ”

Eyes downcast, Coffin shrugs, crestfallen. “I’ve raped women. I don’t know why you sayin’ that gets under my skin, but it does. He’s our prez, but mostly he’s family. We need to help him.”

“We will,” I promise. We’ll do it together. Whatever it takes.

Slowly lifting his head, Coffin nods toward the screens. “Yeah. Well. We’re runnin’ out of time.”

And he’s right… There stands Necro, and his knife and…

Shit.

Racing from the room, I track the growly music and throw open the door with Coffin and Rot hot on my tail.

Rushing inside, I slip on the blood-soaked floor as I skate over to Necro with bare feet.

Lying in the middle of the room, on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, a knife sticks out of the side of his throat.

Fuck. Fuck.

Fuuuck.

I drop to my knees beside him as Rot and Coffin run to get help.

Please don’t die. Please don’t die.

Necro’s blue-white eyes open and close as he looks at me. Surprise registers as he reaches up to touch my face and smears blood across my cheek.

“What did you do?” I sob, taking his cool hand into mine as his chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, and his eyes widen in panic.

He tries to sign with his opposite hand. Heaven?

“No.” I poke him in the chest. “You jerk. You’re not dead. ”

A stampede of brothers race into the room—one with a medical kit, another with a stretcher.

“We can’t take the knife out or he’ll die,” one says to the other as Necro holds on to me for dear life, refusing to let go.

I’m sorry, he signs with one hand.

“You should be.”

Necro grabs the knife handle as the men slip him onto the board.

“No!” I smack his hand away.

I know what he’s doing.

He’s ending things. Taking away his pain. Forever.

That can’t happen.

Jumping into action, the brothers strap their prez to the board and stabilize what they can of his neck, including tapping the blade in place, so it doesn’t move more than necessary. “We’re not letting you die this time, either, Prez,” a biker says as they hoist him up and carry him from the room.

Needing to be with Necro, I trail them through the underground tunnels and out a different exit than I’ve been before.

Rot and Coffin greet us at the end and drape a t-shirt over Necro’s eyes before they lead us to a blacked-out SUV.

The seats are folded down, and they slide Necro in with ease.

Coffin climbs in beside him and crouches so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. Creature is already behind the wheel.

“I’ll see you soon, Sweet Cheeks,” Coffin says as he holds his brother’s bloody hand.

“Be safe.” I blow them a kiss just before Rot, and another brother slam the tailgate shut .

I turn to Rot as they speed down the hill, kicking up dirt and gravel in their wake. “Are they taking him to a hospital?”

Breathing like he just ran a marathon, he slings an arm around my shoulder. “We’re following ‘em, Red. I gotta get you dressed first.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question. Are they taking him to a hospital?

” I press as we ascend the front steps and make our way to Rot’s bedroom, where he throws me a pair of black sweats and a fresh shirt.

I slip them on, and despite them being far too big, they’re cozy.

I don’t hate the baggy pants as much as I do all the tight stuff I wore when I was back with the sisters.

He lobs me a pair of balled-up socks, and I slip those on, too.

“Fuck. We don’t have any shoes for you,” he growls, slamming a drawer shut.

“That’s what happens when you’re drugged. You don’t get to pack a bag.” If they’d have shown up like normal people and asked me to return, I could have packed my belongings and brought them with me. Then again, I might not have come as easily.

“We’ll go shopping this week,” Rot whispers more to himself than me as he hot-foots to the bathroom and returns with a washcloth that he offers to me.

“Thanks.” I accept the gift and wipe what I can of Necro and the dead man’s blood from my body. “Why do we need to go shopping? All I wear are t-shirts anyhow.”

“You still need shoes and regular clothes whenever we leave. We should’ve thought about that before. Been prepared and shit.” Rot stomps his foot. “Fuck. We’re takin’ the bike, but it’s not safe without proper shoes.”

Balling up the washcloth, I return it to the sink in the bathroom. “Why do we have to take the bike?” I ask, pausing in the doorway.

“It’s the only ride I have.” Rot shrugs on his black leather jacket and his cut and jogs from the room, yelling, “Who’s got the smallest feet ‘round here?!”

I’m sitting on the edge of his bed when he returns minutes later, huffing and puffing. He wipes sweat off his forehead and combs his fingers through his hair, which does nothing to fix the mess. It only makes it worse, yet it’s somehow still attractive.

“We gotta stop at Dredd’s on the way outta town. Mama said he’s got a pair of women’s boots in the garage that should fit you for now. We’ll get you a pair soon enough. I promise,” he explains, checking his pockets for his phone, keys, and all the things he needs for our trip.

“It’s okay,” I soothe. It’s not like we planned this.

Rot shakes his head in grumbly defiance. “It’s not, Red. We should have been prepared.”

“It’s just shoes.”

“But it’s not just shoes. You don’t have leathers or a helmet. We’re a motorcycle club for fuck’s sake.”

“You don’t ride with women, though, right?”

Rot saunters over to his nightstand and swipes his Chapstick from the top. He applies it liberally before returning it to its exact spot. “I don’t. I haven’t. Coffin does, sometimes. Before he… ya know…” He gestures with the wave of his hand.

Dismembers them .

I get it.

“Does he not have anything?” I ask.

If he rode with women, regardless of their demise, he might have something left over.

“No. He doesn’t care about their safety. But you can wear his helmet. I’ll grab it from his closet. It’ll be too big, but it’ll work for now. Until…”

“I get one of my own,” I fill in for him.

“Yeah. All that!” he hollers, running through the bathroom to Coffin’s room and back again in record time.

He shoves the black, skull-and-coffin-painted bucket helmet at me, grabs my hand, and drags me, tripping after him through the church, out the front doors, and over to his bike.

It is one of the Mad Maxx-looking contraptions with nothing more than a square pad behind his, that could barely fit a toddler, let alone a grown woman. But we gotta do what we gotta do.

Rot shoves the helmet hanging from the handlebars onto his head and mounts the motorcycle.

I do my best to strap mine tightly under my chin, so it doesn’t fall off.

He offers me his hand, and I slip on behind him.

Wrapping my arms around his middle, he settles my feet on the safety pegs made of iron pipe.

“Don’t let go and don’t move your feet.”

There’s a smile in my voice when I reply, “I know.” This isn’t my first rodeo. Or my second. Or my tenth. I’ve ridden plenty of motorcycles in my life, even before I joined the sisterhood.

Rot sounds surprised when he turns his head as far around as he can and asks, “You been on a bike before?”

“Yes. ”

“Whose?”

I tap his hard stomach, hoping he’ll drop it. We don’t have time. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sure, it does. Were you fuckin’ him?”

Oh. No. I’m not touching that question with a ten-foot pole. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. The men I’ve ridden with, well, most of them, were nice guys. Sure, I fucked a few, but it’s none of his business.

“Let it go, Rot. We need to leave.”

Grumbling a sourpuss, “Fine,” under his breath, Rot fires up the bike.

It rumbles violently under my ass as he shoots down the hill and around the corner.

A moment later, he parks in front of one of the nicer single stories, puts down his kickstand, and dismounts.

I wait to fall over, but nothing happens before he returns with a pair of black leather boots.

He forces my foot into one, laces it up, ties it tight, and moves to the next.

We’re back on the road in minutes. The wind whips my face and turns my nose and fingers to blocks of ice as we travel for what feels like forever.

Too in my head with worry, I don’t notice we’ve arrived until we pull up a gravel road in the middle of nowhere to a metal barn set deep in the woods next to a small cabin.

Mama’s pacing out front. He marches over when Rot shuts down the bike.

The burly man plucks me off the back cushion and crushes me to his chest in the biggest bear hug.

Barely able to breathe, I wrap my arms around what I can of him and hug him up tight with just as much love.

“He’s gonna be alright.” Mama’s voice cracks with distress .

I’m not sure if he’s saying this to calm me or himself. Either way, it doesn’t work.

We’re not at a hospital.

We’re at a barn.

A flippin’ barn.