Soul Ties (Club Ties #4) (10 page)

Connall West did things on his own terms.

“I’m going to use up every condom I have, Sweetheart. Then I want you in my bed again, curled next to me all night.”

His words brought tears to the surface. The past few days, her emotions had been rioting. But absolute tenderness burned in his eyes as he stared down at her.

Without asking, she dug in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Bypassing money and receipts, she went straight for what she wanted—two condoms tucked in the side.

Holding his gaze, she opened one packet with her teeth. Then reached for his cock. As she rolled it down his thick length, his features shivered. Warmth flooded her, and she leaned up to touch her lips to his. Once. Softly.

“You’re fucking beautiful, lying in the shadows.” His voice was sandpaper against her senses. He pushed her shorts down her thighs a little more, enough to fit his cock at her entrance.

She turned her lips against his jaw. “I love being with you, Connall.”

Their gazes locked. “You don’t want me, Sarah. I’m no good.”

Neither am I.
Her throat closed off. Her recent mistakes cancelled out everything good she’d ever done. But he brushed his lips over hers so gently, how could it be wrong?

She pulled him down and he slid home. She cried out, and he muffled the sound with his kiss. Drawing on her lips and tongue as he pulled out to the tip. Nibbled her as he slammed back into her. She angled her hips and when he thrust again, the head of his cock struck the entrance to her womb.

“Fuck, yeah. Your deepest point. I need more. Let me in.”

His gritty murmurings fired her blood. She was lava, flowing out, a bead of fire running along the foundation of her soul.

“Look at me. I want closer.”

Others had asked for this in a roundabout way. One had tried to take it without her permission.

But Connall was worth anything she had to give.

His chest heaved with his panting breaths, and she yanked him closer, holding him captive inside her body too. “You’ve got me. So…fucking…deep.” She rocked against him with each word.

“Tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you, Sweetheart.” His words sounded pained, as if it hurt him badly to think she needed something and didn’t have it yet.

She cupped his face and stared deep into his lust-dark eyes. “I need this. Right here. Now. This moment with you, baby.”

He shuddered. Stilled. Then fucked her hard and deep. Faster with each stroke. Her pussy quivered around his length, and he touched something so deep she lost a little part of herself to him.

She peaked and cried out. He was so damn beautiful, a wild thing with perspiration beaded on his forehead and cords standing out on his throat as he poured out his release.

While pulsations racked her, she held him tight. The blue clouds scudded overhead and the leaves of the old tree she’d played under as a child shivered in the Alabama breeze.

“Sweetheart, you’re killing me.” He jerked his hips. Her spine chafed on the wood of the table, but she felt awakened.

Turning her lips against his throat and his erratic pulse there, she said, “Killing you how?”

“I want your heat wrapped around me—no barriers. You’re coming to the hospital tomorrow and getting five kinds of birth control.”

A giggle bubbled up, sounding so foreign in the night, especially after all that had happened. “Are your swimmers that good that I need five types?”

“Fuck yeah.” He kissed her mouth hard—once—before disconnecting them. His spine was tense as he turned from her. “Besides, you don’t want my kid, Sweetheart. I told you I’m no good.”

When Connall pushed through the doors leading from the surgical suite, he sensed danger. No, he
smelled
it. Gunpowder and leather.

He looked around and found two Falcons. They’d sent their biggest and ugliest, apparently. One had two nose rings in the center of his nostrils like a mad bull, and the other had been fucked up in a knife fight.

The big question was what were they doing in the hospital? It wasn’t a coincidence they were standing guard outside the doors he had to exit.

Silver flashed, and he swept his gaze down to Ugly 1’s fist and the switchblade he held.

“Just who we were waiting for.”

“Can I help you boys?” Connall was aware nobody else was in this part of the hospital besides surgical staff. How they’d gotten past all the security measures, he feared knowing.

Ugly 2 stepped up and locked his hand on Connall’s shoulder with bruising roughness. He schooled his features so he didn’t even wince, but the motherfucker’s hand was like a vise. “We hear you fixed up a brother who was shot.”

“So you need a doctor? Plastic surgery’s on the other side of the hospital.”

The punch doubled him over. He gasped around the pain but held it in, letting his fury build. He flexed his fists, but using them would ruin them without the plaster coverings or weighted gloves.

“Come with us. There’s a man dying and only you can help him.” Ugly 2 gripped his shoulder, Ugly 1 gripped the other, and they propelled him down the long hallway. Connall didn’t see a way out of this. If he didn’t help, the Falcons would deliver his body to his club in a bag, and that meant Sarah would see.

Besides, he couldn’t walk away—or fight his way free—knowing there was a man he could save. He’d taken a vow, after all.

When they reached the automatic doors leading into the main part of the hospital, he shook his shoulders to make them release him. “I’ll walk out of here on my own. I don’t want to raise suspicions.”

One of the Uglies grunted. “Suit yourself, Doc.”

The three of them breezed through the lobby and out the doors. A whiff of cigarette smoke fogged the air, and he saw two more Falcons standing in the no-smoking zone. “Good. You found him.”

Without waiting for Connall to respond, they turned and crossed the parking lot, angling for a white van.

He got into the back with the two Uglies, and the van shot out of the parking lot. “I don’t have my bag with me.”

“You won’t need it. We’ve got supplies,” the driver said over his shoulder.

Great. Dirty, unsterilized, probably stolen supplies. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, fighting for a way out of this. But he couldn’t see one. Either he would die along with the wounded Falcon or he did his damnedest to do this right.

For the Hell’s Sons…for Sarah…he couldn’t fail.

He had no idea if Sarah would mourn him, but she was too vulnerable to be left alone right now. That left him one choice.

“Stop at my house and let me get some things.”

Ugly 1 pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt and began cleaning his nails with the long, lethal blade. He looked like a good candidate to play surgical nurse. With those dirty fingers, the patient was sure to get an infection. Probably just what he deserved.

Connall should have been surprised when the driver turned onto his street, but he wasn’t. They’d been watching him enough to know his routine. They’d known where to find him, and where he slept. They probably knew how many times he’d made Sarah come last night too.

When the Uglies flanked him to go into the house, he threw them narrow glances. “I’m not going to try anything.”

“Where you go, we go,” one said.

Connall used one hand to shield his security password from their gazes, but he had no idea if he was successful. The three of them entered the house, and Connall went straight for his stash. A doctor—especially one wearing patches—needed to keep a few things on hand in case of emergencies. Sometimes he carried a small kit in his cut, which had come in handy the day Bones had taken a hit. But now he was empty-handed. He didn’t even have his cellphone, since there was nowhere to carry it in his scrubs.

He held up the kit. “Got it.”

“Check it, Creeper,” Ugly 2 said to Ugly 1. “Make sure he doesn’t have a weapon.”

Ugly 1—aka Creeper—opened the plastic case to reveal vials, syringes, and several instruments. “All clear.”

They closed the case and went back out to the van.

They drove for just a few minutes before one of the Uglies whipped a black hood over Connall’s head. Fury and adrenaline made him shake, but he bit his tongue and remained quiet, breathing careful through his nose so as not to alert them to his distress.

He wasn’t giving the bastards the satisfaction.

Minutes later he was bodily removed from the van and walked into a building. They couldn’t be far out of town, which meant the Falcons were squatting in Heller’s Gap.

Someone ripped the hood off his head, and he prepared himself for a fight. He whipped his head back and forth, taking in the dank, depressing space. It smelled of pussy and blood. A lot of blood.

“What happened here?” he asked.

“Unless you’re wearing a Falcons’ patch, it’s none of your goddamn business, Doc,” the driver told him. “Come with me.”

The Uglies tried to follow, but the driver barked an order for them to stay where they were, which only revealed further that they were simple thugs, not officers.

As he entered another room, he found the source of the blood stench. A man lay on the floor dying.

His training kicked in, and he approached the makeshift operating table where he’d been laid. Ignoring that he was surrounded by an enemy biker gang or that he had at least two guns trained on him.

“I’ll need more light. As much as you can provide.” He touched the man’s clammy forehead before opening his kit and preparing a syringe.

What felt like days later, Connall straightened from where he hunched over the man who was dying no longer. As long as no infection set in. His back creaked, and he rolled his shoulders to stretch them.

“What’s the word, Doc?” The Falcon hadn’t removed his gaze from Connall all during the surgery to remove a bullet and repair the damage. When Connall finally looked around at him, he saw the bright red president’s patch on his cut.

He looked him in the eye and told the truth. “He’ll live. I’ve given him some antibiotics, and I’ll leave what I’ve got. Keep him quiet.”

The prez nodded with a hint of satisfaction around his granite mouth. Connall removed his gloves and tossed them at the foot of the table near the patient’s feet. Let someone else dispose of them. When he’d closed his case, the president waved at him.

“Follow me into my office.”

Fuck.

He drew a deep breath to steel himself and did so. As soon as he set foot in the Falcons’ “Church,” he knew he was in deep shit. They’d never allow a rival gang member to stand in their sacred place if they weren’t going to either kill him or ask him to cut a deal with the devils.

He swallowed hard and met the president’s gaze.

“You did a good job on our man. And we could use a guy with your talents on our side.”

His knee-jerk reaction was to say “fuck off” and walk out. But he wouldn’t make it far before they jumped him. He had to play this cool.

“You know I wear another club’s patches.”

“That I do. But I’m extending an invitation along with an olive branch—at least for you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re asking me to join you?”

“Join us and you’ll become an equal. Fully patched. You could be an officer within a year.”

That was something Connall had never aspired to. He was happy to let others run the club business while he benefited in other ways—with camaraderie and good friends. And Sarah.

His heart rolled over.

There was definitely a catch in this deal. “And if I say no?” Connall asked.

The president stared at him for five eternal heartbeats. He wore a bandanna knotted around his skull, and prison tattoos lined his neck, chest, and arms. Some of them were murder tallies.

Finally, the prez stretched his arms. “You can walk away with our gratitude. But if you join us…we pack up and leave Heller’s Gap without taking even a single city block from the Sons.”

Oh Christ.
They were blackmailing him. Offering him a choice between what was best for his club and giving up everything he believed in. He either gave his soul to the devils and saved his club a lot of trouble or he tried to pretend he hadn’t been able to do anything about the situation.

Joining the Falcons meant giving up his life to people he didn’t believe in. It meant leaving Sarah.

But if he made this deal, she’d be safer. The Sons would all be safer.

“I need time to consider it.” His voice sounded as though it had a bad case of road rash.

“You have one week, Doc.”

“How will I know where to find you?”

When the prez smiled, he revealed several gold teeth. “No need. We know where to find
you.

»»•««

“Where the fuck’s O’Dovey? Bastard’s been gone a week.” Ace stomped through the space and took up his usual post behind the bar. His dog, Copilot, held his ears stiff, attuned to his master’s moods.

Sarah hunched her shoulders, hoping to remain invisible. Only Ever asked if Sarah had heard from O’Dovey, but she managed to avoid her questioning when a stream of club kids ran between.

Ace slammed a shot glass on the bar top and sloshed some vodka into it. After chucking back the alcohol, he scowled at any guy his gaze landed on.

“Why do you need O’Dovey?” Harris asked. He was a little bruised and battered from the fight, but overall he’d taken Connall’s whoopin’ like a real Hell’s Son. Still, he’d been giving Connall a wide berth. When the pair was in the club together, they acted like territorial dogs. Glaring and strategically ignoring each other.

“Because I’m doing his motherfucking job, that’s why,” Ace huffed, pouring a second glass of vodka. “He hasn’t shown up at the Gearhead for a week. At the Tomfoolery, nobody’s seen him. Pretty Young Thing, you know where your man’s at?”

Sarah gulped at his address. Not meeting his gaze, she shook her head. “I haven’t heard from him.”

Ace shook his head. “Damn shame a brother can’t count on his family. Pax, get your tattooed ass over here.”

Paxton was the club’s resident tattoo artist. He unfolded his huge frame from a chair and sauntered to the bar, taking his good old time. “What’s up, Ace?”