Trip's Retribution (Hell Raiders MC Book 3) (4 page)

Chapter Five

Trip stared after the girl's retreating back until Stella slapped his shoulder. "Let it go, man. We ain't strapped for that kind of trouble this trip anyway."

"Yeah, I know." That didn't stop him from wishing he could help her. Still, he had to get his head back in the game while he still could. He glanced around the room. He didn't want to leave anything behind. A quick pat of his pockets assured him… Wait. His pocket knife. "You see my Buck knife around anywhere, man? I used it to shim the door."

They both searched quickly and came up empty. "Must have got kicked under something or out in the hall. We got no time, brother." Stella knew what that knife meant to him, and wouldn't ask him to just leave it in other circumstances. It was the only thing he had left from an old biker that had mentored him back when he'd been lost.

"Yeah, okay. I'll miss it, though." He followed Stella out to the big room. Should have known better than use a good knife that way. The twenty dollar spare he kept in his saddlebag would have been far easier to leave behind. Lesson learned the hard way.

Things had settled down considerably out in the main room of the clubhouse where everything had gone to hell earlier. Someone had taken the dead girl's body away, and Trip spared a second to hope she would get a decent burial at least. From what he gathered from Tanya, and what he witnessed himself, her life with the Saxons MC had been anything but decent. Futile anger roiled through him once again.

Over near the door, Buffalo lay on a table that looked ready to collapse under his weight. The biker's jeans had been cut away to reveal the grisly wound the dead girl inflicted on him before her throat was cut. Trip preferred not to see any of it, but the table sat square in front of the door, making it unavoidable.

A skinny man wearing a Saxons cut bent over the Prez, calmly stitching the deep slash in the man's thigh. An empty rig lay on the table next to Buffalo's arm, and a belt loosely circled the massive bicep. The big man's face was slack, the drugs doing their job and knocking his ass out. They better have plenty more where that came from, because Trip figured when Buffalo woke, he'd need it.

Freak watched the procedure with a grim smile. He glanced up when he noticed them. "You believe that shit?" He nodded toward Buffalo's groin.

Trip paused and shuddered. "No. No, I do not." The man's big dick lay to one side, already stitched up where it had been sliced nearly in half. "Think he'll be okay?"

The Saxon VP shrugged. "Who knows? Bushmaster here is as good as any sawbones. If Buffalo's cock can be saved, he'll do it." He gave a little laugh. "I still can't believe that little bitch grabbed Rainbow's knife right off his belt and went after Buffalo with it."

"It's fucked up." Trip could believe it. After the way Buffalo raped her, he didn't blame the woman one bit. "We're hitting the road, man. When he comes around, let him know Kellen will be in touch with a date and time."

Freak nodded. "Yeah. Stay safe out there, man." He tipped his beer back and drained it. "Think I'm going to go have a little of the bitch that took care of you."

Trip swallowed the rage trying to erupt from his gut. Rather than knock the fucker out as he wanted to, he offered a hand-clasp, and hoped like hell Tanya had found a good place to hide for a bit. He led the way out to their bikes and mounted up without a word to Stella. The more miles they laid behind them, the better. Before he could lose his shit and start a war.

They rolled out of the Saxons' lot and Trip took the lead, heavy on the throttle. If he didn't get away from there fast, he would go back and shoot the place up and take Tanya away by force. Or die trying. And in the process, land a major honor feud right in the Hell Raiders' lap. Self-preservation and the need to keep his brothers safe pushed him on down the road.

***

They had to stop for gas and food, and even though Trip wanted to keep pushing to the River Rogues' house, logic insisted they stop for the night. The info sign for the next Exit promised to meet those needs, and Stella waved him toward the exit and pointed to his tank. He must be running low on fuel, too.

Trip veered into the exit lane and slowed to ride the curve out. Stella came up beside him at the stop sign and together, they rolled into the little town. A full-service truck stop occupied a huge lot off to the left, and should have everything they needed. Trip gave Stella the thumbs up and made the turn.

They took a quick circuit of the lot, avoiding the security lights and checking for other bikes and finding none, then pulled up to the gas pumps. It wouldn't be too smart to walk into a truck stop full of some rival club's riders. Reassured they hadn't crossed unintentionally into someone else's path, Trip left Stella at the pumps as usual, and headed inside to pre-pay.

A middle-aged woman with dyed black hair piled high atop her head and bright red lipstick offered a friendly smile from behind the counter. "What can I do for you, hun?"

He requested the fill-ups and paid. "The sign said you have bunks?"

"We do, along with showers and lockers." She quoted prices for each.

After a moment's consideration, Trip hooked them each up for a shower and bunk for the night. It would save them from having to find a place to crash, and a shower to get rid of the road dirt added a nice benefit. Now he just needed to convince Stella.

Surprisingly, Stella had no objections when heard of their plans for the night. He normally preferred to sleep under the stars when they were on the road, and argued against motels or anything of that sort.

"What's up, man? Figured I'd have to twist your arm."

Stella swung onto his bike. "Figure a little extra security won't hurt tonight. Just in case some of our new best friends decided to follow us."

Trip couldn't argue with that reasoning. He started up and kept it slow and easy to lead the way to where the clerk had said they should park for the night. She hadn't shuffled them off to the dark edge of the lot but he'd refused the brightly lit spots next to the building, preferring to keep the bikes away from traffic and spotlights. They didn't need to give anyone a neon sign pointing to their location.

***

Dreams of Tanya haunted Trip through the night. Fantasies of fucking her morphed into nightmares of being forced to watch, helpless, while Buffalo raped her. By the time he rolled out of the rented bunk, a nasty mood had set in. At least he and Stella managed breakfast without incident. They started out to the parking lot and a woman snatched her child close, as if afraid they would eat the kid or something. Trip snarled at the woman just for the satisfaction of seeing her go pale with terror. Fucking idiots.

The wind in his face and miles melting away under his wheels helped though, just like it always did. Still, the time to think filled up quickly, with Tanya. What the hell was it about her that got under his skin and kept him busy thinking of her? Females, to him, were out of sight out of mind. He never gave a second thought to the ones who filled his nights or provided diversions. He hadn't even fucked this one. Maybe that was it. He couldn't deny, in other circumstances he could have fucked her for days on end.

By the time they hit Sommersville, the River Rogues' town, he still hadn't come up with any answers. All he could do was wait and hope some brilliant solution came along.

The River Rogues MC owned an odd little tavern that served the best burgers east of the Mississippi, and for the life of him, Trip couldn't figure out why they still drew most of their income from illegal shit. They slung a fucking gold mine over the counter every time a burger hit a plate, but they refused to expand. He welcomed the chance to turn his mind to that puzzle rather than continue the tormenting thoughts of Tanya.

The town lay in the suburban sprawl of a booming river port city, the smaller town swallowed in the last few years by the ever-increasing demand for more strip malls, chain restaurants, and discount outlets. The only thing growing faster than the city's appetite for those things was its taste for the illicit. Drugs. Gambling. Prostitution. Night clubs. Underground fighting. Protection. And the Rogues had their collective thumb in every pie in their corner of the expanding market.

The flavor of the little town definitely reflected the encroachment of the city. A few years ago, right after Trip became a full patch Hell Raider, they'd made a run through the area and stopped off for a few days. Sommersville had been quiet, clean and prosperous. The Rogues protected it from the nastiness of the world at large back then, preferring to keep business and home separate. Now it seemed they'd set up shop on their front porch, judging from the runners staking out various corners and whores walking the streets in broad daylight.

Trip wiped his face clear of all expression as they walked their bikes back into a parking space in front of the Rogues' Pool Room. The Rogues bringing business home went directly counter to almost everything the Hell Raiders held onto, so he better not allow his disapproval to show. Not if he wanted this meet to go in their favor, anyway.

Some clubs failed to see the need to keep their own nest clean. The Hell Raiders followed the philosophy that wolves didn't shit in their dens, and did their best to keep the serious shit out of Stags Leap. The practice had definite benefits. The vast majority of the townspeople appreciated the protection and had the Hell Raiders' backs, too.

Trip leaned back, popping the kinks out of his spine before he stood to stretch. An exchanged look and a faint nod to Stella said everything he needed before they headed inside to talk with the Rogues Prez. At the first sign of anything remotely like what went down at the Saxons compound, they fucking walked. Fast. Not going through that kind of shit again, ever.

The antique door with its wavy glass window and worn brass hardware opened easily under his hand, and Trip stepped into the dimly lit space. A bar lined the whole left side, one end devoted to serving food. A half dozen tables sat in the middle of the floor, while a pair of heavy old pool tables took up the right side of the small room. A heavy cloud of smoke wafted above it all, blue in the light cast from ancient fixtures.

A radio tuned to a classic rock station hung on the wall above the bar, its inadequate speakers tinny in the sudden lull in conversation. The half dozen patrons looked up at Trip and Stella, wary as hell. There was only one River Rogue patch in evidence, but every person in the joint moved a hand toward a gun.

Trip froze, just inside the door and waited, hands loose and out from his sides, non-threatening. The door closed and Stella stepped up beside him. "Maddox around? I owe him a beer."

The bartender grunted and laid a sawed-off twelve gauge on the polished surface of the bar. "He's out for a bit. Who are you?"

Hackles on end from the faint sneer in the man's tone, Trip forced the angry retort down and spoke calmly. "If it's okay, we'll wait. Looking forward to catching up for a few minutes before we have to get back on the road."

The bartender shrugged. "Suit yourself. Shouldn't be long." The shotgun returned to its hiding place under the bar, but the man kept a careful eye on them as he went back to his newspaper.

With a significant glance at Stella, Trip slid onto one of the barstools and ordered a beer. Stella nodded toward the back and made a comment about hitting the head.

The bartender waved him back as he passed the bottle over to Trip. "Where you boys from?"

So they were to be vetted before the Rogues Prez saw them. Trip could understand that.  "We rode up from Stags Leap. My boy needs to see some family up near Detroit. Thought I'd stop in and say hey from the Hell Raiders to Maddox while I was close by." Now that he knew, he could proceed to get it over with so their business could be carried out as quickly as possible.

The bartender nodded. "How's the Prez down there? What's his name? Hack?"

Trip grinned. "Kellen. He's good. Taking care of business as usual." The bastard knew, of course. "Hack is VP now." Just like with any other club, the members often played musical chairs with the various offices. In his opinion, Hack didn't belong in any office, but when the brothers voted, it held.

Another nod. "Maddox is on his way in."

Trip turned as the door opened. The man who strode in wore regular biker attire, leather cut, t-shirt, jeans and boots, but still looked more like a Viking than anything else.

"Trip, how's it goin', man?" He raised a hand to indicate Trip should follow him. "Bandit, I'll be upstairs. No interruptions."

Trip took a deep breath. Show time.

Chapter Six

A rough kick to the ribs dragged Tanya from the restless sleep she'd fallen into. Self-preservation forced her eyes open, since she knew from experience the next kick would hurt far more. That never changed.

One of the Saxons prospects stood over her, a nasty grin on his face. "Time to get up, bitch. Freak wants you."

Alarm skated over her nervous system, prompting her fight or flight instincts. Freak was worse than Buffalo, running first hot, then cold. The vice president was unpredictable in a dangerous way, not like a spoiled child flying into a rage over some imagined slight the way Buffalo tended to do.

She sat up, trying to ignore the urge to huddle in the blanket and hide. She'd learned long ago to follow orders, no matter how horrid. Disobedience only made things worse. The only choices left open to her were endure or death. A stubborn determination deep within refused to allow her to choose death. So she endured.

She pushed to her feet, keeping her gaze averted. That part presented no hardship, given the prospect's scraggly beard and ratty hair. Thankfully he had yet to earn the privileges of the full members. Even though he made plenty of nasty remarks about what he wanted to do to her and the other girls, they didn't have to deal with him yet. The creep grabbed her shoulder and gave her a rough shove for the door.

Her arms went out as she stumbled hard to keep from falling and the prospect laughed. "Bitch, you know how much I'm looking forward to making full patch? Can't wait to fuck you six ways from Sunday."

A shudder passed through her, the reflexive response beyond her control, and fear settled a little deeper in her soul. How much more? Luckily she wasn't pretty like some of the other girls, so she escaped some of the more brutal attention. It was only a matter of time though, until one of them pushed it too far and killed her. Or she killed herself. Surely death would accept her then. Even if she had to do it the way Erin did, forcing them to kill her.

Dread settled deeper into her bones with every step. She hated them all before, but now, the thought of being fucked by Freak or any of the others made her feel sick. Trip had offered her a chance at better, and she turned him down. That somehow made it harder to accept her fate.

Freak waited for her at the bar out in the club room, writing in a small binder. The prospect gave her another hard shove and sent her sprawling at the vice president's feet. She caught herself barely in time to keep her face from colliding with the bottom of a barstool, and slowly climbed back to her feet. The fight or flight instincts voted heavily for flight, especially with the front door so close, but logic reminded her she wouldn't survive two steps. Trembling in fear, she managed to stay put, head down, waiting for whatever horror came next.

"You the bitch that took care of Lester's pits?" Freak didn't even bother looking at her.

"Y-yes." The few months she'd been allowed to look after the fighting dogs held the only peaceful memories of her time with the Saxons. At least the dogs appreciated her. But what did that have to do with anything now? When Freak just continued writing, she glanced around under her lashes, looking for a dog. Could she possibly get that lucky again?

Freak looked up finally, showing the eerie pale green eyes that initially won him the name. "Good. Buffalo got hurt. You'll tend him while he heals."

Tanya's heart sank through her stomach, but only one answer was possible. "O-okay." What reason could Freak have for giving her this duty, especially since one of the other girls had been a nursing student before they took her. The other girl made more sense as a caretaker for the injured President.

"Bushmaster will tell you what to do. Go meet him in Buffalo's room." He turned back to his work, dismissing her without another glance.

The sigh of relief at her good luck refused to stay inside, but she managed to keep it to mostly herself. Well, kind of good luck, anyway. They let her go alone and the creepy prospect's nastiness was delayed a bit longer. More dread at the thought of what he would demand of her sat heavily on her thin shoulders. Still, it wouldn't happen at the moment, and no one had shoved her to a table to fuck her either. All in all, good luck.

Even with the moment's safety, Trip's offer of escape and safety played on an endless loop through her mind as she made her way to Buffalo's room. She'd been an idiot to not go with him. If the Saxons caught up, death was better than this existence. Sure it would be a long hard one, but it would come eventually. And then she would be truly free. And it had to be better than waiting for the moment when some brute would kill her just for the hell of it.

Buffalo's room, larger and with more comforts than any of the others, sat to the side of the club room where the man could be at the center of any action within moments. Having the noise and rowdiness so close apparently didn't concern him. Tanya tapped at the closed door and waited, swallowing hard and trying to keep her breaths deep and regular. Showing fear around Buffalo was never a good thing.

"Yeah, come on in." Bushmaster's Texas drawl almost sounded inviting. Out of the whole club, only he had been less than brutal with her and the other girls. He still demanded sex, but it was only sex, not some twisted torture. Men who could stick it in and get off were practically non-existent in the Saxons world, so maybe that made his words seem a little more pleasant.

Tanya opened the door and slipped inside. A gasp escaped her lips in spite of her best efforts to not show emotion of any sort.

Buffalo lay flat on his back, sprawled naked over his bed. His left thigh had swollen to tremendous size and carried an angry-looking slash from groin to knee. Black stitches held the wound closed, the swelling pulling at them, like something in a horror movie.

That part didn't faze Tanya, though. She'd seen some bad wounds when the Saxons returned from whatever kept them busy. Gunshots, burns and knife wounds were as common as hangnails were for other people. Mostly she and the other girls got left out of taking care of them, though. The bikers probably thought the girls they treated so horribly would take revenge given the chance. And they were probably right.

Buffalo's dick held her attention, swollen beyond full erection size, with dark red, purple and black bruising. But the worst part was the cut from midway down the shaft all the way to the tip. Again, stitches forced the injury closed, but were half torn out from the swelling. Pus oozed from the entire length of the injury.

A surge of satisfaction ran over her, even while her stomach rolled. Just the nature of the wound brought on sympathy in reflex, but she couldn't help the sense of justice she felt. The man's biggest weapon against her and the other girls was gone, because she couldn't imagine how it might heal correctly. If Erin aimed to cut if off, she'd come surprisingly close.

Bushmaster looked up from where he sat by the President's bed. "About time. I need a hand." He nodded toward Buffalo's groin. "He needs a catheter. All that swelling is stopping him from pissing."

Tanya shuddered a little and moved forward. "W-what do you need me to do?" She couldn't even imagine. Maybe she should have taken time to wash her hands?

"Here, put these on. Don't want to get him infected." He tossed her a pair of black latex gloves from a box on the table at his side. The box came from the tattoo kit he treated like a prized possession. Whenever a Saxon wanted ink, Bushmaster set up and gave them his version of whatever they asked for.

She followed orders despite her doubts while Bushmaster squinted past his cigarette and pulled on his own gloves. Her limited medical knowledge said the whole situation was wrong, but no one cared what she thought. Besides, Bushmaster had training. He'd been a medic in the military or something. He should know what he was doing. Still, to her, it looked as if infection was already a huge issue.

He held up a piece of clear plastic tubing, like the kind used for fish tanks, maybe a foot and a half long. "We're going to put this in his dick, right up into his bladder, so the piss can run out with no problem."

Tanya nodded, though she cringed inside. Buffalo deserved every instant of discomfort and more, but cruelty wasn't in her makeup. What Bushmaster suggested seemed horrible to her, like something she'd seen before her life ended, back in school. One of her history textbooks had pictures of a doctor in the dark ages or something, with leeches and hot bottles and other nightmare things she didn't want to think about.

The biker took a roll of first aid tape from the pocket of his cut. "First thing, we have to measure his dick so we know for sure how far to push." As if he did such things daily, he held the tubing next to the dick in question and marked the length with a piece of tape. "Okay, when the tape gets to the tip, take it off and keep going another two inches. That'll put it right in the middle of his bladder, ready to drain it. Oh yeah." He fumbled a second piece of tape from the roll. "Better seal off the end, unless you're into golden showers."

Tanya watched, astounded. She had serious doubts whether Bushmaster knew what he was doing at all. Nothing she could do about it, though, even if she wanted to save Buffalo from suffering. Any comment she might make would only get her backhanded across the room, at the very least. So she smothered her doubts and listened carefully to his instructions.

"I'll hold him, since my hands are bigger. You just put it in." He handed her the tube. "Ready?"

She stole a nervous glance at the sleeping Prez. "H-he won't feel it, right?" He deserved to feel it, but if he did, she would bear the brunt of his anger. She'd rather not get a fist to the side of her head for just following directions, even if they did seem like something a crazy person dreamed up.

Bushmaster laughed a little. "The fucker has enough Oxy pumping through his veins to kill an elephant. He ain't going to feel a thing."

Tanya nodded. "O-okay. Ready." The tube looked far too large to fit inside the opening of Buffalo's dick, but Bushmaster seemed certain. She waited while he took hold of the swollen thing and sort of turned it in her direction. A foul, sickly odor filled the air and she had to fight not to gag.

Her hands shook like crazy, but she managed to get the tube into the tip, barely. Immediate resistance kept her from pushing it further. "It won't go."

"That's a sphincter. Just push through."

Doubt filled her once again. She didn't want the blame for Buffalo's dick doing something crazy like falling off. He would kill her if he had permanent damage. Still, refusing to follow Bushmaster's orders would get her killed right away instead of later. A little shrug lifted her shoulder and she tried again, with more force. Finally, the catheter started to move. By the time she got it in up to the tape, the tube was filled with dark blood.

"Is it supposed to do that?"

"Yeah, that's old blood that was just sitting there. Probably what made the swelling so bad. Keep going now. We're almost there. Keep pushing."

Once more, she followed orders and shoved two more inches of the tube into Buffalo's body. It wasn't easy, and she sagged with relief when Bushmaster announced she'd gone far enough.

"Okay, now we tape this bitch into place so it don't slide out. You go get something to drain it into. Gallon jug or something like that." He unrolled more tape and secured the catheter.

Tanya hurried to follow orders and went to the bar. "I-I need a, um, gallon jug."

The woman behind the bar raised a darkly penciled brow at her. "So? I ain't your bitch." As one of the club regulars, she considered her station far above Tanya and the other girls the club owned as slaves.

Anger flushed her face, but Tanya managed to look down in proper respect—well, the respect the regulars demanded. "I-I'm sorry. I thought there might be something here. Bushmaster sent me, we need it for Buffalo's catheter."

Freak glanced up from where he wrote in his small notebook. He grabbed the bar girl's arm when she raised her hand to slap Tanya. "Don't. You're no better than her,
bitch
. Find her a jug." He turned back to Tanya as the scowling woman dug around under the bar. "How is he?"

Tanya shuddered, both at the near-miss and at being put on the spot. "I-it looks awful." She didn't know what else to say, and she could hardly tell him what she thought of Bushmaster's catheter. Speaking against a Saxon, even about something so serious, meant an automatic death penalty for her and the other girls.

"Yeah it does."

The bar girl gave her a nasty look as she passed a plastic water jug over the bar. "Here. And don't think I won't find you later, bitch."

Freak's face darkened with anger. "If you do, it better be to apologize. She's taking care of the Prez. She might just earn her way out with that, if he gets better. Won't be nothing to stop her from kicking your stupid ass then." He waved to Tanya. "Go on back. I'll come check in on him later."

Tanya walked fast, scarcely daring to believe her ears. Not only had Freak defended
her,
but if Buffalo recovered, she might be set free! She fought to control her racing pulse. Could this be some new form of torture they'd dreamed up? Tantalize her with freedom that never came? She had no doubt they were cruel enough for that. Her hands shook even harder as she readied the plastic jug and held it steady while Bushmaster untaped the end of the catheter tube.

At first, the dark blood moved like sludge, dripping from the end. Suddenly, it came free with a rush of bright blood mixed with urine. "Good job." Once the flow stopped, Bushmaster crimped the end of the tube with a metal clip of some sort. "You can empty that now. Every couple hours, you'll open the catheter and drain him."