Unruly (13 page)

“Good work getting the boy to relax,” Echo said. “Killer would appreciate it.”

“He's not leaving, but he agreed to grab a couple hours.”

“It's better than nothing.” Echo nodded, and then he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He didn't point out that he knew that Alamo had stayed of his own accord, and he didn't acknowledge the fact that he could've
ordered
Dash to take a break. He didn't have to, though. Echo didn't answer to anyone—with the possible exception of the woman currently resting her head on his shoulder. He let both Killer and Dash make their own choices as much as possible. No one called out that it was training for the future, but everyone knew it.

Now that Killer was stepping away from the Southern Wolves, that left only one likely candidate for Echo's heir. Whether or not Dash saw it, Alamo was well aware that Dash was the most obvious choice for following in Echo's steps. Truth be told, he was a far better choice to be the next president anyhow. Killer was . . . a triggerman, a problem solver of the sort that Alamo was. Dash was the kind of man who could handle politics and finances and all the business parts.

Unfortunately, that reality would mean that sooner or later Alamo was going to have to decide if he needed to pull up stakes and move to another chapter. If he and Dash couldn't sort out their antipathy, Alamo would need to leave.

The thought of it was frustrating. He was tired of moving, tired of being unsettled. He'd been in Tennessee only a short time as it was. Needing to think about moving again was depressing, but it was just another reminder not to get too attached, not to get involved, not to think about roots. He'd learned that lesson as a kid, and even though he
wanted
roots, life didn't make that easy. It was just one more reason that he shouldn't look too long at Ellen. He just needed to find a way to remind himself of those reasons when he saw her because a few minutes in her company made it hard to remember to use logic.

Chapter 12

B
Y THE TIME
A
LAMO ARRIVED AT MY HOUSE THE NEXT
morning, I wasn't a mess of tears anymore, but it was a close thing when I saw that Mama was already up and in the kitchen preparing a basket to take to the hospital.

“Echo's old lady called and said you were going in to see Killer.” Mama had a thermos of coffee in her hand. “This is for you, though. Don't let that pup have anything them doctors don't say he can have, you hear?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I accepted the thermos and went to open it, but she held out a cup.

“This is for now. That's for when you get sleepier and don't want to leave Killer's side.” She pointed at a backpack. “There's other things in there. He's going to want a few odds and ends to be comfortable, and Echo doesn't need to be carrying them.”

I glanced at the bag. I didn't need to ask to know there was a weapon of some sort in it, unregistered and probably lacking a serial number. I wasn't going to open the bag to look either. If someone stopped me, my surprise would be real no matter what they pulled out of the bag. Of course, the ideal was that no one stopped me. If they did, I had to trust that Echo would provide the best defense possible. That was the part of being in this family that was hard to explain: some of us were more able to take certain risks. Echo was protected at all costs. He was essential, the man who kept all the balls in the air, who handled the hard calls, who made the choices that kept the chapter—Wolves and their families—safe, but also made the choices that resulted in business income. Wives and children could be called on to make contributions, just as Wolves did. Mama had volunteered herself, and now me, over the years because we didn't have a man in the house to share the obligation.

All told, I could see why Aubrey had issues with the club. I didn't, but I understood how a person could. I suspected that if she knew the whole of it, she'd have a lot more reasons to complain. Some wives were kept a bit more in the dark, but Mama hadn't been and she was raising me to be independent but still loyal to the family. I took no issue with it. I did my part when the opportunity was presented to me.

I met Mama's gaze and nodded. “Got it.”

She rewarded me with a proud smile and opened the door. “Alejandro? Did you want something to eat before you go back to the hospital?”

“No, ma'am. Thank you, but I don't want to put you out.”

She waved him off. “Nonsense. I was making eggs for Ellen anyhow.”

Every last one of us knew she was lying, but it was one of the polite sort of lies that was allowed. He was visibly exhausted, and whatever Echo had said to Mama had predisposed her to be kind to Alamo. I didn't have the heart to tell him resistance was futile. He'd figure it out like the rest of the club had.

For a moment he stood like a small mountain in my doorway. I couldn't say whether Mama or I was happier to see him there. She loved any excuse to look after one of the Wolves, and I . . . well, I just liked seeing him. Going to see Killer wasn't for any sort of reason I liked, but it was less awful because of Alamo.

Mama poured a cup of coffee, pointed at the table, and turned her back to fetch the eggs from the fridge. She knew as well as I did that he was too much of a gentleman to disobey her. He was a Wolf
and
a Southerner.

“How is he?” I asked, pulling out my own chair. I wanted to go see Killer, but I wasn't going to ignore my mother's courtesy toward Alamo. I wasn't a fool.

“About as well as you can be after getting shot.” Alamo walked into the kitchen and lifted the cup of coffee Mama set on the table. She'd offered to feed him, and he refused. She had the prerogative to ignore that refusal—which she obviously was since she was cracking eggs into a bowl.

“He sent Echo and the women home,” Alamo added.

I kicked out his chair. “Sit.”

He gave me a look that might've quelled someone not used to bikers. He was a lot of muscle and leather, and I had no doubt that it intimidated most folks. I wasn't most folks, though. My only reaction to his scowl was a fluttering of my pulse, but not from fear. I was too used to bikers and their old ladies to find a scowl daunting.

Back when we were kids, Killer had suggested that I'd never be able to date anyone other than a biker because buttoned-up sorts were too easily cowed by my forthright ways. At the time, I think he was putting in a good word for Noah, but the observation still held true. I kept trying, but sometimes I thought that the more mainstream a man was, the less able he'd be to hold my attention. The ones who stood a chance, who were assertive even though they didn't ride, seemed to think that because I was surrounded by bikers, I was easy. I got that it was just a stereotype, and I had no issue with a woman owning her sexuality. If I'd
wanted
them, I'd have no guilt in
having
them. What I'd learned early on as a girl surrounded by tough women was that there was a difference between choosing to have sex and feeling
obligated
. I didn't do obligated, not even when I was with Noah. The fact was that I didn't feel any guilt over wanting my pleasure, but I sure as hell wasn't going to do it just because some uptown man—or a biker—paid me a few compliments.

That didn't mean that Killer was wrong about what it took to hold my attention, though. He saw it well before I did: I was more than a little swayed by a man with attitude and the skill to back it up.

“Do you want peppers? Onions? Cilantro? I don't have any jalapeños or—”

Alamo laughed. “Just plain ol' eggs, ma'am. I don't need anything particular just because of my genes.”

Mama put one hand on her hip and gestured with the spatula she had just pulled out. “No lip, Alejandro! Echo tells me you don't have a mother, so consider this your warning: I adopt strays when I can. Killer and Noah both spent more than enough time at my table.” She shook her head. “Not that Uncle Karl's a bad cook, mind you. Surly old bastard might be better than me, but we don't talk about that.”

Alamo looked like he'd just stumbled into a mess of confusion. He glanced my way, and I debated not taking pity on him, but . . . the rest of us had spent years dealing with Mama, so it wasn't entirely fair to expect him to know what to say.

Then again, I wasn't sure my words were any more benign than hers. I grinned and told her, “I don't feel particularly brotherly toward Alamo, Mama. No need to go adopting him.”

She snorted in laughter and pointed the spatula at me. “Scrambled or something else?”

I couldn't quite bring myself to look at Alamo. I hadn't outright said what my feelings
were
, but it wasn't a big leap to understand what they were. I hadn't ever lived like caution was the answer to any question—except when refusing to sing—but thinking about Killer's getting shot made me want to take a few more risks.

Alamo held his silence. Not that I expected him to remark when we were in the kitchen with my mother, but a half hour later when we were climbing on the bike, he was still without comment. That clarified it, I guessed: he simply wasn't interested.

I needed to stop putting myself out there and move on, then.

When we pulled in at the hospital, I slipped off the bike and said, “Thanks. ”

“Do you want me to—”

“I got it,” I cut him off. “Thanks for the ride, though.” I tried to smile, but I suspected it looked strained. “You should probably sleep anyhow. I could've driven myself actually. I should've. Sorry I bothered you and—”

“It wasn't a bother, darlin'. ” He frowned at me and stood. “You need to stop putting words in my mouth.”

I nodded.

“Do you mind telling me what happened here?”

“Nothing.” I straightened the bag on my shoulder. I didn't feel anything in it through the fabric that seemed like it could be a gun, but knowing Mama, I was sure she'd wrapped it up in a shirt or a pair of jeans or something. She wasn't stealthy with her words, but that was a choice. The woman was cagier than a fox even on her worst days. If a woman could run the club, she'd be more than able.

Alamo was still staring at me, and although I knew that whatever answers he wanted weren't written on my skin, I still squirmed and turned away.

I didn't make it four steps before he fell in at my side.

“You're like to give a man whiplash, Ellen,” he said quietly. “I don't know what I did wrong, but if you feel like telling me, I'd be obliged.”

I glanced up at him and shook my head. “You didn't do anything, I just need not to trouble you for favors.”

He sighed, but that was all the answer he offered.

We were almost at the front door of the hospital when he glanced at the bag I was carrying. “For Killer?”

I nodded.

“I can carry it.” He didn't speak any more overtly than that, but there was a question in his gaze.

“You can't.” I repositioned it again, not because it was truly awkward but because it was heavy on my mind and felt more weighty on my shoulder than it really was. Knowing my obligations to the Wolves and being fine with them didn't mean I was unaware of risks.

“Are you sure?” Alamo offered.

I stopped midstep and locked gazes with him. “If you were to get picked up, it would inconvenience the club, especially with Killer in the hospital.” Then I resumed walking. “Anyhow, I'm sure everything is worked out.”

My theory was proven right as I saw the guard at the door of the hospital. He wasn't a Wolf, but his cousin was. He stepped in front of the metal detector to hug me, exclaiming, “Ellie!”

The alarm went off. His gun was visible, as was his badge. The faux sheepishness he had for setting the alarm off was remarkably convincing.

“Sorry!” He wasn't overly loud, but the folks in the lobby would've heard him all the same. He looked at Alamo. “It was probably my gun that set it off, but protocol . . .”

It sounded like he was apologizing, but there was a question in there too.

“Not that carrying's illegal, just not in the hospital,” he continued.

Alamo didn't look at me. He simply held his arms out to the side. I reached over and held open his vest, so it was clear that there was nothing hidden there.

“I got this, Ellie,” the guard, whose name I couldn't recall, said with a laugh. “Go on and step aside, li'l bit.”

So I stepped out of the way while the guard patted Alamo down. A moment later, he waved Alamo forward. “I was sorry to hear about your cousin, Ellie. He saved old Beau's life, the way I hear it. Bullet's not much of a reward for being a hero.”

I made polite replies for a moment, looking away, letting tears well up. It wasn't hard to do. My grief and worry over Killer weren't far from the surface as it was.