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I never could condone violence against women. Had my reasons why but it didn’t change the facts.
The piece of shit that did this to her was gonna bleed for hurting her, and it fed the monster inside me to know that I would be the one setting him straight.
“Where is he?” The gruff tone of my voice must have spooked her because she startled, moving a strand of her hair out of her eyes with a shaky hand.
“Home.”
“You’ll show me.” I didn’t ask. Didn’t need to know specifics. I sure as hell wasn’t going to accept anything other than doling out a little of his own medicine to this asshole. “Hop on.”
She blinked a few times before slowly climbing on behind me, holding onto the leather material of my cut like a lifeline. No, I didn’t think ridin’ on a Harley scared her, not after what she’d been through. It was probably adrenaline, shock, and pain from her injuries combined to wreak havoc on her body and emotions.
Over the next few minutes, she gave directions, leading me to a tan-colored double-wide mobile home in Indian Springs. A pickup truck was parked in the driveway with truck nuts. The plastic dangling scrotum was affixed to the bumper, sending a clear message. I snorted, not the least bit surprised this fucker suffered from small dick syndrome.
The bike slowly came to a stop as I rolled in front of the house. She didn’t say a word, lifting her hand to point at the front door. Chipped green paint greeted me as I cut off the engine of my Harley and stood, placing the keys in her hand.
“If shit goes south, make sure my bike gets to the Devil’s Murder MC. Rook will know what to do.”
Her mouth popped open before she nodded. “Where do I find them?”
“You ever heard of Bull’s Saloon?”
She blinked. “Yeah, I think so. The biker bar outside Vegas?”
“That’s the one. Talk to Lucky Lou.”
As I slipped on my brass knuckles, I ticked my chin in her direction. “Wait here. Stay with my bike.”
She drew in a ragged breath, wincing from a wound I probably couldn’t see. Beneath the bruises and scratches, she hid a slew of injuries and numerous scars. Years of abuse I couldn’t begin to erase, even if I did prevent any further violence.
“Okay.”
I didn’t ask her any questions. There wasn’t a need. The motherfucker that did this to her would learn not to place his hands on a woman in anger because I was breakin’ every last one of his fingers to make sure that lesson hit home.
The front lawn was a bit overgrown as I walked toward the door, pounding my fist over the surface once I reached it. No one answered, and there wasn’t a sound to prove anyone was home. I knew better. Annoyed, I lifted my foot and kicked it in, watching with satisfaction as the wood splintered and the frame cracked. I stomped over the threshold with one purpose—retribution—a reckoning.
The devil was comin’ to exact a little justice.
If only I could have done that for my mom.
“What the fuck!?”
I didn’t pause as the man on the living room couch stumbled to his feet, knocking over a couple of beer bottles as they crashed to the floor and shattered into dozens of tiny pieces. He didn’t notice the glass slicing into his feet as he slurred, threatening me for entering his house.
In the corner, I spotted a 12-gauge and knew I couldn’t let him get close enough to use it.
I’d studied Brazilian jiu-jitsu after my old man used to knock me around as a kid. The self-defense martial art and combat sport based on grappling, ground fighting, and submission holds had grown from a necessity to a passion. I loved the flexibility and burn of my muscles, the flood of adrenaline when I pushed my body to the limit. I stopped being a punching bag the day I stood up to my father and blocked the hit aiming for my head, shocking the hell out of him.
To this day, I never let a man get the best of me or gain the advantage. I learned to watch my opponents and anticipate their moves. That skill proved useful when I patched into the Devil’s Murder. I earned my place in the club with blood, sweat, and loyalty and never looked back.
So when I saw this motherfucker move toward his weapon, I never had to think about what to do next. My body moved without conscious thought.
I let the hammer drop.
Lunging in his direction, I lifted his leg, knocking the abusive fucker off balance. He crashed to the ground, groaning as I swung my fist. The brass knuckles I wore grazed the left side of his face as his head bounced off the carpet. I swung a few more times, enjoying the splatter of blood and his swelling face. Motherfucker deserved a hell of a lot worse.
I whipped my gun free, pointing the barrel at his forehead. “We’re gonna get something straight, asshole. You lift a finger to hurt another woman, and I’ll be back.” I pointed to the patches on my cut. “You see these?”
He squinted, nodding as he read the Devil’s Murder MC.
