Free Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) by Abriella Blake Page B

grumble in my chest.
    I knocked again. Louder this time.
    “Who's there?” rasped a voice, quick to respond At first I
didn't recognize Scotty's scratchy baritone; in freaked-out whisper mode, the
bar owner might have been a child. But following his sound with my gaze, I
watched Scotty's stubby frame materialize. He was dressed in black from head to
toe.
    “It's me. It's Gisele.”
    “Oh, Jesus. Keep your voice low.” Toddling toward the door
and beginning to undo a few complicated-sounding locks, I took further
inventory of my host. Scotty was pallid, his eyes were sleepless. It was hard
to believe that a mere few days ago this man had been the gleeful conductor of
a big, fun party. Now, he looked like a refugee.
    “What's going on?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice to a
whisper. “Your club is closed.”
    On entering the cottage, I confirmed my original suspicions:
there had definitely been some kind of scuttle here. A slashed pillow was
raining feathers across the living room floor. A creepy stain of some dark
material was still glistening, fresh-looking, on the shag rug.
    “Were you followed here?” Scotty asked sharply. I noticed
then how he'd kept us by the entrance, forbidding my full passage into his
house.
    “No. I snuck away. But --”
    “If you want him, he isn't here.”
    “...Oh. Well, do you know where he is? Because I have an
important message.”
    The old bartender regarded me as if I were a cockroach. And
for a moment, my fear took on a new shape. Did Scotty think I was the enemy?
Was it possible that some member of the Coffin Cheaters was responsible for the
shuttered club, this destroyed room? But how could that be, when I'd been
watching our club's grounds all night? As far as I knew, no one had left my
camp to hunt trouble.
    Just then, I heard what was fast-becoming my favorite sound
in the universe: the rumbling strength of Carter's grunted laugh, coming from
someplace I couldn't see in the low light:
    “It's alright, Scotty. She's okay.”
    “But Case, how can you--?”
    “I said it's okay , Scotty.”
    I turned my head to and fro, searching for his face in the
dark. In another instant, I understood: the odd stain. The slashed pillows. I
ran towards the couch. Knox lay among the wreckage, his sculpted face pale. He
was clutching an arm to his naked chest.
    “What happened?!”
    “As if you don't know! You and your whole filthy MC!” Scotty
spat out these words, wagging a fat finger in my face. I would have defended my
club, but I was so worried looking down at Knox that I couldn't spare the
little goon any attention. My eyes fully adjusted to the light, I was able to
piece together the crucial part of the story: someone had come and roughed up
my man. A long, thick gash ran down Knox's arm. Luckily, this appeared to be
his only injury. I noticed he was dressed in riding gear, the same leather
pants and boots he'd been wearing when we met. Gosh, that felt like so long
ago.
    “You look like you need a doctor.”
    “I'm fine. Scotty's got Neosporin for days.”
    “You need more than Neosporin, Knox.” I bent low and began
to inspect the wound. This was another lesson gleaned from Pops: basic first
aid. I'd helped a dozen men cope with road rash and busted limbs, gashes and
bruises from squabbles and duels. Put a bunch of testosterone-gunned hotheads
in a room, fights were merely par for the course.
    “I can help you with this. We need a bandage, though.”
    “That's rich. Don't you know who did this to him?” Scotty
had appeared by my elbow again, and made as if to block me from touching his
friend. I had never felt like an enemy to anyone before, and I didn't enjoy the
feeling now.
    “I had nothing to do with this. I swear to you.”
    “Don't know how we can trust you. Bunch of leather wearing
freaks in clown masks come into my nice establishment, roughing up my patrons.
Would have damn near killed Knox, him being the only one to brandish a weapon.”
Scotty indicated a