Madeline Sheehan - Unbeloved

Ripper stared at him. Not the nicest motherfucker out there was putting it mildly. Trey had a line of bodies trailing behind him. But then again, so did Ripper.

Ripper released him and backed away as Trey reached up to massage his throat.

“We good?” Trey asked.

About to tell him to go fuck himself, Ripper was distracted by an angry shout. He turned just in time to see a body being tossed out the door of one of the SUVs. As Hawk’s lifeless body fell to the ground, the door slammed closed and the line of SUVs sped off. Without giving Trey a second glance, he took off running. Trey didn’t fucking matter. Frankie didn’t fucking matter.

Because when it came down to it, this wasn’t a pretty life by any means. Bodies fell, and people got hurt. But you did your best to keep going; you found yourself a nice little patch of happiness, and you clung to that shit like it was your last fucking breath.

And he’d done just that. He’d found his peace within the arms of a beautiful girl. He’d found peace and a whole lot more.

Frankie was dead; that psychopath had paid for his sins in the worst possible way.

And someday, Trey would get what was coming to him.

Neither of them deserved another fucking thought. They weren’t worth it.

But Hawk was.

“Grab his legs!” Deuce shouted, grabbing hold of Hawk’s underarms and trying to pull the man’s big body upward. “And watch out for those wounds!”

Shoving Dirty and Mick out of his way, Ripper dropped down to his knees and skidded across the snow-covered pavement, reaching for Hawk’s unmoving body. Wearing only a pair of soiled boxers, he was covered in bruises, dried blood, and other substances Ripper didn’t want to give too much thought to what that they were. On either side of his right leg, there were two shoddily stitched-up wounds, both an angry red and seeping with pus, the dirty skin around them turning unhealthy shades of black and blue.

As carefully as he could, he slipped his arm underneath his brother’s thighs, and as Deuce lifted the top half of Hawk’s body, Ripper lifted his legs.

“Is he breathin’?” Ripper asked, panting.

“Shallow,” Mick said, “but he’s breathin’.”

They say what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Well, he didn’t know about all that. But it sure as shit changes everything.

— James “Hawk” Young

Pain was a relative thing.

There were good types of pain: The burning strain on your muscles when you piled on another set of weights and lifted those bad boys into the air; the feel of a tattoo machine, those tiny needles dipping into your skin over and over again, soaking it through with beautiful ink; or that crushing ache in your chest when you thought you’d never have a family again, but then a little redheaded baby boy was placed in your arms and he looked up at you with those big, wondering eyes and he was all yours, your family.

That was the kind of pain Hawk could get down with.

Then there was the other sort. The pain caused by some backroom doctor picking bone shards out of his leg, and then stitching him back up without medicating him first. The pain from an angry fist hitting his face, or a pair of booted feet sent repeatedly into his rib cage. Or the worst pain of all, seeing the laughing face of a man you once called brother, as he inflicted all that damage.

Hawk didn’t remember much after ZZ had beat him senseless, no doubt retribution for Hawk having gotten him shot. Although the man had been cradling his left arm, he’d seemed just fine in comparison to how Hawk had felt.

What he did remember was the needles. Someone would come every few hours to inject something into his arm that dulled the pain, but also rendered him useless to do little more than lie there and stare at the dark, dank surroundings of whatever basement room he was being kept in. He fluttered in and out of consciousness, and each time he began to recover from the drugs, he was shot up with more.

Throughout it all there were times that he could distinguish voices, most of them speaking in Russian, sounding fuzzy and far away. But through it all, he’d frequently heard Deuce’s name and he’d clung to that. While he shivered and shook, both hungry and thirsty, and repeatedly pissing and shitting himself, he’d clung to the thought of Deuce, of his club, and of the lone sliver of pride he still had left: the fact that it wasn’t only him who’d dragged the Horsemen into this mess, but ZZ as well.

And then self-pity had begun to set in and he found himself going over and over again all the things he’d done wrong, all the damn mistakes he’d made. Once upon a time, he hadn’t believed in mistakes; it either was or it just wasn’t. He knew that wasn’t true now, that one lone decision could change everything, and he’d made a lot of bad choices over the years. Too many to count. He’d been lonely and greedy and therefore selfish, he’d been desperate and therefore vengeful, and he’d been rejected and therefore indifferent. And worst of all, he’d been out of his mind with regret and therefore complacent.

All. Fucking. Wrong.

You didn’t fix one mistake with another; he knew that now.

But the one person who needed to know that, to know how sorry he was for the many mistakes he’d made, was miles away, and he was beginning to think there was little chance of him ever having the opportunity to tell her.

And just when Hawk started to think he was going to die, starve to death, or overdose on whatever drug they weren’t allowing to leave his system, he heard Deuce. Not his name, but the man himself.

He heard Ripper.

He heard Dirty.

He heard Mick.

At first he couldn’t make out what was being said, but he recognized every one of their distinctive voices. And that was when he realized he wasn’t in that room any longer, freezing his ass off and covered in his own shit.

Beyond the familiar voices surrounding him, he could both hear and feel the rumble of an engine, the faraway grainy sound of music, all blessedly beautiful sounds telling him he was inside a vehicle surrounded by men who weren’t going to hurt him.

And for the first time in his life, he understood the meaning of home again. It wasn’t where you grew up; it wasn’t who you’d once been.

It was the people you surrounded yourself with.

“He’s been beaten and drugged,” he heard Deuce say. “Fuckin’ needle marks in his arm.”

“Leg’s broken too,” Mick said. “Shot straight through the tibia.”

“Speak English, motherfucker, not Swahili!”

Hearing Ripper so agitated, Hawk smiled. Or at least, he tried to smile. He couldn’t do much of anything at the moment aside from lie there like a fucking useless lump.

“I am speakin’ English, you dumbass shit. Ain’t my fault you never finished high school.”

“Both of you idiots, shut up. Ripper, call the club, tell Cage we’re gonna need a doctor.”

“On it, Prez,” Ripper muttered.

“And,” Deuce added, “we’re not takin’ him to the club. Tell Cage his guest room is about to be occupied.”

“Tegen will love that.”

“Tegen knows her fuckin’ place.”

“That bitch knows her place ’bout as well as Ripper knows what the fuck a tibia is.”

“Fuck off!”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouths,” Deuce growled. “That crazy bitch you’re talkin’ shit about cleaned my boy the fuck up.”

“She’s still crazy. Straight-up fuckin’ nuts.”

Hawk wanted to laugh but he still couldn’t see, probably because his eyes were swollen shut. Now that he was warming up, the pain in his leg was starting to burn something fierce, causing his thoughts to muddle.

Then he felt something warm press against his cheek. Maybe a hand.

“You hang the fuck on, you feel me, brother?” Deuce said, his voice low. “You got an unhappy redhead who drove through the blizzard from hell just to see where the fuck you were. She’s waitin’ on your ass, probably gonna bitch you the fuck out for lyin’ to her all these years. I’m givin’ you permission to put that blame on me like all the rest of these motherfuckers are doin’.”

For a moment, Hawk was confused, thinking Deuce was referring to Tegen, and Tegen being pissed at him wasn’t anything new.

But then he heard Ripper mutter, “She’s probably just pissed findin’ out that little leprechaun of hers is actually a Russki, and property of the Red Mafia.”

Suddenly Hawk realized it wasn’t Tegen that Deuce was talking about, it was Dorothy.

So, she’d come back to Montana for him?

And she knew everything now? And she was upset?

Upset meant she gave a fuck.

“What?” Ripper said, sounding affronted. “No one thought that was funny? Dude, that was funny. Cox would have thought that was funny. Dirty? No? Fuck, bein’ clean has made you lame as fuck.”

“It was kinda funny,” Mick said. “But not really.”

“Jesus Christ,” Deuce muttered. “Just shut the fuck up. All of you.”

And if Hawk could have grinned, he sure as shit would have.

**•

Hours passed. Days? Weeks? He didn’t know.

Hawk was in and out of consciousness, sometimes shivering with unbearable cold, sometimes burning with stifling heat and sweating profusely, and sometimes both. He only caught snippets of conversations, purposely hushed voices accompanied by the sound of footsteps. He saw flashes of blurred faces, and every so often he’d feel a touch, sometimes excruciatingly painful, radiating up his leg, spreading higher and higher, gripping his chest like a vice until he’d pass out from the pain. Other times it was gentle, something soft and cool on his skin, fingertips fluttering up and down his arms, hands cupping his cheeks. A kiss pressed against his lips.