Mercy (Redemption Reigns MC Book 4) Page 16

  As if on cue, Artist stepped forward, her boots squeaking as they hit blood and concrete. Her forehead was furrowed in a frown, lines drawn deeply. “Mercy, you good?”

  She nodded, but immediately regretted the motion. Her vision swam and she closed her eyes, holding herself together on sheer will alone.

  “You got the rest of this?” she asked the other woman, knowing she was losing the fight within her. Tonka had an arm around her waist and before hearing Artist’s answer, she turned to him. “Kill them all, Tonk. They’ll just keep coming. I’d do it, but the world is changing colors here.”

  Her words were soft, but Tonka nodded, pulling his piece and firing the killing blow at the one she’d wounded. He said something Mercy couldn’t catch to the others in the room, and almost in unison, the members of HR raised their arms, and let lead fly. The sound was music, a beautiful melody, that colored everything in red. Or maybe it was blood loss, she wasn’t sure. But in that moment, she’d never heard a more wonderful sound.

  And as the final shot rang out, Mercy lost her fight, adrenaline no longer helping to keep her upright. It was Tonka’s strong arm that held her in place, and she was grateful he was who he was. Any other man would’ve ending up dropping her, unable to keep his gun raised at the same time. But she knew she weighed nothing to him.

  Thank fuck, she thought, just before the world went black, and she was lost in his arms.

  18

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pain, sharp and hot, brought Mercy back to the world once more. Bright light engulfed her vision as she strained to focus. Blinking rapidly, she found Artist and Shakespeare, followed by Teagan’s fiery red hair. Confused, she glanced around, searching her surroundings. She was surprised to find she was still in the garage, just in the office, but she couldn’t find Tonka.

  Mercy opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out except an embarrassing whimper.

  “You’re all right, we’ve just gotta get the slugs out. Sorry, but it’s gonna hurt like a fucking bitch,” Shakespeare’s gravelly voice told her, his strong arm holding her down on the concrete. His expression was serious, only the slightest bit of sympathy in it, but the fact that she could read it on him, said something. But his words to her weren’t the question she had.

  She swallowed hard and tried again, only for a scream to escape her as Shakespeare tried, for what she assumed wasn’t the first time, to retrieve the bullet from her shoulder. In all her life, Mercy had never actually taken a slug, and while she’d assumed it hurt, she hadn’t realized it would be quite like this. And honestly, the first one had hurt like a bitch going in, the second she hadn’t felt at all. That numbness would’ve been welcome now, but that had apparently worn off. In its place was an agonizing, bone-deep pain. He was right, it hurt like a fucking bitch.

  A high-pitched sound filled her ears as he held up a slug to her vision, clearly successful in removing it. Artist put a hand on her head, keeping her in place as Mercy realized the sound was coming from her. She swallowed again, ignoring the tears that escaped from the corner of her eyes. These she couldn’t pretend were tears of anger; they tears were ones of pain, and it killed her that of all bikers in the world, they were the ones to see them.

  “We’re almost done, Merc,” Artist said, her words gentler than she’d ever heard the other woman speak. “We’ve got one, now the other.”

  Mercy nodded in understanding as she willed the question she wanted asked to show on her face. She let her eyes dart to the sides, taking everyone in, back to Artist. The other woman smiled a small smile.

  “Tonka’s fine. He took no lead, something he’s quite pissed off at; apparently, he thinks that since you took heat, so should he,” she said, her eyes moving to Shakespeare and back, before speaking quickly. “He’s taking care of what you asked him to. Now hold on to your ass, cause we’re on round two.”

  Round two was significantly harder than round one. And calling it round two was a big fat fucking lie. It was more like rounds six, seven, and eight, as the VP of Hells Redemption dug and dug for the slug still lodged in her. Mercy wasn’t sure which shot this one was, the first or the second, but knew it hurt even worse than the last to get out. When he was done she knew she was a red, snotting mess. No longer did she care about the tears that trailed her cheeks or the snot running down her nose — she wasn’t able to pretend it didn’t hurt. Artist telling her that it was okay, to yell if she needed to, made her stop trying to cover her own screams.

  Teagan came next, shuffling into the spot on the floor beside her, her face drawn, solemn. Shakespeare moved out of the way from her, and the redhead held up a bottle of clear liquid.

  “This alcohol is gonna hurt too, Mercy,” she said apologetically. “I’m so sorry, I genuinely am.”

  Mercy nodded again, knowing it wasn’t the other girl’s fault, and knowing it needed to be done. She couldn’t go to the hospital, not for this. It was common knowledge that any gunshot wounds were always reported to the police and investigated. Sure, HR had the five-oh on their payroll, but this would be a hard one to be covered up. She’d taken down several Static Law; Tonka, too. Hell, they all probably had, from what Mercy could recall from right before she passed out. Explaining that to the real law? Sure, the conversation would go something like. Oh yeah, we took out the entire mother chapter of a motorcycle club because we could. Sorry about that. Something told her even crooked cops wouldn’t be able to cover that shit up.

  So she let the other woman douse her shoulder in alcohol, cringing as the antiseptic did its job, but grateful she was no longer screaming. Mercy didn’t have much left in her in terms of fight or even pain tolerance. At this point, she could see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if she had to crawl to get there.

  Just at the sweetie was threading a needle, footsteps sounded and she strained against Artist to look. There stood Tonka, his chest still bare, and covered in blood. Her eyes searched the expanse of skin she could. Artist had told her he hadn’t been hit, but she needed to see for herself, needed to know the man who’d tried to protect her was okay.

  She’d only known the guy less than a week, but she truly cared about him. Hell, she genuinely enjoyed him and no longer wanted to go anywhere else. Maybe Hells Redemption would let her stay in town, despite the problems she caused. Especially now that those problems lay dead on the concrete in Lock’s shop. Maybe she could buy the shop from Tonka, seeing as he apparently owned it now. The idea didn’t seem like much of a long shot, though she wasn’t sure where they stood, or lay as the case was in that moment. Would she still be welcome? Did any of them actually give a fuck about her? Sure they were sewing her up, but was that the last piece of hospitality she’d get from them? The idea of them throwing her out on her ass stung.

  “I don’t want to go,” she said aloud, the words blurting from her lips before she could think better of them. The entire room paused, everyone looking at her like she’d grown three heads, and she wished she could melt away, so they’d stop. But laying prone on the concrete, Artist still at her head to keep her in place, Teagan above her ready to sew holes, and Shakespeare off to the side, she couldn’t. Mercy could be vulnerable with Tonka, but not with everyone else. The game of digging lead out of her body already bad enough.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Stang.”

  Tonka’s gruff voice was an aria to her ears, and tears escaped the corners of her eyes again as his face softened and he moved to replace Artist on the floor. His fingers toyed with her hair before wiping at her cheeks. His face was red and she could tell he was tired, and she felt bad he hadn’t gotten to go home and shower off the garlic he’d complained of smelling. She couldn’t smell it anymore, and the thought made her a little sad.

  “What did you give her?” he asked, and it took a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking to her, but to Teagan.

  “Morphine,” the redhead told him, shrugging. “I knew it wouldn’t work fast enough to kill the pain of getting the slugs out,
but would for this part. She’s gonna be slightly loopy for a little while, but I honestly didn’t give her a lot.”

  “I’m sorry I’m crying,” Mercy said to the room, and Tonka chuckled before leaning down to kiss her stained forehead.

  “You’re allowed a good cry.”

  “Big girls don’t cry.”

  “Mercy,” he said, shaking his head. “You just almost single handedly took out an entire motorcycle club. You didn’t hesitate, or even blink twice. You killed the pres, the SIA, and a couple others. You got fucking shot, not once, but twice. And more, the people you killed, you knew. I think that earns you a few tears. Artist?”

  “Yep, shit happens. Sometimes the only way to get shit out is through the eyeballs.”

  Shakespeare cleared his throat. “Fuck, you can cry more than a couple tears. I ain’t ever seen someone take someone out the way you did, except maybe Poet. Hard shit to do when you’re bleeding all over the goddamn place. Even harder when it’s your blood you’re taking out.”

  “I didn’t want you shot,” she told Tonka. “I was ‘fraid you’d be dead when I got back. I didn’t know what I’d do. I mean, I’m halfway in love with you and don’t even know your favorite food yet. That’s pathetic… I really should know what your favorite food is. Do you like peas? Maybe you’re a pea guy… wait, you told me before you like peas…”

  The medication Teagan had given Mercy had clearly kicked in, and she knew she was rambling nonsense but couldn’t help it. It was true, mostly. She didn’t know his favorite food, and she hadn’t known the guy long enough to be completely in love with him. But she actually really liked him, she was comfortable around him. She could see a future there, so long as they didn’t turn her away. She wasn’t in HR, she wasn’t one of them. Mercy was an intruder.

  “You’re not an intruder, Mercy, you’ve gotta stop thinking like that,” another female voice sounded from the doorway to the office, surprising her. She hadn’t even realized she’d spoken aloud, let alone that another person was there.

  Mercy sighed when she caught sight of Poet, looking much different than the last time she’d seen her. Black jeans paired with a yellow band tank top, and her shoulder rig barely visible under her cut, was a stark contrast to the puffy princess wedding gown she’d worn their first meeting. Her hair was also down, starkly straight, and her eyes were narrow as she took her in where she lay on the floor.

  “Poet! I’m so fucking sorry. You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon.”

  The HR president laughed, the sound like wind chimes. “According to my husband,” she said wryly, shooting a sharp glance to someone beyond the entryway, “I am a workaholic who can’t stay away.” Poet shrugged. “Sitting around does nothing for me, and I can get good dick whenever I want, so it doesn’t really matter where I am. Besides, shit goes down all the time. This world isn’t really one that takes a break because I want it to.”

  “I’m sorry, Titan!” Mercy said as loudly as she could muster, her throat sore from screaming. She grinned when she heard a male chuckle.

  “You’re fine, Mercy. It was my pain-in-the-ass wife who decided to come back’s fault, not yours.”

  “You’re all set here. Keep it wrapped, and keep it clean. Doesn’t look like there was any nerve damage, but we’d have to get imaging to see for certain,” Teagan said as she wrapped a large roll of gauze under and around her arm. She was good, and the meds were working well, because she’d felt nothing. “You can let her sit up,” she told Artist.

  Tonka was there replacing the redhead before Mercy could even process. She was slow and sluggish, but allowed the man to help her into a sitting point. The world spun for a heartbeat before straightening, and she let out a breath. Idly she wondered if she’d puke and hoped she wouldn’t. She was mortified enough for one day.

  “Get her home, Tonk,” Poet instructed and he nodded in agreement, before scooping her up slowly into his arms. He must’ve known she was a hair trigger away from blowing chunks and moved gently, something she was grateful for.

  “Home?”

  “Yes, Mercy. The clubhouse is your home, for as long as you want it to be,” the HR president told her.

  “I told you, you’re not going anywhere… so long as you don’t want to, Stang,” Tonka said so softly Mercy wasn’t sure if she heard him correctly or not. Either way, she didn’t really want to go anywhere either, so it suited her just fine.

  She was grateful, if not a bit surprised, when Tonka bypassed his bike and carried her toward a black SUV. Of course, there was no way in hell she would’ve been able to jump on the back of a bike, or even remain upright at the moment, so it was good thinking. But someone within the club must’ve been thinking ahead, or preparing for the worst. Mercy had a sinking suspicion it was the latter, rather than the former. He started toward the back door but she shook her head, regretting the motion as quickly as she’d made it.

  “You’re not my chauffeur, you’re my man. I’ll sit up front with you.”

  “You’re going to puke if you stay upright, Stang. You lost a lot of blood, you’re paler than I’ve ever seen, scarily so, and you’ve got morphine in your system.”

  “So give me a bag, because I’m gonna puke either way.”

  Tonka chuckled. “Woman, you can’t do anything the easy way. Fine. I’ll get you a bag.”

  With the same gentleness he’d picked her up, he opened the passenger door and helped her to it. Her arm was throbbing in time with her heartbeat and she remained where he placed her, sure to keep her head down. It seemed the world swam less when she wasn’t looking at it. Unfortunately, her body didn’t get the memo, and she strained as she threw up, doing what she could to make sure she didn’t get it inside the car. Large hands grabbed at her hair, holding it out of the way as she heaved, though little came up. She’d never gotten to eat dinner, and had worked through lunch, having thought there would be time later. And still, Tonka held her hair, until the world seemed to level a bit and she turned her face up to meet his.

  “I know I’m sexy,” she told him, trying for a saucy tone, but failing.

  Extending an arm, he handed her a clean shop towel and a paper bag he’d produced from God only knew where. “You’re always sexy. And I told you you’d puke.”

  “Never said I wouldn’t.”

  With that, he helped her into the car, and shut the door. Climbing in behind the wheel, he glanced over to her, concern in his eyes, and his usual playful expression gone. “You were amazing tonight, Mercedes, truly. You really can protect yourself… but I swear to God if you ever stand up in clear view during a gunfight again, I’m going to kick your ass myself.”

  “Ah, so I was right, then, eh? Tell me you were wrong.”

  Tonka grumbled and started the SUV. “Never gonna get it from me,” he told her, but a small smile played on his lips. “Let’s go home.”

  The term home took on a new meaning for her. It was true, she was going home. She was going where her heart was, where she wanted to be, for one of the first times she could ever remember. No longer was the boogeyman waiting at every corner to kidnap her and force her back to where she didn’t want to be. No longer was she in fear of the ramifications of her actions, and what her father may do.

  Of course, she still had other brothers, and even if they’d managed to take out every Lawman that had showed up at the shop, there were still more. The threat of SL wasn’t completely gone or completely wiped out. But, at least when she was finally in bed, propped up with plush pillows in Tonka’s bed, she knew the only nightmares she had to fear, were the fake ones. Those nightmares would be easily dealt with, snuffed out by the warmth of Tonka’s skin and the comforting smell of his clean sheets.

  It may have taken two slugs to the arm, fear for people she cared about, and the slight loss of a brother she’d once loved, but she was finally free.

  Epilogue

  “Y’all, I look fucking stupid,” Mercy whined as Teagan took another strand of her hair, coiling
it around the curling iron.

  Apparently Tonka had put the redhead and Artist, of all people, in charge of getting her ready for a date. A week had passed since the Static Law incident at The Lock Shop, as it was now named. The sweetie had been right in that she didn’t seem to have any permanent nerve damage, though her arm still hurt like a bitch. She couldn’t raise it beyond a certain point, but feeling was coming back in her hand, which they all took as a good sign.

  Tonka hadn’t left her side for days, and had only finally done so when Mercy had demanded he go to work, or something, anything other than hover over her. She knew he meant well, that his morals and ways of treating women were his driving force, but he was driving her up a wall. Every time she’d shifted, he’d been there to help her adjust, and she’d gotten tired of feeling like a burden. Not that he’d ever even hinted that she was. Her independence just refused to have him see her as weak.

  He’d decided at some point along the way, however, that it was time for her to come to his restaurant. According to him, they were long overdue for a date night, and that night was now. So, in had barged Teagan and Artist, a duffel bag full of outfits and a mad amount of beauty products.

  “You don’t look stupid, you look beautiful,” Teagan told her, swatting at Mercy’s hand as it came up to smooth her hair. She never curled it because it took too long, but the other girl was a pro, getting through it faster than Mercy ever had.

  “Oh yeah, because this stupid sling is a real turn on.”

  “Rules are rules, Mercy, you know this,” Artist said, laughter in her tone as Mercy made a face.

  Poet had come by many times to check on her in the last week, but had instructed everyone that under no circumstances was she to be out and about without the ugly-ass blue sling they’d gotten her. The female president meant well, as it was imperative that she let the arm heal and recover or she would damage it further, but still. It was the principle of the fact. And that everyone in the entire club seemed to think Mercy’s annoyance was hilarious.