Damaged & Dangerous: The Sacred Hearts MC Book VI by A. J. Downey Read Free Book Online Page B

closed-mouthed about her history and where she’d come
from, and that just made me want to get to the bottom of her damage even more.
    It was a relatively short ride from the club to her place
and when I pulled onto the street, I had to say it was kind of incredible. It
looked like something out of that zombie series or that Stephen King movie
about the world after a deadly virus wiped everything out. The whole street had
that middle-America, small town, main street-type feel, but the buildings were
falling into serious disrepair. The sidewalks were cracked and weed choked,
windows were boarded and busted out, and the cars that were parked here
and there were old, rusted out pieces of shit.
    The building that Pig-Pen described was midway up the block.
Green awning, it wasn’t as bad off as some of the rest. Its front window
was mostly intact except for one long crack in it, the faded gold leaf
lettering spelling out Broussard’s Custom Jewelry on its front. There
was a recessed metal gate that wasn’t locked, between it and the building next
door. I parked my bike and took off my helmet, shoving my mask - which was just
a bandanna now - and glasses into its overturned bowl.
    Rocket’s sad, tired, old, green Honda was parked at the
curb, so she was home. I pulled out the Crown Royal bag and opened it up, now
that there was no one to see me being fuckin’ nosey. It was filled with
jewelry. Real shit. Necklaces and rings and bracelets. Likely all of it fucking
stolen. I shook my head and drew the strings taught, closing up the bag.
    “Just what the fuck you into, Rocket?” I asked the empty
air. One way to find out. I let myself through the gate and down the small
brick alleyway. It emptied out into a courtyard, which surprised me. A small,
bricked-in workshop sat in the corner of it, the windows dark, and a shiny
padlock in good repair keeping folk out of it. An iron stair led to the open
air second floor. There was only one door above the jewelry store, so I mounted
the steps two at a time and went to it.
    I pounded on the door, “Rocket!? It’s Red-Thirteen!” I
called. There was no answer. I pounded on the door three more times with my
closed fist. I felt suddenly gripped by a creeping dread.
    I knew she was safe from my club, my real club. No
women, no children. But I wouldn’t put it passed the sick fucks that were The
Suicide Kings to have done something to her, to blame The Sacred Hearts.
I gripped the door knob and it turned easily in my hand. I expected resistance
when I pushed on the door, but there was none, it swung inward on well-oiled
hinges. I set my helmet down carefully on the floor just inside the door and
swept the dimly lit interior with my gaze.
    Small, two bedrooms, maybe. Kitchen just to the left of the
front door, hall leading to what looked like a laundry area and one bedroom on
the left, living room space directly ahead, dining area directly through the
front door and to the right. Another hall past the dining area. A darkened
bathroom door, I could see the sink from here… Past that, I think, was a second
bedroom. I slid my gun out from underneath my prospect’s cut and held it at the
ready. It was quiet, and still. So very still.
    “Rocket?” I called and there was a weak cough and a moan
from the direction of the bathroom, past it, off to the right. My heart
squeezed in my chest and a hot rage started to burn in my belly. If those
sons of bitches sent me out here to bear witness to her dying… I didn’t want
to finish the thought. I swept the apartment and, satisfied that there was no
one there to jump out and take me down, I went for the last door. The one that
held that weak feminine groaning.
    I opened the door flush against the wall and what I saw… fuck
me. I knew she’d been fighting a cold, but this was fucking ridiculous! She
lay in bed, the blankets and quilts piled high. Her hair was matted and used
Kleenex overflowed the small trashcan by her bedside, piling against