Mason:Inked Reapers MC(131)

"I don't get to rest up then," Miles gestured towards the doors which Hank and Colin had previously gone through.



"Rest is for the weak," Uncle Deacon waved a dismissive hand through the  air as he staggered back to his regular table. All of the confidence  and bluster had gone and he was once again a feeble old man. Still  burning with resentment for his Uncle, Miles followed him to the table  with Jasper lingering close by, keeping guard.



"I told you we were going to war," Deacon declared with a sinister smile.



"That you did," Miles agreed flatly.



"And I need to keep you here, where I can see you."



Miles squirmed uncomfortably. He felt more like a child than a man being held captive like this at the bar.                       
       
           



       



"If I let you leave here, all you'll do is go and warn that little girl of yours and there's no way in hell we're having that."



Miles tensed with anger.



"She'd warn that brother of hers," Deacon continued. Miles wanted to  correct him, to insist that Brea was loyal to him first, but he knew  that would be a lie. Brea loved her brother, she'd do all she could to  keep him safe. She wouldn't be the girl he loved if she'd do otherwise.



"She can't get mixed up in this," Miles tried to sound menacing but knew  he was failing. He was exhausted and his wounds were burning, causing  his thoughts to fog.



"Someone caught you real good," Deacon nodded at his wound which Miles could already feel was bleeding again.



"A guy at the bar had a blade." Miles winced as he spoke, it was starting to hurt to move his mouth.



"We should get that taken care of," Deacon nodded at Jasper, who left them alone and disappeared off behind the bar.



"I'm fine," Miles insisted tersely.



"You're not," Deacon shook his head, gazing at his nephew intently. "And  I can't have you in anything less than top form for tonight."



"Tonight?" Miles kept wincing. He felt like something was hammering a  jackhammer against his skull. "Why so soon?" he felt almost delirious  from the pain.



"We can't afford to wait," Deacon explained. "The Blood Pact will already be mobilizing and we'd be smart catch them off guard."



In Jasper's place returned a blonde with a heavily lined face. She was  carrying a bright red first aid kit which she dropped down on the table  before kneeling down beside Miles to scrutinize his wound.



"Ahh," he protested, pulling away as she fingered around the tender flesh.



"Don't be a baby," Deacon chastised. Miles wanted to retort that it was  easy for his Uncle to be so dismissive. He couldn't remember the last  time his old Uncle had left the safety of the bar.



"It needs stitches," the blonde didn't inform Miles. Instead, she spoke directly to Deacon who nodded his consent.



"Best take you out back to do them," she was talking to Miles now, nudging his shoulder to get him to stand up.



"You're in good hands with her," Deacon gave a thin smile. "She'll fix you up as good as new."



"Come on now," the blonde was guiding Miles through the bar, away from his Uncle.



"Don't knock him out too good," Deacon called after them. "I need him on his feet by tonight."





Chapter 70



Brea jumped at the sudden pounding against her front door. She stood  frozen in the middle of her apartment, her cell phone brandished in her  hand like some kind of weapon. She wasn't expecting anyone. Fear rattled  in her chest as she listened to the frantic beating of her own heart  echoed in her ears.



"Brea, it's me, open up." Sylar's muffled voice came from the other side of the door.



"Sylar," she said striding towards the door, releasing the locks in  bewilderment. She thrust open the door to reveal her brother in the  hallway, his face tense and pinched. But he wasn't alone. Brea glanced  at his companion and did her best not to stare at the deep scarring  covering half of his face.



"What the hell are you doing here?" she turned back to her brother.



"I don't have time to argue." Sylar barged past her entering the apartment, his friend close behind.



"And who is this?" Brea gestured wildly to the stranger. "And did I say you can come in?"



"This is my friend, Smith. You can trust him."



Smith gave Brea a brisk nod in greeting.



"Trust him?" Brea pressed her fingers against her temple. "Sylar, what's going on?"



"We don't have time, Brea!" Sylar came over to her and placed his hands  on her shoulders, squeezing slightly. He stared at her hard, willing her  to believe in his words.



"I need you to listen to me, Brea," he spoke slowly to ensure she  understood exactly what he was saying. "You're in danger here. You need  to come back home with me right now."



"In danger?" Brea shrugged him off and stepped back. Was this just  another of her brother's attempts to thwart her relationship with Miles?  If so she certainly wasn't in the mood for it.



"Brea, I'm serious," Sylar's voice was razor sharp. "Miles is dangerous."



"Please," Brea scoffed at the suggestion. Miles might look menacing, but  he wasn't dangerous. He was caring, and kind. And distant. His recent  lack of availability pinched at her chest, winding her. Why was he  blowing her off all the time? Had he stopped caring about her?                       
       
           



       



"He's not dangerous," she quickly blinked back tears, refusing to let her brother see her cry over Miles.



"He is," Sylar insisted, his eyes wild with urgency. "He's dangerous and  you being here, being with him, is putting you in danger. We need to  leave. Now. Go and pack up your things."



Brea exhaled sharply and placed her hands on her hips. She wasn't back  home, committed to obeying all of Sylar's orders. This was her  apartment, which she paid for with her own money. Her brother had no  right to storm the place and start giving her orders.



"You're out of line, Sylar." She told him angrily.



"So help me Brea, I'll drag you out of here if I have to. You're leaving Colridge tonight, with or without your consent."



"Sylar!" she glanced at his scarred friend for support, but he just  turned away from her, letting the siblings conduct their argument  between themselves.



"Pack, your things, now! Or I will pack for you." Sylar bellowed at her, pointing towards her bedroom door.



"No," Brea objected tearfully. Her brother was just trying to drive a  wedge between her and Miles, she was sure of it. And he was being  cruelly heavy-handed about it.



"I promise you that Miles is dangerous," Sylar repeated, his voice  softening slightly. "That bar that got turned over in town last night,  he was responsible for that."



"How can you say that?" Brea felt like her brother had smacked her with a  whip and she was still smarting from the wound. Why would he deliver  such a vicious lie? There was no way Miles could have had anything to do  with the fight at the bar. But Sylar had successfully planted a seed of  doubt in Brea's mind. She hadn't seen Miles last night, nor this  morning. Was he avoiding her to hide his battered face? He did sound odd  on the phone.



Tears beaded in her eyes as she glanced helplessly at her brother, willing him to be wrong.



"He rides with a motorcycle gang called the Highway Reapers," Sylar  continued. "They are a really nasty bunch of guys bred on violence. And  they are looking to stir up trouble here in Colridge. Being with Miles  makes you a target. I'm just trying to keep you safe Brea."



A motorcycle gang. The Highway Reapers. Brea felt dizzy as she tried to  take it all in. She lowered herself onto her sofa and lay her shaking  hands upon her knees. Sylar had to be wrong. He just had to be. But even  Gina had hinted about the danger.



"How do you … how do you know this?" she wondered woefully.



"I just do," Sylar told her vaguely. "Trust me, the Highway Reapers are trouble, Brea. Look what they did to Smith."



Smith stepped forward and angled the damaged half of his face up towards the light so that Brea could take a better look at it.



"The Highway Reapers; they did that to you?" she gasped, a hand flying up to her mouth.



"Acid," Smith explained tightly. "Me and your brother made the mistake  of turning up at the wrong bar a few years ago. It was a mistake the  Reapers wanted to make sure we wouldn't repeat again."



"My God," Brea couldn't imagine the pain Smith must have gone through.  And all because he'd gone to the wrong bar. It all seemed to needlessly  cruel. "And that's how you know?" she glanced between the two men. "That  Miles is with this gang, because you've encountered them before?"