Mason:Inked Reapers MC(133)

The dingy room tilted on its axis and Miles swayed on his feet.



"Careful now," the woman appeared behind him, grabbing him by the  shoulders and gently guiding him back down toward the sofa. "You don't  want to run before you can walk," she advised, handing him back his mug  of coffee.



"I need to get to Colridge," he told her desperately.



"This about that girl who called your phone?"



"What?" Panic leaped up into Miles' throat, almost preventing him from speaking altogether. "Brea? She called me? When?"



He was firing his questions at the blonde, like bullets.



"She called while you were knocked out," she replied slowly, not bothered by his level of desperation.



"She won't be calling again."



"Wait, what? What did you say to her?" Miles felt like a mad man  possessed as he reached for his makeshift nurse and grabbed her roughly  by the collar of the dress she was wearing which would be better suited  to a woman half her age.



"Relax," she didn't bat an eyelid as she eased herself out of his grip.  There wasn't even a flash of fear in her eyes. She was well accustomed  to the tempers on display in the bar.



"I kept her safe," she told him sternly.



"I can keep her safe!" Miles insisted shrilly.



"Can you?" she cast a dubious eye over his latest wound which would  surely leave a scar. "Because, son, I'm not sure you can. And if you're  really sweet on this girl you'll just let her go. You see, you're  already in a relationship, with the Highway Reapers, and your Uncle, he  don't take too kindly to anyone cheating."



Miles groaned in frustration. What had Brea said when she'd called? What  had his nurse said? He could only imagine how mad she must be at him.  He needed to talk to her, to convince her of how much he loves her.                       
       
           



       



"Let her go," the blonde advised, getting up and dusting off her dress  as her old bones creaked in protest. "The Blood Gang is no place for a  lady. Unless you want her to turn out like me."



Miles looked at the old blonde, really looked at her. Behind her tired  eyes, there was still the sparkle of the beautiful girl she'd once been.  A girl who had been lured into the gang by his Uncle Deacon back when  the old man was enigmatic and handsome. No, this wasn't the future Miles  wanted for Brea, for her to sit around and stitch up gang members. He  wanted her to follow her dreams, to follow her art, her passion. He  rubbed a hand across his chest, across the tattoo which had originally  bought them together.



"Take care, kid. Think about what I said," the woman was at the door now, about to leave.



"Thanks for fixing me up," Miles forced a weak smile and tapped the side of his head.



"Anytime. Just be careful out there tonight, you hear?"



Miles nodded. He wasn't ready to go back to Colridge, to fight again.  But if Brea were there he'd have to. Somehow he'd have to sneak away  from the others and get to her apartment. They'd have to run. If he  abandoned the pack during a fight, there was no way they'd take him  back. He'd become as much as an enemy to them, as a Blood Pact member.  But for Brea, Miles was willing to run and turn his back on everything  he knew. She was worth that. She was worth running away for.





Chapter 73



"He rises," Hank grandly gestures towards Miles as he slumped out of the  back room. The bar was busy once again with pack members crammed  inside, all proudly wearing their leather jackets and polluting the air  with all their cigar smoke.



"Welcome back, slugger," Hank tipped the shot of whiskey he was holding  towards Miles before letting the liquid slide effortlessly down the back  of his throat. Colin was on the barstool beside him, nursing a beer.  Both men still looked worn down and beaten thanks to their night causing  chaos at a local bar in Colridge.



"Hey," Miles dropped down onto a vacant stool beside Hank.



"Feeling better?" Hank's breath stank of liquor. Miles wondered how late  in the day it was, and how useful his friends hoped to be in any sort  of melee if they were already pretty drunk.



"A bit," Miles' head started to throb once again but, he refused to take  the pain medication his nurse had left for him. He needed a clear head  if he was going to abandon his pack in Colridge and save Brea.



"Me? I'm itching for another round," Hank dramatically cracked his knuckles to emphasize his point.



"Speak for yourself," Colin scoffed, gazing sadly at his beer. "I'm still recovering from the last round."



"But this is the defining one," Hank smacked his hand against the dirty  bar and grinned maniacally. "This is the one that shows all those Blood  Pact assholes just who owns this town."



"Yeah," Miles gave a sad smile. All around him the air was filled with  excited chatter about how much blood would be spilled, how many teeth  would get knocked out. The entirety of the Reaper gang consisted of men  born for violence; they came alive when they were cracking skulls. But  more often than not, things went too far.



With a shudder, Miles recalled the story he'd heard of the young man who had been disfigured with acid.



"He was Blood Pact scum," they'd declared with a dismissive shrug. "He'd had it coming."



The perpetrators had lived off that act for years. Each time they came  into the bar they were given free drinks and a thunderous round of  applause led by Miles' Uncle Deacon. Deacon admired their savagery,  liked how they'd helped make his pack infamous and feared. Back then,  even Miles had admired them, which made him feel shame now. But he was  young and impressionable all those years ago and he wanted to be revered  like they were. And so each time he went out with the pack, he was  overly vicious. He'd bite off men's ears, crack open their skulls and  watch with morbid interest as they precious contents slid out onto the  street.



But now things were different. Now there was Brea and a reason to walk away from all the violence, all the madness.



"I'm bringing my little friend tonight," Hank grinned. Miles didn't need  to ask who his little friend was since he already knew. Hank's friend  was a machete he'd bought during a vacation to Mexico. If kept sharp  enough and used correctly, it was capable of decapitating a man with one  deadly blow. Not that Hank had ever achieved such a victory and given  his slurred words now, Miles doubted he'd be able to pull it off  tonight. Which meant that with the machete in hand he would be capable  of grievously maiming, but not killing a man, which in most cases would  be worse. Miles had heard the stories of men so badly beaten that they  spent the rest of their lives eating through a straw in a vegetative  state.                       
       
           



       



"A fate worse than death," The Blood Pact would mutter amongst themselves whenever it happened.



"Do you think you really need it?" Miles countered. People didn't need  to die or spend the rest of their natural born lives in a hospital. The  Reapers just needed to make a point, to scare the Blood Pact out of  Colridge.



"Your Uncle has said to leave no man alive," Colin explained gravely as he stared sadly into the distance.



"No man alive?" Miles coughed out the words in shock. A brawl was one thing. But a massacre? That was something else entirely.



"He said we're at war," Hank explained as he raised his hand to order another shot of whiskey.



"Over what, over Colridge?" Miles felt outraged.



"Hey man, we're just the messengers here. You got a problem, take it up with your Uncle."



Miles was silent as he knew that to do so would be suicide.



"And we're sorry about your girl," Hank added, not meeting Miles' gaze.  "If she gets caught up in shit tonight, just know that we're sorry."



"You should never have told him about her," Miles blinked back tears.



"We thought we were looking out for you," Colin offered quietly. "You know your Uncle's policy when it comes to dating."



"But my job is to look out for her," Miles raged, standing up and moving back from the bar.



"No," Hank's voice was suddenly low and threatening. "Your job is to look out for the pack."



Miles' heart was hammering so loudly in his chest that it was almost  deafening. He looked over at Hank and saw the warning look he was giving  him. Deflated he dropped back onto his stool, knowing it was more than  his life's worth to make a scene when everyone was in such a volatile  mood.