Cruz (Dark and Dirty Sinners' MC #5) - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,5
have imagined being happy to be out of the lab, to be out of the field, but I found I had a place here, a purpose. And with Donavan Lancaster’s death in the cards, well, I’d have some fun sooner rather than later.
The road to the Fridge was rough, and there were pockets of land that could sink a truck this size, so I was grateful for the dawn which shone a little light on my path. That was why I traveled at this time. The sun rose and illuminated a journey that had been taken often by the brothers in the fifty or so years of the clubhouse’s existence. Blood spilled often in an MC, and it was surprising there wasn’t a river of it around the Fridge, where most of it had been shed in the Sinners’ history.
When we made it to the club’s personal torture chamber, I grabbed my gear and directed Jaxson. Together, we managed to get the crate off the truck and we dragged it to a clearing that had a tarp over it that was dotted with leaves and shit for camo.
“Please! Get me out of here!”
The scream came as no shock to me, but Jax jolted like he’d been hit with a stun gun.
“It’s just Lancaster,” I muttered, used to the noise by now.
Jax winced, but otherwise, carried on unpacking the truck.
Both of us were exhausted by this point, especially after such a long shift, him on the gates and me behind the bar, so we made short work of grabbing the other, smaller crates, and loading them beside the cabin. As we worked, Lancaster continued releasing sharp screams, pleas for help, and each time, Jaxson jerked in surprise.
He had to know what was going on in there, what the MC was putting the cunt through, but each jolt told me he wasn’t made for wet work. If my opinion mattered, I’d have told Rex that, but I had no right to judge another man’s stomach—it wasn’t like the only work around the clubhouse came with a side of blood.
By the time I got Jax back to his post, he looked like he was going to hurl, and while I was dead on my feet, when I saw Indy’s Camaro hadn’t gone, I frowned because I’d never known her to spend the night at the clubhouse.
Not that I’d been keeping an eye on her or anything.
I’d just noticed because she was very noticeable by nature—and if you believed that, then I could sell you horseshit.
My bed was calling me, but I made my way to the bunkhouse first. When I found her fast asleep on the plastic-wrapped mattress, I nearly choked on my tongue.
Never, in all the years I’d known her, had I ever seen her so relaxed. So carefree.
I’d always thought she was beautiful. With her heritage, how couldn’t I? Her skin was like liquid gold, for fuck’s sake. And her hair? I’d seen obsidian that was lighter.
But her features were stoic. Laced with a brittle reserve that was, most definitely, a defense mechanism.
She had a razor-like wit, but that was nothing compared to her tongue—capable of lashing a person worse than a bullwhip.
And I’d know, because I’d wielded a fair number of whips in my time.
She was so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb her. So restful that I knew I’d never seen her so at ease with herself, like in sleep that was the only time she was truly able to relax.
Why that disturbed me, I didn’t know. It just did.
It made me wonder what put that permanent scowl on her face.
Made me wonder why her smile was so rare.
As a thousand questions plagued me, I retreated to a closet in the hall where I knew a bunch of Stone’s things had been put into storage from her apartment in the city. My boots usually thudded on the ground, but I made sure that I moved with care as I rifled through Stone’s gear, seeking something to cover Indy with. When I found a blanket, a soft one, I moved back into the bedroom and covered her with it.
The urge to sit beside her, to study her was an annoying one.
But chalking it down to a need for sleep, I pushed myself away. Then, just as I was about to reach the door, I heard her. Twisting around to look, I watched as she started to snag herself in the blanket, her limbs beginning to thrash, and then she