Chapter 7

(Saint)

Bloody Beginnings

The next person to offer him food was going to die, and he was gonna choke the shit outta whoever tried to shove another cup of coffee at him. Just the smell of it was starting to make him nauseous, or maybe it was the fact that caffeine was all he’d put in his system for days. The face that stared back at him from the mirror behind the bar looked older and far more haggard than it had just five days before. They’d turned up nothing. Despite how many stones they’d turned over or outright crushed, it was as if Sinn had vanished into thin air.

Regrouping back at the clubhouse was supposed to breathe new life into the hunt, but looking around the room, all he saw was tired, despondent, and downright vacant stares. Whatever people were thinking, or feeling, they were keeping that shit to themselves, not wanting to be the one to say this was a recovery mission now. They were hunting for a body and a chance to give Sinn a proper burial.

No matter, they didn’t have to say it, Saint knew as well as anyone that with each hour that passed, the chance of finding him in one piece grew slimmer and slimmer. He tried not to dwell on what ifs, like if he’d insisted on escorting Sinn everywhere himself, none of this would have happened. He tried not to think about the things that had gone unsaid between them or the collar that he’d been waiting for the so-called perfect time to place around Sinn’s neck. He’d wanted to do it in front of the club, on dungeon night, with a full-on collaring ceremony so everyone would know that Sinn belonged to him.

Now, he’d give anything to find it laying in the weeds along a backcountry road, as long as it meant he had a trail to follow.

“Saint?”

Night’s voice cut through his somber thoughts, but Saint refused to turn and look at the man. If he did, he might break down and start yelling the other thoughts that had been on his mind. Like how stupid he’d been to not insist Sinn change the appointment time. If it wasn’t himself he ranted about, then he’d be railing at Night for not escorting Sinn to get his tat. If he had, then he’d have been out back smoking with Sinn when whatever had happened, happened, and Night never would have let them drag their man away. He’d have died first and taken as many of the fuckers with him as he could.

“Fuck off, I don’t need nuthin’.” Saint growled.

It was an unfair way of thinking and he knew it, considering he’d been the reason that Night had been occupied when Sinn left for the shop. The prospect had dutifully reported to Saint to receive his assignments for the day and Saint had ordered him to provide security for Tiana and her son when they went to visit her old man three hours west at the state prison. James was in the last year of a six-year stretch and every week, without fail, she made the journey to see him, a Joker trailing her car up and back to make certain that none of their enemies targeted her when she passed through their territory.

James was a loyal, longtime member of the club who’d be sent up on an assault with a deadly weapon charge after wading into a pack of Insane Slayers hell bent on taking a fellow club brother’s life. The cops hadn’t cared why he’d been cracking skulls, they’d just been thrilled to get a few more kuttes off the street. Gunner had returned to his grateful and relieved subs after more than a week in a hospital bed, and for that they made certain James and his family had whatever they needed. His son hadn’t lacked for a father figure either, with club members attending every basketball game and theater performance the young man was involved in. It had been a no-brainer to send Night on escort duty. The rational part of him knew that being pissed about it now wasn’t going to help anyone, but that side of him was barely hanging on by a thread.

In the mirror, he saw that Night still stood several feet behind him, a silent but insistent presence.

“What did I just say?” Saint snapped.

“Yeah, I heard you, but I ain’t got nothin’ for ya, except a question.”

“Not in the mood for one of those either.”

And still the dark-haired prospect didn’t move, though his eyes narrowed, revealing the same stubborn streak Saint had seen in him the day he’d shown up there.

“Do you need to hear me tell you to fuck off before you kick rocks or are you going to keep on standing there sounding stupid!” Saint snapped.

“No disrespect, but how do we know this isn’t the work of some outfit out of Texas?” Night asked, like Saint hadn’t just told him he wasn’t interested in hearing anything he had to say….only….

“Why would you think that?”

“’Cause it’s where he’s from.”

Swiveling the barstool around to face him, Saint looked up to see concern and determination in Night’s eyes. The prospect took a step back too, like he fully expected Saint to take a swing at him, though it was interesting to note that Night’s hands remained open at his sides, even while his posture radiated tension and a willingness to throw down if that was what Saint needed.

“Shit, I’d forgotten that,” Saint admitted. “But Texas is a giant fuckin’ state with more clubs than you can shake a stick at. As much as it pains me to say this, we can’t go busting down the doors of every one of them. We don’t have the firepower or the numbers. Hell, we don’t even have a place to start. Sinn never wanted to talk about where he was from. Just said he was club protected but never allowed to patch.”

“I know people like that,” Night said, shrugging. “Sinn and I, we’re from similar places. Was talkin’ to him one night, comparing bullshit and fuckin’ around. If it helps, he’s from Driftwood.”

“Now we have a place to start!” Saint declared, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud as he bellowed over the muttered, subdued conversations. “Kickstands up in twenty. We’re headed to Driftwood.”

Chairs scuffed the floor, shoved back with enough force they screeched and groaned. Heavy footsteps pounded the wood as Jokers moved to do as they were told with an efficiency that would have made a team of soldiers proud.

“What’s this all about?” Mark asked, piercing gaze sweeping over Saint and Night.

“Ask him, he’s the one that provided some new intel on Sinn.”

“Shocked there’s anything any of us could know about Sinn that you don’t.”

“Yeah, well, it seems like these two got cozy one night and struck up a conversation about hometowns.”

Was it his imagination, or did Night’s cheeks pink up at Saint’s mention of them getting cozy? Well shit, if whatever had gone on was as interesting as Saint was thinking, then he’d have to get them to demonstrate once they had Sinn home.

With renewed vigor, Saint pulled on his gloves, certain the tide was about to turn for them.

“Anything else he happen to tell you besides where he was from?” Mark asked.

The way Night nodded so eagerly, like a happy puppy certain he was about to get a treat, clued Saint in on one key element of his personality. He was a people pleaser, and judging from those wide eyes and bright grin, likely had a praise kink. Something else to explore, once Sinn was back safe in his arms, because something told him Sinn had already discovered things about their prospect they’d have a great deal of fun exploring together, especially if Sinn was already comfortable enough with him to tell him things Saint didn’t even know.

“He said the club his family heads is the Disciples of Chaos and that they are pure one percenters, which meant he grew up being protected from a number of enemies looking to even the score for something the Disciples’ did.”

Mark’s fingers flew over the screen of his phone while Night spoke, no doubt relaying the information to Keegan up at the house. Their head of intel would find out all he could about the Disciples, their enemies, and their supposed allies, and transmit the information to them while they made the drive.

“Thank you,” Saint said even as he knelt to retie one of his boots. “But why the fuck did you wait so long to tell me?”

“Give him a break,” Mark snapped. “We’ve been on a full throttle search for days. He told you now, let that be good enough for once and don’t go sayin’ some shit you’ll have to make up for later.”

Okay, so maybe his brother had a point there, especially when he caught the look in Night’s eyes before the younger man turned and tore off towards the bunkhouse like several of their other club brothers were hurrying to do.

If Saint had thought to mention Texas when their extensive search of the area in and around their town had unearthed nothing to suggest any of their enemies were behind Sinn’s disappearance, he was certain it would have prompted Night to tell him about the conversation, but Saint had never considered the possibility. Hell, he’d forgotten which southern state Sinn was from in his fury that the man was missing. Which was another failure on his part. He’d been too focused on their enemies being responsible to ever give a shred of thought to something from Sinn’s past being the cause of his disappearance. Saint was aware of how growly and snappish he’d been after all the dead ends they’d encountered. Chances were good that he wouldn’t have wanted to listen to Night then any more than he’d been willing to listen when the prospect approached him today. He’d come dangerously close to spinning around on his barstool and going to war with him which might have proved difficult to work past later.

While he knew he could count on his club brothers to forgive his surly behavior when and if things finally leveled out to an uneasy calm, he wanted Night as more than a brother and it was high time he start remembering that before he did irreparable harm to their relationship.

Outside, a line of rumbling machines waited, hastily tied bedrolls and backpacks strapped to sissy bars or worn on backs. As Saint hurried to his ’57 Hydra Glyde, that empty backseat brought all his fury roaring back to the forefront.

Texas was a long way off and a great deal of time would be lost if this proved to be yet another dead end, but at this point, Saint didn’t see what other choice they had. In their world, one couldn’t just go online and track down contact information. Real names were often hidden, affiliations kept strictly need to know. Even if Keegan was able to touch base with someone there was no guarantee that the information he was given would contain truth. Deception was a commodity they traded in; it was essential in allowing them to fly beneath the radar of the law. Thus, why Sinn’s disappearance could never be reported to the authorities. They’d spend too much time asking useless questions and poking around in places that had nothing to do with the missing man, their attention focused more on digging up dirt about the MC then seeking leads on the man Saint loved.

Even as they prepared to roll through the gate, he was reminded that love was more than sex, good times, and long rides.

Trust was supposed to be involved.

Conversations were supposed to happen, and histories exchanged.

Clearly that had taken place, only not between him and Sinn the way it should have.

Had he not left the door open for that even when he staked his claim on Sinn?

As Mark shoved several items into his saddlebags, Saint realized he was about to hit the road with just the clothes on his back and the two weapons he always carried.

Son of a bitch!

Cutting the engine, he bolted up to the house, slammed through the front door, and took the stairs two at a time, hanging a left at the second floor and racing to his room, upending the top drawer on his bed until he found what he’d hidden at the bottom of it. He stuffed it in his backpack along with the weapon and four extra clips he kept in the nightstand, remembering to shove a few items of clothing in before he rushed back outside again to see Mark shaking his head, wearing the ghost of a grin.

“Fuck off and get rolling,” Saint barked over the sound of the bikes.

“Would have been halfway to the highway by now if we hadn’t been waiting for you,” Mark shot back, roaring off before Saint could flip him off in response.

Now they were finally doing something besides sitting around with their thumbs up their asses waiting for a clue, Saint could halfway breathe again. It didn’t ease the tension in his shoulders or the stiff way he rode, but it was a start.

One that was likely to end bloody.