Smokey gave him a nod, then muttered something about church before he left, the door shutting quietly behind him. Kicks listened for the sound of his bike to fade, then he sank back down into the cushions and closed his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun.
Being out in the middle of nowhere made dealing with all his shit a lot easier. His body felt wrecked from the adrenaline of being fucked, then chased, and shot, then patched back together only to have that fuck almost kill him once and for all.
And he considered being pissed that Jude had hurt himself trying to get him out of the burning house, but he knew the split-second decision had saved his life. And he also knew Jude would have made that choice no matter who was lying unconscious on the living room floor.
Which was another reason he was a threat to Kicks’ heart.
He couldn’t afford having people around who made him lose his concentration. And even if it meant not surviving, he’d take it. Still, he was glad he was still breathing. And more than that, he was glad Eliah had the fuckin’ balls to pull the trigger.
Standing around watching Smokey try to teach the brothers how to fire the gun, Kicks had been damn sure they were all gonna die if Hydra or any of his club got to them. Instead, he’d been the one knocked out, and the two uptight English dudes had pulled his ass out of the fire.
Literally, in his case, as the blisters on his legs reminded him.
The burns weren’t worse than the blow to the head though—or the way his body was purging whatever the fuck Hydra drugged him with. He hoped to god the man had survived, because he wanted to get his hands on him. Kicks was no stranger to visions of revenge—bloody and cruel and vicious.
He thought about the night he lost his eye. The night he’d been tied up to a truck with the burning hot engine searing his skin off and nearly beaten to death. Those fuckers hadn’t even bothered to show their faces, but Kicks had been left in the middle of nowhere, and he’d never gotten to take the power back from those memories.
And now, thinking about Hydra tying Jude up—knowing his plan was to kill him in front of Eliah to make him suffer, to make Smokey suffer—sent the same hot coils of rage rippling just under his skin. He hated himself for having been taken out, for his inability to protect Jude. For having to be rescued yet again.
Pressing a hand over his face, he took a deep breath, then pushed his thumb into his empty socket. The implant he’d gotten after the doctors removed what was left of his eye was smaller than the eyeball had been, and it always felt foreign when he touched it. He had a spare prosthetic somewhere in the house, but there was no point in putting it in. There was no one around to see him, and there wouldn’t be for a damn long while.
With a groan, Kicks pushed himself up to sit. The healing wound on his side ached, but not worse than the pain he felt when he stood up on his burnt legs. He needed to move though. Emeine would probably have his head for it, but his body was already starting to feel the strain of spending three days on his back.
His knees shook as he made his way to the kitchen, but he found a fresh can of the cheap grocery store coffee he loved, and he quickly started a pot going. The smell of it invigorated him enough to rummage through his cabinets, and he saw everything had been restocked. It was probably Forge, since the fucker was always trying to Dad everyone into eating better and drinking water instead of beer. And it made him feel a faint surge of warmth in his gut, even if it was the last thing he wanted right then.
He knew he couldn’t have done anything different. He hadn’t been lying when he told Jude that it was his job to know where people were—that was the whole fucking point of his position in the Chains. He had the skill for it and the tech for it, but Hydra was a different beast. And he was working in a different world. Five years of relative peace hadn’t given him enough preparation to deal with an all-out club war, and he could tell that was where they were headed.
To make matters worse, Hydra wasn’t just after them. He’d been fucking with clubs up and down the coast, and so far, no one had been able to pin him down long enough to stop him. Securing himself a position in a club that had been flailing was all the fucker needed to give him the power he’d lost when Smokey’s dad had booted his ass.
He couldn’t help but wonder if the Reapers would go after him. They hated Smokey for what he’d done—turncoat didn’t go over well in any club, and Smokey had spit in the face of his old man’s orders and left in disgrace. But Kicks wasn’t sure that even a common enemy would be enough to build a bridge, and now he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d just take the place of Hydra once he was out of the picture.
Of course, he didn’t regret joining the Chains. He didn’t regret choosing this life. But he did want to be prepared if the last several years had been nothing more than an illusion.
The coffee pot let out a small click when it was finished, and he poured a cup, drinking half down without bothering to wait for it to cool. It seared the roof of his mouth, but the pain helped distract from the way the rest of his body was aching, and he opened the cabinet again and spied a box of the chocolate Pop-Tarts Maddie loved.
He snagged one, then shuffled to his back door and onto the porch. It was in need of repair, which he could do. Most of Kicks’ side-jobs were fixing shit outside of the shop. It allowed him to make cash to pay his utilities and property tax, and it was a job he could do where people didn’t want to talk to him all the fuckin’ time.
He wasn’t sure when the hell he’d be able to get back to it, and with Wolfe House in need of a full rebuild and the clubhouse bar still crawling toward opening, he had a feeling that would occupy most of his time. And then there was all the bullshit that was now falling on their shoulders.
Kicks startled when a loud noise filled the room, and it took him a second to realize it was his phone vibrating on the counter. With a frown, he shuffled over, and his eye widened when he saw Rory’s name on the screen.
“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, Doctor Rory,” he said, leaning against the counter to take some of the weight off his legs.
Rory snorted. “You know, that wasn’t cute the first time, and it’s not cute now.”
“Whatever you say, doc,” Kicks said with a grin. He sipped his coffee again, then set the mug down. “You calling to check up?”
“Not really. Aaron said you were fine, and I believed him.” Rory went quiet, but Kicks knew when to wait. “He doesn’t know I know yet. About the liaison position.”
Kicks squeezed his eyes shut. “Who told you?”
“I overheard Mace on the phone. Fucker still seems to think that because I can’t see, I can’t hear him.” Rory’s voice was more amused than irritated, though Kicks made a mental note to knock the dumb fuck over the head a couple more times until he got it right. “I’m going to say yes.”
“Your brother is gonna kill you where you stand,” Kicks warned.
“No, he’s going to throw a tantrum like a toddler because he knows he won’t get his way. Mace was right. I’m the only civvie in the club that knows what the hell they’re doing.”
Kicks remembered the last time Rory had been involved in club shit—when he’d been taken right from under Smokey’s nose. He remembered finding Rory when it was over—pale, shaking, his face bruised and his lip split. And Rory had walked away with a straight back, but Kicks also knew the toll it took on him.