Stopping at a mom and pop market, she bought a lighter and a six-pack of beer. Hardly daring to look the clerk in the eye, she paid for the items, then hurried back to the hotel room with her head down. She hadn’t expected Ronan back, nor was she disappointed.
Behind the locked door, Daryl almost drooled with anticipation. She cooked her dope with the lighter, then drew it into the syringe with her needle. After tying a sock around her upper arm, she opened a can of beer and took a long drink.
At last, she injected the needle into her raised vein.
Daryl began to fly.
Chapter Twelve
Dodging the lumbering airliners grew boring as well as dangerous. Ronan soared high under the light of the moon and the stars, seeking the vast expanse of the ocean. Out here, away from the lights and the noise and the planes, he danced with the wind goddess and laughed with joy.
In the distance, the planes took off and landed, some heading out over the sea even as he did. But over the salty tang of the ocean, he avoided them easily, knowing the pilots would never see him. Beating his wings strongly, Ronan climbed high, gaining altitude until the air grew thin. Then, folding his wings, he plummeted.
Faster than a human fighter jet, he fell. Straight for the sea’s surface, he plunged. Striking the sea at that speed meant death. Only yards from it, he spread his wings, and soared, faster than thought, across its moving face. This is better than flying through the canyons and mountains of home.
Ronan blasted over the ships riding the waves. He dove deep into the ocean to swim with the sharks and the dolphins before broaching the surface to fly once again, his body streaming water behind him. If I can do this every night, I can learn to be content away from my own kind.
Thoughts of Daryl intruded. Ronan knew he had flown for hours, and thus sated his lust for flying. My addiction. Laughing to himself, he flew toward the airport, knowing it would be easier to find the hotel with the airplanes coming and going as a point of reference. His wings wide, he coasted to land softly on the roof, listening to its protests once more.
Shifting into his human, Ronan sighed deeply. Still standing on the hotel rooftop, he gazed at the planes lumbering awkwardly into the night sky and wondered if their pilots loved flying as much as he did. Not in the same way, I guess.
Returning to ground level, Ronan pulled his key from his pocket and opened the door to his room he shared with Daryl. “Daryl?”
The room was nearly dark, the television off. The odor of what he thought was beer assaulted his nose as he closed the door. His fingers fumbled for the switch, and he flipped it on.
“Daryl!”
She lay on the floor between the beds. A needle with a syringe sat on the carpet beside her still body, and Ronan instantly remembered the scars on her arm. “No, Daryl,” he moaned. “You didn’t; tell me you didn’t.”
He lifted her into his arms, his gut telling him that something was terribly wrong. She was unconscious, barely breathing. If the dope she took made her high, why wasn’t she awake? Ronan knew too little about the drugs, the addiction, to know what was wrong here, or even if this was normal.
He lay her on the bed, then grabbed the phone from the desk. Who do I call? What do I do? Will the old lady help me? On it, clearly marked were the words: “Emergency Dial 9-1-1.”
Hoping he was doing the right thing, he dialed those numbers and listened. A female voice stated, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“She took drugs,” he said, panic overriding his need to remain secret. “Heroin, I think. She’s unconscious.”
“How much did she take, sir?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here.” Ronan dragged his free hand through his hair, frantic, scared. “I came back, she’s on the floor. Please, I don’t know what to do.”
“Are you calling from the Sea Crest Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“What room number?”
For a moment, Ronan forgot and had to pull the key from his pocket to look at it. “One-oh-one.”
“I’m sending an ambulance right now, sir. If you’d like, I’ll stay on the line with you until they arrive.”
Sinking to the floor, near tears, Ronan pulled Daryl’s body into his arms and held her. The phone squawked. “Sir? Are you still there?”
Ronan put the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”
“Just hang tight now. An ambulance has been dispatched and is on its way.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I’d guess that she OD’d.”
“What is that?”
“Overdosed, sir.”
“She was in recovery.” Ronan almost sobbed. “She was clean.”
“It happens, sir; just stay calm. She’ll need you to stay calm. Is she still breathing?”
Ronan held his hand in front of Daryl’s nose and mouth. “Yeah.”
“Good. The ambulance is close, and they’ll take good care of her.”
“I love her.”
“I know you do, sir. I can hear it in your voice.”
From beyond the walls and windows, Ronan heard the wail of a siren. “I hear them. They’re close.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Ronan.”
“Okay, Ronan, let the EMTs in and they’ll take good care of her. I promise you.”
“I hope so.”
“Just let them in and stay calm. That’s the best you can do for your lady.”
Hanging up the phone, Ronan had to lay Daryl back on the floor as the flashing lights glowed through the room’s window. He opened the door for the ambulance crew to enter and showed them Daryl’s form on the floor. He told them what he knew—Daryl was fine when he left, he came back, and she was unconscious, a needle beside her.
Yes, she was a recovering addict. No, he didn’t know her last name; they had just met and were traveling together. It all passed him by like a blur as they gave her something, they called Narcan, then loaded her into the ambulance to take her to the hospital.
“Can I come with her?” he almost begged.
Sure, he was told, hop in.
He sat where the EMT pointed and watched as the two uniformed men worked to save Daryl’s life. One hooked a clear plastic tube to her face, then glanced at him. “What’s her name?”
“Daryl.”
“And how long has she been off heroin?”
Rubbing his hands over his face, Ronan tried to think. “A week and a half.”
“We got the Narcan into her in time,” he said, reassuring. “She’ll be okay.”
He watched her face, scared that he might be wrong and that Daryl might still die. “Why did she do this?”
“Addiction is tough to overcome,” the man said kindly. “But with support from you, she can kick it.”
He looked down, monitoring Daryl, then grinned. “Look who’s awake. Hi, Daryl.”
Had there been room, Ronan would have knelt beside her and taken her hand. Instead, he offered her a wan smile as her eyes rolled around and found him. “Hey, honeybun.”
“Ronan.” Her voice sounded weak, shaky, but alive. Tears leaked from her eyes and rolled down to her hair spread over the gurney. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t. You’re going to be all right. These men are taking good care of you.”
“That’s right, Daryl,” said the EMT. “Now, can you tell me how much you took?”
Daryl answered his questions, much of it going over Ronan’s head as he understood so little of what they spoke of. The only part I can understand is the fierce addiction. Mine for flying and hers for heroin. But hers can kill.
At the hospital, the EMTs unloaded her from the ambulance and wheeled her into the hospital under the huge brightly lit sign that read Emergency. In there, she was taken away from him. “Please wait out here,” a woman told him briskly. “We’ll let you know how she is.”
Pacing restlessly on the polished tiled floor under bright lights, Ronan half-liste
ned to people talking on the phones, an intercom paging someone, observing others sitting in chairs. Maybe they are waiting for loved ones, too. That thought hit him with a sharp pang. I didn’t lie. I am falling in love with Daryl.
Through the window in the doors, he could see Daryl lying on the hospital bed, saw she was awake and talking. Hoping that was a good sign, that she wasn’t going to die, he felt a little better. At long last, a man emerged from the room to shake his hand.
“I’m Dr. Douglas,” he said. “Your young lady will be fine, and she can be discharged. At the front desk, there are pamphlets on substance abuse assistance. I recommend she start seeing a counselor regarding her addiction.”
“All right,” Ronan replied, his relief making his legs shake. He managed a small smile. “I’ll give her all the support I can.”
“Good. She’ll need it.”
The doctor left him to watch through the window again, seeing the hospital people still working on Daryl. Perhaps an hour later, Daryl came out, accompanied by the woman who had told him to wait. Ronan wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her, and tell her everything would be all right. But Daryl avoided his gaze and kept her eyes down as she shuffled slowly to him.
Unsure of what he should do, Ronan said, “Daryl?”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. The skin on her face appeared pale, and the dark circles under her eyes had him worried all over again.
Now he didn’t care if it was right or wrong. Ronan took her into his arms and held her face against his chest, feeling her tears wet his shirt. Unable to find the right words, he hoped his body and his gesture spoke for him. Over her head, he gazed at the woman, who nodded her approval.
“She can go home now. Do you need a cab?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call one for you.”
“Thanks.”
She gave him a sympathetic and kind smile, then walked away. In his arms, Daryl shook, crying silently. For long moments, he felt content to just hold her, to reassure her without words that everything would be all right.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go wait for the cab outside.”
Daryl nodded and walked with him, his arm over her shoulder, hers around his waist. At the desk, he paused long enough to grab some tissues and hand them to her. The hospital doors slid open as they approached, and Ronan then guided her to a bench along the wall.
Daryl wiped her face and blew her nose, but she still wouldn’t look at him. “Can you ever forgive me?” she asked, staring down at her hands in her lap.
‘There’s nothing to forgive.”
He held her hand, feeling hers clamp down on his fingers with desperation. “I know it was stupid,” she murmured. “I tried not to, I really did. I just couldn’t stop myself.”
Ronan pulled her against him, planting a kiss to her forehead. “It’s okay, Daryl. I’m the last one who would ever judge you. We’ll get through this together.”
At last, she tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “You mean that?”
“Of course.” He frowned slightly in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s just that, you don’t owe me anything. We only met a few days ago.”
“And that matters why?”
“I don’t know.” Daryl’s brows furrowed. “I guess I expect that because all the people I know are selfish and out only for themselves. It’s hard to imagine you’re not like that at all.”
“You know I’m not. I’m going to look after you, and support you, and whatever else you need.”
“Why?”
Ronan chuckled. “You know the answer to that, honeybun.”
“You love me?” Daryl seemed astonished by that concept.
“You bet your boots.”
A slow smile spread across her wan and pinched face. “This is almost like love at first sight, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it is.”
Daryl was exhausted by the time the taxi returned them to their hotel room. Ronan, his arm through hers, assisted her from the rear seat and into their room. The hour had grown quite late, and fewer cars drove up and down the roads. Even fewer aircraft lumbered down the runways to fly away.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Daryl took his hands in hers. “I don’t deserve you.”
Ronan lifted his brow and helped her to remove her clothes, dressing her in a loose t-shirt. “Why are you talking like this?”
She shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
“Since when is this a matter of being deserving or undeserving?”
Pulling down the covers on one of the beds, Ronan took off his jeans but left his shirt on. After turning on the television, he urged Daryl into the bed. Propped up on pillows, he held her close, her head on his shoulder.
Finding some movie or other, he absently watched it while worrying about Daryl’s state of mind. “The doctor said you should start seeing a counselor,” he said.
“He told me that, too.”
“Would it help?”
“Probably. But we have to get out of New York. We can’t spend our lives dodging Tank and his gang.”
“When we get to Oregon, then?” he asked, brushing a light kiss to her hair.
“Yeah. A fresh start will help me. If I can get away from the temptations here, maybe see an addiction therapist. I don’t know. I just know that if I stay here, I’ll die.”
“Then we leave soon, whether we get the money or not.”
Daryl twisted her neck to look at him. “I didn’t go through all this to leave it behind.”
“It’s not worth your life, Daryl.”
“It’s worth the risk. With that kind of money, we can survive while we find jobs. It’ll get us a house. A place to live. Even a dog.”
Ronan chuckled. “A dog? What do you want with one of those?”
“Having a dog can be nice. Not like that little shit in the purse. Maybe we can get a couple of cats. I like cats.”
“Cats?”
“Yeah, little house felines that catch mice, scratch your furniture and poop in boxes.”
Ronan rolled his eyes. “They sound wonderful. How will they get along with a dragon?”
“They’ll get used to you. Dogs and cats are adaptable. And they’re smart.”
“Hmm. I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Daryl snuggled into his arms with a sigh.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Tired. Like I could sleep for a week.”
“You sleep as much as you want. You need to be strong if we’re going to be taking on Tank.”
She yawned. “I have a dragon protecting me. Tank doesn’t stand a chance.”
Chapter Thirteen
“I am gonna kill that bitch. Him, too.”
His broken arm in agony, his crotch still aching with a dull pain and feeling as though his balls were swelling, Tank lay on his couch nursing a glass of whiskey. He eyed Two-Bit and Flame, who both had their broken fingers wrapped in splints. How in the fuck did that asshole break their fingers over their guns? Who is he? Rambo?
Lounging in an armchair, his busted right hand resting on his chest, Two-Bit smoked a joint to ease his pain. Tank suspected he was pretty much stoned, but he still sweated. Still hurting bad, I guess. Like Two-Bit, Flame also smoked weed, awkwardly lighting the pipe with his useful left hand. His right, also splinted and bound with tape, barely held the pipe while he sucked in the smoke.
“Dat motherfucker,” Two-Bit groused, lifting his wounded hand to examine it as though never seeing it before. “I’ll shoot his fingers off before ya do. Make ‘im suffer.”
Tank glared at him. “How well do you shoot with your left hand? Before you manage that, he’ll have cut your balls off and shoved them down your throat. We get a chance to kill him, we take him out—from a distance. He’s too fucking dangerous to mess with.”
“How did he do that?” Flame asked, his pupils huge in his beady eyes. “He just squeezed, both hands at once. Like he was Superman.”
>
At the moment, Flame was too stoned and in too much pain to flick his lighter as was his obsessive habit. For once, Tank felt grateful for the silence.
“He ain’t Superman, shit for brains,” Tank snarled. “He’s just a guy. We kill him, then make Daryl tell us where the fucking money is. She pulled one over on me, and for that, she will suffer.”
His fury rose, thinking of how Daryl played him for a sucker. “I reckon it’s a damn good thing I didn’t kill her,” he muttered, thinking back to the empty locker at Grand Central Station, the key in it indicating it hadn’t been rented. “She had me once. Never happen again.”
Tempted to smoke some weed in the hopes of alleviating his own pain, Tank heard someone enter the house through the front door. He reached for the gun that Daryl took from him and cussed when it wasn’t there. He had no need for it, as his visitors were two of his boys, Bean and Lucky.
“We seen her, boss,” Lucky said, taking a chair next to Two-Bit. “At the bus station.”
“Why didn’t you grab her?” Tank demanded, glaring at them.
“We tried,” Bean protested. “She spotted us and took off like a hare on steroids. Then the cops landed on us, and we had to run.”
Calming his temper, Tank sipped his whiskey, thinking. “All right,” he muttered, “she’s hanging around that place, which means the cases have to be there. Keep staking it out, boys, but by tomorrow, I’ll be watching it myself. She’ll come back there, probably soon.”
The two glanced at once another. “Boss, we been sittin’ there for days,” Bean protested. “Have someone else do it. I’m bored outta my mind.”
“We gotta do something else,” Lucky added. “I wanna see my woman, get laid.”
Tank stifled the explosion of fury that nearly burst from him. Their loyalty hung by a thread. His gang knew Daryl had stolen from him and so far, had gotten away with it. She then kicked his ass and got away with that, too. If he showed weakness, at least more than he’s shown thus far, his gang would turn on him like a pack of rabid mongrels.
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