by Harper Cole
Then he said, “Right, got you. Heading along North Oak Avenue. Look out for us. We’re in a red Ford Mustang. Uh … no, I don’t know.”
Trent was already changing direction. “Was that definitely her?”
“Yeah, unless Rafe’s got real good at disguising his voice all of a sudden. You want to hang a right here…”
“You’ll want to hold on.”
Trent didn’t care how much of a battering Will was getting. All he wanted to do was get to Rochelle.
“This might be a trap,” Will said.
“I don’t care.”
“Perhaps we ought to get the shotgun first.”
“I don’t care.”
“Are you–”
“There she is!”
Chapter Three
Rochelle didn’t want to run along the sidewalk. She knew that it would draw attention to herself. But with each passing minute, she felt more and more tense, her scalp tingling and her heart pounding in a tight chest. Rafe would have discovered that she had escaped by now, and he’d be out looking for her. Every time she heard a motorcycle, she hid in a store or behind a car; he could call on a lot of help to scour the city for her.
She’d lost her phone and had no money. She thought she ought to go back to her bar, but that would surely be the first place he’d look. Next on the list was go to a station house, where she could mention Officer Dellacroce and hopefully find some kind of protection. But she wasn’t familiar with this part of town and she was hardly going to stop and ask for directions. She rushed on, with the sole aim of putting as much distance between her and the garage as she could.
When the roar of a motorcycle forced her into a shabby-looking dollar store, the young sales assistant asked if she was all right. He was skinny, with a hipster beard and more lines under his eyes that fitted his otherwise youthful appearance.
“Sure,” she’d replied, trying to see out the window without being spotted herself.
“No, you sure ain’t,” he’d said, and just the look of kindly sympathy on his face had made her crumple. She didn’t cry; there was no place in her for crying at that moment. She bit her lip and held her head high, but she couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Come on over here,” he insisted. “Do you need to sit down or something?”
She’d glanced through the window again, just as the motorcycle blasted past, and he caught on her movement. “Someone after you, are they? You want me to call the cops, maybe?”
“No. Yes. Wait…” She took a deep breath. There was someone that she trusted more than the cops, but she hadn’t realized the depth of her trust until that moment. “Can I borrow your phone to call my … boyfriend?”
“Sure, no problem. You lost your phone, huh? Come on around here.”
She followed him behind the serving area and he handed her a corded phone. She strained her memory to recall the number of the old cell phone she’d given Trent. “I lost my phone and my money. Yeah, someone’s after me but the cops aren’t going to be any help.” She felt she owed the sales assistant some kind of an explanation as she dialed, though it wasn’t much. His eyes widened in hungry shock and curiosity.
Then Will answered Trent’s phone, and she was able to explain.
* * * *
Trent leaped out of the hideous long, low muscle car and gathered Rochelle into a tight hug. “Are you all right, are you all right?” he repeated, giving her no time to actually answer him. “Come on, get in.”
He pulled the seat forward and she was forced to climb inelegantly into the rear of the Mustang, sharing the tiny space with Will’s folded wheelchair. “Where are we going?”
“Back to your bar.”
“I don’t know if–” she began to say.
Will interrupted her. “Trent. You’re going the wrong way. Turn around up there.”
“Shit. Right. Hang on.”
She fell into silence. It was easier to be taken along. The main thing was that she was with Trent. And Will.
Trent drove fast, and she remembered how he’d been those first few days out of prison. Speed had been scary and unfamiliar, and he’d urged her to slow down. Now it was Rochelle who was clinging on to the edge of the bench seat.
She felt more at ease now, cocooned in the back of the car. Feeling safe meant that she could start to relax, and that brought all the aches, pains and wounds of the past day to the forefront of her awareness. She rubbed at her sore wrists, and hoped for a hot bath.
“We need to call Dellacroce,” Will said as they swerved through the city night.
“I can’t decide whether to trust him or not,” Trent said.
“I do trust him.” Rochelle was adamant about that.
“He’s in with Hooley,” Trent countered.
“Yeah. I guess so. But I think I’d rather be in with Hooley than in with Rafe.”
“Does it have to be a choice?” Trent said.
“I wish it didn’t, but I think it does. That’s business. That’s how the world works.” She was sad but calmer, now. Big fish and little fish. She was a little fish and she needed the safety of a shoal. And Antony Hooley had never grabbed her from the streets and tied her to a chair.
* * * *
Nigel had opened the bar for the evening as if nothing was happening, but his white, tense face creased into smiles as soon as they entered. Will had to fight up over the step from the parking lot, and Rochelle cringed.
“Why don’t you have handles on the back of your chair? Then I could help you,” she complained.
“That’s exactly why I don’t have handles. I don’t need help. I need society to make some changes. You need to install a ramp.”
“I do. Shit. I will. Hey Nigel – oh my God! Brucie!” Rochelle landed on her knees in the middle of the bar, and didn’t care that the drinkers and customers stopped and stared at her. She buried her face in the German Shepherd’s thick fur, and finally allowed herself some tears. “Oh my God.”
“He came back about an hour ago. He’s glad to see you. Are you all right, all of you?” Nigel said.
“Nope. We need drink,” Trent said.
“Maybe we need to keep a clear head,” Will said, rolling up to the counter.
“I need a whiskey to clear my head. Please.”
The three of them – plus Brucie – took over a table in a corner by the edge of the counter, close to the store room door, and out of the way of the other customers. Nigel continued to serve drinks.
“I’m calling Dellacroce,” Rochelle said. “Uh. Trent, can I borrow your phone?”
* * * *
The rumpled plain-clothes police officer arrived within twenty minutes, stuffing his brown tie into his pocket as a sign that he was no longer on duty. That meant he could accept a drink, too. He took it willingly.
He grabbed a seat at the little table, and Rochelle told her story to him over again. Then followed lots of speculation about the phone conversation she had heard between Nathan and Rafe.
“If Nathan has teamed up with Rafe,” Will said, “it is only to eventually fuck him over.”
“Yeah, that figures. I can’t see them working together as some kind of new gang. So where are we at, now?” Dellacroce said.
We. Funny little word, Rochelle thought, but they were suddenly and somehow a team. An unlikely one, but those were the best kinds.
Trent ticked off the points on his fingers. “Nathan has a fuckton of drugs that Rafe thinks belongs to him. Rafe blames me for that, which is why he took you, Rochelle, hostage. Nathan blames me for … fuck knows. Lots of things. Destroying his relationship with you, Will, for a start.”
“He did that himself. But yeah. He thinks you are the cause. And he’s fucked in the head,” Will pointed out. “The guy has no logic. Just hate.”
“Right. And Antony Hooley is fed up with Rafe, and fed up with me, too. He has decided I’ve double-crossed him when I tried to set Nathan up.”
“He had good reason to,” Dellacroce pointed out. “Frank
ly, I feel a little double-crossed by you, too.”
Rochelle held her hands up. “Guys, it was me. My fault. I’m … sorry.”
Trent started to shake his head, then stopped. “Yes, it was. But let’s move on. So Rochelle is here, and Rafe is going to be on the war path even more. He wanted me and he hasn’t got me. I don’t know what he’s cooking up with Nathan but it’s not going to be pretty. I guess we can assume they will come after all of us, right?”
Will and Dellacroce nodded their heads. Rochelle started to feel sick as she thought through the enormity of it all.
“And I’m also assuming we’re not going to get much help from the cops, am I right?”
“Well … yes and no,” Dellacroce said. He kept his voice low. “We would like to restore order in the city. And Rafe is not any kind of order. He’s a little pimp who is punching above his weight. Hooley is a fucker but he’s a calm, collected and predictable fucker. We know him and he knows us, and he knows the boundaries. Frankly, we’re a little disappointed that Hooley has let Rafe get out of control, you know? Maybe he’s getting too old and losing his touch. I dunno.”
“Yeah but what does that mean for us?” Rochelle said, twisting her hands together.
Dellacroce leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. “What it means is, we’re just going to watch it play out, I guess. Speaking from the cops’ point of view. You can call it in if something kicks off here, but don’t expect any units to turn up real quick. Take it from me. Cops will take their time, so the situation has plenty of time to resolve itself before they get here. You still got that shotgun, right?”
“I do.”
“Good. Load it. They will come after you – Rafe and Nathan, Hooley and his men.”
Rochelle pressed her palms to her eyes and rubbed circular motions. “I want to skip town. Pack up and ship out. There’s nothing for me here.”
“Sure, you could do that,” Dellacroce said, as if he thought it was a sensible and viable option.
“Hell, no!” Trent said. “I’ve just got out of prison! No little fucker is going to run me out of my own damn city.”
Heads turned at his outburst and she kicked him under the table. “Shut up.”
“No, I will not. I was innocent but you know what? That doesn’t even matter any longer. Even if you think I was guilty, I’ve done my time, so now I’m a free man the same as anyone else. And I will live where I please.”
“That’s you,” Will said. “What about Rochelle?”
“Hell. I want to run,” she said. “But my business … everything … I’ve built my life here.”
Nigel was unashamedly listening. “Yeah, don’t make me lose the same job twice in a week, you know?”
“What would you do, Brucie?” Rochelle said, turning to the dog sitting beside her. His ears swiveled around.
“He’d rip their faces off,” Trent said. “Wouldn’t you, boy?”
“The most sane thing to do is to leave. Start up somewhere else,” she said.
“But you’re not going to do that, are you?” Trent said.
“No, she’s not, is she?” Dellacroce added.
“Nope.” Will shook his head.
“Guys. Guys! Do you know something about me that I don’t?”
They all looked away in different directions, and she grinned, as her heart melted. Shit. They were correct.
They were going to stay and fight this thing.
Chapter Four
Trent watched Rochelle as she closed up the bar a little early. He liked to feast his eyes on the fluid way she moved around. So sure, so confident. Dellacroce had taken Will home, and headed off, urging them to keep his number ready in their phones. She chased Nigel out, and the lingering last few drinkers, and shot the bolts home with a slam.
“Are we safe?” she whispered as she turned, and leaned back against the locked door. The lights were dim and Trent’s heart ached as he looked at her; she seemed pale and drawn. She rocked her head back against the door, and the angles of the shadows changed. She had rings under her eyes, and marks on her face. She’d been gagged, he remembered. Bound. Her wrists were raw and her hair tousled.
Suddenly she looked less like a sexy action hero, and more like the reality: a damaged, traumatized woman.
Fucking hell. Instead of sitting around a table talking all evening, she should have been relaxing and healing and getting cleaned up. Any other woman would have demanded all that, and more.
Not Rochelle, not his tough cookie.
“I am so sorry,” he said, meaning that he was sorry for everything. “No, we’re not safe. But I think we are safe for tonight. They know where we are. They will be planning. You need a bath.”
“I don’t think I can relax.” She folded her arms and half-closed her eyes.
“I’m here. And Brucie. And your gun. Come on. Let’s go.”
“I feel safer here in the bar than out in my house,” she said.
“There’s no bath here. And I’m pretty handy and resourceful but I can’t construct you one out of half a beer barrel. Even if you would like it filled with whiskey.” Trent walked over to her, decisively, and clicked his fingers for Brucie. For the first time ever, the dog obeyed him, and he was momentarily startled.
“I guess he agrees,” she said weakly, and they left by the back fire exit, crossed the small yard, and went through more door-checking and window-locking in her two-story house that nestled at the back of the bar.
She got the shotgun out for Trent, who hefted it in his hands and laughed. “It’s like something a farmer would have,” he said.
“I got it from a farmer, as it happens.”
“Don’t you even have a license for this thing?”
She shot him a dark look and he laughed. “All right, all right. Come on. Upstairs.”
She seemed to let him take charge and he was surprised about that, but he relished the responsibility. Brucie lay outside the bathroom door, primed and on red alert. Rochelle sat on the edge of the toilet, her arms wrapped around herself, while Trent busied himself with the potions and lotions arranged on her shelf. “Ylang-ylang … how do you even say that?”
“Not like that.”
“It smells okay.” He tipped a variety of things into the hot running water. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”
“No reason.”
He let the bath continue to fill, and brought her to her feet. “Come on. Let’s get you naked.” He undressed her tenderly and slowly, and the sight of the bruises all over her body made him feel hot with fury. She stumbled against him and he caught her. “Fucking hell. You are done in.”
“I’ve been running on adrenalin most all of the day,” she said.
“You can let go now. I’ve got you.” He helped her to the bath and lowered her into the water. She winced as it hit her sore wounds, but he kept his hand around her shoulders and gradually she relaxed.
He kept hold, his arm around her like armor as her breathing slowed and her eyes closed. “Do you want your hair washing?” he asked softly.
“Mmm.”
He took that as a yes, and shifted around, scooping up water and massaging her scalp. “Shampoo?”
“No, just that conditioner up there. In the blue bottle.”
He rubbed into her soft, curly hair, and she sighed with contentment. “We’re not safe, at all, are we?” she whispered.
“I told you, don’t worry about it tonight. We’re as safe as we can be.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
He began to rinse her hair but she startled him by ducking under the water, plunging into the bubbles to rinse the conditioner off. She sat up just as suddenly and the water sluiced from her body, cascading over her roundness. She scratched at her head. “I ought to shower this out of my hair.”
“Later.” He could not resist her. He turned her head and kissed her. He only meant it to be a reassuring, light kiss. She’d been through hell and she needed to sleep. But she responde
d to him, kissing him back, moving herself closer to the edge of the bath so she could reach out and touch his arm.
His hand dipped into the water and around her waist. “You smell great,” he murmured.
“I smell like a bomb’s gone off in a perfume warehouse,” she said. “Don’t stop.”
He did stop. “You need to go to bed and sleep.”
“I need to go to bed,” she agreed. “And I will sleep … eventually.”
“Really?”
“Be gentle,” she said, standing up slowly. He lifted her out of the bath and carried her into the bedroom.
* * * *
“Doesn’t that feel good?” Trent asked, later, as they lay entwined on the bed.
“Mmm.” She was falling asleep in his arms, at last.
“Giving up a little bit of control to me, I mean,” he said.
Her eyelids fluttered. He shifted slightly, pulling the covers up over her body.
“You would have been such a good lawyer,” she murmured, out of nowhere, and he stiffened in surprise.
“What?”
She closed her eyes tightly and turned her face away. “You are too good for me. You know that, right?”
“Er … I’m Trent. I know you’re very tired and all, but you do know who you’ve just slept with, don’t you? Are you sure you’re not mixing me up with someone else?”
She kept her face angled away. “I know. But you come from such a good background and you have an education and you could still do things with your life. Sometimes you say stuff that … reminds me that I’m not good enough for you.”
His stomach clenched. He sat up, looking down at her, the way she was all curled up around herself. He reached out and stroked her shoulder. A lot of things were falling into place now.
But before he could speak, she said, “And don’t tell me you’re the same as me because of your criminal past. It’s not about that. It’s about … everything else. All the things that have made you who you are – your family, your upbringing – so different to my own.”