by C. L. Riley
“I’d like you to stay. I want to talk with you about Boone’s warning and explain why I was so demanding.”
“Okay.” She looks up and keeps her focus on me, waiting.
I take a slow breath and wonder how much I should reveal. Club business is club business, but I want to share with Trina in hopes she will open up more about her stalker and why she’s on the run.
During my meeting with Boone, he pulled up The Seattle Times on his cell phone. The headline was dedicated to the kidnapping of some Seattle socialite and the disappearance of three additional women. Boone believes the cases are connected.
He was the first one to suspect our clubs’ rivalry wasn’t the root of Seal’s Cove’s arson problem, and he was also the one to deduce there were two assailants in league with each other. So I have no trouble admitting I trust his judgement over law enforcement’s.
If Boone believes these cases are connected, then so do I.
And there’s more.
Boone is aware Trina is hiding from someone or something in Seattle. He wonders if she’s running from the same person police are searching for.
Maybe it’s all a coincident, but my gut says otherwise. I’ve been around criminal elements too long to ignore red flags; add on my half-brother’s instincts, and there’s reason to be concerned.
We could be wrong, and it might be a long shot, but if we are right, I need to take appropriate precautions to ensure Trina’s safety.
For starters, I need her to open up. So I plan to watch her reaction when she sees the headline.
“I know you’re from Seattle. Thought you might be interested in what’s going on there.” I hand over my phone, keeping my gaze locked on her face.
She scans the screen and scrolls her way through the article.
The color drains from her cheeks, and she swallows so hard the action is visible, her hands, normally steady, tremble.
“Why are you making me read this?” she snaps with surprising venom. “It’s a big city. Am I supposed to know something about these women?”
She doesn’t finish the article, handing the phone back. “Is this what Boone wanted to discuss?”
Hoping to diffuse the situation before she shuts down completely, I take a less direct approach. “Yes and no. He knows you’re from Seattle and you wanted to get away from there. He saw the headline and was worried. That’s all. The main thing he came to talk about is a former club brother who might be stirring up shit for me, back in Eugene.”
I give her some background on how I used Crusher to infiltrate the Soul Scorchers and how he overstepped his bounds when Olympia wanted to leave Boone. I tell her about Crusher disappearing from Seal’s Cove after being discovered, and how he never returned to the Hells Guardians’ property like we’d planned.
As I expected, she is interested in anything to do with Olympia and seems to have forgotten the whole Seattle situation the more we talk about my problems.
“So you think Crusher has enough sway over your guys to create a serious crisis?” she asks when I’m done explaining.
“Not sure. Anything’s possible. With me here and Demon back and forth, our vice president is handling most of the onsite club issues. He’s a good guy but easy to persuade. Crusher and Ringo had a lot of followers. There are some brothers who don’t agree with how I dealt with Ringo.”
“But he was a raping murderer. How can anyone align themselves with him, knowing how he hurt Olympia?”
“That’s a question I don’t have an answer for. Wish I did. Ringo and Crusher both took care of a lot of club dirty work, saving my life more than once. Some of our guys don’t value women the way they should. That’s something I was starting to deal with before I got smashed under a pile of rubble.”
“All the more reason for me to help you get back on your motorcycle. You need to kick those fuckers out of your club.”
My jaw drops. This is not a side of Trina I’ve seen before―ever.
Between her reaction to the news article and now this outburst, I am more convinced than ever her past includes a fair share of danger. I’ll need to tread with caution. It wouldn’t take much for my nurse to run again, especially if I push her to unveil secrets she’s not ready to reveal.
For some reason, I feel responsible for Trina Templeton.
I intend to protect her, whether she wants protection or not. I couldn’t get to Olympia soon enough, but I can keep Trina safe.
As long as I’m in the picture, no one will touch her without her permission...or mine.
Trina
I barely recognize myself in the mirror.
Since getting up this morning, I’ve made some significant changes. With everything going on in Seattle, it seemed like an ideal time to modify my appearance.
I’m not expecting Dr. Martin to show up on Rowdy’s doorstep, but tonight I will be with a group of people I don’t know. Playing it safe seems wise.
To kick things off, I had my hair dyed.
It’s currently a deep, wine color, and the more I look at the glossy shade the more I like it. It’s not as drastic as it would have been had I gone from my natural black to dark-blonde with violet highlights, which was my original plan.
My eyes, a startling shade of blue, are now green, courtesy of contacts that are taking the place of my glasses for the evening.
My makeup is impeccable, thanks to one of Olympia’s girlfriends, Jayde, who happens to own Seal’s Cove’s exclusive, high-end Salon and Spa, where I spent a good portion of the day undergoing my transformation.
Before coming to Seal’s Cove, I applied makeup daily. It feels incredible to have some cosmetic enhancements in place again after so long without.
When I mentioned changing my hair, Jayde recommended the dramatic burgundy and even found a way to tame my wild curls, giving me a more sophisticated look I could never replicate on my own. As if that wasn’t enough beautifying for one day, I’ve had a manicure, pedicure, and wax.
When I say wax, I mean the total package.
I said bye-bye to all unwanted body hair, and I don’t recall ever feeling so soft and smooth...everywhere. And despite the hell happening back in my hometown, I’m excited for a night out with Rowdy.
It’s not a date, of course, but a social event where I will offer support and memory prompts as needed. I will accompany him, as his assistant, to the Soul Scorchers’ clubhouse, for what’s supposed to be a low-key party.
We’ve decided (more like he decided) Assistant is my newly evolved, official title. Sometimes he refers to me as his medical assistant, but for the most part he refuses to acknowledge my status as a health care provider.
I believe the simple title switch makes him feel more like a “normal” guy compared to a medical misfit, which if you ask me, is a bunch of BS. There is no such thing as a medical misfit. And in my humble opinion, there is nothing normal about my patient.
He’s unique in some pretty amazing ways, but I understand the message he’s trying to convey to his brain. He wants to visualize himself as healthy and whole, without any medical limitations or labels attached.
I can get behind that. Whatever helps speed up his recovery, I’m all for it.
Continuing to examine my own altered features, I’m reminded it’s been almost two months, not that I’m counting, since I last feasted my eyes on Rowdy’s most spectacular feature, a feature that is definitely not normal in the size department.
My patient has been blessed with considerable length and girth where it counts.
Any-way...after helping him shower in the hospital, I was required to complete the job a second time.
Two days after his fever broke, he was released into my capable care, two days too soon to be out as far as I was concerned. And what happened during his first, post-hospital shower confirmed my fears.
Covered in body wash, he claimed he was too off balance to continue.
Being the good nurse, assistant, horny woman, whatever title applied in that particular mom
ent, I utilized my bathing expertise to finish the washing Rowdy started.
It didn’t take long to realize he’d tricked me, using the occasion to flirt shamelessly before giving up when I didn’t reciprocate his advances with even a smile.
Instead of shedding my clothes and slipping into the shower with him, like I wanted, I used the occaision to fortify the boundary between us, turning a pencil-scrawled, line-in-the-sand into a mote filled with deadly piranhas.
I’m both depressed and relieved to report he has respected my efforts and is keeping a professional distance, focussing exclusively on his recovery, something that has paid off, surpassing all my original expectations and timeframes.
I haven’t told him yet, but if he advances at the same pace, over the next couple of weeks, he’ll be ready to ride by the end of the month, June for certain.
He’s been shooting for July at the earliest, with August as his final deadline. Yet here we are, in the second week of May, and if not for the difficulty he continues to have, maintaining a grip with his injured hand, he’d likely be on his Harley now.
I don’t dare mention my observations for fear he’ll overexert himself even more. He’s prone to overdoing whatever I suggest in hopes it will speed up the process.
In many ways his single-minded focus has served him well. For the most part, his physical health is better than it was prior to his injuries, at least that’s what Demon and Boone have pointed out.
We all agree he is an anomaly when it comes to physical progress, but I still have concerns about his moodiness and what I believe to be ongoing depression, related to his memory issues.
I’ve explained to him countless times how he is a living, breathing miracle after what he endured and that his recovery is incomprehensible compared to others with similar injuries.
But despite all my praise and encouragement, he hasn’t said much about his mental or emotional state. Even so, I know he is troubled and feels somehow responsible for Bones’ condition.
Still in Portland, Rowdy’s father is progressing at a much slower pace, with little to look forward to when it comes to motorcycle riding. I’ve suggested Rowdy open up about his feelings.
His response is always the same.
When I decide to spill the secrets about my Seattle stalker, he’ll talk about his two dads.
Speaking of my stalker, my new work phone chimes, signalling updated information about Seattle’s missing women has become available. Along with the ping, comes the same flood of guilt I experience every time I hear the sound.
No bodies have been found, but after I made my February escape from Brain Matters, several women have disappeared, and there’s one woman who was kidnapped and drugged but managed miraculously to escape.
She doesn’t remember anything, but her father, some high-profile attorney, is pushing to find the perpetrator no matter what the cost or manpower required.
There is no proof Dr. Martin is the offender, but I would not be at all surprised to discover he masterminded the crimes.
I still have my old cell phone, and I’m tempted now, more then ever, to turn it on and access my voicemail. There are undoubtedly messages from my former employer. Messages that could provide useful information that might help not only me, but also some future victim.
I don’t have the guts though. I’ve watched too many high-tech spy movies to risk pressing the power button.
What if Dr. Martin installed a tracking device? Considering the lengths he went to in order to secure his desk, anything is possible.
Does that make me a coward?
Probably.
But I don’t believe anything I could say or do, without concrete evidence, would make a difference, especially knowing the type of legal team my former employer keeps on retainer. And his astronomical donations to Seattle PD are legendary.
For those reasons alone, I’d be buried in a messy legal battle and my attacker would once again have a way to get near me. At least that’s what I tell myself when the guilt over other potential victims surfaces, which is often.
Cheryl has surely left her fair share of voicemails as well.
In her case, I sent a few random postcards, minus any pictures or details that would clue her in to my whereabouts and assured her I was okay and helping out a family member in crisis. I also hinted I would be off social media for awhile.
I seriously miss her. I want to call and tell her everything, but I don’t dare. She’s been my only friend for the past several years and deserves an explanation, and I have no doubt the postcards have created more questions than comfort...and more guilt for me. But her safety is more important than her comfort.
“You almost done in there?” Rowdy taps lightly on my door, putting an end to my jumbled thoughts. “We should get going. I don’t want to be out too late, and we need to go over the names and descriptions for some of the guys.”
I give myself one final scan before grabbing my purse and the black leather jacket I splurged on for tonight. “Coming!”
Rowdy hasn’t seen me since my makeover, nor has he ever seen me in form-hugging, skinny jeans. He’s used to me wearing sweats or scrubs. So this is a major change, and I can’t lie, I’m anticipating his reaction.
He’ll notice right away I’ve also traded my comfy Keds or flip-flops for knee-high boots with four inch heels, and that’s just the beginning.
To complete the look, I tucked the jeans into the boots, which showcase my legs, making them appear longer and shapelier than my best day in sweat bottoms.
As for everything topside of my bellybutton, that’s a different story.
I am not prepared to show-off the girls...nope, not happening. They might be full and round, but they’re staying covered, well-concealed beneath the oversized Harley sweatshirt I picked up in town today, along with the jacket.
Overall, though, regardless of my hidden, upper assets, I can admit I look pretty damn good.
For the first time, in what seems like forever, I’m eager to go out with a man. Sure he’s my patient, and I’m only going along to help him stay organized and to provide support, but I can’t stop how I feel. And no matter what curveballs come my way, I intend to have a pleasant night.
Worst case scenario, I will spend my time chatting up Olympia Olsen, searching for more tips on moving beyond violence and betrayal to finding freedom after a lifetime of dragging around unwanted emotional bondage.
Who knows? I just might spill a few secrets of my own.
I’m not sure what steps to take once I do open up, but I can no longer deny it is way past time for me to break out of my self-imposed cocoon. My new friends have proven they’re trustworthy and have my back. I’m over trying to figure out everything on my own.
Rowdy, Demon, Olympia, even Boone, have all offered their help with whatever I need. It’s up to me to do the rest.
“Trina! Come on, babe. Let’s move it!”
Babe?
Ignoring that part of me that screams run, I open the bedroom door and smile brightly.
The look on Rowdy’s face speaks volumes. He may have stayed on his side of the mote so far, but given the chance, he sure as hell will cross over tonight.
His nostrils flare and he swallows hard. “You look fucking fantastic.”
I give myself permission to check him out too.
For the first time since I arrived, he is wearing his leather vest-thing. I’ve never seen Demon or Boone without theirs. What do they call it? A cut. That’s right. Various patches are displayed, but the one that catches my attention is his President patch.
There is, however, a notable difference between Rowdy and the other bikers.
Unlike them, he’s minus the typical t-Shirt. He’s traded the more casual look for a midnight-blue dress shirt. It’s unbuttoned just enough for me to glimpse those defined muscles he’s worked so hard to repair and build up these past months. His skin is smooth and makes my mouth water.
Considering my prior negative experiences with
the opposite sex, I never expected to feel so aroused. Even the men I chose to be intimate with left me wanting, never living up to the imaginary men in my fantasies.
Without even realizing it, Rowdy has broken through my barriers, and I am confident he has the power to surpass what I imagine incredible sex to be like.
Perhaps tonight a few beers are in order. A little liquid lubrication to loosen me up and provide courage after so long without is an acceptable reward for all my hard work.
I can think of other rewards that might be acceptable, or better stated—delightful.
“You look pretty good yourself,” I finally get the words out in a breathy purr that sounds nothing like my normal voice. “All biker official.” Did I just openly eye-fuck him?
“Biker official, huh? I’ve never been described like that before, but if it’s a compliment from you, I’ll take it.”
I go to push up my glasses, a nervous habit I’ve yet to kick, only to be reminded I’m not wearing any.
Rowdy catches on and grins. “You sure you can see me? Compliments don’t count if you don’t know what you’re looking at.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I can see just fine. Come on. Let’s go to your biker party before they run out of beer.”
His brow goes up. “Believe me, this is one party you don’t have to worry about running out of anything.”
Rowdy
I take a long drink and let my gaze roam, soaking in the scenery. It’s my first excursion to a Soul Scorchers’ party, and it feels good to be out and about.
Olympia Olsen catches my attention.
She looks beautiful as always, but my body doesn’t react, something that pre-accident and for certain pre-Trina would have sent me dashing to the doctor for a physical.
As if sensing my scrutiny, Olympia glances over, offering a little wave and a wide smile. I return the smile and lift my glass, thrilled I can actually grip it. Not that long ago, gripping anything was nearly impossible.