by Kara Parker
This fight wasn’t about saving someone else's life, this time was all about me. I didn’t want to get hurt. I was sick and tired of protecting everyone else and failing at it. Protecting everyone else and getting hurt myself. Protecting everyone else and realizing they didn’t need my protection.
I wanted to be selfish for once in my life.
My motives were anything but altruistic when I whipped my head, scratched Hardell’s arm with my nails, and bit down hard on his wrist. I was fighting for my life—not anyone else's!
Hardell screamed and dropped me. I crawled across the dirt, moving as quickly as I could. But Dave jumped me and sat on me like I was some kind of rodeo prize.
“Not so fast.”
I kicked and screamed against him. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die, I chanted again and again, putting every ounce of myself into that mantra.
The motorcycles went silent, engines cut. Someone sucked their teeth, another spat, and the second a gun was cocked, all hell broke loose.
I bucked, forcing Dave off me, as two bikers sailed at him with wicked looking blades and bloodthirsty eyes. I scrambled out of the fray and stumbled to the bikes surrounding us. With clumsy fingers, I searched for a cell phone so I could call Garrison and a knife to protect myself.
I ducked and let out a yelp when a gun went off, followed by another. “J-Just find a phone,” I muttered to myself, remembering my goal.
I found one, closed my hands around the chilled plastic case, and yanked it out. I slid down and rested against the bike, knees drawn up to my chin and dialed Garrison. As the phone rang, I reached my hand back to the bag, searching for a weapon of some kind.
My hand curved around something heavy, long, and cold. I tucked the phone into the crook of my shoulder, turned slightly, and pulled the shotgun out.
Riiiiiinnng. Riiiiinnng.
I checked the gun, making sure it was loaded.
Riiiiinnngg Rii— “Hello?”
“Garrison!” I gasped, wrapping my fingers tightly around the gun as happy tears streamed down my face.
“Chelsie!” he exploded back. I heard rustling in the background, voices. “Where are you?” Garrison demanded.
I shook my head as another gun shot went off. “I’m not sure. Desert. Middle of nowhere. I can’t see anything.”
“Trace it. Now,” Garrison barked to someone near him. He turned back to our conversation and his voice softened. “Sugar, are you okay? Are you hurt? I’m getting your location right now and we’ll send red and whites over with an ambulance.”
Something warm and wet sprayed the back of my neck, and I watched one of Hardell’s men sail through the air like a mangled airplane. His body rolled when it hit the ground before stopping on its back. The man’s limbs were twisted at impossible angles, and there was blood oozing from his head and down his face. It soaked into the ground and got in his unmoving mouth.
I turned away. “You need more ambulances. R-Ryan’s biker friends are here. And I—I think some people are dead.” I looked at the man’s body again, dedicating everything to memory though I’m not sure why. “N-No definitely dead.”
There was a long pause before Garrison let out a slew of curses and barked at whoever was with him. “What the fuck’s the address?”
“Got it!” a voice shouted victoriously.
I heard rummaging and Garrison responded, “You’re close. We’re on our way, sugar. Stay alive. You hear me. Hide and stay the fuck alive.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My hiding place wasn’t hidden for long, and despite the amount of bikers Ryan had, Hardell’s men were ruthless. They were like dogs backed into a corner, lashing out because they knew if they were caught, then they were getting put down.
I always hated Texas’s death penalty; I loved it now.
“You!” a man sneered. I recognized the sneer as Hardell’s.
I couldn’t imagine how he was alive and walking. His clothes were a bloody mess, torn in places, and his face was a swollen bruise.
I scrambled up, shot gun held in front of me. The phone slipped from my shoulder and fell to the ground, dust marking its destination on the dirt.
Hardell took a careful step toward me, and I realize he’s in a lot of pain. “You,” he growled like an animal. “This is all your fault. Should’ve just killed you the moment I met you. Bitch chose me, my job, my men, my home!”
I blanched and tripped back but didn’t fall. Disbelief stretched across my face. “Fuck. You. Those are my lines! You came after me. You hurt me. Son of a bitch can’t even take responsibility for his own problems.”
I didn’t feel it, the metal trigger sliding against my finger. One minute I was standing, and the next I was flat on my back, wheezing with a pain in my side.
My first thought was that Hardell shot me. Bastard shot me! But when my hands came away clean, I knew it couldn’t be that. I reached for the gun a foot away and recoiled at the heat on the barrel. My eyes widened, and I whipped my head to Hardell. He was on the ground. Not moving.
Common sense escaped me, and I crawled over to him. I hated the biker with a vengeance, but I didn’t want his blood on my hands.
Yet, it was.
I scrambled to stop the bleeding in his chest. But there was so much blood, and I was terrified I’d feel something more than that. The hole was the size of my fist.
I yanked off my top, not giving a crap that there was still fighting going on and I was the only woman. I just needed to keep Hardell alive.
A roar of sirens hit our area, but I was too focused on my victim. Hardell’s face was turning colors—gray, a little green, and finally shock white.
“Chelsie!” Garrison yelled.
I felt myself being lifted away from Hardell, and I didn’t fight it. I knew before the paramedics started working on him that he was dead.
I’d just killed a man.
I was a murderer.
I collapsed against Garrison. So exhausted. So very exhausted.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I felt like my life was one never ending cluster-fuck after another. In less than six months, I’ve had to leave my life and move to Texas. Fight bikers. Fight even more bikers. And honestly, I’m exhausted.
I’m in the back of an ambulance with Garrison at my side, but I’m still too out of it to respond to him. He wants to know what happened. If I was hurt. If there are any other people after me.
I, on the other hand, just want to sleep. But I can’t do that either.
I have two people’s blood on me now: Janie’s and Hardell’s. I might not have killed my daughter with my own hands, but I’d had plenty of opportunities to leave her father. If I’d left him, none of this would have happened.
I think about that for a second.
I hadn’t left Yanik in the end. I’d run away. I’d gotten myself as far away from him, and my family, and the life we’d built as I could.
Would I have done the same if I’d voluntarily left him?
I looked back on my choice, needing something to think about other than Hardell’s blood all over me. Every time I’d moved, so far, had been to run away from something.
Even when I moved to Europe, I was running away from the stifling dictates of my father and his traditions. And even though it wasn’t my choice—though I know I would have chosen it anyway—I ran away from Mountain Grove.
Running away seemed to be a pattern in my life, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like that I placed myself into these situations…because it was me putting myself there. No one else.
I could have stood up to my father at fifteen and said, “This is my life and I want to live it my way.” I could have packed a bag and left Yanik the minute he raised his hand to me instead of making excuses and trying to think how much would change if I left. I could have closed up shop, called the cops, or even asked Hardell to leave the minute he stepped into the shop.
But I did none of those things—and look where it landed me.
I was angry at myself…furious. But also just really sad. I didn’t want to be this person anymore, and for a few weeks, I hadn’t felt like this person. With Garrison, I didn’t hesitate to speak my mind, and I didn’t hesitate to call him out and pick a fight when he did something wrong. I felt free—for the first time in a long time.
And then Hardell came, and I knew I’d never been free. Freedom was an illusion when you ran. And that’s what I’d been doing.
My legs started to go numb, and the sensation brought me back to my body, to this moment. I felt Hardell’s sticky blood on me. Everywhere. I thought about it, what made me pull that trigger.
Sure, it was self-defense, but that wasn’t the only reason. I hadn’t thought about taking his life. It just...happened. I couldn’t even say I liked it; it just had to be done. A necessary evil.
“Chelsie, sugar,” Garrison pleaded, “talk to me.”
I turned my head to him and blinked the dust and blood out of my eyes. “I killed Hardell.”
Something hard and cold settled in his eyes. “He deserved to die.”
I turned my eyes away and caught on the angel wings tattoo on his arm. The men he killed and the men he saved. He wore their names like badges, like scars.
I wanted a tattoo, too. I wanted to carry my sins on my skin, so they wouldn’t be on my mind.
“Is everyone else okay?” I asked, then clarified. “Ryan’s men, I mean.”
Ryan was a good guy. A little scary, but a good guy. I wondered if that was all he was, but I did not force the issue. His guys had fought like men used to blood, guts, and gore, used to waking up bruised and bloodied, missing a few teeth, and maybe a patch of hair. They reminded me of renegade soldiers.
“They’re fine. A little banged up, but they’ll live.”
“Hardell’s men?”
Garrison locked his jaw. “Every member is in critical condition. Doesn’t look like—what’s his face? Uh, Dave’s gonna make it.”
I nodded. He didn’t deserve to make it anyway.
Garrison leaned closer, smoothed back my matted strawberry blond hair. “How are you, sugar? Really?”
That was a loaded question. I was many things; my emotions were a tsunami of things I’d have to deal with later. Not now.
I looked into his eyes and smiled softly. “I’m alive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The ride to the hospital was long, and Garrison cursed as two of Hardell’s men died in the other ambulances.
I looked up at him from the bed I was on. The paramedics had said because I was beat up so badly and my head had been knocked around, it was likely I had a concussion and a few cracked ribs.
Ryan was in his own ambulance, too. There were seven in all, but one had stayed behind to treat Ryan’s men while the others rushed to the hospital. I wiggled on the bed, and the paramedic beside me put a hand to my shoulder and glared at me. “You’re going to hurt something,” he said.
“I’m already hurt.”
“Just listen to the man, sugar,” Garrison said, sighing before barking some more orders into his walkie-talkie.
The paramedic observed me for a second longer, before starting up with the twenty questions again. “Are you allergic to any medication?”
“No.”
“Do you have any other allergies?”
“Pineapples, lactose, and dust.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Do you drink?”
“Yes.”
“In the last week, how many drinks have you had?”
“None.” In the last week, I’d been trying to get my ranch house in tip-top shape, and then I’d been kidnapped and beaten. Hardell hadn’t been a real gracious host.
“Are you sexually active?”
I blushed hard, but thankfully it was lost under the dirt and grime. I cast a suspicious glance at Garrison and found him on his cellphone now, engrossed in a conversation.
“Yes,” I whispered when I turned back to the paramedic.
I gave him a look that said, “Please whisper anymore questions like that.”
He looked to Garrison, then turned back to me and nodded. The man leaned closer. “Are you pregnant?”
I opened my mouth to give a resounding no, but something made me pause. I thought back to a night, a week ago when I’d been with Garrison. We hadn’t used protection than, and I was pretty sure I’d forgotten to take my birth control. I thought back further, realizing all those spontaneous rounds of sex—in the old barn, the shower, and the car—hadn’t involved a condom either. And I wasn’t the poster woman for taking birth control daily.
Damn.
I moved my head closer. “I don’t know.”
He gave me a funny look. “Did you use protection?”
I shook my head. “Not every time.”
He leaned back and wrote something on the clipboard in his hand. While he did that, I thought about myself. I knew what it felt like to be pregnant, and I didn't feel pregnant. Then again, I hadn’t known I was carrying until I was fifteen weeks pregnant. I’d drowned out all my symptoms as “life with Yanik.” He made me sick. He made me hormonal. He made me eat whatever was in sight to compensate for my crappy life.
I tried to think back, remember the last few weeks with Garrison. Had I been doing the same thing?
“Chelsie,” the paramedic said, “We’re here.”
All of a sudden, the doors swung out, and I was pulled out of the ambulance and transferred to another bed. From there, it was a quick shot into the hospital where the doctors and nurses asked me the same questions and prodded and poked at me. Twenty minutes later, a nurse with thick bags under her eyes and a heavy Jamaican accent thrust an empty plastic cup at me and told me to go down the hall and pee in it.
I did as she said, careful of Garrison’s watchful eyes. I was nervous. What if I was pregnant? What if I wasn’t? Did I even want Garrison’s child?
I almost smacked my head. That was a stupid question, of course I did. I loved him.
I peed, went back to the room, passing the cup off as I did so, and hopped up on the hospital bed. Garrison was leaning against the wall, but when I settled myself, he came over and grabbed my hand.
“Sorry I’ve been on the phone the whole time.”
I shook my head. “You have work to do.”
“That’s still no excuse,” he said.
I opened my mouth to speak when a doctor breezed into the room, clipboard in hand with stethoscope around her neck. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a severe bun, and her lips and hands looked dry.
“Hello,” the woman greeted. “I’m Dr. Linda Quarter. Seems you had quite the day, Chelsie. Do you mind if I call you Chelsie?”
I shook my head that it was fine.
She glanced at the chart then back up to me. “Seems there’s no major damage. Some bruising around your ribs and your face, a minor concussion. Cuts that aren’t deep. No need for stitching,” she spoke quickly, convincing herself of the words as much as me. “Of course we’re not going to give you ibuprofen, unless you desperately need it. We want to make sure there are as few complications as possible while you’re in your first trimester. And after today, I think it’s best that you get lots of sleep, drink lots of water, and relax.”
The doctor smiled and glanced at the sheet again. “I’ll have Nurse Richards get the forms for you to sign, then I’ll release you into the FBI’s care. Is there anything else I can do for you, Chelsie?”
I shook my head no, and the doctor left the room the same way she’d come in, with a gust of air.
I bit my lip, but didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure how much of what the doctor had said, Garrison had understood. I got it all. Pregnant. In my first trimester. Great.
The silence stretched in the room, before Garrison came around the bed and leaned over me. His face was a mix of shock and pain. “First. Trimester.”
Apparently, he had noticed.
I met his gaze with one
of my own. I was just as shocked as him, but I guess I’d had more than an hour to come to terms with the possibility.
His voice was high. “You’re pregnant?”
I opened my mouth to say something like, “I’m sorry” or “I didn’t know,” but all that came out was, “Yeah.”