by Sybil Bartel
She gave me the one-shoulder shrug again.
I felt my way up the rest of her arm. “Where’s Randy?”
“At the apartment. I think.”
Nothing else seemed injured. “Was he breathing when you left?” I gently placed her wrist back in her lap. It was broken.
She slowly exhaled. “I don’t know.”
I stood and crossed my arms, leaning on my desk. “But you think he’s dead?”
“He didn’t really look like he was breathing.” Her voice was soft and breathy but the words were emotionally detached.
“Did you kill him?”
Her eyes met mine but her expression gave nothing away. “No.”
“What’s your end game?” If I was going to do anything beyond dumping her at the ER, I needed to know what I was getting myself into.
“What do you mean?”
I lost my patience. “C’mon, darlin’. I don’t have time for this shit. You show up on my doorstep half beaten to death, sayin’ you didn’t know where else to go. That tells me two things. One, you’re in deep shit and two, you think I can help. So, I ask again, what’s your plan? And don’t tell me it’s to go back when he calms the fuck down. Dead or alive, you’re done with that worthless prick. I ain’t a battered women’s shelter you can check in and out of.”
“Randy told me you were a doctor in the Navy,” she said in that quiet voice that was beginning to make me wonder if she ever got pissed off.
I sighed. “SARC, Marines.”
“What?”
“Not a doctor. Trauma medic. Answer my question.”
“I don’t want to go back there.” Nothing changed in her expression.
I pushed off the desk, hoping like hell she was telling the truth. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Her shoulder stiffened. “Where?”
“ER. X-rays. Your wrist’s broken and I want your cheek looked at. Not to mention the leg you’re favorin’ that you won’t tell me about.”
“It doesn’t hurt as much as my wrist.”
“Thank God for small favors. Up.” I held my hand out, gentleman that I am.
She stared at my hand a moment.
Then she reached for me and her entire story fell to shit.
I GRABBED HER HAND, LOOKED pointedly at her busted-up knuckles then at her. “Defensive wounds are a game changer.”
She tried to pull her hand back but I held firm. “Let go.” No change in her tone, there was a surprising amount of force behind her words.
I dropped her hand but crossed my arms menacingly. “How ’bout we try this again. From the beginnin’.” Self-defense was one thing. Premeditated murder was a whole different animal. Anger, disappointment, pride that she’d hit him, I didn’t know what the fuck I was feeling but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t helping a cold-blooded murderer no matter how hot she was.
Her face, swollen parts and all, tensed up in anger. “I didn’t kill him.”
So she was capable of getting pissed off. “Good, because cops in my store are bad for business.”
“Forget it, I don’t need your help.” She pushed up with her good arm and rose out of the chair with effort.
“Save the drama. It doesn’t affect me.”
She took a step and her face twisted in pain. “All of you Marines are the same.”
My lips curved up in a vicious smile. “You think I’m like him?” I leaned in close and dropped my voice. “I don’t give a shit enough about women to beat them after I fuck them.”
She didn’t even flinch.
I laid it out. “Let’s get somethin’ straight. This once, I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt because you don’t know me. So listen up. I don’t get off on beatin’ women. I don’t drink till I piss myself. I don’t run my mouth when I can’t back it up and I sure as shit never left a woman lookin’ like you look now. I may be an asshole but I am nothing like Randy fucking Carter.”
Something flashed across her face then her expression shut down. “Sorry.”
My dead wife’s face popped into my head—saying the same motherfucking thing to me. It pissed me off then and Nic was pissing me off now. “You apologize to me one more time, you can walk the fuck outta my shop,” I threatened.
She nodded once.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Fine.”
I took three breaths to calm down and push the shit in my head back deep where it belonged. “What happened to your hand?”
“He wouldn’t let me go.” Her leg wavered and she grabbed the edge of my desk with her uninjured hand for support. “I punched him.”
Fucker deserved it. “You need to sit?”
Her jaw clenched. “No.”
“You lyin’?” I saw the pain all over her face.
“No.”
Fuck, she was determined. I took the gun from my waistband, locked it in my desk and picked up my car keys. “Let’s go.” I headed for the door.
“Talon?”
Up until that very second, I didn’t realize I’d never heard my name cross her lips. Except she didn’t say it, she pleaded. Breathless, wounded, she said my name with gut-wrenching desperation and it was impossible to ignore.
“Goddamn siren,” I muttered, wishing like hell she hadn’t just earned the nickname. I turned. “What?”
Her big blue eyes looked at me with alarm. “I can’t go to the hospital.”
“Why?” Christ, she was pretty.
“I don’t have insurance.”
“Fine. I know a walk-in clinic.”
“I don’t have the money. Can you just wrap my wrist?”
I should’ve stayed in the Marines. At least I would’ve been getting paid to play doctor. “I can’t set that wrist if it’s broken,” I lied. “I’ll cover the cost of the clinic.” Her arm would heal, I wasn’t worried about that. I wanted her face and whatever she was hiding under her jeans looked at.
Her shoulders relaxed but she protested anyway. “I’ve got no way to pay you back.”
For some reason, I was feeling charitable. “You tell me everythin’ that happened and we’ll call it even.”
Resignation filtered into her expression and I knew I was losing ground.
I played hardball. “Your choice. Door’s that way.” I inclined my head.
She dropped her gaze. “You hate him.”
“You’re right. Still doesn’t change shit between you and me. You want my help, start talkin’.”
“You’re going to judge me for being with him. Everybody does.”
“I’m not judgin’ shit. I’m lookin’ at a woman beaten by a man and I’m plottin’. Big difference.”
She snapped her gaze to mine and fear flashed across her features before she quickly hid it. “You’re wasting your effort.”
Un-fucking-believable. She was going to defend that asshole? “How so?” This ought to be good.
“You just are.”
Maybe, maybe not. “I’m tight with lost causes.”
Her back stiffened. “I’m not a cause.”
I studied her a moment, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Something wasn’t adding up. She came to me for help then defended the asshole and said she didn’t need help? Why the hell was she here? “Start talkin’,” I repeated.
She studied me a moment as if she were deciding how much to tell. “It was an accident. It wasn’t his fault. After his last deployment, things…changed.”
“Meanin’?”
“He wasn’t the same.”
“No one is.” Life, war, they changed people.
“I realize that.”
I couldn’t decipher a single emotion in her response. “So what happened?”
“I tried to walk,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Tried?” I asked, but I knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“He had a knife. He said he was going to kill himself. I tried to leave but he caught me.” She absently flexed the hand with bloodied knuckles. “I broke free b
ut when I ran, I tripped on the rug and hit the doorframe. I must’ve blacked out. When I woke up, he’d…” She inhaled and the tight rein she kept on her emotions started to crack. She shook her head then rushed through her next sentence. “He’d already cut himself.” Her hand stilled but her voice wavered. “I left and came here but you weren’t working.”
My gut constricted at the thought of her beaten and alone all night. “Where’d you sleep last night?”
“On the beach,” she quietly admitted.
I fought not to react but my words still came out clipped. “That wasn’t safe.”
She gave me the slight shrug again. “It was safer than going home.”
My hatred of Randy rose to a new level. “What happened to your leg?”
“He was behind me when I ran.” She shifted her weight to her good leg. “The knife was in his hand. It wasn’t intentional.”
What? “You’re cut?”
Her head down, her hand braced on the desk, she nodded.
“Show me,” I demanded.
She shrunk back a foot. “My pant leg won’t roll up that high.”
My nostrils flared and my hands fisted. “Take your pants off.”
She glanced at the closed door then bit her bottom lip.
I forced my muscles to relax and dropped my shoulders, faking the appearance of calm. “I’ve seen it all before.”
“I know,” she said hesitantly.
My eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
Her striking blue gaze met mine. “You have a reputation.”
She was fucking stabbed and she was worried about my goddamn reputation? “Then you know if I was tryin’ to get in your pants, I wouldn’t have to ask.”
I was half surprised when she gingerly pushed her pants down to her knees. Smooth, tan, beautiful thighs, I only had a second to look before the clinical side took over and I peeled back what looked like paper towels from a public restroom and a bunch of blood-soaked Band-Aids.
The cut ran on the outside of her right thigh from two inches above her knee to just below her hip, where there was a deeper incision from a stab wound. Intentional or not, the fucking bastard had stabbed her.
I put pressure on the outside of the puncture wound, looking for infection. “Did you clean this?” I barked, too angry to hold back my voice.
She jumped. “Sorta.”
Motherfucker. “You need stitches.”
“No insurance.” She reached to pull her pants up, and the deepest part of the wound oozed.
“Wait.” Goddamn it. I weighed my options. “Alright, you’ve got two choices. I can deal with your leg here and we can let the walk-in handle your face and arm or you can have the clinic take care of everythin’.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Leg here.”
I nodded. “Be right back.” I went out to my car and grabbed my medical kit. I was almost back to the office when Kendall stopped me.
“She okay?” Occasionally Kendall had a heart. The other ninety-nine point nine percent of the time she was a pain in the ass.
“She’s gonna be. What do you know about Randy Carter?” I hated even saying the fucker’s name.
Kendall shrugged. “Works at the garage, is a shit mechanic, drinks his life away and gambles on pool games he loses. Why?”
Kendall knew most of the guys at the garage. Bikers were her thing. “Can you find out if he’s been at work?”
A rare, slow smile spread across her face and she grabbed her purse from behind the counter. “Can and will. You going to teach him a lesson?”
“Ask discreetly,” I warned, purposely not answering her.
“What do you think this is? Amateur hour?”
I had no fucking idea. I knew next to nothing about Kendall except that everyone who knew her was as tight-lipped as if she were in the witness protection program. I didn’t even know where she lived because I paid her in cash. “Don’t say shit to Candle either.” Candle owned the garage where Randy worked and he’d come with the nickname when I’d met him. Rumor had it he’d killed a man with a candle. I didn’t want to know how.
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes.
“I mean it.” Kendall was tight with Candle. I didn’t need her running her mouth. “I’m not ready to let the cat out of the bag yet that Nic’s here.”
Kendal raised her eyebrows. “Just Nic? No pet name yet? What, she’s not pretty enough for you?”
I locked down my expression.
“I knew it.” She gloated, making a come-here gesture with her hand. “’Fess up.”
“Siren.” I didn’t know why I fucking told her.
Kendall laughed. She actually laughed. “How telling.”
Not amused, I silently cursed Candle. He’d introduced me to Kendall after fixing my bike for free and not-so-gently told me to hire her. “I’ve never seen you laugh,” I accused.
“I’ve never seen you fall for a woman,” she said smugly.
Ignoring the twist in my gut, I pasted on a fake smile. “Lotta things I like to do with women but fallin’ ain’t one of ’em.”
“Hundred bucks says you eat those words and her cunt.”
“Jealous?” I taunted, deflecting.
Kendall leaned forward and got in my face. Her finger trailed down my stomach. “I’d have to want to fuck you to be jealous. But those?” She pointed at my balls. “Aren’t big enough for me, hero.” She waltzed out of my shop.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I muttered, turning to go back to my office.
Nic stood in the doorway. “Is that your girlfriend?”
GODDAMN IT. “I DON’T HAVE a girlfriend.” I hated Kendall and her big mouth. “How much did you hear?”
Nic stared after Kendall then her eyes traveled to mine and despite her best efforts to hide what she was going through, all the shit of the last twenty-four hours showed on her face. Pain, exhaustion, anxiety; she looked vulnerable as hell. “Why did you nickname me Siren?”
I felt like an asshole. “Just so you know, I’m no fuckin’ hero.” I glanced at the pants she’d pulled back up over the open wound and silently cursed. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I didn’t wait for her to follow.
I walked into the small kitchenette, grabbed one of the towels I kept for the beach and dropped it on the floor. “Take your pants off and stand on the towel,” I ordered. “What’s your pain tolerance like?”
“What?” Her voice squeaked.
I spared her a glance. “I’m gonna throw some stitches in. I don’t have Novocain but I have topical cream and I’ll be fast.” It was the best I could do.
Looking nervous, she agreed. “Okay.”
I pulled out supplies while she stepped out of her pants. Once I had everything I needed, I allowed myself to take in the sight of her.
Jesus.
She looked so damn fragile, trying to hold a brave face. The ripped T-shirt with bloodstains stood out against the pink satin of her underwear and all I wanted to do was pull her into my arms.
Knowing I shouldn’t, I cupped her good cheek. “I’ll be quick but I gotta stitch that wound before it gets infected. You with me?”
Her eyes closed but she didn’t say anything.
“C’mon, Siren,” I coaxed. “Open those baby blues and talk to me.”
She looked up at me with trust I didn’t deserve. “Okay.” She breathed out.
The thought of hurting her sucked. Add the misplaced trust in her expression and I had to give her an out. “The walk-in can numb you up. We could have them do this.”
“No,” she said forcibly. I raised an eyebrow and she softened her tone. “Can you please do it?” She pulled her injured arm closer to her body.
Standing there, holding her face, it felt good, too good. I released her, grabbed a bottle of water and started talking her through what I was going to do. “I’m flushin’ the wound out.” I poured the water over her leg then picked up the hydrogen peroxide. “This may sting a little.” I followed with the disinfectant
and her face twisted in pain. “It goes away in a few seconds,” I reassured, patting the surrounding skin dry. “But the topical will only help a little,” I warned, pulling on gloves. “You sure ’bout this?”
She steeled herself. “Yes.”
I smeared on a heavy dose of topical. She flinched but she didn’t complain.
“I gotta give it a few minutes.” Not wanting to look at her and see the pain in her eyes, I got the stitches ready. I messed around in my kit then pulled out a chair and put another towel over it. When I had no reason to stall anymore, I nodded at the chair. “Sit.”
She eased down.
I dropped to my knees and held her gaze. “You ready?”
Her throat moved with a swallow. “Yes.”
I lifted her foot and tucked it under my arm. Holding it tight in case she jumped, I did the first stitch.
She jerked back and gasped in pain.
Fuck. “Sorry.” I tightened my hold and quickly followed with the second stitch, wishing like hell I didn’t have to do this to her.
Sucking in a huge breath, she went white as fuck. “It’s okay.”
“You gonna faint on me?” I stuck her for the third suture, hating every second of it.
“No,” she panted.
“Good, ’cause I’d hate to have to catch ya,” I joked, forcing half a smile. “Never had a woman faint on me yet.” I quickly pulled the needle through two more times but I didn’t tell her I’d never stitched a woman. I’d seen more shit than I ever could’ve imagined, blown-off limbs, gaping wounds, grown men begging me to not let them die. I even treated a few wounded female Marines. But I’d never stitched one of them. “Usually it’s the big Marines who faint. They see a needle and it’s lights out.” I finished and grabbed a clean dressing. “Press this against the stitches for a few minutes.”
“Why?” Her voice was thready and weak.
“It stops the bleedin’ and keeps the stitches clean.” I pulled my gloves off. “You got a clean pair of pants?”
Hair falling in her face, her hand shaking, she pressed on her leg while she held her wrist against her chest. “In my bag.”
Watching her from the corner of my eye, I opened her duffel and a handful of loose pictures scattered. Not wanting to bend them, I gathered them up but two fell out. One was a black-and-white photo of Nic as baby with an almost toothless grin. The other had an older couple with Nic standing between them. Her face fuller, her hair all sunshine and light, her smile was bigger than life. She was stunning.