Under Her Skin

by Adriana Anders

The local cops so entrenched in the MC’s racket, they were as bad as the bikers themselves.

  As the doors slid open, all heads turned his way, and he was thankful for the aviators and ball cap, along with his long sleeves. What folks could see of his skin was minimal, and odd though he may appear in his Unabomber garb, there was no way any of it was coming off—even indoors. As unidentifiable as possible; that was the goal. Don’t give them anything to remember you by.

  As if the sheriff would forget a single goddamn detail. Like, say, the 5–0 etched into my face.

  Eyes followed him to the pharmacy aisle, where he startled a little old lady and her little white dog, whose barks followed him long after he’d found razors and Vaseline. Fucking Vaseline, like that didn’t look bad. As he headed down to the end of the store, his eyes caught on a display dedicated to local produce, and he salivated—literally.

  By the time he arrived at the checkout, he’d gathered chips and dip, apples, peaches.

  “Evenin’, sir,” the cashier said.

  “Evening.”

  “How you doin’ today?”

  “Uh…” Clay glanced around. What was this, 1954? How long had it been since he’d been asked that? “Good, thanks.”

  “Great! Hopin’ for a storm later this week. Need somethin’ to break this heat wave. Always sorry when folks come to visit us, and all anyone can do is stay in the A/C. Y’know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’ll be fifteen dollars even. Cash or credit?”

  “Cash,” he finally answered, handing over a couple of twenties, the bills slightly damp against his palm.

  “It’s only fifteen, sir.” The woman smiled at him, and Clay wondered if she was flirting. No. He didn’t think so. Just being friendly. She handed him his change and a paper bag filled with his purchases.

  “Can you tell me where I can buy clothes? You know, like T-shirts and stuff.”

  “Oh, you’ll have to drive into C’ville for that, sir.”

  He nodded his thanks and lifted a hand as she called, “Happy Independence Day!” to his retreating back. “And welcome to Blackwood!”

  Back in his truck, he started up the engine and drove down Main Street with a sense of relief, so out of place here, it was like having a target etched onto his back instead of the Sultans’ emblem.

  * * *

  A glance at the clock showed George that she’d spent more time investigating her patient than she should have—especially since she shouldn’t have done it at all. Slow and stupid from the heat, she stood up, shut everything down, and headed outside.

  It was nearly dark and Blackwood crackled with energy—muggy and sultry with air that felt like it hadn’t moved in months, but tonight an extra jolt of electricity seemed to spice it up. The few steps to her car, so familiar, were done thoughtlessly, no attention paid to her surroundings, to a voice a bit farther down the road, yelling something. The sound didn’t sink in until she’d opened the door and…realized it was a woman, her voice shrill and then sharply cut off with what might have been a slap.

  There, across the street, silhouettes closer now, running, a scuffle, one person down.

  “Hey!” George yelled, protective instincts kicking in. “What’s going on?”

  A shriek, a thud.

  She dropped everything and ran.

  Weird, in those moments, how things sped up and froze all at once. She was aware of furtive movement and an unnatural stillness, the buzzing of the streetlight above, the crunch of grit under her sandals.

  The couple on the sidewalk was closer now, things still murky, but it was a man, definitely a man. Attacking a woman?

  “Hey!” George yelled, slapping at his arms.

  I’ll run and get my phone was George’s last thought before the man struck her, right in the stomach, doubling her over and stealing every last bit of breath from her body.

  “The fuck off me, bitch!”

  My phone, George thought with a glance back at her car, and then thwack. She was down. Suddenly, the blond woman was up, yelling and hitting her—the woman who’d sounded so scared… And another man appeared from out of nowhere.

  Ungffff. A kick to her leg. The woman, she thought.

  “Fuck you!” yelled the woman. “Hittin’ my man.”

  There were three of them. Two men and one woman. George caught flashes of bodies and faces, more screaming, directed at her this time. Harsh words interspersed with flashes of bare legs, shorts, sneakers, explosions of color overhead.

  Young. No wrinkles. More words hurled at her. Another glimpse. A face covered in lesions. George curled in on herself.

  Drugs, her mind supplied, slow but catching up. These people were on drugs.

  Adrenaline and fear went into overdrive. Too late. She writhed on the ground, holding her tender belly, strangely aware of the gritty surface of the gutter beneath her, the odd grain of sand shining brightly despite the late hour. All she could do was protect her face and her abdomen. Who’d feed Leonard if she didn’t make it home? Who would put the chickens to bed? Trying not to think of the baby she’d never have if she died right here, she groaned. Not from the dull ache in her womb, but from regret.

  Something changed in the air then. She felt it, even folded in on herself. Somebody grunted—an unpleasant sound. With an effort, George maneuvered herself into a tighter ball against the curb and lifted her head. What little breath she’d managed to gather escaped in a whoosh.

  It was Andrew Blane. She’d conjured him, probably, and here he was, saving the day with a strangely quiet, grim, hard-edged concentration. One of her attackers was already halfway to the ground, the woman running away, fast, by the time George cleared the fog from her eyes. As she watched, Andrew dealt with the third man in a move that was quick and violent. Efficient—no, surgical was a better word for the punch to the neck, the echoing kick low on the man’s leg. Oh Lord, but it looked barbaric, frightening for the speed and ease with which it was delivered.

  A final blow to one of the kids’ faces had blood spattering in a tall, almost graceful arc, and George couldn’t stop the scared little whimper she let out.

  When he turned to her, her savior’s breathing looked normal. How could he be that way after the bloody havoc he’d just wreaked? She thought, for a crazed moment, that he was some kind of spy—a Jason Bourne type, an unfeeling psychopath, whose only external mode of expression was through the writing on his skin.

  But then he looked at her, and she knew, with absolutely certainty, that he wasn’t just some instrument of aggression. He might move like a man who knew how to hurt another human being, but when his eyes met hers, she saw that the one who was hurting was him. And how messed up was it that all she wanted to do was make him feel better?

  5

  Okay, so maybe Clay wasn’t entirely dead, after all. His muscles still seemed to work, weak though they were, his synapses fired excitably, and if the adrenaline seeping through his veins was any indication, he’d held on to some of his protective instincts, as well. He was a little shaky, which was to be expected after all that time spent in recovery, but the physical therapy and the strength training had worked, apparently.

  Right now, though, it wasn’t himself he was concerned with. It was the doctor. And God, it felt good, this sensation of standing above her, keeping her alive and well, with those two crank-cratered fucknuts moaning at his feet.

  It was a damned good thing he’d decided to come back out for a run tonight.

  “The fuck outta here,” he told the addicts, and though it was clear they hurt, they obeyed immediately. That was one advantage to looking like a tough motherfucker. It had been a while since he’d used force, given orders. Done anything useful, in fact—and it felt good. Better than good. It was life-giving.

  “You okay?” he asked, stepping over to the doc, who had pushed herself up to all fours.
She looked at him kind of squinty eyed, like she didn’t quite trust him, but took his hand, eventually, and let him pull her to sitting on the curb, where he squatted beside her.

  “How many hands I got up?” He held up three fingers.

  “You mean fingers?” she asked, smart as a whip.

  “Yeah,” he said with a smile.

  She gave one back, a smile at the edges of a mouth so pink he could see it under the streetlamps.

  Shit, that was sexy. He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her lean into him, just a little. “Good. Anything hurt, Doc?”

  Gingerly, she turned her head, stretched her neck, rolled her shoulders, then made as if to get up, but he tightened his fingers, stopping her. He ran his hand from her shoulder down her arm to pick up her hand and check the palm for scratches.

  It was a weird moment right there, under the busted-out streetlight. Clay couldn’t quite muster up the energy to let her go, and she didn’t seem anxious to get rid of him. Instead, they sat, looking for all the world like a couple waiting for a parade that had passed a good twelve hours before.

  She leaned on him for a few seconds and then rose with him. After a brief tightening of his fingers on hers, he finally let her go, and the connection was broken. After that, the calm seeped out of Clay’s brain.

  Actual calm. How fucking strange. He wanted to grab her hand and get it back.

  “Wanna call the police?”

  She shook her head, and he sighed with relief, not questioning the decision. “I recognized them. Local kids and… The girl needs help, and I don’t think putting them all in jail is the way to do that right now.”

  Clay tended to disagree, but he also didn’t need to get involved with the law right now, so he kept his mouth shut.

  Pop! The sound hit Clay with a start. He threw an arm around the doctor and ducked before he could identify which direction it came from. What the fuck?

  Another pop, more aggressive this time, had Clay’s pulse revving uncontrollably.

  “I can’t…” He squeezed his eyes shut, then turned, attempting to locate the shooter. “Stay down. We’re under—”

  “Mr. Blane.”

  He pushed her behind him, reached for a weapon that wasn’t there, turned again. Fuck. He’d heard a Harley in town earlier, had told himself it was nothing, and had done his best to ignore it. And now the bikers were here. Where the hell were they hiding?

  “Andrew,” the woman said, leaning up, looking totally unafraid. “It’s the fireworks.”

  He blinked a couple of times before taking it all in: the wash of blue, the spray of color piercing the night sky.

  Fireworks. Fucking fireworks on the Fourth of July. Jesus, was it possible to overdose on adrenaline?

  Like those ravers from the nineties, whose repeated use of ecstasy had depleted their serotonin levels, Clay’s mind insisted he’d had too many rushes to be terrified, and yet, here he was, shivering, again, in the aftermath. And then he wondered if it wasn’t the opposite; maybe repressing the fear for so long, pushing it into places it shouldn’t have to hide, had given him an overabundant supply of the stuff. For all those times he’d stared down some trigger-happy speed freak, the cold barrel of a gun burning a hole in his temple…

  The doctor stood, watching him, her quiet stillness notable in a world that trembled so desperately.

  “You okay?” she asked, putting out a hand to…touch him, maybe? He stepped out of her reach.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said firmly.

  After a few long beats, she glanced around. “Where’s your car?”

  “I’m on foot.”

  “You live around here?” she asked.

  Rather than answer, he said, “I’ll drive you home and jog back.”

  “No. No, you can’t do that. I couldn’t ask you to, not with your—”

  “I’m fine. And you can’t drive after what just happened,” he said. “Come on.”

  After a brief hesitation, she nodded, and he walked her around to the passenger door—unlocked—and went to get in the driver’s side. She was one of those women whose car was full of random shit, so it took her about three minutes to clear off her seat, but he kinda liked that. It meant she didn’t have passengers often. He figured between that and the lack of a ring, she probably wasn’t married.

  She handed him the keys. “Okay,” he said before starting the engine. “Where to?”

  With the turn of the key came low, modulated radio voices and a squealing fan belt.

  “You need to get that looked at,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Fan belt.”

  “Oh. Right. I don’t… I mean, I never…”

  “I could take a look, if you want.”

  “You?” She looked at him as he pulled out, her shocked expression almost comical. Or it would have been if it hadn’t hurt just a little bit.

  “Sure.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’d be a pleasure.”

  “Oh.”

  He stopped at the sign and turned to catch her watching him.

  After a few seconds of silence, he asked, “Which way?”

  “Oh.” She blinked. “Sorry, left here.”

  He turned and drove on in silence as she guided him down a few more streets.

  “Look, I can’t ask you to walk home from my place. It’s out of the way and—”

  “I’m at the motel in town. ’S it far from that?”

  “About a mile,” she said.

  “That’s fine. I was jogging anyway so it’s actually perfect.”

  “I feel bad, Mr. Blane. You…” She hesitated, and he glanced over at her. “You appear to have a limp.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice as hard and final as he could make it.

  After a turn onto Jason Lane, she spoke again. “The motel. What… I mean…you’re living there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For how long?”

  “Long as it takes you to finish with me.”

  Her mouth opened, and she looked like she’d say something but must have changed her mind; the next few seconds passed in silence.

  “It’s right here,” she said, and he pulled into a driveway on a pleasant dead-end country street. Her house—what he could see of it—was dark.

  “You got no lights on.”

  She turned and looked at the house before answering with a shrug. “I don’t like to waste.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “In Blackwood?” she asked, brows raised.

  “Yeah, Doc,” Clay said, letting the sarcasm seep through and feeling just a little bit bad for it. “D’you already forget what just happened in good old Blackwood?”

  “Oh. That wasn’t… I think I stepped into a domestic violence situation and…” She sighed, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, and went on. “You’re right. I guess I…I just don’t have much to steal.”

  “Steal? You think it’s about stuff? Those little shits tonight, maybe. Maybe they’d go for a purse or the keys to your clinic or something. Maybe meds, you know? But a woman like you, Doc? You’d do well to protect yourself. Not just your stuff. You.”

  He got out of the car, walked around to open her door, and purposefully locked the doors behind her before following her up the dark porch stairs and handing her the keys.

  “Thank you, Mr. Blane. Would you…?” She swung her hand toward the door to her house and looked back. “Would you like to come in, maybe for a coffee or…?”

  Clay hesitated, standing there on the dark front porch of this near-stranger’s house. He wouldn’t mind, actually, going inside and having a cup of something warm. A glance at her face showed nothing but the vague shape of her skull, hollows where her eyes were, a cap of hair gleaming only slightly more than the rest. The night air was hot and loud wi
th celebratory explosions and an underlying buzz he couldn’t seem to identify.

  “Gotta get back,” he lied, because really there wasn’t a damn thing to get back to besides an empty room, a full bottle, and the never-ending story running loops through his brain.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, lifting her hand and letting it settle on his arm, steady and sure in a way it shouldn’t be after that attack.

  “You sure you’ll be okay?” Clay asked, his eyes glued to that hand.

  “Yes. Yes, thanks to you.” She went to open her door, pulling that hand away so nonchalantly she couldn’t possibly have any idea how deeply he’d felt it. That touch—like a goddamned anchor on his body.

  He watched, blinking when she went inside and turned on the light. He then waited until she’d locked the door behind her—one of those old wooden doors with a goddamned glass panel you could see right the hell through, all the way down a hall to what appeared to be the kitchen, which made him even crazier. Finally, he returned to the street, fighting the urge to camp out in the woods across the way and keep an eye on the house, before taking off at a painful run, unexpected reluctance clogging his throat and the ghost of her touch holding him together.

  * * *

  Home. Finally. George dropped her purse and keys into the bowl by the front door and hesitated, a shiver running up her spine. No. No, she would not let those kids make her feel unsafe in her own home. She wouldn’t change a thing. To prove it, she went out back to put the chickens to bed and turn off the water. What she found there brought her up short: a gaping hole at the bottom of her garden gate.

  Throat tight and palms sweaty, she headed straight for the far corner of the yard, where the hens generally congregated, only to find feathers strewn about. But no chickens.

  She’d seen a fox a few days before in the woods across from the house. There were raccoons, too, wily enough to bust through that gate. With a hot rush of fear—not for herself, but for her girls this time—she turned to the henhouse and stuck her head inside.

  Angry clucking greeted George, and she let out her breath on a wave of liquid relief, every joint aching with the suddenness of it. She counted five, six…seven hens. The only notable losses seemed to be a smattering of tail feathers and a good dose of avian pride. The ladies didn’t enjoy being stalked.