“As you can see, she has a few issues, but yeah, for the most part she’s better. Thanks for helping her. Let me get her to the car and then I’ll be back to finish my shift.”
Chris turned to go but Bishop couldn’t watch her simply disappear from his life. “Why did you bring her here?”
Chris looked over his shoulder. “Because I had to.”
Then he turned and a moment later was lost in the crowd. Bishop hated the urge to run after them. The girl was bad news, plain and simple, and he had eliminated bad news from his life long ago. As he made his way back to Groto’s side, the starting bell rang. The boss man kept his attention on the fight below. As usual, the fight was a give-and-take attempt at domination. Iron Fist had a schedule while trying to keep Blackout in check.
“We’re getting ready to hit our ninety-second mark.”
Bishop crossed his arms over his chest and tried to concentrate on the fight, but his mind kept wandering back to the girl.
“What did you do with her?”
The question jolted Bishop and he tensed. “She left.”
Groto didn’t reply as they both watched the fight. As planned, Iron Fist took a hard right hook and down he went. Blackout seized the opportunity and jumped on top of him. The crowd roared as the newcomer began punching the downed champion. There was a moment’s hesitation as Blackout looked up at Groto, but Groto didn’t give the signal to save his fighter, and with the lack of interference, Blackout resumed. He struck over and over, until the body under him lay unmoving. The bell rang, and Blackout got off his opponent, but Iron Fist was still. The crowd waited with bated breath as the referee kneeled beside the bloody mass. It was clear Iron Fist’s chest no longer raised. When the ref motioned for the medics, gasps and cries rang out among the spectators. Groto stood, and although Bishop knew the boss man was pleased, he didn’t let his face reveal his satisfaction.
“Make sure Iron Fist has a burial,” Groto said. “I did promise him he’d have one if he died in the ring. Oh, and tomorrow, bring the girl back to me.”
The last order shocked Bishop so much that he stumbled slightly. Groto’s eyebrows shot up and Bishop realized his mistake. He’d learned long ago never to allude to any type of weakness to the powerful man.
“Yes, sir,” he murmured.
He’d obey the order but he’d be damned if he liked it.
Chapter Five
“Not what you expected?”
Eva-Ann shook her head, speechless. She had expected Byron City to be a little more refined because the population had doubled almost overnight since the first discovery of silver last year, but all she saw were crudely erected buildings and even a few tents.
“We’re building as fast as we can but it’s a little slow since we have to ship everything by train and then haul it here by wagon,” John explained. “We should have mail service up and running in the next month.”
Men seemed to stop and stare at them as John maneuvered the wagon down the dry dirt road, and she shifted uncomfortably on the hard plank-board seat.
“Forgive them,” John murmured. “There ain’t a lot of women here, and definitely none as pretty as you.”
Stunned, she looked up at him and saw a reddish hue highlight the top part of his cheeks.
“That’s very kind of you to say,” she said. She reached out to touch his arm but at the last minute, she pulled back as the constraints of decorum dictated. John was a stranger and had her father been a little less engulfed in his excitement at working a claim, he might not have let them ride together. But the lure of riches had always turned her father’s head and she knew from experience he probably didn’t even remember he had a daughter.
“I reckon a bevy of men are gonna come wanting to spend some time with you.”
Eva-Ann shook her head. “I’m not interested in a bevy of men or their thoughts of courting me. I’ll need to make some money while we’re here, so if you hear of anyone needing mending done or clothes washing, send them my way.”
“You’ll make a fortune here with that business.”
“I certainly hope so. Father tends to drink his pay away.”
John grimaced. “Which claim is he hired on at?”
“One called the Recovery,” she said. “Father knows one of the men, George, who knows the claim renter, Monty Finleigh.”
“I see.”
Something in the tone of his voice caused her to take pause. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. If you know Monty Finleigh then I guess it’s all right.”
“Well, I don’t know him. I don’t even think father knows him. Like I said, a friend of a friend. Why?”
John shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Since you did there’s no putting the worm back in the can.”
“My gut feeling is that Monty isn’t a swell guy. I treated his horse when he got to town and I say any man who whips his animal like that isn’t worth a whole hill of beans, if you know what I mean.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Father was so happy when he got reacquainted with George. He hasn’t worked in a while because, well, truthfully, not many people want a drunken powder monkey in charge of their explosives. I’ll have to keep my eye on Mr. Finleigh.”
John was silent as he maneuvered the wagon through the narrow street of Byron City, past all the hastily thrown together crude buildings, and up a hill where the hustle and bustle of mining men scurried around the different claims. Calls rang out before the sound of detonation, but Eva-Ann didn’t flinch. She was used to the loud bangs as men scrambled to dig out rubble on their hunt for gold and silver.
Situated a little ways from the others, butting up against an unnatural cropping of boulders, was a dug-out entrance to a rather unremarkable mine entrance.
“That’s the Recovery,” John said.
“We’re a little farther than everyone else,” she observed.
“Yeah. Truthfully, it was the last one to be assessed and I know it was a quick drill into the bedrock, so I can’t even tell you if the ore that came out was top grade.”
“So just cross my fingers and hope for the best?”
“If you’re a praying kind of girl, then it wouldn’t hurt.”
Their gazes met and held. He leaned into her a little and she thought he was getting ready to kiss her. Instead, he blinked a few times and straightened up. “You keep an eye on your pa and I’ll keep an eye out on Monty.”
“You think he’s that dangerous?”
“I think he’s going to take one look at you and want something more than the silver or gold in that mine.”
“Why do you think that?” she asked.
“Because I already do.”
****
The first thing she heard was the drip-drip of her bathroom faucet as she slowly came awake. Faint pain shot through her head as she rolled onto her back, not enough to be labeled a headache but enough to reach for the ibuprofen she had by her bed. With a wince, she dragged herself into a sitting position and reached for the half-empty bottle of water she always had on her nightstand. Several prescription vials rattled as she reached for the pain medicine, all ones she didn’t want to take because they were designed to keep her happy and non-emotional. The doctors had said she was experiencing post-traumatic stress and anxiety, and their solution was to prescribe a bunch of pills, regardless of the fact that she didn’t want to take them. So they sat on her nightstand, collecting dust.
After rising, she headed into the bathroom to pee, followed by a long, hot shower. As she stood under the near blistering spray, she began to remember the night before. John. He’d been real, flesh and bone beneath her touch, and for a moment she saw the recognition in his blue eyes. It wasn’t something she’d made up. He had known her! Her mission clear, she had to get him to acknowledge that spark again.
For the first time since she’d woken up from the coma, she didn’t want to go back to sleep. Finishing up her shower, she dried and dressed qui
ckly, and then headed downstairs. Her brother sat at the kitchen table and stared at her in dumbfounded surprise.
“Any breakfast?” she asked, ignoring his shocked expression.
“What are you doing up?”
“You bug me incessantly every morning to get up and when I do you’re questioning why?”
He glanced quickly at the clock. “Yeah, because it’s before two in the afternoon.”
She snatched some of the buttered toast off his plate and took a bite. “I want to find Joh—er, Bishop.”
“Bishop … Kain?”
She nodded. “How do I find him?”
“Why do you want to find him?”
“Because he helped me last night,” she said, taking another bite and talking around the food in her mouth. “No biggie.”
“Uh, yeah, it kinda is because he’s Sherman Groto’s right-hand man.”
“I know,” she said. “I met him last night. You were right, he’s not a nice man. It was his eyes. Soulless, I tell you.”
Chris shook his head and rested his forehead in his palms. “Let me get this straight. After I tell you to lay low, you proceed to somehow gain an audience with Sherman Groto before almost throwing up on the man.”
“Yeah, pretty much. But I don’t want to see him. I want to see Bishop.”
Chris blinked. “Why?”
Evie didn’t answer, just nibbled on the piece of toast until it was gone. Chris folded his arms across his chest, leaned back in his chair, and waited. She realized he wasn’t going to let it go.
“Promise you won’t yell at me or say you’re going to throw me in the nut house?”
He frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“’Cause you already have. I don’t need to be yelled at and I don’t need to be admitted for being insane.”
“It’s not about you being insane, Evie, it’s about you being depressed—”
“I’m not depressed! Look, this isn’t going to work if you don’t believe me.”
They stared at one another, and she refused to be the first one to look away. Finally, he conceded, giving a slight nod.
“All right,” he said evenly. “I’m willing to hear what you have to say and to keep an open mind.”
“Remember when I told you about that other life?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Bishop was there, in that world. He was named John, and … I was in love with him.”
Evie saw the disbelief on his face and braced herself for his judgment but instead, he just as he was about to say something, he stopped and closed his mouth. He took a deep breath.
“I’m not sure what to say,” he admitted.
“I don’t need you to say anything,” she told him, letting go of the stress that had built for the confrontation she had expected. “He doesn’t really remember me, at least not on a conscious level. I want to talk to him, however, because there was something, some little spark that broke through and if I pursue it, then I think he’ll remember.”
“Remember this past life you shared?”
“Yeah. Or at least recover the memories of me.”
Chris rose from the table and headed over to the junk drawer, opening it and pulling out a pen and the pad of paper usually used for the grocery list. He sat back down and looked at her.
“Tell me all of what you remember.”
She cocked her head. “Why?”
“Because I want to look it up. If I can prove that this town doesn’t exist, that these people never lived, then you go back to therapy and tell the therapist everything. Deal?”
“What?” She shook her head. “Hell no. I thought you said you’d keep an open mind!”
“I am,” Chris shot back, holding up the pen and paper. “I’m willing to spend my day off researching your fantasy world, Evie, but I want your concession that if I find nothing then you go back to therapy.”
“And what happens when you realize I’m telling the truth?”
“Then I won’t mention therapy again.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And you won’t snoop in my room and throw away my sleeping pills?”
He immediately shook his head. “No way. I won’t have you overdosing.”
“I’m not going to overdose,” she snapped.
“So said every person who did overdose.”
She thought quickly. “I’ll scale back.”
“You stop.”
“I can’t stop cold turkey. You know that.”
He sighed. “Very well. Scale back until you quit them.”
If she had Bishop in this world, she didn’t need him in a dream world. The agreement was easy to make. “Deal.”
He laid the pad of paper down and poised the pen over it, looking at her expectantly. “All right. Tell me everything.”
Chapter Six
Bishop stared at the nondescript house nestled among an overgrowth of bushes and weeds. Grime-encrusted windows peeked from between metal awnings which had long ago faded from the harsh sun beating down. Several ceramic roof tiles had broken from the rest of the pack and lay in cracked pieces on the ground. The dilapidated mess passing for a house reminded him too much of his own past, and it pissed him off, which only added to the annoyance coursing through his body.
As he approached the front door, a scorpion darted across the chipped sidewalk slab and he stepped on it, squishing it into the unyielding concrete. The damn things were annoying as hell, especially their stingers. He guessed it had been a while since Evelyn and her brother had exterminated the property.
He knocked on the door and waited. He thought he heard something but when no one answered the door, he knocked again. Harder, this time, and a moment later, the door flew wide. Evelyn blinked up at him, squinting against the sunlight. She wore shorts and a t-shirt and through the thin material he noted that she lacked a bra. His dick stirred in interest. She was rail thin with a haunted look in her eyes, not really his type at all, but damned if there wasn’t something that drew him closer.
“John?”
The name irritated him. “Bishop. Try to get your men straight.”
A blush dusted across her cheeks. “Bishop. Sorry. You look like him. You must be him.”
He held up a hand. “No crazy, please. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not crazy,” she said softly.
“Bat-shit certifiable, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve been told to bring you, so come on.”
“Bring me where?”
“Boss man.”
“You mean Mr. Groto?”
“Only one boss man, and when he says jump I ask how high.”
She frowned, and he fought the urge to soothe the wrinkle between her eyes.
“He told you to bring me to him?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Not really, but it’s okay. Why does he want to see me?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Because you work for him.”
“Listen, I’ve worked for Mr. Groto for twelve years, and I haven’t gotten this far by questioning his orders. Now, do you want to be wearing that when you see him?”
She looked down at herself. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“I can see your tits through the material.”
She frowned. “No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can. Your nipples are poking through. Go in there and put a bra on. Maybe wear a sweater.”
“A sweater? It’s July. In Las Vegas.”
“And I’m sure you don’t want a man like Sherman Groto lusting after you.”
“Lusting? He just met me.”
“Honey, you have a lot to learn about men,” he said dryly. He shooed her back. “Now go on, change your clothes.”
Exasperation crossed her face and he had to hold back a smile. She was too cute when she pouted.
As she stomped back into the house, he stepped inside. Surprisingly, the inside didn’t match the outside. Everything seemed clean, and a le
mony fresh scent filled the air. Although all the furniture was well worn, with corners on the couch and chairs threadbare, it was inviting and filled with warmth. Several pictures hung on the wall, and he stepped closer to investigate, smiling at the gap-toothed school portrait of Evelyn. She probably was no more than ten, but he was happy to see that the freckles across the bridge of her nose hadn’t disappeared. There was also one in a graduation cap and gown, a huge smile dominating her face. It made him want to smile back and stare at her all day.
A sound in the hallway had him jerking away from the photo. He turned to inspect her from head to toe, making sure she wasn’t as sexy as she had been just a few minutes ago. Although she had not donned a sweater, she at least put on a t-shirt that had a round collar and not a v-neck. And her boobs were securely held in place. Overall, if she had to see Groto, she at least hadn’t dressed up for the occasion.
“So tell me,” she said, leaning against the door frame. “When did you become a yes man?”
“Excuse me?”
“You were never the type of man who obeyed the whim of others,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest. “You pushed back. You stood your ground.”
For the first time in his life, words escaped him. Once upon a time, he’d been the type of man she described, a teenager with a mile-wide chip on his shoulder. Fighting on the streets just to make enough to survive, but that strive and determination had shifted once Mr. Groto had offered him a lifeline.
“Come on,” he said, turning toward the door and ignoring her question. “Let’s go.”
“Not going to answer my question?”
“If I do, will you tell me why you’re addicted to sleeping pills?”
They stared at one another in a battle of wills. After a minute or two, she broke eye contact, conceding. “Let me write a note to my brother.”
She dashed into the kitchen and he heard some scrambling around for a moment before she hurried back out.
“Where is your brother?” he asked. “Working?”
“No, he went researching.”
They exited the house and she locked the door behind them.
Recover Me Page 4