Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  I followed him. “Okay, so maybe you trust me. But clearly you underestimate me.”

  He shook his head faster, his glare darting to the door and then to me. “Simone, this is not one of our adventures from when we were kids. This is not finding Blithe Tanner’s cat. These men are murderers, drug dealers, thieves.”

  “I know.” Boy oh boy, did I know. I didn’t want to be here anymore than he did. I was frightened. Yet allowing Roscoe to be taken on his own hadn’t been an option. “I can handle myself, and I can provide backup for you, if you need it.”

  Roscoe gripped my shoulders. “Nothing can happen to you, do you understand?” His words were emphatic, his gaze disoriented, desolate, frantic. “If anything happens to you, I’ll . . .” He swallowed, apparently unable to finish the sentence.

  My heart twisted to see him like this. I wished there were some way to show him what I could do, what I was capable of, so he would stop seeing me as a liability.

  Well, why can’t you?

  “Huh.”

  Now there was a thought.

  Stepping out of his grip, I walked backward to the other side of the room and took a deep breath. “Okay. Come at me.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I want you to come at me.”

  “Simone,” he seethed.

  “Come at me, bro.” I did that little movement with my fingers, my palm turned upwards. “Come at me or I’ll start singing again.”

  “I’m not doing this.”

  “Fine.” Frustrating. “I’ll come at you.”

  He stood there, features set, looking raw.

  Moving quickly forward, staying light on my feet, I faked right and then went left, hooking him behind the back of his leg, catching his arm to twist behind his back, and sending him to the ground—face-first—with a thud.

  I winced as he grunted, my knee at the base of his spine, his arm restrained behind his back. “Sorry! But you wouldn’t listen to me.” Leaning forward, I whispered in his ear, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  Roscoe’s back and shoulders rose and fell with an expansive breath, like he was about to respond, but in the next moment he’d spun his legs to the right, leveraged my knee on his back to throw me off-balance, and slipped his wrist from my hold.

  In my defense, my grip had been lax as I was purposefully trying not to injure him.

  The next thing I knew, Roscoe had me pinned to the ground, air knocked out of me, him hovering above, and my gun digging into my ribs beneath my shirt. He’d been careful to subdue my legs, likely so he wouldn’t end up with a bruised ballsack.

  His stare more probing than angry—which I took as a good sign—he said, “I didn’t teach you that. Where’d you learn that?”

  Even though I was still coughing, I smiled and rasped, “Since college, take judo.”

  He nodded faintly, his eyes moving between mine, looking concerned. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Endeavoring to catch my breath, I said, “I took it easy on you because I didn’t want to hurt you either, but I’m an asset, not a liability.”

  “You’re definitely an asset.” Roscoe frowned, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “And a distraction,” he said, his voice rough.

  “I’m a distraction?” I asked, my words still breathy.

  I bucked, but he held me fast.

  “Yes. . .” His stare turned inward. “You are most definitely a distraction.”

  Even though I’d had plenty of time to recover and we’d been holding still for close to a minute, I was still breathing hard. This might have been because of my lingering irritation. Or, maybe it was because the length of Roscoe’s lean body was lying on mine. He held my hands on either side of my head, our faces even, his mouth just inches away.

  Was it insane that I hoped he kissed me?

  Yes?

  No?

  Let’s go with no.

  He gave me his eyes again and I saw something there, a battle. He looked undecided, at war with himself, straining against something I couldn’t see.

  “Roscoe?” I whispered.

  Roscoe closed his eyes, and I thought he was going to let me go, but in the next second his lips descended, capturing my mouth in a tender kiss.

  I moaned.

  I kissed him back.

  That’s what one does when Roscoe Winston kisses one. Moan and kiss. Repeat. Because not doing so would be a travesty.

  His hold on my hands slacked, his fingers seeking and threading with mine. He settled his hips between my legs, his form relaxing. The weight of him was different now, warmer somehow. At least I felt warm. I also felt cherished as his tongue sought mine, again tenderly, stroking, causing my abdomen to twist and tighten into delicious knots.

  He broke the kiss and a protest died on my lips as his mouth trailed down my jaw to the sensitive skin of my neck, sucking, licking, savoring me. What had felt warm and cherishing heated, and my hips tilted reflexively as he nibbled on my ear, cradling his rapidly growing erection.

  We both gasped as his hips rocked in an answering yet inelegant movement. It felt perfect and essential in the moment.

  “Oh God.” His hot breath spilled against my jaw, a ragged sigh. “What are we doing?”

  “I don’t know, but don’t stop.”

  I tilted my hips again because I needed to, because I needed him hard for me. I needed his heat and touch and taste. My body demanded it, a rising frenzy that felt like silk and sandpaper beneath my skin. I craved, yearned, wanted him, the feel of him, in a way I’d never experienced with anyone else.

  I didn’t know what this was, but it was all-consuming, a special kind of madness, an abandonment of logic and reason, a possession of my mind by my body.

  His mouth continued devouring the ticklish places on my neck as his hips rocked again, a rhythmic rubbing this time, up and down, up and down, and I moaned in response because it felt so right, he felt so good, and I wanted . . . I wanted . . .

  “Please.” My breath hitched, and I tugged against where he held my hands captive, needing the movements of his body beneath my palms and fingers, his bare skin.

  That’s when I heard a noise like distant approaching footsteps. At first I considered ignoring the sound. I’d noticed footsteps approach and walk past the door twice since we’d been locked in this room. So why would I stop this epically awesome moment if I didn’t have to?

  But then I stiffened, straining my ears. The approaching footsteps hadn’t walked past. Roscoe must’ve sensed a change in me, because he abruptly ceased loving my neck and moving his body, lifting just his head to peer at me.

  “Are you okay? Did I do something—”

  “There’s someone outside the door,” I mouthed, knowing the wideness of my eyes would communicate my alarm.

  The sound of the first lock turning was like a cannon blast. Roscoe flinched, immediately pushing up and off of me, standing lightening fast. He reached a hand down to help me, but I was already on my feet.

  He stood in front of me just as the second lock turned, his hand on my thigh as though to keep me in place. I didn’t fight him on this for a few reasons, but mostly because the element of surprise was my favorite, even if it wasn’t on the periodic table.

  My second favorite was potassium, mostly because of its freak show reaction to water.

  But I digress.

  The handle turned, the door opened, and Isaac Sylvester was revealed. He stepped to the right, toward the folding chairs. I exhaled a relieved breath, hopeful he was here to give us a heads-up about what to expect, or help us escape, or—

  Or, maybe not.

  Darrell Winston appeared in the doorway, and I frowned at the sight of him, confounded. I’d only heard one set of steps. At least, I thought I’d only heard one set, but now I couldn’t be sure. Having a Roscoe Winston on oneself—kissing and loving and doing delicious things—made a difference in attention to details.

  Strolling through the door, a pleased-looking smirk on his fa
ce, Darrell seemed to be holding Roscoe’s gaze.

  “Son,” he said, a smile in his voice, a knowing smile.

  That gave me pause. How could Darrell have known what we were doing? The first thing I’d done upon entering the room was check for cameras and microphones. There were none that I could find.

  My attention shifted to the doorway. A Wraith I didn’t recognize stood with his arms crossed, staring forward, looking aggressive. . . ly constipated. When the man continued to just stand there, Isaac moved around the room, setting up the folding chairs.

  “What do you want?” Roscoe asked, getting to the point.

  I placed my hands on his waist and tucked myself more fully to the length of him, silently communicating that I had his back. His hand on my thigh gave a small squeeze.

  “To chat. Sit.” Darrell gestured to one of the folding chairs Isaac had just placed near where the footstool had been (before Roscoe kicked it).

  “We can listen just fine from here.” Roscoe’s tone was flat, indolent, and he shifted his weight, bracing his feet apart like he planned to remain standing. This was a smart move. We were more vulnerable if we sat, and it would be easier to divide us. Whereas standing together like we were, our—defensive and offensive—position was much better.

  Darrell did a thing with his mouth, a half-smile, half-considering pursing of his lips that reminded me of Billy Winston and the way he’d look at his brothers. Actually, everything about Darrell’s expression in that moment, everything about him other than his clothes, looked so much like Billy. I stared in astonishment. He could have been the second oldest Winston’s brother rather than his father.

  “Fine. Stand,” Darrell finally said, taking a seat for himself. He turned just slightly over his shoulder, giving Isaac and the constipated Wraith his profile. “Leave us,” he ordered.

  They did. Not ten seconds later, Roscoe and I were left alone with Winston. I couldn’t believe it. The bureau had been trying to get their hands on this guy for over two years, and here he was. With me.

  I needed to make the most of this. But I had to do so without arousing suspicion from Roscoe or his father.

  Presently, the two men seemed to be sizing each other up. I couldn’t see Roscoe’s expression, but I imagined his was more of a glare than a stare. Meanwhile, Winston’s was a cross between calculating and hopeful.

  “What do you want?” Roscoe was the one to break the silence, his words exasperated.

  Winston considered his son for another few seconds, then asked softly, “How have you been?”

  Roscoe shook his head. “Nope. We’re not doing this.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Pretending to play catch-up, pretending like you care two shits about me.” More exasperation, but also some antagonism, too.

  “Now Roscoe—”

  “What do you want?” It sounded like Roscoe had said these words through clenched teeth, a little louder, a whole lot angrier.

  Now, I decided, was as good a time as any for me to intervene.

  So, on a hunch, I peeked further around Roscoe’s shoulder and asked quietly, “How are you, Mr. Winston?”

  His gaze flickered to mine, and the persistent, charming grin he’d been wearing since entering waned. His gaze sobered. He swallowed.

  “You always were perceptive, Miss Simone.” The smile he wore now looked weary. “Smart girl.”

  I didn’t cringe at the Miss Simone, even though I’d always hated it growing up. Though, I imagined, I would’ve hated anything Mr. Winston called me. He was a bad man, and I didn’t need to be smart or perceptive to know that. All I had to do was look at the bruises on Bethany Winston’s face.

  The older man sighed, his eyes lowering to where one of his legs was bent at the knee and crossed over the other. “The truth is, Miss Simone, I’m dying.”

  Winston held my gaze for a long moment. He glanced up at his son. He waited.

  Dying?

  Roscoe’s breathing changed, came faster. He was struggling with this news.

  “What?” he finally asked, the single word clipped, impatient. “What do you mean you’re dying? What are you—”

  “I have cancer. Cancer in my blood.”

  Roscoe straightened, then seemed to rock back just slightly on his heels, as though he were absorbing this news.

  Winston inhaled a large breath, uncrossed his legs, and leaned his elbows on his knees. His hands were folded together in a way that reminded me of how religious folks prayed.

  “It runs in the family, on my side, in case you didn’t know. My daddy died from it real young. I need your help,” he said, his voice raw. “Son, if you don’t help me, I’m going to die.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You can accept or reject the way you are treated by other people, but until you heal the wounds of your past, you will continue to bleed.”

  Iyanla Vanzant, Yesterday, I Cried

  *Simone*

  Roscoe didn’t speak. He didn’t move. I knew him well enough to know he was overwhelmed, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

  The older man leaned back in his chair, watching Roscoe intently. He fidgeted, scratching his jaw, his arm, twisting his fingers, his eyes growing dark, hooded with what looked like misgiving. The longer Roscoe said nothing, the more sour and impatient Darrell’s mood turned.

  “Did you hear me?” Winston stood, his shouted question tight, laden with emotion. “I’m dying and you have nothing to say?”

  My quick assessment of the situation was as follows: Roscoe was in shock, overwhelmed, unable to answer. Winston wouldn’t care or understand this about his son. But based on the wild look in the older man’s eyes, if someone didn’t show some empathy or interest—and soon—the situation was likely to get ugly.

  “He’s in shock, Mr. Winston.” I stepped around Roscoe with the intent of standing between the two men. Roscoe caught my hand, preventing me from moving forward.

  Winston shifted his glare from me to Roscoe and must’ve seen the truth in my words because his features relaxed.

  He breathed out. “Yes, I see. Of course he is.” To me he gave a tight smile. “Worried about his daddy.”

  Yeah, no. Not so much.

  “How long do you have?” I asked, lacing my fingers with Roscoe’s and giving them a squeeze.

  “If I don’t get a marrow transplant, not long. A year, maybe two.” Winston’s gaze slid back to Roscoe’s. “And that’s why I needed to speak with you, son.”

  I glanced at Roscoe. He looked pained, as though he were suffering from persistent heartburn.

  “You want him to get tested?” I guessed. “See if he’s HLA compatible?”

  “HLA?” Winston looked confused.

  “See if his marrow can help you?” I simplified.

  “Oh no, he don’t need to be tested. Doctor told me he’s already been tested, all the kids were, by some miracle. Roscoe here is a match. Him and Billy both are. But ain’t no way Billy gonna help.” Roscoe’s father shrugged, giving me a look as though to commiserate. “That one would dig my grave sooner than lift a finger to help me.”

  There was no arguing with that. Billy Winston would not just dig his father’s grave, he’d push the man into it with relish (and I don’t mean the pickled kind).

  I leaned closer to Roscoe and held his hand with both of my own. “If or when Roscoe helps, how and where? Because if you’re asking him to go to some shady backroom doctor, then that’s not going to work. The procedure is incredibly dangerous as it is.”

  Roscoe released an odd-sounding breath, like he couldn’t believe I’d asked the question. I ignored him. Even though we’d been making out hot and heavy on the floor moments prior, and I wanted to be making out hot and heavy with him elsewhere ASAP, I still had a job to do.

  This situation had landed in my lap, and I was going to make the most of it.

  “No, no. No backroom doctor. I got a real good doctor, a team who does work in blood cancers and they think mine is interesti
ng. They’re ready to help at a big-name hospital in Texas. MD Anderson or something like that.”

  “I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer here”—I tried to keep my tone gentle, not wanting to aggravate an already tense situation—“but how are you going to get treatment without attracting the attention of law enforcement? No offense meant, but won’t you be arrested? And Roscoe will be arrested for aiding you.”

  He sighed, seemed to ponder my question, or maybe how best to answer. After a time, he glanced behind him to the door and took a half step forward, leaning in close.

  “I have a plan for that.” His voice was barely over a whisper.

  “How to evade law enforcement?” I whispered in return.

  He shook his head. “No. I have- I have it worked out. I’ll be turning myself in.”

  “Bullshit.” Roscoe finally spoke. “You would never do that.”

  “I would, if you help me.”

  “That’s a lie.” Roscoe shook his head firmly. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would if I knew I wouldn’t be locked up for long and if I had a plan to get out,” he said defensively, his eyes narrowing.

  “Your plan is to escape?” I asked, trying to parse through the tangle of his words. “After the treatment? When you’re well again?”

  “There’s other ways to get a get-out-of-jail-free card that don’t include escaping, Miss Simone.”

  Other ways to get a get-out-of-jail-free card . . . Escape he’d already dismissed. A not guilty verdict wasn’t going to happen; Darrell had jumped parole; there’d be no trial or verdict.

  Which left what? A pardon? A deal?

  A hunch, a strong one, had me studying Winston anew.

  Winston’s eyes grew shifty as I examined him, insomuch as they likely ever grew shifty, and he scratched his neck, glancing behind him at the door again. I grappled with what I was seeing. Darrell Winston nervous? Afraid? Since when?

  Based on our intel and my own understanding of the Iron Wraiths dynamics, the only person that Winston had ever shown any deference to or fear of was Razor Dennings, president of the Iron Wraiths. That was because Razor was one seriously bad dude. It was also because Razor controlled his cash flow and ultimately decided Winston’s fate within the organization, just as he decided everyone’s fate.