by Marie James
“What the fuck happened to her?” I ask as I reach them and yank her out of his arms. She doesn’t even groan when I cradle her to my chest.
“Some piece of shit hangaround was in the garage just whaling on her, man,” I growl at him when he reaches over to straighten her shirt. I should kill him for seeing her exposed breast where her shirt is ripped, but my focus is on getting her to safety. Hornet takes a step back, knowing I mean business.
“I got her,” I hiss. I know I should take her inside and get her cleaned up but explaining to the other members why I’m concerned with her isn’t a conversation I have the energy for tonight.
I spread her out on the middle seat of the SUV and strap her in with the two seat belts near the doors before pulling my phone from my pocket. After sending off a quick text, I assess her injuries. Bruises on her ribs are beginning to turn purple, but they don’t look deep enough for internal injuries. I pray that I’m right because I’m not taking her to a fucking hospital. All that would bring are questions I can’t answer and suspicion I don’t deserve.
“Fuck, man.” I don’t lift my eyes from Kaci as Ronan steps in close. “You taking her to the hospital?”
“Did you get what I need?”
He holds out the bag of supplies but doesn’t release it immediately. “I think this is out of your wheelhouse, man.”
“Go back inside,” I grunt. “I’m all she needs.”
Being the smart man that he is, Ronan turns and walks away.
“I’m taking you home, my beautiful broken girl.”
It’s not the first time I’ve called her that but fuck if she doesn’t meet the requirements in the flesh tonight.
***
“Don’t,” I tell Kaci when she grumbles and tries to knock my hand away. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
I hit the vein in the back of her hand on the first try, but I’m not surprised by my success. Knowing which places to cut without hitting something major is a skill I perfected years ago. Sometimes I need to end things quickly, but more often I need to know where not to cut.
“It’s just a banana bag,” I tell her even though she’s fallen still once again. I don’t bother explaining that it’s the same shit you can get in those fucking hipster clinics when you’re feeling a little low on vitamins. She doesn’t seem the type that would care about shit like that since her normal thrill-seeking adventures include getting herself hurt.
Speaking to her calms me, though, and I’m doing my best to forget about that motherfucker back at the clubhouse that hurt her. Taking care of her is my primary focus, but that still doesn’t keep me from wanting to drive back home and dismember that piece of shit limb by limb.
“We use them back at the clubhouse when we need to ride and are too drunk to get on our bikes.”
She doesn’t stir. I hang the bag of fluids on the inside of her lampshade and click it off, so the bulb doesn’t melt the bag. I’m twisted, wondering if I should push painkillers, but at the same time, I want her to feel the pain, so she doesn’t pull shit like this again. I’m a sick fuck, just like that mom on the TV show Molly made me watch years ago. The girl was in labor, and her mother was trying to talk the doctor out of giving her an epidural because feeling the pain was something the mother thought would keep her from getting knocked up again. Back then, I thought the mother was a piece of shit for wanting her daughter to suffer. Tonight, I’m understanding her in a different light.
She doesn’t make a sound, but tears stream down her face when I press sterile gauze dipped in saline solution against her split lip, and it’s all the motivation I need. I pull the vile of morphine out of the kit Ronan brought to me and push two milliliters of morphine into her IV port. Within seconds the tension in her muscles settles.
Going back to the cut on her lip, I realize it looks worse than it actually is and use Steri-strips to close the wound rather than the suture kit I was gearing up to use. There’s nothing I can do about the blood in her hair, but I use a comb I found in her bathroom to get the grass and other debris from her blonde locks.
“Why did you let this happen to you?” I’m not blaming her, but after the way she responded to me last night, I know she had some hand in pushing this guy to violence. Just the thought of doing something to end up like this makes my gut clench. “What happened to you?”
My own fucked up childhood contributes to my fucked-up perversions, so I’m certain she’s had something just as tragic happen to her, and I’m hell bent to find out what it is.
I clean up the packaging and supplies on her bed before curling up beside her. I don’t touch her other than to brush her hair away from her face. I lie and watch her breathe until the vitamin bag is empty. Only then do I climb out of her bed and remove the IV from her hand, making sure to clean the puncture wound before covering it with gauze and tape.
I want to stay with her, to be here when she wakes up, but I know I can’t. The sun is already shining through her only window, a reminder that I have to get back to the clubhouse. After what happened last night, I know church will be called the second Lynch crawls his ass out of bed. I’ll be expected to be there, and since I have no plans of telling them more than I have to about Kaci, my ass better be in my chair the second the meeting is called to order.
I leave her key on the small counter, just like I’ve done the other times I’ve carried her home, and lock her inside. I didn’t bother parking down the road like I normally do, and it’s apparent I’ve pissed someone off by blocking them in. I take the threatening note from under the windshield wiper and toss it to the ground before climbing inside and hauling ass back to the clubhouse.
Chapter 13
Kaci
The pounding on my door matches the pounding in my head, as well as the pain radiating from my ribs and face. That guy last night did a real number on me, and I can’t wait to get a look in the mirror. My eyes slit open but swelling keeps them from opening all the way.
“Kaci, open the door!”
I don’t recognize the female’s voice outside, so I don’t bother getting out of bed. Also, I don’t know if I can walk, and whoever it is isn’t important enough to find out.
The doorknob rattles before the banging commences. I’m surprised the damn thing is even locked. I normally don’t bother to do it when I’m home.
When it doesn’t seem like she’s going to stop, I climb out of bed, groaning because of the pain all over my body and slowly make my way across the small room before ripping open the door.
“What the fu—?”
My words die on my lips when I see the female cop from the other week standing in my doorway. There’s never a good reason for a cop to bang on the door, and even less of a reason for Detective Abigail Martin to be standing in front of me right now.
“Jesus.” She takes in my face before sweeping her eyes down my body. “Who hurt you?”
Her hands tighten into fists as if she’s struggling to keep from reaching out for me. I don’t spend a second analyzing the flash of need to be soothed, and in a fraction of a second, I shove it down and stare back at the cop.
“What do you want?” I’d slam the door in her damn face, but if she’s here to arrest me, I don’t think she’d take that very well. Adding a new charge wouldn’t help me any.
“I tried calling.” I stare at her. “Did you block my number?”
I don’t bother telling her I blocked a number last week. I had no idea it was hers, but the caller never left a message. I figured it was some damn telemarketer that wouldn’t get the message that I wasn’t going to speak with them.
“Why are you calling me?” I’m afraid she’s going to tell me she found the guy who cut those frat boys up. After the dreams I had last night, I’m fairly certain TJ was involved somehow, and the last thing I want is him paying for the trouble I got myself into.
“I wanted to check on you.”
“I haven’t remembered anything else.” Her foot blocks the door when I try to close it.
“I’m not here about the case, Kaci.”
My lips turn down in a frown. The tactic she’s using by saying my name isn’t lost on me either. It makes the conversation more personal, a way to draw in the person you’re speaking with, provides a familiarity that isn’t actually there. It’s politics and interview techniques 101, and I’m not falling for her shit.
“I don’t need you checking up on me.”
“Who hurt you?” I don’t respond, just like the first fucking time she asked. “Does this have something to do with what happened back at that house?”
“Listen, Abigail,” I spit her name out turning the table back on her, “I don’t need you coming here to check on me. I’m fine.”
“You look it.” My swollen eyes turn to slits when she glances over my body. Her head angles toward my right arm. “Did you go to the hospital for these injuries? Report the attack?”
My eyes follow hers, and for the first time, I notice the gauze taped to the back of my hand.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. Why would you think that?” Once again, I don’t respond. “Do I have a reason to arrest you?”
Her foot blocks the door once again, and it takes everything in me to hold back a growl.
“Unblock my number, Kaci.”
“No thanks.”
“Then I guess I’ll need to keep swinging by to check up on you then.”
Her threat is a challenge, and I get the feeling she’ll do exactly what she says she will if I don’t comply.
“Fine,” I huff, but this time when I close the door, she pulls her foot back and lets it shut in her face.
“Be safe,” I hear her say on the other side before she walks away.
One glance in the bathroom mirror is all it takes for me to turn out the light before stripping all the way down. It’s been years since I looked this battered, and as much as I normally revel in my injuries, I can’t stomach the sight of myself today. The memories that guy brought back are enough to suffer through without the visual reminders.
My hypersensitive skin burns with the rush of the water, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I want the pain to go away. It’s too much this time. I took it too far. Either that, or he didn’t take it far enough. Once again, I’m teetering on the edge with no end in sight.
I know TJ brought me home last night, or at least I think he did. His soft voice is like a mist in my head when I close my eyes, but that’s how it usually is. I have no real, clear and cognizant memories of him. All I have to focus on are the ghostlike whispers and the soft brush of his skin on mine. He can’t be real. A real man wouldn’t take care of me. Real men damage everything they touch. Real men torture with words and threats, knowing that the promise of injuries is just as damaging as the blows with their fists. It’s all real men have ever done in my life, so the angel that doctors me and gets me home safe must be a figment of my imagination. It’s the only explanation.
It's this realization that makes the tears form in my eyes and mix with the hot spray of water as it cascades down my battered face. Only in my dreams and fantasies would someone like him exist. I hate that I’ve conjured him in my mind because I don’t deserve the reprieve from the pain he brings when he shows up to nurse me back to health.
With my demons fed, I opt to order delivery rather than using the energy it would require to walk down to Tito’s. When the food arrives, I find out quickly just how damaged my lip is because it’s too painful to chew.
I give up on the food and try to numb out to the TV, but I can’t think of anything other than TJ. Against my better judgment I reach for my phone, and the slip of paper Xena gave me with her number on it. I spend the next hour typing out messages, each one more ridiculous than the next before giving up on the idea altogether.
The TJ from the bar and the man that protects me can’t be the same guy. I’ve somehow managed to transform them into one singular person, but that can’t be right. One I was warned to stay away from, and the other protects me like it’s his job.
Sighing with frustration, I toss my phone to the floor and try to sleep. I’m used to being alone, used to making sure I’m on my own ninety percent of the time, but it’s the last thing I want right now. I want my protector here with his arms around me, or even better I want to feel the tip of TJ’s blade slicing my skin after he makes me come with the tip as he had promised.
A sharp thrill runs through my body, and I recognize it as arousal even though I haven’t been seriously turned on for ages. I felt a hint of it the other night dancing with TJ, but the coke overpowered the ecstasy and just kept me mostly numb. Just the thought of being high and the fun I had dancing at that shitty bar in Worcester makes me crave another night like that, but leaving the house in my condition isn’t going to happen.
Even the shithead guys who want to hurt me don’t want to be seen dancing with or hitting on a girl with cuts and bruises on her face, and the idea of climbing out of bed to find some trouble to get into just exhausts me more. It took all the energy I could manage just to answer the damn door when the delivery guy showed up with my pizza.
Sleep is about the only thing I can handle right now, but the prospect that I may dream of TJ brings a smile to my battered face as I close my eyes.
Chapter 14
TJ
“That was brutal,” Virus mutters as we exit church and head back into the living room.
“I need your help.” I tilt my head in the direction of his and Boston’s office.
He follows me inside, but I’m already changing my mind about asking him for background information on Kaci. I hate people being in my business or giving them anything that can be held against me at a later date. The memory of her face after the beating she took last night forces my mouth to open.
“I want you to find out everything you can on Kaci Stewart.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t move, merely stands beside me as if he’s waiting for more information or has something better to do and plans to work on this later.
“Like now.”
“Okay.” He drops down in his desk chair and stares at me over the top of his laptop. “Got anything to get me started?”
I relay the information I’ve memorized from her driver’s license, along with her phone number.
My eyes narrow when Virus snorts at whatever he’s looking at on his computer screen.
“What?” I spit. I normally fuck with people, and some tease me as well, but there isn’t a damn thing comical about what I’m asking from him right now.
“She just doesn’t seem your type, is all.” He doesn’t lift his eyes from his computer screen as his fingers continue to fly over the keys.
“What the fuck do you know about my type?”
Why wouldn’t a broken girl with a death wish be my type? As far as I can see, we’re as close to The Joker and Harley Quinn as two people can get.
“A little prim and proper is all.”
“What?” Not giving a damn about his personal space, I round the desk and look at his computer. “Take that fucking privacy screen off.”
If it were humanly possible, my jaw would unhinge and hit the floor. The dark screen transforms, and in front of me are dozens of pictures of a girl I hardly recognize. Gone are the low-cut tops and skirts that barely cover her ass. The girl smiling back at me from the screen is jubilant and wearing pastels and fucking cardigans for Christ’s sake.
Oddly, seeing her this way still makes my dick twitch in my jeans as fantasies of her in knee-high socks, plaid skirts, and pigtails infiltrate my brain. She’s a knock-out in her private school getup.
I cough, clearing my mind of Britney Spears and all things resembling Oops, I did it again. I’ll save that shit for later, right after kicking my own ass for not googling her earlier. I don’t focus on my regret of refusing to be concerned about her past right now.
“Who the fuck is that?” Pointing at the screen, I wait for Virus to click on the image.
/> “Her parents. Former mayor of Newbury, Royce Stewart and wife Victoria.”
“I can find all of this shit myself,” I mutter. “Dig deeper.”
Walking across the room, I fall into Boston’s office chair and let Virus get to work.
Of course she’s from a political family. Why would she make this any easier for me? Disappointment settles in my gut at the realization that she’s just another girl with daddy issues. Granted, she’s destroying her life to get her family’s attention, but a spoiled brat seeking validation from her most likely neglectful parents does nothing for me.
“Holy shit,” Virus hisses.
He has my attention, but my discontent keeps me rooted in the chair. “What?”
“Her baby brother died when she was a teenager.”
“That sucks.” And it does, but we all suffer loss along the way. It still doesn’t explain her self-destructive behavior.
“She was the one watching him when it happened.” I continue to watch his lowered head, but he doesn’t look up from his computer. “Reports claim she valiantly tried to resuscitate him and failed.”
“What happened?” I ask because it feels like the thing to say.
Maybe we have more in common than I thought; both losing someone we loved right in front of our faces. I don’t wish her heartache, but my need to have some connection to this woman increases if she suffered the way I did watching my own mother die because of me.
“Choked on some toy.” His fingers continue to click for a long moment before he speaks again. “Her father was already running for office, but he switched campaign strategies from industrial revitalization to child safety and education. It propelled him into the spotlight, and he was elected mayor by a huge margin.”
“Did she give him the toy?”
His eyes snap up to mine. “Why does that even matter?”
I glare at him until his eyes narrow and refocus on his computer.
“It says a friend of the family gave the toy, but it doesn’t go into further detail.”