Eight Ball patted the girl’s ass. “That’s enough, sugar tits.” When they were alone again in their corner, he turned to Connor. “They’re also wondering if your hot Latin Queen might be in the market for some Russian steel.”
Ah. “I’ll talk to Hooj and Bart. We’ll bring it to her.” Connor could already see the complications in making the routes two-way. Everything got bigger—the payoff, the danger, the risk of exposure, the interest of the players. Connor liked it as it was. They were all making good bank, and things were running smooth as clockwork. It wasn’t his call, though. The Brazen Bulls were friends, and La Zorra was an ally. If they wanted to work out an arrangement, then an arrangement would be worked out. But he had a question: “Did you bring it up with Bart?” Bart was the senior officer here in Vegas.
Eight Ball gestured around the room. Bart was back at the hotel; strip clubs hadn’t been his scene for a long time. “Hard to find him havin’ a quiet moment.”
“Yeah,” Connor chuckled. “Our boy is tied down hard.”
“Looks like you might be, too, brother. I know we don’t see each other much, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn in by yourself before. You’ve been passing on some prime-quality booty.”
“Happens to the best of us.” Connor finished his drink and waved off the eager girl with the replenishing bottle.
Eight Ball watched her go. “And you’re turning in now, ain’t ya? Damn. It’s barely midnight.”
He shrugged and patted his old friend on the shoulder. “Pick up my slack for me, Eight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Pilar was at the station and hopefully sleeping; he knew he couldn’t call her now. But he could call it a night and jack off to the memory of the freaking incendiary sex they’d had the morning he’d last seen her, and that was worlds better than any random hookup, no matter how prime the offerings in Vegas were.
Sweet fuck, that had been intense. He’d never felt anything like it. Their sex was always great, pretty much always the best sex he’d ever had, often the most inventive, too. But that had been…emotional. And not just because she’d ended up crying, something he’d not seen her do before. Hell, he’d almost been brought to tears himself.
He loved the fuck out of that woman—and that scared the fuck out of him. He was lost to her, and if she bailed…
But she wouldn’t. He’d seen that in her eyes the other morning. She was as gone as he was.
And he’d been jacking off to that memory for the past three days.
He was in his room, settling in to do just that when his phone rang—once, then was silent. That got his attention: their code for an emergency was a single ring, then a call back, to let the receiver know to drop everything and answer, even if they were on the road.
He had the buzzer and the tone on; when the second call came in, he picked it up as soon as the phone started to move. “Yeah, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Sherlock. Brother, you gotta get back. Right now.”
He sat up. “What is it? My dad sick?” It was just the flu, just a bad flu. His dad was getting up there, past seventy, but still hearty. He was fit like a man fifteen or twenty years younger.
“I got an alert for the alarm at their house.” Sherlock was patched in to everybody’s home security system. It was all custom shit that went to him, not to any company, and not to emergency services until he pushed it through.
He was up and grabbing his clothes. “Break-in? They okay?”
“Not a break-in. A fire. The whole neighborhood is going up, and the woods behind. Connor, listen. There are casualties. I’m on the scanner. There are dead at the scene. I don’t—fuck, I don’t know more. I don’t know if it’s them. I can’t reach them.”
Dead? His parents? “GET THERE. JESUS FUCK! GET THERE NOW.”
“Lakota and Fargo are on their way. Just get back, Con.”
“Call everybody else. I’m out.” Connor hung up and grabbed his shit. Feeling panic and desperation massing at the base of his skull, he forced his brain into work mode, narrowing his focus on the task at hand: get home. On his way down the hall, be passed Trick’s room. He paused. He needed to get on the road, but he…fuck, he wanted his friend. This was too big to deal with on his own.
Before he could decide to knock or to go, the door to Trick’s room flew open. Trick was there, in open jeans and nothing else. “Con! Jesus. Gimme two minutes, and I’m with you.”
Connor only nodded and stepped out of the way when a half-dressed girl cleared out of his friend’s room.
~oOo~
They were back in Madrone in less than three hours—all the Horde. By the time Connor and Trick were pulling out of the hotel parking lot, Demon, Muse, Ronin, Bart, and J.R, everybody else who’d gone on the run, were running to their bikes, too.
Before they’d crossed into the Madrone city limits, Sherlock had updated Connor, and he knew that his parents had been taken away from the scene injured but alive. They were headed straight for the hospital.
He also knew that Pilar had been called to the fire and was still working it. He didn’t know if it had been her who had saved his parents.
The blaze was still raging. Six homes had been consumed, three of his parents’ neighbors were dead, four others injured, and the crippling drought of the summer and fall had turned the field and woods that abutted the neighborhood into a wildfire.
He spared a slice of his worry for Pilar, hoping she was safe. But she was well-trained and tough as fuck. He had faith in her. He turned all of his attention, all of his worry, all of his fear to his parents.
They met Lakota, Jesse, Diaz, Fargo, and Keanu at the hospital. Faith, Sid, Riley, and Veda, all the old ladies but Diaz’s, were there, too. The Horde family filled the waiting room. Connor didn’t bother to wonder who had the kids—they were probably at Riley’s with the housekeeper or something. He didn’t care.
Faith got to him first. She’d been crying. Oh, fuck, why had she been crying? He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. He didn’t know why he was shaking her, but he couldn’t stop. And then Demon was there, trying to pull him loose. He knocked him away and grabbed Faith harder. “What happened? How are they?”
Demon shoved him back, his face darkening. “Back off, Con. You hurt her and we have another problem.”
“It’s okay, Michael,” Faith said. “I’m okay.” She reached out and grabbed Connor’s hand. “We don’t know much yet. They’re both in surgery, but nobody’s told us much. You need to tell them you’re here. They’ve been asking for next of kin.”
Trick was at his side, his hand hooked over his shoulder. “C’mon, Con. I’m with you.”
Feeling so full of emotion he was numb, he nodded and let Trick push him toward the nurse’s desk. The woman behind the desk looked up and asked if she could help him.
He had no idea. “I’m Connor Elliott. My parents, Hoosier and Bibi—um, I mean, Jerome and Bedelia—Elliott…were in the fire? They’re in surgery? Somebody’s been asking for me?” Everything he said was coming out a question. Nothing felt real enough for certainty. He barely felt like he was even present.
The nurse nodded and picked up a phone. Connor stood there and watched her, not registering what she was saying into the receiver. When she hung up, she gave him the kind of smile you gave someone who was about to get very bad news. “They’re sending someone out.” She gestured at a row of empty seats nearby. “If you want to have a seat?”
He did not want to have a seat, so he paced instead. About five or ten, or a thousand, minutes passed before the steel double doors swung smoothly open, and a woman in full scrubs walked out. She glanced at the desk and then came right to him. “Mr. Elliott?”
“Yeah.” Trick still stood right at his side. He could sense the others approaching, too. And then a small hand slid into his, and he looked down at his other side and saw Faith. “How are my parents?”
“I’m Dr. Sugarman. Why don’t we sit?”
“No. Just talk.”
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Dr. Sugarman looked surprised and intimidated. She nodded. “Okay. I’ve been assisting Dr. Philpott, who is operating on your father. He sent me out to give you a quick update and ask a couple of questions. I have information about your mother, too. I’ll start there. Your mother is stable.” The breath Connor took then felt like the first since Sherlock had called him in Vegas. “She has a badly broken left arm, and she’s in surgery to set it. She has some first- and second-degree burns on the left side of her body, and some mild smoke inhalation effects. But she is stable. Her prognosis is excellent.”
He felt Faith squeeze his hand, and he smiled a little at the doctor. “Thank you. Thank you. And my dad?”
When Dr. Sugarman took a long breath before she answered, Connor’s knees felt weak. It was bad. He knew before the doctor said another word. “Your father experienced severe head trauma, second- and third-degree burns, and his smoke inhalation sickness is much more pronounced than in your mother’s case. Dr. Philpott is working to alleviate the pressure and swelling in his brain. We’re doing everything we can for him. But I’m afraid his condition is grave.” She paused and took another of those ominous breaths. “This is a difficult thing I need to ask you, but your father’s organ donor information isn’t listed. In the event that—”
“Jesus fuck! Shut your bitch mouth!” Connor’s fist was clenched and his arm cocked before he realized it. Trick grabbed it and held on.
“Chill, brother.” Trick turned to the doctor. “I know you gotta ask shit like that, but not now. Do your job and save him.”
Dr. Sugarman nodded, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry. We are doing everything in our power. But think about that question. If I have to ask it again, there won’t be much time for an answer.” She stepped back. “I need to get back. Dr. Harris will be out to speak to you when your mother is in recovery, and Dr. Philpott will come talk to you after your father’s surgery is complete.”
Connor only nodded. The doctor turned and went back through the steel doors.
When Faith pulled on his hand and led him to sit among his family, he went. But he needed Pilar. He needed her, but he couldn’t have her. He couldn’t even call her.
She was being a hero, and he was alone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Moore pulled up at the hospital entrance. “I’ll park and come up, okay?”
Pilar opened the door of his truck. “Yeah. Thanks.” She jumped out and ran inside.
It was a brightly sunny morning. They’d worked past the end of their watch, but they’d finally gotten the fire contained before it had become a full-fledged wildfire. The brush and about a hundred feet into the woods at the back of the neighborhood were charred and dead, and six homes had been completely leveled. Three others were damaged. Four people had died, and five, including Connor’s parents, were injured.
Pilar had seen the path of the fire. Like the one back in August. That one, it had been determined, was arson; the accelerant used had been isopropyl alcohol. She was sure that this fire was the same. It wasn’t her job to be sure, but it was her job that made her sure.
She felt anxious about that, like there was something she should understand, something just beyond her grasp. Something she shied away from grasping.
As she headed toward the bank of elevators across from the hospital gift shop, her phone buzzed. She’d texted Connor twice on his personal but hadn’t heard back. Hoping it was him calling now, she pulled her phone out. But no—it was her grandmother. She’d ignored a couple of calls from her already, so she answered now, pulling to the side of the elevators.
“Hola, Nana.”
“Mija! You always call after a fire. I’ve been so worried!”
“Lo siento, Nana. I didn’t have a chance. Todo bien.” She’d been so worried about Connor that she’d barely given anybody else a spare thought.
Her grandmother sighed into the phone. “Bueno. Any word from Hugo?”
“No, Nana. Not since Sunday. Let him go.”
“Pilar, you know I can’t.”
Thinking about Hugo made her weary. “Well, I have to. Nana, I gotta go. I’ll call later, si?”
“Mija…” She stopped and sighed into the phone. “Si. Please.”
Feeling guilty, Pilar hung up and called the elevator. Moore trotted up just as the doors were closing, so she reached out and stopped them, and he stepped in with her.
“I thought you’d be up there by now.”
“Nana called. I took a sec to talk to her. She hasn’t heard from Hugo. She wants me to care like she does, but I can’t anymore.”
That was an untruth, though. Pilar cared about her brother—she cared deeply. The thing was that she wanted to stop. She wanted to be able to throw up her hands and leave him to the mess of his life. She wanted to stop feeling responsible, to stop feeling culpable, for the choices he made.
Her friend put his arm around her. “Just focus here for now. That’s what you want, right?”
She nodded. The guilt and responsibility she felt for her brother’s downward spiral was infecting every part of her mind and heart. Guilt had racked her head and even her body when she and Moore had handed Connor’s parents off to paramedics and then turned around and kept working. It had been the right thing, the only thing, to do, but she’d thought of Connor alone, finding out how badly his parents were hurt, maybe that his father was dead, and keeping her focus on the fire in front of her had taken all of her will.
Then the elevator doors opened again, and she realized that Connor had not been anything like alone. There were so many people in black leather in the waiting room that they spilled out into the corridor. Men and women, all of them somber.
And none of them Connor.
As Pilar and Moore headed down the corridor, Connor’s friend Trick stepped out of the milling mass and came straight for her, surprising her by sweeping her up into a tight hug. “Hey, Cordero. You okay?” He set her down and turned to Moore, holding out an inked and be-ringed hand. “Hey. I’m Trick.”
They’d been introduced and had even talked on the night of Karaoke Idol, but Trick didn’t seem to recall that. Understandable. “I remember. I’m Kyle.” Kyle grasped Trick’s hand, and they shook.
“Ah. Right. Sorry.”
Kyle waved off Trick’s apology.
“I’m fine, Trick.” Pilar answered the question Trick had asked her. “Where is he?”
“With his mom. Hooj is still in surgery. It’s been, fuck, seven or eight hours, I think.” He looked them both over. “Did you…was it you who…?”
She knew what he was asking. “Yeah. Moore and me both. We’re a team. But I want to talk to Connor before anybody else.”
Trick hugged her again. “Thank you.” He looked at Moore. “Thank you both.”
Moore nodded and asked, “They’re gonna be okay?”
“Bibi is. His mom. Hell, everybody’s mom.” Trick’s eyes filled, and he cleared his throat. “She’s going to be okay. We don’t know about Hooj. Nobody who knows anything has been out in hours, and the one doc who came out then wanted to know about organ donation, so…fuck.”
He dropped his head, and Pilar put her hand out and squeezed his arm. “Where’s Connor?”
“With Beebs. C’mon, I’ll take you back.”
He held out his hand, and she took it and let him lead her down another corridor. He opened the door, but he didn’t follow her in.
It was a ‘semi-private’ room, but the other bed was unoccupied. His mother, Bibi, was sleeping. Her left arm was set from her fingers to a few inches above her elbow. Soft bandages covered the left side of her neck, her left shoulder, and, Pilar knew, the left side of the rest of her body. Some of her hair had been burned away, too. A cannula at her nose was helping her get oxygen.
She seemed comfortable, sleeping deeply. She looked elderly, though. Pilar had only seen her a few times, but she was a youthful, vivacious, beautiful woman who took her appearance seriously. She looked nothing like her sixty-or-so years.
Until now, at least.
At the side nearest the window, Connor sat on a chair next to his mother’s bed. His elbows were on his knees, his head in his hands. He didn’t seem to have noticed that the door had opened.
Pilar paused, her heart thumping in her throat. Connor looked so…lost, so devastated, and she understood that all those people waiting outside didn’t matter. They were family, and they loved him and his parents. No question that they were strong, steady support. But here, in this room, in this moment, in his own head, he was alone.
She walked to his side and laid her hand on his shoulder. He jumped and lifted weary, sad eyes up to her.
“Oh God, baby! Baby!” He turned abruptly and grabbed her, pulling her between his legs, locking his arms around her waist, resting his head on her chest. “I’m so glad you’re here. Oh, God.”
Fire & Dark (The Night Horde SoCal Book 3) Page 23