Off Chance os-5

by Sawyer Bennett

  Everyone goes still—one of the guys who is whaling on me has his arm cocked back, ready to throw another punch. But I don’t have time to worry about that… my gaze goes to Rowan.

  She staring back at me with a look that is so intense with worry, I can feel it down into the marrow of my bones. Juice, on the other hand, is gritting his teeth together, a vein in his temple throbbing in anger.

  “Now, let Rowan go.”

  Juice doesn’t comply at first and George takes the shotgun that he has pressed up against the back of Juice’s skull and nudges him hard. Juice slowly unwinds his arms from around Rowan’s waist and she shoots out of his grip, running to my side.

  The two goons immediately back away, their arms out slightly to the sides. I watch warily as Rowan crouches beside me, her face awash with fear. Her hand comes up and she grazes her thumb softly against my jaw, possibly the only place I had not been hit.

  “Rowan... you and your fella get over here behind me,” George says.

  Rowan stands up and tries to pull me to my feet. My ribs scream in agony as I stand but it doesn’t stop me from putting my arm around Rowan’s waist and leading her to George.

  Giving another hard shove with his shotgun, George pushes Juice toward his cronies. He turns to look at George and murder is reflected in his eyes.

  “You just fucked up, old man,” Juice sneers. “Nobody crosses me.”

  George only laughs at Juice. “You think a two-bit punk who walks around with thugs because he’s too scared to take on someone himself bothers me? You’re pathetic and I suggest you get out of here because my trigger finger is getting a little twitchy.”

  Juice doesn’t make a move to leave and neither do his goons. I suspect they have guns on them and they’re figuring out how to get the drop on George. I instinctively push Rowan behind me, anticipating an unloading of bullets in the near future.

  George calmly keeps the shotgun trained on Juice and reaches into his pocket with his other hand. Pulling out his cell phone, he hands it to Rowan.

  “Call the cops, honey. Tell them we have some trash to pick up.”

  Rowan grabs the phone and I can see the look in her eyes is conflicted. She’s afraid of this situation but she’s afraid of the cops as well. However, before she can make the choice whether to dial or not, Juice lowers his hands down and turns toward his car. He never says a word, but shoots a last, lingering look to Rowan before he gets in, his cronies following.

  We all three watch in silence, tense and ready for something to happen, until the car pulls away from the curb and it disappears from sight.

  Satisfied that I’m safe for the moment because George is still holding his shotgun, I hobble over to the steps in front of his bar and sit down with a grunt. Holding my hand against my ribs, I find that helps the pain diminish from a ten to a nine.

  “Call the cops, Rowan,” George says.

  “No.” She hands the phone back to him. “They’re gone. And we need to get going.”

  Her face is panicked and, given her aversion to cops, I’m not surprised she wants to get gone. I force myself to stand, grunting with the exertion. Holding my other hand out to her, I say, “Let’s go.”

  “Call the goddamn cops, Rowan!” George yells.

  Both of us startle and turn toward George. He is pissed and thankfully, his gun is pointed to the ground.

  “Excuse me?” Rowan says. She’s shocked that George yelled at her, and so am I.

  “You heard me.” His voice is just as hard and is brooking no nonsense.

  I can feel Rowan stiffen beside me. Even though she is scared, she’s feeling backed into a corner and is going into protective mode. “Yeah, I did hear you, but I’m not doing it. I don’t like cops and I’m not calling them.”

  George stares at her for a few moments and then he sneers, “You ungrateful little snot. I just saved your ass—”

  “Now hold on a minute,” I growl, stepping toward George, shotgun be damned. “Watch how you talk to her.”

  Rowan lays a hand on my arm to stop me. “No, I want to hear what he has to say. So say it, George.”

  My heart actually lurches, because I can tell by the tone of Rowan’s voice, that George is getting ready to say something that’s going to hurt her. It lurches because Rowan doesn’t have to stick around and listen to it. I’m more than willing to leave with her right now. But for some reason, she’s going to take her lumps and listen to what the old man has to say.

  George takes a deep breath and lets it out. His voice is extremely gentle when he says, “Rowan... I know how you feel about cops, but we have to involve them. I know you don’t like it, but think about others for a change. By defending you, I probably just signed my own death warrant. You don’t think Juice isn’t going to come back and demand a little vengeance for my interference? And what about your fella there? You saw the way Juice looked at him. He’s as good as dead, too. You may not need the cops help, but I do. And you two are my witnesses to what just went down here.”

  Oh, man, I never even thought of it that way, and I’m sure Rowan didn’t either, judging by the stricken look on her face. I have a feeling George is completely right about this but I’m not going to make Rowan do something she doesn’t want to do. I promised her early on we wouldn’t involve the police if she didn’t want and I’m not about to go back on that promise.

  “It’s okay, Rowan. I can handle myself, and I’m sure George can, too.” I grab her hand and start pulling her down the street, while George looks after us sadly. She moves along with me passively for a few steps, then she digs her heels in and stops.

  “No, wait.”

  I look down at Rowan and she’s scared... I can tell. I reach up, running a thumb down her cheek, and her eyes close from my soft touch.

  “We don’t have to do this,” I assure her.

  She shakes her head and opens her eyes, pinning me with resolve. “Yes, I do. It’s the right thing and until Juice is in custody, none of us are safe. If it were just me, I wouldn’t do it. But I’m not going to put you and George at risk.”

  Releasing my hand, she walks back toward George while she pulls her own phone out. To my surprise, she also pulls out the card that Buzz had given her a few days ago. Giving me a small smile, she turns her phone on and dials.

  11

  I pace back and forth down the hallway, pausing every few seconds to listen at the bathroom door.

  I’m waiting for Flynn to get out of the shower, waiting for him to fully understand the fucked-up craziness that is my life and boot me out of his apartment. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I’d completely understand.

  When we got to his apartment, he didn’t say anything other than a curt, “I’m going to take a shower,” and then he disappeared into the bathroom. That was ten minutes ago and he should be out soon.

  I can’t believe I almost got him killed. And George for that matter. I’m like a poison to those around me, and had it not been for George pointing out the danger I put him in, I would have never relented to calling the cops. But now that it’s done, I’m glad.

  Detective Matheson arrived fairly quickly, along with another detective whose name I didn’t catch. He interviewed George first, and then Flynn.

  He took Flynn’s statement, not only about what happened in front of Zeke’s, but also about my rescue from the fire. I sat there and listened to him as he recounted everything in an extremely organized and linear fashion. As I watched him talk, I literally watched as a bruise appeared on his temple. Once, he raised his right arm to rake his hand through his hair, and I saw his elbow was bloody. My chest actually cramped over the thought that Flynn got battered in an effort to defend me.

  When it was my turn, he asked if I wanted to do the interview in private. I shook my head no, not quite having the courage to say out loud that I wanted Flynn there. It was a comfort that he sat beside me—not even touching—but just his presence was palpable.

  Detective Matheson’s questions were straight
and to the point. He only had to interrupt me twice for clarification, but otherwise let me tell the story I wanted

  Yes, I said. I had been dating Teddy “Juice” Jones for over a year. I moved in with him about eleven months ago.

  Yes, I said. I had wanted out of the relationship and tried to leave the house with Capone. I hadn’t made it down the front porch steps before his hand grabbed me, pulling me back in. He chained me to the bed and when I wouldn’t stop screaming for him to let me go, he injected me with some type of drug to keep me quiet. I believed he kept me there for three days, naked and chained, only allowing me to go to the bathroom a few times a day. He never touched me sexually during that time and was hardly ever around.

  No, I admitted. I wasn’t sure that Juice was the one that started the fire. Without giving away names, I heard through the grapevine that Juice had been upset about the fire and said he knew who did it and would make them pay.

  No, I concluded. I had nothing else to add.

  My words seem to be enough for Detective Matheson because he didn’t push me further, although he said he might be back in touch with more questions. To my relief, he told me that he felt there was enough based on my statement for probable cause to arrest him—at least for the kidnapping charges.

  The only other thing he did was encourage Flynn to get some medical attention, but Flynn declined. He said he was fine, but I know he wasn’t. We walked back to the train in silence. He rested with his head against the window and his eyes closed for the entire ride back to his neighborhood.

  And other than his short announcement that he was going to take a shower, there hasn’t been any other conversation. I feel nauseated over it because I’m seeing my first real opportunity at a friendship starting to circle the drain. Why would someone like Flynn even want to have a freak of a friend like me? I’m sure none of his other friends have psycho kidnapping, drug-dealing ex-boyfriends stalking them.

  So lost in my thoughts, I’m unprepared when the door opens and a waft of spicy, scented steam billows out of the bathroom. Flynn steps out and my tongue practically sticks to the top of my mouth. He wears only a blue towel wrapped around his waist, with another smaller one hanging around his neck. I can’t help it when my eyes flick across his chest, taking in the beads of water still clinging there before I meet his eyes.

  “You shaved,” I say with surprise.

  For the past three days, Flynn has let his beard grow in, claiming I ruined his blade when I shaved my legs. It was only after I was headed out the door to buy him a new razor that he laughingly told me he was joking, and that he’s just too lazy to shave on his days off.

  Flynn rubs his fingertips over his chin. “Yeah. I figured I’d go ahead and knock it out since I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

  “You’re going in to work?” I’m surprised, given the fact he looks like he’s been through a meat grinder.

  “Sure, why not?”

  I look down at his ribs pointedly. “Maybe because of that.”

  His gaze follows mine down to where a dark purple bruise, just about the size of a boot, covers his right ribcage. A slight grimace passes over his face and then he looks at me, shrugging his shoulder, “No biggie. I’ve had worse.”

  He moves to the left to walk by me, obviously heading to his room. My hand snakes out and wraps around his forearm. His warm, moist skin is almost electric against mine but I hold on. He stops and looks at me in question.

  “Are you mad at me?” I don’t know why I blurt that out but if he’s going to end this short-lived friendship, I’d rather get it out on the table.

  Flynn looks genuinely surprised. “Why would you think that?”

  My hand falls away from his arm and I jam both of my hands in my pockets. My gaze lowers and I stare at the tips of my combat boots, shrugging my shoulders like a shy child.

  Gah... since when is Rowan Page at a loss for words? Or since when does Rowan Page lower her gaze in embarrassment to anyone?

  Flynn sticks his forefinger under my chin and pushes up. My head follows and the last thing I raise is my eyes to his. When I do, he’s looking at me with understanding, warmth, and amusement.

  Amusement?

  Yes, there it is.

  I amuse the man and that fact immediately causes the constrictive feeling in my chest to ease up.

  “You find me funny?”

  “I find it adorable that you would think I was mad.”

  His words send a course of pleasure through me, not only because he has reiterated our friendship is intact, but because he thinks I’m adorable.

  Suddenly, I’m no longer focused on my own insecurity but I become painfully area of his closeness and near-naked state. I can smell his soap and feel the warmth radiating off his skin as he stands near me. We just stare at each other, both of our eyes locked.

  When he starts to lean in toward me, his eyes lower to my lips and I know he’s going to kiss me. I am both elated and scared all at once. I want him to kiss me but I don’t want to hurt our friendship.

  Panicking, I take a quick step back and blurt, “Did you disinfect your cuts?”

  The heat stays in his eyes for just a few seconds and then simmers down. His lips curl upward in a smirk, but he shakes his head no.

  Moving past him into the bathroom, I reach under his sink, where I had seen a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I grab a few cotton balls, a box of Band-Aids, and turn to him.

  “Sit down on the toilet and I’ll patch you up.”

  He turns his back on me and walks to his bedroom. “Come patch me up in here. It’s too damn hot in the bathroom.”

  My eyes close briefly at the thought of sitting in his bedroom with him while he wears nothing but a towel to cover himself. I utter a small prayer for the strength not to drool over him and head that way.

  When I enter his bedroom, I find him sitting with his butt perched on the very edge of his bed, his legs slightly apart. The position causes the towel to gape open over his right thigh, exposing several inches of powerful muscle. Just a few more inches of movement, and I’ll be seeing what is in between his thighs. I hope he holds absolutely still for the sake of my sanity.

  I walk to stand beside him and lay my supplies on the bed near his hip. Pulling his left arm out, I look at the elbow I had noticed was bleeding. I briefly flick my eyes over the tattoo on the inside of his bicep. It’s in the same size and font as the “Semper” tattoo on his other bicep, except this one says “Fidelis”. I start to ask him what the words mean when my gaze captures the gash on his elbow. It’s oozing blood from the ragged wound.

  “You got a really nasty cut back here,” I tell him as I reach for the cotton balls and alcohol.

  He turns his shoulder inward, causing his arm to rotate so he can see his elbow. “Good. I thought I caught that motherfucker in his mouth. I hope he lost some teeth.”

  I try to keep a stern look on my face but I smile inside. Opening the alcohol, I warn him, “This may sting.”

  Glancing at him, I see his eyes are leveled at me and I wonder what he’s thinking at this moment. I break the connection and look down to his elbow. Holding a few cotton balls underneath the cut, I tip the bottle and pour some alcohol over it. I expect him to wince, or hiss, or even try to pull his arm away. I sneak a peek at him and he’s still just staring at me. He hasn’t even flinched. I quickly avert my eyes down and watch as the alcohol mixes with this blood and runs away from his wound in a pink river.

  Sopping the mess up with another cotton ball, I open up one of the larger Band-Aids and stick it firmly on his elbow.

  Clearing my throat, I stand straight. “All right...any other open wounds?”

  Those serious eyes continue to just stare at me, but he says, “I’m not sure. You better give me a once over.”

  I know he means nothing by it. I just know it. But damn if his words don’t sound like sin, and my skin tightens in anticipation of looking over his body.

  “Okay,” I say, internally wincing at t
he fact that my voice sounds breathless.

  Flynn doesn’t move and I assume he expects me to inspect him from where he’s sitting. I do a quick lean across the bed to take a look at his back. I didn’t expect to see anything there, but it didn’t stop me from enjoying the smooth skin and hard muscles that greet me.

  As I straighten up, I look over the side of his face that is nearest to me, since I know he took a few blows up there. I see nothing but a purple bruise near his temple and my fingers reach out to touch him. Gently prodding the skin, I assure myself there is no cut and let my fingers drift away.

  Sneaking a quick glance at Flynn, he’s still looking at me with the same somberness as earlier, but now his eyes look a little more heated. If I’m not mistaken, my touch has done that and that thought alone causes my stomach to flip end over end with awareness.

  Walking around to his other side, I check out that part of his face, relieved to see it looks fine. I look over his other arm and it is also unmarked. Outside of the large bruise to his ribs, I can’t see any other injuries that need tending on this side, and part of me is a little disappointed.

  I reach over for the bottle cap and say, “I think that’s it.”

  “You missed one.”

  Straightening up with the bottle still in hand, I look at him. “Where?”

  “My lip. One of those guys caught me under the chin with his knee and my lip got caught in between my teeth slamming together.”

  I can’t see an obvious wound so I walk around to his front and lean in, peering at his lips. They are full and look soft, and in my dream, they felt like satin. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s there. You might have to look a little closer.” As he says this, his legs shift apart just a tad more, making room for me to walk closer.

  Whether the move is made innocently or not, my blood chooses to surge through my veins the minute my brain considers stepping in between those powerful legs. I pull my eyes up from his lips and when they meet his, my lungs contract painfully. His brows are furrowed in slightly and his eyelids are at half-mast. He’s looking at me with a lazy, sensual appraisal and in that moment, there is no doubt that Flynn Caldwell is sexually attracted to me. It causes my lower stomach to tighten and my panties immediately get wet. The sudden rush of sexual awareness is so intense on my part, I actually have to squeeze my legs together to alleviate the pleasurable pulse I’m feeling there.