by Zoey Parker
She walked back to the kitchen and put the cigs and lighter on the table in front of Cain. With his good hand, he fished a smoke out of the pack and put it between his lips, then picked up the Zippo and flicked it. He inhaled deeply, then winced at the pain in his sides, exhaling all of the smoke until it hung around his head like a storm cloud.
“So where's your coffee maker?” Missy asked.
Cain shook his head. “Instant,” he said, taking another drag from the cigarette. “In the pantry.”
“Instant?” Missy asked, her lips curling downward in disgust. “Jesus, it's no wonder you walk around in a bad mood all the time, drinking shit like that.”
“It suits me,” he snapped.
“It sure does,” Missy said, removing the jar of instant coffee from the cupboard. “It's bitter and lazy, just like you are.” She found a clean pot under the sink, filled it with water, and put it on the stovetop.
There was a long silence between them, and Missy found herself trying to think of innocent things to say, just to make casual conversation without angering him further. When the water started to boil, she poured it into a pair of mugs she discovered in another cupboard and stirred in the powdered coffee.
Cain poured half the mug down his throat, gulping it eagerly despite the steam pouring from it. Missy took a tentative sip from hers and immediately wished she hadn't. It tasted like diarrhea and potting soil.
“So, how long have you lived here?” she finally asked.
“I don't,” Cain said tersely. “I own this shitbox 'cause my aunt willed it to me, but I mostly live at the fucking Knife. And that's why I intend to finish my coffee, grab a quick shower, and get back there so I can find out what's going on and what our plan for retaliation is.”
Missy wondered whether Cain would be so eager to stomp off in search of vengeance if he knew it was Gaspar's men who'd tuned him up. She was tempted to tell him, but she knew that was Hunter's call, not hers.
Instead, she said, “I don't think that's a very good idea.”
“I didn't ask.”
“The doctor said you need at least a week to recover,” Missy insisted.
“Well, the doctor isn't a Blood Eagle, so what the fuck does he know? For that matter, what do you?”
“For starters,” Missy said, “I know you can barely walk from the couch to the toilet by yourself, so I doubt you'll make the hike from here to the Knife on your own. I know I won't be driving you there, and most of all, I know that your busted arm means you won't be riding your bike there either.”
There was a slight gleam in Cain's eye, and a smile tugged gently at the corners of his mouth. “Not my bike, no,” he conceded. “But I've got a few other bikes in my garage that I like to tinker with, and one of them used to belong to The Great Gooch himself.”
Missy's jaw dropped in disbelief. “You're kidding, right?”
“Nope. So I don't think I'll have much trouble getting there with one arm, do you?”
Missy remembered Greg “Gooch” Garland from her father's days as president of the Eagles. Gooch had worked as a rodeo clown and daredevil motorcyclist before joining the MC. When a gangster in Vegas chopped off his hand over a gambling debt, most of the Eagles assumed he wouldn't be able to ride with them anymore. But instead, Gooch engineered a customized set of handlebars that would allow him to ride one-handed, and soon he was back to cruising down the highways with the rest of the Eagles, doing tricks just like always.
Garland eventually died from cirrhosis of the liver after a long battle with alcoholism, but the legend of “The Great Gooch” endured with each new generation of Eagles.
“Lucky for me it was the same arm,” Cain said smugly.
“You're still an idiot if you think you can make it there on your own,” Missy countered. “With all the meds you're on, you'll wrap Gooch's bike around a tree long before you reach the Knife.”
“Yeah, well, I guess we'll just see, won't we?”
Cain's cell phone began to ring in the next room. He glanced back, then shrugged and took another sip of his coffee.
“I'll get it,” Missy said.
“Ignore it.”
“But it's probably Hunter,” she replied, walking toward the living room.
“Goddamn it, I said ignore it!” Cain bellowed, slamming the kitchen table with his fist. The coffee mugs jumped about two inches.
Missy picked up the cell phone on the coffee table, reading the name on the screen. She carried it back into the kitchen and dropped it on the table in front of Cain as it continued to ring.
Cain looked down at it, scowling.
“Are you really going to sit there and ignore a call from your president?” Missy asked with a hint of mocking. “What happened to the last Eagle who ignored a call from you?”
Cain let out a frustrated growl and picked up the phone. “Yeah, what is it?”
The volume on the phone was up, and Missy could hear Hunter on the other end. “Hey, you're awake! Good. How are you feeling?”
“I'm fine,” Cain said. “I'm a little bruised up, but I was just telling Missy that I'm ready to come over to the Knife and help out. I've got Gooch's bike in my garage, so even with the cast, I can still—”
“Fuck Gooch's bike,” Hunter snapped. “Cain, if you take so much as a single step outside of that goddamn house without my permission, I'm gonna collect your fuckin' patch. I'm not even close to fuckin' around.”
Cain's face fell. “But...I'm your VP,” he said. “You guys need me there, especially if some shit's jumping off.”
“I don't need you here while you look like fuckin' Frankenstein an' you can barely stand up,” Hunter replied. “I need you sharp an' ready to fight, or else you're just gonna get in the way an' get yourself killed. If that means you gotta sit things out for a week, you'd better cozy up an' find some good programs on TV 'cause that's how it's gonna be.”
“But...”
“Stop with the 'buts' an' listen to me,” Hunter continued. “Gaspar Hernandez arranged for you to get stomped.”
Missy saw the color drain from Cain's face for the second time in as many days. She wondered if he'd throw up blood again. That's certainly what she'd felt like doing when she heard who the Eagles were up against.
“Was this a solo play by him, or did the cartel...?”
“We don't know yet,” Hunter said. “This is what I'm saying. We need to get some more information an' get organized before we start makin' moves against an outfit like the Barros Cartel. Most of all, we need our VP recovered an' able to think straight. Until that happens, Missy is gonna take good care of you. She's gonna make sure you have everythin' you need, an' she's gonna try to keep yer spirits up.”
“Yeah, she's doing a fucking bang-up job of that already,” Cain hissed through clenched teeth.
“Great!” Hunter replied cheerily. Missy wasn't sure whether he was being sarcastic, or if he was genuinely oblivious to the venom dripping from Cain's words. Knowing Hunter's sense of humor, Missy suspected it was the former.
“So stay put, do what Missy says, an' try to scrape together a little patience,” Hunter continued. “I know that ain't yer strong suit, but it's the only smart way to play this.”
Cain took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sure,” he answered.
His voice sounded like he was agreeing to put his arm down a garbage disposal and flick the switch.
Chapter 13
Missy
As soon as Hunter ended the call, Cain let out a furious roar and pitched the cell phone at the wall as hard as he could. It splintered in a shower of plastic, making a dent in the drywall. A shard of the phone's casing hit Missy just above her left eyebrow, leaving a scrape.
“Ow! What the fuck is your problem?” Missy yelled.
“My problem?” he spat back. “The four guys who kicked me around like a soccer ball get to spend a whole week walking around laughing about it, while I have to hang around here and do fuck-all! And the worst part is, I don'
t even get to have any goddamn privacy while I heal up!”
“Well, raging out like an animal and smashing up your own stuff isn't going to make anything better,” Missy countered. “Especially since the next time Hunter tries to call your phone to make sure you're okay, he won't be able to get through and he'll have a total shit fit. God, you really don't stop to think anything through, do you?”
As she said this, Missy pulled out her own phone and sent a text to Hunter. “If you need to reach Cain again tonight, use my number. His phone broke.”
A moment later, Hunter's response came back. “He took the news well, huh?” He'd included a smiley emoticon.
“I'm thinking plenty of things through right now, believe me,” Cain snarled. “Like what I'm going to do to those cowardly assholes the next time I see them.”
“Did you hear a word of what Hunter said?” Missy challenged him. “Don't you realize who you're up against? I mean, are you one of those weird dudes who's got a pain fetish or something? Do you need to be burned with hot pokers and have fish hooks through your scrotum to get hard or something?”
“What the fuck do you care what it takes to get me hard?” Cain barked.
Missy felt uncomfortable warmth spreading through her face again. He was right—that had been a strange thing to say to him. So why had she?
“And no,” Cain continued before she could think of a reply, “since you asked, I don't have a damn pain fetish. Which is a shame, because if I did, the feeling I've got in my ribs and arm right now would probably have me creaming my jeans. As it is, though, it just makes me want to sleep for forty-eight hours and then murder the whole fucking world.”
Cain started toward the hall. “Where are you going?” Missy asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. She wasn't entirely convinced that Cain would go along with Hunter's orders, and if he decided that he still wanted to ride off into the night, Missy didn't enjoy the idea of trying to physically restrain him.
“I still want a fucking shower,” Cain answered tersely. “Is that okay with you, or do you want to call Hunter first and make sure I have permission?”
“Is there anything you need me to do while you're...?”
“Yeah,” Cain growled, limping to the bathroom door. “If you're so curious about what will get me hard, suck my cock and find out. Otherwise, mind your own goddamn business.”
Cain slammed the door behind him, and Missy heard the water in the shower running a moment later.
She let out an exasperated grunt and grabbed the coffee mugs from the table, tossing them into the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes. The awful smell hit her again and she crouched down, banging around the odds and ends under the sink as she looked for dish soap. She hated the thought of washing dishes for someone who was acting so piggish and ungrateful to her, but if she had to spend the next week or so in this house, she wasn't going to suffer through that sickening odor.
Finally, she found a small, crusty bottle with a peeling label. There was still a thin scum of pink dish soap at the bottom. She plugged the drain, ran the hot water, and shook and pounded the bottle until the last of the soap drizzled over the mountain of dishes.
As Missy waited for the dishes to soak, she rolled her eyes at herself for questioning Hunter's decision to assign this task to her. She hated it, but she also recognized that she'd spent her entire life with Hunter auditioning for this rotten job. Hunter had seen how patient she was able to remain with him even when he was being a complete jerk and a slob, and it was why he had decided she was the only one who could watch over Cain.
And besides, she was a woman. No matter how pissed off Cain got, she knew that her gender would keep Cain from actually hauling off and taking a swing at her. If she were just one of the Eagles, she'd have no such assurance.
Well, fine, Missy thought, chiseling at a cluster of dried beans stuck to a plate. But that doesn't mean I have to fucking like it.
Missy heard a loud thump in the tub, followed by Cain's voice hollering through the bathroom door. “Oh, you goddamn motherfucking numb cunt, come on...!” There was a pause, then another thump and a fresh string of curses.
She chuckled, drying off her hands. Here was Mister Big Bad Biker, Mister Ride-Out-To-Seek-Vengeance, unable to even shower by himself without dropping things and throwing a tantrum.
Missy walked over to the bathroom door and tapped on it. “You okay in there?” she asked, trying to keep the humor out of her voice.
“Get fucked,” he called out sharply.
“Just making sure a hardass like you didn't slip in the shower and crack your skull,” she joked.
Again, louder: “Get. Fucked.”
“You know, if you want, I can get some of those big rubber daisies to stick to the floor of the tub...”
“I didn't fucking fall, all right?” Cain yelled. “I just...fuck it, never mind.”
“Fine, if you're going to act like a big baby about it,” Missy said, turning to head back to the kitchen.
There was a brief pause, and Cain blurted out, “I can't wash my fucking hair, okay? Jesus! Are you happy now? My hair stinks 'cause I haven't done it in a couple of days, and now that my ribs are all fucked up, I can't reach up to do it, even with my good hand. So I'm pissed. Okay? End of story.”
Half of Missy wanted to laugh, but the other half actually felt sorry for him. “Do you want me to help?” she asked.
There was no answer for a long time, and Missy thought he'd chosen to ignore her. But just as she was about to step away from the door, she heard him sigh deeply. “Fine,” he said. “Come in and get it over with, then, since I'm supposed to be some kind of fucking invalid.”
Missy opened the door and stepped in.
Cain raked the shower curtain to one side, naked and glowering at her.
It took all of Missy's self-control to keep her eyes locked on Cain's with his dripping, muscular body inches away from hers. His expression was one of defiance, and she realized that he was deliberately trying to shock and provoke her with this demonstration. He was challenging her to remain neutral in caring for him, instead of hiding behind some veneer of girlish modesty and discomfort. Maybe he thought she'd gawk at his body or run from the room. Either would represent a small victory for him, proof that he could shake her composure.
Missy was determined not to give him the satisfaction. She met his gaze levelly, one eyebrow slightly raised.
Still, it took every ounce of willpower she had not to look down. There were strips of neon-colored compression tape carefully criss-crossed over his ribs, surrounded by a mural of interwoven tattoos with sculpted muscles coiled beneath them. In the lowest periphery of her vision, his cock protruded from a thick brown thatch of pubic hair, just out of focus.
“Well?” Cain asked impatiently. “Are you going to do my hair, or were you expecting me to put tassels on my nipples and do a dance for you?”
“You're too tall,” Missy said.
“Excuse me?”
“For me to do your hair,” she continued. “I won't be able to do a decent job if I have to stand and reach that high. Do you have a step-stool around here somewhere?”
“Yeah, in the closet,” Cain answered.
“Cool, I'll be right back,” Missy said, leaving the bathroom. As she went to the hall closet, her mind kept dragging itself back to the brief glimpse of Cain's crotch. She wished she'd summoned up the nerve to give it one solid look, just so she'd have a firm knowledge what it looked like and her mind wouldn't keep trying to fill in the blanks. That way, she could let these thoughts go once and for all.
And anyway, she thought as she grabbed the stool, if he wasn't prepared for me to look at it, he wouldn't have bared it all for me like that, right? Besides, it's not like I'm planning to openly stare at it for any prolonged period. Of course not. That would give him the wrong idea, and besides, I'm not in middle school anymore. I know what cocks look like. I've seen a decent number myself. I'm just curious about his. A little
curious, not even a lot.
So just one solid look when I get back in there, she promised herself. Just one and done. Just to get it out of my system. Okay? Okay. Here we go.
Missy carried the compact step-stool into the bathroom, her eyes immediately lowering to look.
Cain had a towel wrapped around his waist.
Missy felt a pang of disappointment, then kicked herself for being so silly. She couldn't believe she'd even talked herself into trying to look at his rod in the first place. Like she even gave a damn what his cock looked like, right? What the hell was wrong with her?
“Is the nudie show closed for the night?” she snickered, setting the stool in the tub. “Too bad. I was just about to hit up the store down the street, see if I could change a twenty for some singles. Take a seat.”