by Alyssa Breck
“That place was supposed to be empty, but there’s a car back there.”
“Shit,” Kol said.
Hunter slowly backed up so the rear of the van was in line with the driveway. Hem pulled on a ski mask, shrugged out of his cut and jumped from the van. He disappeared around the side of the building. The seconds ticked off, and then a headlight illuminated the street.
Hunter’s cell phone lit up with a message from Hem.
Go. I’m following you in Holly’s car.
Heat spread from his stomach to his neck. What the fuck was Holly doing there? He put the van in drive and sped off with Hem on his heels. In the rearview mirror, he saw the buckled hood of Holly’s car. One headlight was out, and the windshield looked like it had taken a few bullets.
He called Hem. “Is she alive?” Hunter asked.
“Yeah, man. She’s knocked out, but she’s breathing. I put her in the backseat.”
“Fuck!” Hunter disconnected the call and hit another speed dial number. The club had a doctor on their payroll. She was discreet and kept no records. If they took Holly to an ER, the police would show up, and there’d be an inquisition. Covering their tracks was essential.
Sheila Bailer answered on the second ring. “Hello, Hunter.”
“Wanna go for a drink?”
“Sure. When?”
“Now.”
“Your place?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Sheila hung up. The conversation was in code, and the doctor should be at the clubhouse prepared for an emergency by the time Hunter got there.
Kol slid into the passenger seat. “What’s up, man?”
“Holly was behind that building.” Hunter slammed his hand on the dashboard.
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.” Images of fire and smoke flashed in Hunter’s mind. Twisted bodies lay in the sand. His arm burned where a white-hot piece of shrapnel had cut through his uniform and lodged in his flesh. He shook his head. He didn’t have time for a flashback. Holly’s life could be hanging in the balance.
The tires squealed as he took the turn a little too fast into the driveway at the clubhouse. Sheila’s Mercedes was parked on the side next to a row of motorcycles. Hem pulled in behind the van.
Hunter jumped out and stopped short. The windshield was shattered, and when Hem got out, Hunter saw blood on the leather headrest.
Holly lay motionless in the backseat. Blood trickled from her nose and left ear. Hem opened the rear door and stepped aside.
Kol stood behind Hem. “What can we do, brother?”
“Nothing. I got her. Just make sure the door’s open.” Hunter leaned in and checked her pulse. Steady and strong. That was a good sign. He pulled her legs out first and picked her up, careful to cradle her head against his shoulder.
“Where was she?” Hunter asked as he carried her toward the door.
“She was sitting in the driver’s seat, keys in the ignition, but the car wasn’t running. I’m guessing she had just got into her car when the bomb went off.”
“Okay. That’s good. The car probably shielded her some.”
The other people in the clubhouse were a blur in his peripheral vision as he walked fast toward the hallway behind the bar. There was a bank of rooms for anyone who needed to sleep off a bender or for when they were locking down. He vaguely heard Hem explaining to Paul what had happened.
Sheila was almost as tall as Hunter, and her strides matched his as she followed him into the first room on the right, the room Hunter used when he spent the night. The bed was covered with a navy blue fleece blanket that he’d bought in Juarez during a run from Mexico. Sheila wore purple latex gloves, and a stethoscope hung around her neck. First, she listened to Holly’s chest and used a penlight to look into her nose and ears.
“Her heart sounds good. Lungs are clear. What happened exactly?”
“She was sitting in her car, and there was an explosion.”
Sheila knew not to ask too many questions. Judging by the fancy necklace and low cut blouse she wore, Hunter figured he’d interrupted the doctor at a party or something. “Her eardrum is intact. The nose isn’t broken.” Dr. Bailer tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Black rimmed glasses made her eyes look greener, and she pushed them up on her nose.
“What about the blood?” Hunter asked.
“Looks superficial. She’s got some small burns on her nose, ear, and mouth.” Sheila examined the backs of Holly’s hands. “Did the airbag deploy?”
“Yeah,” Hunter replied. The Honda looked like it had been in an accident. The hood and windshield had absorbed the brunt of the impact.
Sheila moved Holly’s arms and legs, bending each at the joint. She started to unbutton Holly’s blouse. “I’m going to guess that the airbag blew up, and she’s so short that it hit her in the face. That’s probably what knocked her out. She’s got burns consistent with that on the backs of her hands like she was gripping the steering wheel.”
Holly groaned, and her eyes fluttered open. She grabbed Sheila’s wrist. “Stop it.”
Hunter laughed without humor. “I think she’s okay.” Holly was like a stick of dynamite, small but mighty.
“I’m Dr. Bailer, Holly. You were in an accident. Can you tell me what day it is?”
Holly blinked and touched her nose. “It’s horror movie night. It’s Friday.”
“Anything hurting besides your face, honey?” Sheila shined her light into Holly’s eyes.
“No. Just a headache.” Holly looked around the room. “Where am I? This doesn’t look like a hospital.”
Sheila looked back at Hunter, and he stepped to the side of the bed.
“You’re in the clubhouse. We’re having a security crisis, so you need to stay here for a while.”
“I need to go home. Every time I see you, trouble finds me.” She sat up and gathered her blouse closed.
Sheila pulled off the gloves and dropped them into the wastebasket next to the dresser. Her black leather medical bag sat on the edge of the bed. She took out a bottle of pills and handed them to Holly. “This is ibuprofen. I don’t think you’ll need more than that. Have Hunter call me if you start experiencing any dizziness, blurred vision or nausea.”
Holly accepted the brown bottle with no label. “Thank you.” She turned to Hunter. “You have some explaining to do.”
Chapter ELEVEN
Holly
Hunter followed the doctor to the door. “Stop in with Hem to settle your bill, Sheila.”
“I will. Keep an eye on her for the next twenty-four hours. I can’t rule out a concussion, but I think she’s fine.” The doctor was a pretty lady, tall enough to have been a supermodel and curvy enough to turn some heads for sure.
“Will do. Thanks, doc.” Hunter turned around and stood in the doorway. “I think you have some explaining to do.” He shut the door and crossed the room. “What were you doing there?”
“I was supposed to be covering a restaurant opening for the paper. What were you doing there?”
Hunter shifted his weight. “I can’t answer that.”
Holly sat up on the edge of the bed and started buttoning her shirt. Let him try to stop her from leaving. “This is bullshit. You don’t get to ask me questions while refusing to answer mine.”
“Okay, look. Off the record, I can tell you that this was no fucking accident. No one was supposed to be there tonight.” He paced and scrubbed his hand over his face. “That’s not a restaurant, and there was obviously no opening going on. So, I need you to tell me who sent you there.”
While she didn’t mind arguing, she just didn’t have the fight in her at the moment, and he had offered some information. “My boss called last minute. He said the owner of the restaurant had requested me specifically. I didn’t recognize his name, but Grant said the man said he knew me.”
The overhead light glinted off his rings. “What was his name?”
“Something Russian. Sergei something. I don’t r
emember. I wrote it down. It’s on a notepad in my purse.”
Hunter pulled his phone out of his pocket and started typing. The room wasn’t much to look at it but it was clean. A poster of Jimi Hendrix hung over a scarred dresser. A television was mounted on the wall and seemed to be the only newer thing in there. It smelled like someone had burned incense recently or maybe smoked pot in there.
“Hem’s going to see if your purse is in the car.”
The skin on her face was tight and stung like she’d been sitting out in the sun too long. She touched her fingers to her nose, and they came away bloody. Aside from a headache, she felt okay.
Next to an American flag, there was a closed door across from the bed. “Is that a bathroom?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
When she stood her head spun. She blinked and sat back down fast. “I need to wash my face.”
“Just sit there. I’ll get you a rag.” He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a white washcloth. “Lean your head back.”
Holly complied, and he gently wiped the blood from her nose.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
“No.” She clasped her hands to stop the trembling. A part of her wanted to crumble into Hunter’s arms and have him hold her, comfort her. But that part battled with the part that wanted to run, to get out and never look back.
The lump in her throat burned and if she swallowed past it, she’d cry. Her father’s voice echoed in her head. Don’t you dare cry. Crying makes you weak. She’d been brought up hiding her feelings and putting up fronts. To the outside world, the Farris family was perfect. Well educated parents. Nice house. Nice cars. Cute kid. A golden retriever and a white picket fence. But behind closed doors, there was fighting. Drinking. Beatings that didn’t leave bruises anyone could see most of the time. There were always bruises on her legs and back from the razor strap he kept on a hook in the master bedroom. But her father was smart enough not to mark up her face.
The first time he hit her in the face, she was fifteen and had stayed out past curfew on a Saturday night. She’d come in quietly, hoping he would be passed out already. Her canvas shoe squeaked on the tiled foyer floor, but she still tried to sneak up the carpeted stairs to her room. He met her halfway with her mother pulling him back, pleading that he go back to bed and talk with Holly in the morning.
His eyes were bloodshot and his gait unsteady. He hadn’t asked for an explanation of her tardiness and backhanded her, knocking her down the stairs. When her mother started to cry, he’d smacked her, too. He had no tolerance for whiny women. Those were his words. That night her mother had stood over her with a wet washcloth just like Hunter stood over her now.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Hunter called.
The tall Native American guy who’d stood outside her car that first night stuck his head in. He held up Holly’s purse. “I’ll put it on the floor.” Then he disappeared.
Hunter moved the rag to her left ear. “Hem pulled you out of there tonight.”
She’d threatened to shoot him at the Devil’s Lair if he didn’t get out of her way. A ripple of guilt settled in the pit of her stomach. “Tell him I said thank you.”
“I will. Okay. All the blood is gone. How do you feel?”
“Really tired.”
Hunter opened a mini fridge that sat in the corner. Holly hadn’t noticed it before. He took out a bottle of water and handed it to her. He shook out two pills from the bottle the doctor had left. “Take these.”
“If you bring me my purse, I’ll give you my notepad.” She swallowed the pills.
He set her purse beside her, and she dug through it for the notepad. “His name is Sergei Nikolaev.”
Hunter sat down on the bed. “I don’t know him. Probably not his real name.”
“Why would he ask for me? I know this is somehow connected to you, Hunter.”
“That shooting the other night?”
“Yes?”
“It was the Russian mob. Your car was here.”
The ramifications of being associated with him crashed down on her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “They tried to kill me tonight because I visited you?”
“I honestly don’t know what their angle is. We’re working on that. That’s why I need you to stay here for a few days.”
Her nose started to ache, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. It was bleeding again. She put the rag under it.
“You’re probably going to have two black eyes tomorrow.”
“I’ve dealt with this before. Can you get me some ice?”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Yeah. I’ll be right back.”
“Do you happen to have any Preparation H?”
Hunter
That question halted him. “What?”
“It constricts blood vessels. Slows down a black eye.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how she knew that. “I don’t think we have any, but I can send someone out for it.”
“That’s okay. Just ice, please.”
Hunter left her in the room and walked behind the bar and filled a plastic bag with ice.
Maddox took a pull off a beer. “How’s the patient?”
“She’s okay.” He turned around as he wrapped a hand towel around the bag. “Sergei Nikolaev ring a bell with anyone?”
“No, why?” Maddox asked.
“Holly was sent to the meth lab by the paper to cover a grand opening. Nikolaev was supposedly the restaurant owner who asked for her by name.”
Hem opened up his laptop. “I’ll check him out.”
The damage from the shooting had been repaired, but the pinball machine was a casualty. The electrical unit inside had been busted by a bullet. It was quiet in the clubhouse. A few of the guys had left that morning for Austin.
Hunter started to walk back to the room but hesitated. “Not that any of you fuckers would admit it if you did, but does anyone have any Preparation H?”
Kol raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you should take it easy on her, Hunter. She’s had a rough night.”
The others laughed like a bunch of teenaged boys.
“Fuck you, Kol.” Hunter smiled. “It’s not for her asshole, you asshole. It’s for her eyes. She said it will help with black eyes.”
“I’ve never heard that, but it makes sense,” Hem offered. “If that stuff stops your butt from bleeding …”
Maddox wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to be part of this conversation.”
Hunter left them to make crude butthole jokes.
Holly wasn’t on the bed. The bathroom door was closed, and he heard the shower running.
He set the ice on the dresser and turned the television on. He channel-surfed until he came across a horror flick. Holly had said Fridays were her horror movie night.
A few minutes later, the water was off, and Holly stood in the doorway with steam billowing out around her. A blue towel was wrapped around her and tucked under her arm. Her blonde hair dripped down her shoulders. “Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?”
Hunter kept extra clothes in the dresser, but he was certain nothing he owned would fit her. He grabbed a Hard Rock Café shirt he had bought in Vegas. It was too tight for him.
She went back into the bathroom to change. The T-shirt hung down almost to her knees.
He smiled at her. “You look cute.”
“Don’t try to humor me,” she said and picked up the ice off the dresser.
“Can you just pretend for one night that you don’t hate me?”
Holly put the ice on the bridge of her nose. “I don’t hate you,” she said quietly.
“I asked. Nobody has any Preparation H. How do you know it helps with black eyes?”
For a full minute, she didn’t answer, and it made him nervous. His stomach tightened with the thought that she was about to reveal a story about an abusive ex, and he’d find out who the fucker was and go kill him.
“My mom’s a nurse. She used t
o use it under her eyes after my dad had drunk one too many.”
Damn.
Holly leaned back against the pillows. “Then she started using it on me.”
“Your dad hit you guys?” he asked.
“Yeah. At first, it was just spankings as a kid, nothing severe. Then when I was about ten, he started using a razor strap. That lasted about five years before he started using his fists.”
For the life of him, Hunter couldn’t imagine anyone beating a kid, let alone a little girl. Judging by her size now, she had to have been a tiny child. Her reaction at the bar last week made perfect sense now. She was probably always in some kind of defense mode. It also explained why she didn’t seem to react normally to things. Most women would be hysterical after surviving a shooting and a bomb in less than a week, but Holly was oddly calm.
“Is your mom still with him?”
“Yes. She’ll never leave him. I expect a phone call someday telling me that she fell down a flight of stairs or stumbled over a balcony.”
His fists clenched involuntarily. It would be a very bad day for her father if Hunter ever met him. What kind of fucking monster beats his wife and his kid? A coward, that’s what kind of man did that.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said and grabbed a pair of boxers out of the drawer below the T-shirts.
The hot water ran over his face. That little bit of insight explained a lot about Holly and how he should handle her. Hunter was no stranger to what trauma did to a person. Holly had lived in her own war zone, and that created a need for control of her environment. She probably had a string of failed relationships behind her, just like he did. Not everyone was capable of understanding PTSD. While their histories were very different, they both had a fuck ton of baggage, and he found that comforting in a weird way.
Chapter TWELVE
Hunter
Holly didn’t fight him on being holed up in the clubhouse. They laid together quietly watching another movie. He was afraid to touch her. It was funny how knowing what he knew made him more comfortable in one way and less comfortable in another. The thought that she might be scared of him made him sick.