by Tracey Ward
Josh’s eyes widen. “And one of the others might?”
I don’t answer that.
One Percenters; you don’t ask those kinds of questions in this kind of club.
“Stay here,” I tell him, already heading for the door. “I’ll go get him.”
“I’m not sure about this. I didn’t want to send anyone after this guy. I just want to get my feet under me again.”
“If you asked them to work with you, they’d hit up the guy anyway. They wouldn’t stand for anyone thinking they could disrespect the club by robbing one of their operations. They’d make an example of him. If you offer to pay Raw to get your shit back, you have more say in how far it goes.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Good. Wait here.”
Chapter Eight
Josh
Harlow is only gone for a couple of minutes before she comes back to the storage room with Raw in tow. I stand when he comes in, offering him my fist.
He bumps my knuckles, looking me over thoroughly. “Lookin’ good, brother. Like someone rearranged your face for you.”
“Among other things.”
Raw crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging against the fabric of his white T-shirt. All black tattoos race up and down his arms in serpentine patterns that are dizzying and mesmerizing. “Did you get a piece of him?”
I shrug, feeling my side and my pride scream in agony. “Not much of one.”
“Bummer.”
“I told him the deal,” Harlow says, stepping in behind Raw. She closes the door this time, shutting out the noise of the club. “He knows what you need.”
“You want your shit back, right?” Raw asks me.
“Right. I just need the product. I don’t want anything else.”
“Not even a little payback?”
I hesitate because, yeah, I want payback. But I want to be the one to do it.
“I’ll take care of that eventually,” I reply confidently. “When I’m ready.”
“When you can breathe without flinching?”
“Preferably.”
He nods, running one hand over his mouth as he studies me. “Alright, that’s your call. I’d be happy to fuck him up for you. No extra charge, you being a friend of Harley’s and all.”
“I’d rather take care of it myself, but thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem. So, what’s the cut? What are we talking about?”
I did the mental math while Harlow was gone. I know how much I can afford to pay him without losing all my profits. But I wonder if I should offer the full amount or should I lowball it? Will he get offended? Is this a negotiation or do I go all in right off the bat?
These are questions a smart guy would have asked Harlow before bringing a biker in here. And I used to think I was a smart guy. Getting my ass kicked has thrown me off my game.
“Two hundred,” I tell him, going all in. “That’s about ten percent of what I’ll make off the sale of everything he took from me.”
His eyes bulge. “You’ll make two grand off some herb?”
“It’s not pot. It’s pills.”
“Harley said you’re a pot dealer.”
“I told her I’m a drug dealer. She didn’t ask what kind.”
Raw glances back at Harlow questioningly.
She doesn’t flinch under his heavy gaze. “I assumed. Sue me.”
“It’s all pharmaceutical shit,” I explain to both of them. “I don’t sell anything homemade. No meth. No heroine. No pot. And I have a strict Fuck No policy on date rape drugs.”
“Noble,” Raw comments dryly. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. I kind of think he’s not. “You good to go with me on this or do you want to hang back?”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m ready, but Harlow cuts me off.
“You’re on your own. I’m taking Josh to the hospital. Now.”
“Harlow, I’m not going to the hospital,” I protest.
“The hell you’re not. You have a broken nose for sure and probably a broken rib or two, from the way you’re walking.”
“I’m fine. I can—”
Raw chuckles, holding up his hands to silence me. “Don’t fight with her, man. She’ll win. She always does. Save yourself some time and just go to the doc with her. I’ll get your shit and meet up with you after.” He pulls a small, tattered black pad and pen from his back pocket. “Write down the guy’s name and where I can find him if you know. And give me a list of what he took. I want to make sure I get it all back.”
I take the notebook from him, hesitating before I put pen to paper. Before I write down Bryan’s name and send a biker after his ass. “About paying you…”
“You don’t have it right now, am I right?” he asks knowingly.
I shake my head, feeling like a loser. Like shit. Like less than shit because that’s how much I have to my name right now. Jack. Fucking. Shit. “I can’t pay you until I sell the product. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Normally, yeah, that’d be a big fuckin’ problem. Payment on delivery, always. But like I said before, you’re a friend of Harley’s. She says you’re good for it so I’ll make an exception.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Thank Harley, not me.”
“You can buy me a burrito on the way home,” she tells me with a smile.
“I’ll even spring for extra guac,” I chuckle, writing down Bryan’s name and dorm info in the notebook. I try to ignore the other information scrawled across the little blue lines inside but I’m the observant type, even when I’m trying not to be. I catch a location and a time; some diner an hour away in Culver tomorrow morning at ten a.m.
I hand the notebook back to Raw, looking him over. Gauging his size. He’s a little bigger than I am. Probably has more time to lift than I do. I still don’t think he’s a match for Bryan and all his buddies.
“You probably shouldn’t go alone,” I warn him. “Bryan’s a football player. He runs in a pack.”
“Did you get jumped by a pack?”
“More like a pair.”
“I can handle a pair. And if there’s more than that I’ll level the playing field.”
I don’t ask how he’ll do that, though I have an idea. A few calibers worth of ideas, actually. But the less I know, the better. Same goes for Harlow.
I offer Raw my hand. “I really appreciate this, man.”
“Yeah, no problem. Should be a piece of cake.” He shakes my hand, gripping my shoulder firmly. “Go get stitched up. I’ll catch you guys later.”
“Alright.”
When he’s gone, I turn to Harlow. “I really don’t need a doctor. We’d have to go all the way to Culver. It’s too much trouble and I’ll just end up owing more money that I don’t have.”
She casts me a stern look before following behind Raw without reply.
I sigh, hobbling after her.
We’re going to the damn doctor.
***
“You have a cracked rib. Not broken,” the nurse tells us, sounding bored. Like I let her down by not being bloodier. “It’ll heal on its own. Just take it easy. Rest. No strenuous anything.”
She’s eyeing Harlow when she tells me that last part. Harlow looks back impassively, her arms crossed under her chest that’s practically popping out of the deep V of her blue T-shirt. A Devil’s Due skull and wings is boldly emblazoned on her black leather purse.
“No lifting for a while. Got it,” I agree amiably.
Harlow frowns at the nurse. “Are you giving him anything for the pain?”
“Harlow, I’m fine,” I argue for the fifteenth time.
“Shut up, Josh.”
“Can I get a ‘please’?”
“Please shut the fuck up, Josh.”
“That’s better.”
Harlow looks impatiently at the nurse. “Well?”
She sighs. “If he’s hurting, he can take ibuprofen. Follow the directions on the bottle.”
�
�What? No baby aspirin? Should we rub essential oils on it?”
“What would you like me to get him?” She glances pointedly at Harlow’s purse. “Vicodin, I’m guessing.”
“You think I’m trying to score right now?”
“It certainly looks like it.”
Harlow glowers at the woman, pointing at me angrily. “Does his face look like we’re trying to score? Some psycho beats him up, robs him, and you’re giving us shit for trying to manage his pain?”
“It’s suspicious that you’re asking for drugs.”
“Because you’re not doing your job and getting them for him! You’re just going to leave him in excruciating pain!”
The woman takes a step back from Harlow. “Lower your voice, miss.”
“Get me a doctor, you hag,” Harlow claps back.
The nurse gapes at her, words sputtering incoherent in the back of her throat. Finally she turns on her heel and rushes out of the room.
I smile at Harlow. “I’ve missed this.”
She snickers, popping up onto the table next to me. The paper crinkles under her ass. Her thigh presses against mine, sending a warm current rushing through my body.
“I had my wisdom teeth pulled last summer,” she tells me. “I went through this same bullshit. Devo came to pick me up when I was all loopy and doped. He brought the truck, not his bike, but he was wearing his cut. They knew he was in a gang. They told him they were sending me home to recover with two Percocet. That’s it. He blew up at them. I was in and out of it while he went after them, but we left that place with fifteen pills. I only used half of them but it was the principle of the thing, you know? They just assumed we were junkies.”
“Just out of curiosity, what’d you do with the rest of the pills?”
She grins at me slyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“It’s why I asked.”
“I still have them in the trailer somewhere. You can have them if you want. Are they worth much?”
I shrug. “Ten bucks a pill, maybe.”
“Seriously? I think I have eight of them. I could get eighty bucks for them?”
“Yeah, if you had a buyer.”
“Or if I knew a drug dealer.” She taps her pink fingernail against her pink lips, pursing them thoughtfully. “Who could I talk to about selling drugs? Who? Who? Who?”
“Beats me. I’m a respectable guy. I don’t know shit about shit.”
“You know a lot of shit about a lot of shit. Shit that I didn’t picture you messing with. Not in a million years.”
I look down at my hands; thick knuckled and torn from brawling. “You’re not judging now, are you, Harlow?”
She pauses, watching me. I can feel the weight of her eyes. The warmth.
“No,” she tells me, her voice hushed. “I would never judge you, Josh. You just surprised me, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I surprise myself sometimes too.”
I’m surprised by how much I like dealing. By how good I turned out to be at it.
Up until tonight.
“I didn’t…” Harlow frowns, sorting herself out. “I think I still look at you and see a teenager. Like, I still the guy I went to high school with. I have to remind myself that you grew up just as much as I did. Maybe more.”
I nod in understanding because I feel the same way. I look at Harlow and I want her to be the girl she was three years ago, but she’s not. She has a whole other life now. One I have nothing to do with.
That shit hurts worse than the bruised bones in my body.
“I think you’re brave.”
I snort, casting her an unlikely glance. “Get real. I’m a wreck.”
“You’re not a wreck,” she tells me firmly. Her eyes hold me steady, refusing to let me turn away. “You’re a man. A good man who loves people so strongly you’re willing to do anything for them. You’re doing everything you can to take care of Pops and build a life for yourself. That’s beautiful and brave and I’m proud as hell to know you, Josh.”
Her words hit me hard, resonating somewhere deep inside me. So deep it gives me chills. Coming from anyone else, I’d probably brush the compliment off, but this is Harlow. Everything about Harlow has always been different for me. The sun shines brighter, the air is cleaner, and my soul feels stronger when she’s around. She’s a foul-mouthed, tattooed Disney Princess making my world better one day at a time, and I didn’t realize how badly I missed her until right now.
I also forgot how bad I want her. That old desire comes crashing down on me as I look at her so close but so far away. Her body is pressed up against mine, her breaths synced to my own, our chests rising and falling together, and I can’t get my memories out of my head. The way her breath came broken and pleading as I pulled in and out of her. The way she tightened around me. Her eyes dilated and lost as she came. I can see the contours of her lips, the brilliant white of her teeth. The wet, pink tip of her tongue inside her open mouth.
I have to touch her. I have to feel her in any way I can, inside and out, so I do the only thing I can. I hug her. It hurts like a bastard but it feels better than anything. Especially when she hugs me back. When her arms slide around my shoulders and her hair brushes against my face, soft and strawberry.
“I’m proud to know you too, Harlow,” I mumble against her ear.
She sighs, burrowing her face into my shoulder. “There’s nothing to be proud of.”
“You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re beautiful.”
“Josh, stop,” she complains uncomfortably.
“You’re lame,” I continue, flipping the tone to something I know she can handle. “You’re a terrible driver. You can’t cook to save your life.”
She laughs, shaking us both gently. “I ruined Mac ‘n Cheese the other day.”
“How? You literally boil water and pour cheese powder on it. There’s two steps.”
“I didn’t set a timer. I forgot about it. Burned it to the bottom of the pot and set off all the smoke alarms in the trailer.”
“Nice work, Gordon Ramsay,” I chuckle as I release her.
It’s reluctant but necessary. I’ve held her twice now in the last twenty-four hours and it’s going to become addicting if I’m not careful. She’s more dangerous than Vicodin, Percocet, and Codeine combined.
The door opens. A tall, lanky doctor walks in, lab coat and all. He’s older, probably fifty or more, but he smiles warmly when he sees Harlow. His reaction to her is the polar opposite of the nurse’s.
“I’m Doctor Erickson,” he introduces himself, offering his hand to her, not me. “Nice to meet you…”
“Harley,” she purrs, putting on a show.
She’s going to work this poor guy. Women rarely do what Harlow wants, but men… well, we do everything she wants. Gladly.
“Like the motorcycle,” the doctor observes.
“Just like.”
He grins wider, still holding her hand. “I love motorcycles. I have a Ducati at home.”
I don’t know much about bikes, but I know enough to understand that a Ducati is a crotch rocket. Harlow would ride a tricycle before she got on the back of a Ducati.
“Do you ride very often?” she asks amiably.
“Whenever I can. Work keeps me pretty busy, but I try to enjoy the fruits of my labor as often as possible. What good is work with no play?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m all play, all day.”
Dr. Erickson chuckles. He eyes her breasts. He chuckles again.
I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.
Harlow keeps smiling up at him, swinging her legs back and forth slowly under the table.
Dr. Erickson checks on her chest again. Yep, still there.
I clear my throat roughly. All eyes turn to me.
“Right, Mr. Stratford,” the doctor says suddenly. He frowns when he notices my face. “You got into a bit of a scuffle, didn’t you?”
“Not by choice.”
“You were defending someone’s honor, I
imagine,” he teases, his eyes gravitating back to Harlow’s.
“Nope, she’s pretty good at defending herself. She probably would have come out of the fight better than I did.”
“It wouldn’t have been fair,” she argues. “I carry a knife.”
“I’ll have to start doing that.”
“Or learn to fight, you pussy.”
I look at her for a long second before saying, “Remember when you shit your pants in eighth grade? That was hilarious.”
“Oh, you wanna bring up embarrassing shit? You want to play this game with me of all people?”
I hesitate, running an inventory in my mind of all the dirt she has on me. A Cabbage Patch doll immediately comes to mind.
“Maybe not,” I admit.
“Yeah,” she laughs. “Good call.”
Doctor Erickson glances uncertainly between us before checking my chart. “Okay, well, I hear you’re in pain, Mr. Stratford.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“He’s not,” Harlow disagrees.
“I am.”
“He’s seriously not. Just watch him get down off this table. He’ll practically pass out from the pain in his side.”
“It’s really not that bad. I can—”
Harlow shoves me roughly off the table. I stumble onto my feet, doubling over in pain.
“Mother-fuck-cunt!” I cry. My vision goes dark at the edges, the pain building in the back of my throat until I can barely breathe. “Jesus. I’m gonna throw up.”
Harlow gestures to me in an ‘I-told-you-so’ move. “Does that look healthy to you?”
“No, it does not,” Dr. Erickson agrees grimly. “Mr. Stratford, I’m going to prescribe you Vicodin. Have you ever taken it before?”
“No,” I grind out, still folded in half around the pain in my body.
Harlow gently rubs her hand in soothing circles on my back, and it’d feel awesome if she wasn’t the one who put me in the hell I’m suffering right now.
“I’m assuming you drove,” he says to Harlow.
“I did.”
“Good. We’ll give him one before you leave and you can keep an eye on him for the next hour or so. Make sure he doesn’t have a bad reaction to it. Then it’s one to two every six hours after that. Understood?”