by Nikki Ryker
"Brenda," I say, voice barely more than a whisper. "I... uh...I didn't know you were here."
She bares her teeth in a smile. They're slightly yellowing from her long years of smoking.
"That was the idea."
It's all the warning I get before she lunges for me. Her long fingers have to really reach to find the French twist and yank it loose, but she manages it. The pressure at the base of my skull is unbearable and I cry out as at least a dozen bobby pins fly out of my hair and skitter across the floor. It's easier for her to get a grip on my long hair once it's loose, and she uses the leverage to slam my face into the white tile of the bathroom wall. My teeth rattle from the impact and a burning pain spreads across my right cheek as she scrapes my face against the edges of the tile. More tears escape my eyes.
Oh God. Trent set up an ambush for me. I try to peek beneath the other stalls, wondering just how many Spade women he recruited for this little ploy. I can't see any other pairs of feet, and that gives me the barest hint of hope that I might escape this place alive. I just have to get away from Brenda. Easier said than done. She's got a reputation as the queen of the catfight. Many a spade woman had lost hair or skin to her long manicured nails. Most gave her a wide berth, because of her penchant for starting fights. The only person I'd seen come away from a fight with her unscathed was Penny, and she's in a league all her own. The woman carries brass knuckles on her person at all times, for God's sake.
I throw my elbow back with all my might. It's not as effective as it should be at these close quarters. I'd really need room to swing to make it hurt. She's pressed to my back, as close as she can get. The blow impacts, and it's enough to loosen her grip on my hair at least. I twist out from beneath her arm and stagger back, unsteady on my heels. I kick them off as quickly as possible. It will be hard to escape in these death traps. One slides beneath one of the sinks, and the other has the good fortune to stop just before Brenda, tripping her up. She pinwheels forward, catching herself on a stall.
I use the opportunity to make a break for the door. I pray that no one else barges in. It would be just my luck that some unlucky woman clocks me right in the face and leaves me reeling on the floor. It would give Brenda plenty of time to slit my throat. I realize what this must be.
Trent's first case against me starts tomorrow. He must have sent Brenda to make sure I'm in no condition to go, thus lending credence to his claims I'm unfit as a parent. The absolute gall of it gives me enough strength to draw my fist back and send it rocketing toward Brenda's face.
The impact is as satisfying as it is painful. I have an instant to feel Brenda's soft, vulnerable eye beneath one knuckle. Then she's rocking back, blinking in shock. She seems shocked I've punched her. I ready myself to do it again, confidence surging through me. Holy crap, I blacked Brenda's eye.
Her lips pull back from her yellowing teeth in a half-snarl. "You're going to regret that you little bitch."
She reaches into her back pocket and withdraws a switchblade. She flicks it open with a soft snick of sound and that brief surge of happiness dims. I suspect this is the blade that Trent threatened me with weeks ago. The edge is sharp and I dive for the door with little thought. I'm not fast enough.
The blade arcs down, slicing through the air near me. It misses my stomach and instead jabs into the skin of my thigh, sinking in deep. I can't help the scream that wrenches its way from me. It's a spike of white-hot agony burning into my flesh. I don't know how Holly and Cruz survived the pain of being shot. It has to be a million times more intense than this, and already I feel like I want to die.
Brenda drags the blade further down my leg, slicing me open. This is bad. So, so bad. I didn't need to be a genius to know there are veins and arteries down there that Brenda is trying to sever. One wrong cut and I die, bleeding out onto the bathroom tile. Like hell am I going to let that happen. I throw my elbow back again, and this time it connects with Brenda's nose. There's a crunching sound, like I've just ground a twig beneath my foot. I don't look back to assess the damage I've done. Instead, I yank the door open as quickly as I can, yelping as the blade slides out of me.
Warm, thick liquid seeps from the wound and trickles down my thigh. I limp as quickly as I can toward the square of light that leads back into the Black Spade's main room. If I can get into the common area, Brenda can't finish what she started. There's no way Trent would allow something so public. It's one thing to have me killed in a bathroom, away from prying eyes. It's another to have a woman associated with him stick me in a public place.
Ryker is standing at the end of the hall, head bowed and eyes closed as he lounges against the wall. They snap open when I limp toward him, barefoot and panting. His eyes go wide in alarm as he takes me in.
"God, Cleo, what happened?"
I collapse into his arms, seizing the front of his shirt in white-knuckled hands. His strong arms gather me up at once, pressing me to the chiseled torso I've been dreaming about for ages.
"We need to go," I beg. "Please. Right now."
His eyes rove over me once more and this time he spots the streaks of blood that have pooled in the creases between my toes. His eyes go even wider, if it's possible.
"What happened?" he demands, and his voice rumbles through me. It's a dangerous sound, and as happy as I'd be to let him take this out on Trent's hide, I can't risk it right now.
"Please," I say, pulling myself closer. "Please, just take me away."
Ryker doesn't argue. He bends and sweeps my legs out from beneath me in one fluid movement, cradling me to his chest. We get a few odd looks as we head for the door, but the bloody wound is pressed tight to Ryker's shirt, and not visible to the average passersby. I feel a momentary pang of guilt for ruining his shirt. It had looked nice on him. Bloodstains so rarely wash out, as I have cause to know.
He barely pauses to retrieve our jackets when we reach the front doors.
"We need to get you to the hospital," he says. "I'll call an ambulance."
"No. Trent is probably waiting for that. We can't go."
"Cleo, there could be serious damage--"
"No."
"You shouldn't ride like this. At least let me call a cab--"
And let Brenda recover herself enough to call Trent and tell him she failed? Not likely.
"I'm fine. Please just take me home. You can treat this, can't you?"
He'd helped deliver my baby, for God's sake. Surely a few stitches were no big deal to him, right? If this wound was serious, I'd have passed out already.
I can see the internal struggle play out on his face. His medical training versus what he knows is true. He knows I'm right. Trent doubtless has contingency plans in place in case his girlfriend failed.
He finally drops his jacket into my arms and begins pulling off his shirt. The bloodstains hardly stand out against the deep red of the material. I stare at the rippling muscle of his chest, distracted from the pain in my leg for a moment. He's even nicer to look at than I imagined. The rain dews on his chest, running in tiny rivulets down his pectorals and into the grooves of his rock-hard abs. A trail of dark hair leads down into the vee just above his low-riding slacks. For just a moment I imagine what must be under the material, and it makes my mouth water.
He drops to his knees in front of me, shoving the material of my dress up so he can get a good look at the wound. My heart skitters wildly when his hands brace my thigh. I want them just a little higher, so he can feel just how much his touch affects me. He binds it around my leg. It's not tight enough to be considered a tourniquet, but it at least stops more blood from slopping down my leg.
He pulls his jacket on once more and leaves it hanging open for a second. He looks like he belongs on a catalogue for men's wear. I haven't been this affected by a man in well...ever. Not even Cruz. Certainly not with Damian.
"Come on," Ryker growls, though I know his frustration isn't aimed at me. This time. "Let's take this to your house. I don't think you want Cruz to see this just ye
t."
I nod. I don't want to explain this to Cruz. They can wait a few hours until this has been dealt with.
It hurts like a son of a bitch to sling my leg over the side of the bike. I seize Ryker around the waist, hands running along the curve of his abs. It's a struggle not to do more. Even through the pain, I want to touch every inch of him.
He wraps one hand around mine and squeezes tight before returning it to the handlebar. Then he guns the engine and sends us hurtling into the night.
10
Ryker
My blood is boiling by the time we reach Cleo's small apartment on Pine. I don't even bother to secure the bike beyond pulling it beneath her carport. I have far more pressing matters at the moment.
I scoop Cleo off the seat the moment we're stopped, pulling her tight against me. She's shivering, though if it’s from cold or fear, I can't tell. She slings her arms around my neck, hauling herself even closer to me. I pound up the stairs, releasing one hand from her back to jiggle the door open. The screen door always sticks.
The house is cold. Cleo had turned off the air after retrieving her things. No need to up the power bill. It'll be harder to tell if she's gone into shock this way.
I deposit her on the brown couch and order; "Stay."
I've been to Cleo's place often during her pregnancy. I know just where she keeps her aunt's old things. I'm counting on finding some needle and thread in the back. I take several tries to find what I'm looking for, and it takes another few minutes to find the first aid kit, alcohol, and cotton balls I need.
Cleo's face is ashen beneath the usual tawny cast of her skin.
"You're angry," she whispers.
"Fucking furious. But not at you. I need to get a good look at this, Cleo. Hang on."
There had been too much blood to get a good look at it before, which makes me leery of the choice to bring her here. She really needs a hospital and an actual doctor. When I unwrap the cut it's still oozing, but a swipe of gauze reveals it's not as deep as I first assumed. If her attacker had hit an artery, the wound would spurt blood. Even venous blood would run out faster than this. It's likely a superficial wound. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
It doesn’t mean this will hurt any less. I dig into the first aid kit and pull out a packet of ibuprofen. I rip it open with my teeth and offer it to her. The tablets tumble into her palm and she stares at them. "What's this?"
"Pain medication. This will hurt."
She goes paler, if that's even possible. She swallows the pills dry and makes a face before getting a grip on her couch cushion. Now, for the hard part.
I hold the thin needle up to the light and pull out my lighter. There are better ways to sterilize it, but we must settle for quick and dirty for the time being. I heat the needle and when I'm satisfied, swab it with alcohol, just to be sure. Then I guide the nylon thread into the needle and hold it up for her inspection. Cleo's swallow is audible.
"What are you doing?"
"Making sure this is clean. Less chance of infection later."
"Oh." The small gasp of sound makes me look up at her, and I offer her a forced smile.
"It won't be so bad. Hang on to the couch cushions. This shouldn't take too long."
I hold the puckered edges of the wound together and brace myself before piercing her perfect tawny skin. As expected, she draws in a sharp breath. I'm grateful she doesn't scream, though. I'm not sure if I can take it.
The wound takes six stitches to close. I tape sterile gauze over the wound to prevent any further oozing. Cleo's eyes are swimming with tears by the time I'm through. I sit up on my knees and cradle her face in my hands. I want to kiss her so badly I can taste it. Instead, I lean my forehead into hers.
"I'm going to fucking kill Trent," I mutter. "You have my word on that."
"You can't. I won't let you get hurt."
I chuckle. "Won't let me get hurt? Cleo, they almost skewered you. Like hell I will let them get away with it."
Only when the wound is closed, can I really take in the full picture. Cleo, sprawled on the couch, dress hiked up to her waist, exposing a very lacy pair of black panties. I want to hook a finger in her waistband, draw them off of her, and make her forget just what an ass I was at the Black Spade. I barely stop myself from skimming my finger up the toned expanse of thigh.
"I'll get you some clothes," I mutter. "I think I have some of my spare shirts here. That'll feel more comfortable than any of your maternity wear, I'm sure."
I'd stashed a few here during the late-night visits we'd had during her pregnancy. I find one crumpled in a pile of abandoned laundry. The collar smells just like her. The intoxicating cinnamon scent of her clinging to the fabric. Had she been wearing my shirts in my absence? Somehow the idea fills me with an odd sense of pride.
When I reach the living room, I toss the shirt onto her lap, preserving her sense of modesty, at least in theory. I've already gotten quite an eyeful, but I'm too much of a gentleman at heart to watch as she strips the dress all the way off. I know I won't be able to keep my hands off her if I see her in all her nude glory. So I keep my twitching fingers clasped tightly in front of me until she calls out to me.
"You can turn around now, Ryker. I'm decent."
I turn my head just a fraction to glance over my shoulder and find she's lying. She's indecent. In some ways, the shirt is almost worse than the dress. Her dress only hinted at what is on display now. She's swimming in my shirt, her collarbones exposed beneath the collar. Her neck is bare, her hair falling around it in waves. I want to test my teeth against that expanse of flesh, writing a claim into her bronzed skin.
Her long shapely legs are pulled up to her chest, and she clutches them like it could somehow protect her. I still get the barest flash of her panties beneath the white fabric of the shirt. The material clings in all the right places, as I didn't think to offer her a towel to dry off before tending to the wound. My throat goes dry, and words fail me.
"Cleo..." Is all I manage. I'm going to turn into a stuttering idiot. I need to find her some bottoms before this devolves any further. I swallow and ask the less pressing question on my mind. "How are you feeling?"
She shifts her weight on the couch, giving me another brief glance of panties, and the tantalizing curve of her ass. God, how I'd love to palm it, drag her hips first toward me so she can feel the hardness pressing against my fly. I'm going to do something about it before I bust a nut right here and now.
"I'm sore, but it's better than bleeding out I suppose. Your bedside manner is a little rusty, I think." She smiles, taking the sting out of the reprimand.
I chuckle. "I don't really have a call to use it much. Most of the people I pick up are in pretty bad shape. I leave it to the doctors to sort out. Did you want me to hold your hand or tell you a story while I was stitching you up?"
"It might have been an improvement."
There's a pause in her breathing, and her eyes dart down to the carpet in embarrassment. "Would you tell me a story now if I asked?"
"I suppose. What do you want to hear?"
I'll tell her goddamn anything to get her mind off the pain. Pain she's suffering because I didn't end Trent that day, I found them in the hallway. I knew he was up to something, and I should have dealt with it. Instead, I pussyfooted around until it was too late.
Her glossed lips part and she mouths for a few seconds before the words come, tumbling over themselves in her haste.
"I want to know who she is, Ryker. Maybe it's none of my business, but I want to know. I need to draw up some boundaries, so I no one gets hurt. I'm going to always be grateful for what you're doing for me. And when this whole thing blows over with Trent, I'll probably come to my senses. Just sate my morbid curiosity, please."
Her face is guarded, and she looks as if she's preparing for a blow. I can't help but stare at her, dumbstruck. How can she still not know, with my cock straining toward her? After the sensual dance we shared at the Black Spade? After all the hints I've
dropped? How can she have no concept of her self-worth?
I can answer my own question. It's fucking Damian's fault. He beat the confident, daring woman I'd met so long ago right out of her. If I could kill him twice, I would.
I drop to my knees in front of the couch, pull her legs apart so that I could nestle myself between them. Her skin blazes like an inferno against mine, as though we might combust if we touched any further. Too fucking bad. I need more. Her cinnamon scent swirls around me, and I'm powerless to stop myself. I don't care that Cruz holds sway in her heart. I need to taste her, just this once.
"I still can't believe you don't see the obvious," I say with a wry chuckle.
I place a gentle hand against one cheek. Her breath hitches but she doesn't pull away as I tilt her head just so and capture her lips with my own. They are every bit as soft as I imagined. I don't release her until I have to. Her breath is coming quickly when I pull back, her eyes wide with shock.
"I'm in love with you, Cleo. It's always been you. Always will be."
11
Cleo
My first thought is automatic, vehement denial. He can't be serious. He's playing with me. There's no way that he's in love with me. He will draw away any second now and tell me this was some sort of sick joke, and that he was just kidding around.
But his lips are soft and earnest against mine, coaxing me into a rhythm that is intoxicating. His lips are slightly chapped, but still soft and warm. I can't help but respond in kind, though my brain screams that this wrong and will only lead to heartbreak. It's been so long since I've been touched gently. Even when we were together in bed, Damian was rough. I don't think he ever had a gentle bone in his body. God knew what I'd ever seen in him.