Hit&Run

by Freya Barker

  “You don’t have to go.”

  In two steps, I’m by the bed, any and all resolve easily forgotten as I slide in beside her. She easily molds herself against my side, her arm anchored around my stomach and her head tucked under my chin. Working hard to ignore certain insistent parts of my anatomy, I tilt my head down, press a kiss in her hair, and wrap her tightly in my arms.

  I can’t remember anything else until the faint sound of a phone ringing wakes me around seven in the morning. Grudgingly, I untangle myself from Rosie, who wrapped herself around me like an octopus and seems oblivious to the ringing. By the time I get to the living room, the sound has stopped, but starts up again as I locate my phone, which I left sitting in the charger on the kitchen counter. I snatch it up and answer.

  “Mr. Hutchinson?” The voice on the other side is tentative, and I don’t blame them; I may have grunted when I answered. I clear my throat and try again.

  “This is he.”

  “Ah...this is Bergland, Grand Junction PD? I’m sorry I missed your calls yesterday, but I was out most of the day. I’m used to dealing with Ms. Graves, it took me a minute to figure out you were calling from PASS.”

  “That’s right,” I confirm curtly, not hiding the fact I’m not thrilled with a call at barely seven in the morning. Clearly Officer Bergland likes to have the upper hand. Trying to keep my voice down, I explain the film crew will be shooting in McInnis over the next few weeks, and we were merely notifying as a courtesy.

  “That might be a problem,” he says. “We’ve just received a report from the lab on some forensic evidence that was found at the scene. Some new questions have come up that suggest we may need to have a closer look at a few of your people.”

  “If there’s anything I can help you with, I’m sure I can relay any questions you have to the appropriate people. Unless you prefer to wait until they return? That should be in a week or two.”

  “I’ll need a list of all vehicles associated with the production,” he presses on. “Your security fleet, trailers, support vehicles, limos, and any personal vehicles belonging to staff. Make, model, color, and year.”

  “I’ll do my best to get that to you as fast as possible.” I don’t make any promises as to how fast, because given this bit of information; I have some clean up to do in a goddamn hurry.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.” He sounds less than impressed, but I don’t give a fuck. I understand it’s important to stay on the good side of the local cops, especially now, but diplomacy has never been my strong suit.

  “And I’m telling you that’s the best you’re gonna get.”

  I end the call and toss my phone on the counter. I’m in need of some very strong fucking coffee.

  “Is that the hospital?”

  I turn around at the sound of her raspy voice. Her eyes are worried as she comes shuffling into the kitchen, her hair in wild tangles around her pale face.

  “No, honey.” The endearment almost slips unnoticed from my lips. “It was work. Sorry if it woke you.”

  Still half asleep, and likely without much conscious thought, she once again walks right up to me, pressing her face in my chest, and slipping her arms around my waist. The anger I had buzzing under my skin disappears at her touch.

  Pulling her close is fast becoming a habit.

  ROSIE

  He smells good. Like man and soap.

  Feels good too. Warm, a little fuzzy, and solid, but not uncomfortably ripped. I mean uncomfortable in the sense I’d be uncomfortable if he were too perfect. Although, as I was able to ascertain last night, despite the minimal light, his ass is a picture of perfection.

  I’m not sure why it is I throw myself at him all the time. Men like him used to intimidate me. They still do. Yet despite the fact Jake is sometime bristly and mostly confusing—not to mention self-admittedly deceitful—I find safety and comfort in his arms. Like when Dad was alive.

  Oh crap! Don’t tell me I have unresolved daddy issues? Clearly I haven’t been hugged enough since he passed away, and Mom was never one for physical demonstrations. Mom! I can’t believe I almost forgot.

  “You didn’t hear anything?” I ask, pushing out of his embrace abruptly to look for my purse.

  “On the couch,” he says dryly, easily reading the random twists of my mind. “Want some coffee?”

  It isn’t until I fish my phone from my purse, dial the hospital, and wait to be connected to the ICU desk, that I take a second to appreciate a scantily clad Jake putzing around his kitchen. Wearing only boxers. Sure, I just had my face planted between his pecs and my hands on his strong back, but still groggy, I never quite got a decent visual.

  “Ms. Perkins, are you there?” The disembodied voice is almost yelling to get my attention.

  “Gosh, yes. I’m so sorry; I’m still half asleep. How is my mother?” I ramble, lying through my teeth. Something that apparently doesn’t go unnoticed, since half-naked Jake catches me ogling him, and smirks. I quickly swing around and focus my eyes out the window.

  “Stable. She made it through the night without issues. This morning we’re slowly letting her wake up for some tests the doctor would like to run.”

  “Will I be able to see her?”

  “After the noon hour is best. We may have a better idea of what we’re dealing with by then.”

  I thank her, hang up, and shoot off a quick message to Grant, who may still be asleep, to see how he’s feeling today. I’m just reading his response—Stopped puking blood, that’s good, right?—when Jake walks up and hands me a mug.

  “Just cream?” he asks, and I just nod. I’ll drink coffee any damn way he thinks I take it, as long as he serves it to me wearing next to nothing. Or nothing—whatever works.

  “They’re doing tests on Mom this morning and Grant’s puking blood.” One of Jake’s eyebrows lifts up when that random message comes flying from my mouth. To illustrate, I flip around my phone and show him Grant’s message. “I should probably call him.”

  “You do that,” Jake suggests, “and I’ll get some clothes on.”

  “Okay.”

  I wait for him to turn and walk away so I can admire his rear assets in daylight, but he stays standing there, looking down on me.

  “Morning, Rosie,” he rumbles in a low voice as he tags me with a hand on my neck and pulls me close.

  “Morning...” I manage whispering, but already his mouth is on mine in a gentle, deliciously lazy kiss with soft lips and subtle heat. “...Jake,” I finish when he finally breaks away, and I watch, a dopey smile on my face, as he turns and walks out of the room.

  By the time he’s dressed and back, I have assured myself Grant is still alive and going in to see a doctor today. I am on my second cup of coffee, and I have French toast cooking on the stove. The man has oatmeal and powdered coffee creamer in his cupboard, three eggs and half a jar of mustard in his fridge, and three and a half loaves of bread and what looks to be half a cow in his freezer. French toast was the only legit option.

  “I was going to take you for breakfast,” he says as he walks into the kitchen. “But this works for me too.”

  “Where is my car?” I ask, as I slide a few pieces on a plate and set it in front of him.

  “Left it in the parking lot at the hotel,” he says, half a piece of toast already in his mouth.

  “I’ll need it, if you could drop me off there after? I should probably use this morning to go home to grab Mom’s insurance stuff and start looking for a care facility for her.”

  Not a task I’m particularly looking forward to, mainly because I’m also planning to have a long good look at our finances. Once I’ve paid the deductible on Mom’s insurance, I know there will be just crumbs left in that account. I also have to prepare for the worst-case scenario, should she not make it. I remember from when my father died, they had a special insurance policy that covers expenses should one of them pass away. I just don’t know whether that would still be sufficient today, twenty-some
years later. Now I feel a bit stupid that I’ve never really checked that policy before, I kind of assumed it would cover any needs when the time came. Well, that time could be here, I’m already on very thin financial ice, and the last thing I need is to be unprepared for an expense that is sure to come up. If not now, then at some point in the not so distant future.

  All in all, I have a fun morning ahead of me, but it’s better than twiddling my thumbs in a hospital waiting room.

  “I can do that,” Jake responds. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of downtown anyway.”

  “YOU NEED SOME NEW WHEELS. That, is a crap car.”

  I turn on Jake, who is leaning out of the window of his fancy truck, eyeing my PT. Sure, it’s a piece of shit, but it’s my piece of shit. I’m the only one who gets to make fun of it.

  “I also need a vacation in Maui, a new Eileen Fisher wardrobe, the legs of a five foot ten woman, and an ungodly amount of liposuction, but that’s also not going to happen, because I have a mother I need to find a decent home for.”

  With a closing huff to my mini rant, I focus on unlocking my car with the key, since the remote locks for some reason aren’t working.

  “Who is Eileen Fisher?”

  I turn an angry glare on him as I finally wrestle open my obstinate car door.

  “Really? That’s what you got out of that?” Shaking my head, I slip behind the wheel, but just before I slam the door shut, I make the mistake of glancing over and spot the half grin on his face.

  Rude.

  CHAPTER 11

  JAKE

  I’m still smiling when I pull up to the run-down looking building housing Brick’s Rod Body Shop.

  The quiet, hardworking Rosie may have caught my attention, but this feisty and passionate version I’m getting to know, is holding it.

  Brick—his real name is Ernest Paver—is a friend of the Mazur brothers. A massive man almost as wide as he is tall, with a loud booming laugh, and a ready smile, but don’t let that fool you. Underneath that jovial exterior, he is definitely someone to reckon with, both in terms of his high quality work and his questionable associations.

  It’s one of the reasons Yanis likes him looking after our fleet; Brick has no issues straddling or even overstepping the law. A man like Brick lives by his own sense of justice, and being part of the local chapter of an influential MC in town, he’s a man you want on your side.

  “Someone got laid,” he booms from the open bay, where he’s working on what looks like a 1969 GTO in rough condition.

  “Not that lucky,” I return, grinning as I walk up to him, adding as an afterthought, “yet. I’m working on it.” Brick seems to find this hilarious.

  “Losing your touch?”

  “Don’t think I ever had one,” I admit, slapping my hand in the shovel-sized one he’s holding out.

  “Good-looking fellah like yourself?”

  “Jesus, Brick—don’t be saying shit like that holding my hand.” I pull out of his hold as he cracks up again.

  “What can I do you for?” he asks, finally turning serious. “You here for that Lexus?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Cop by the name of Bergland called a few days ago, looking for any cars with damage to the front end dropped here in the past week or so.” Brick shrugs his massive shoulders. “Course I explained to him I build hot rods—specialty cars—I don’t waste my time on run-of-the-mill body work.”

  That’s the beauty of having someone like Brick on the payroll. He’s able to sneak in all kinds of aftermarket upgrades on our cars, which are not always legal. On the flip side, we provide him with a regular paycheck for easy, but steady maintenance work, so he can work the rest of the time on his designs.

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it. You want that ride to disappear? Body work is done, I have it in the back under a tarp waitin’ for ya, but you may not want it back.”

  “Thought about that,” I admit. “But I think it might create problems down the road.” Truth is, there are too many people who might have seen Steele with his sporty ride and having it suddenly disappear might raise more questions. I don’t need to share all this with Brick. I’m sure he can guess. “I’m thinking a paint job,” I say instead. “Something close in color but not the same. Something close enough, it would be hard to see from a distance.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. When do you need it by?”

  “Two weeks enough time?”

  “Doable,” he answers, clapping me on the shoulder. “Give you a call?”

  “Please. And thanks.” I shake his hand and start walking toward my truck when he calls after me.

  “Hey, handsome! Lose the scowl, you may get lucky!”

  “Kiss my ass!” I yell over my shoulder, making him laugh harder.

  “Don’t you wish!”

  AFTER A QUICK STOP to check in with the two guards we left at the warehouse, I’m ready to head up to the office, but give Rosie a quick call first.

  “Where are you?” I ask when she answers the phone.

  “At home. Pulling my hair out.”

  “What do you need me to do?” The urge to jump in and fix whatever shit she’s dealing with is strong, but I doubt it’ll be welcome.

  “Nothing,” she quickly responds, confirming my thoughts. “Just stuff I’ve got to sort out myself.”

  “You sure? I’m about to head to the office, but I can easily swing by.”

  “I’m good. I’m heading to the hospital shortly anyway.”

  “Okay. Stay in touch.”

  It’s quiet on the other side and I’m starting to wonder if she’s hung up on me.

  “I’m setting up appointments to see a few homes later this afternoon, so I’ll be out and about,” she finally says. I’m not quite sure, but it feels like she’s trying to shut me down. I wonder what happened between this morning and now, but I can venture a guess.

  “That’s fine,” I casually respond, not about to be sidelined. “Just call when you’re done.”

  Another pause, and then, “I’ll probably just come back here after and do some more work.”

  Most definitely cutting me out.

  A few days ago, maybe even as recently as yesterday, I might’ve let her, but after waking up with her body tangled with mine, and her scent imprinted on me...I don’t think so.

  “Sounds good. Talk later.” Fully intending to make that sooner than later when I show up at her place with takeout tonight.

  “Yeah, later,” she replies, ending the call, but I don’t miss the slightly wistful tone to her voice.

  PLANS CHANGE.

  “I was just about to call you,” Radar says when I walk in the office. “Got a call from DDI. They need a security detail for a few of their engineers heading to Bolivia.”

  DDI is one of our regulars, an engineering company that specializes in mining. With projects all over the world, their engineers sometimes work in less than friendly environments, necessitating security. That’s where we come in.

  “Didn’t they finish that project last year? Or is this a different one?” I ask, dropping down on a seat across from him.

  “Same one. One of the shafts collapsed early this morning. Twelve miners buried. The locals are pissed and the handful of police has better things to do than crowd control. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

  “Jesus, what a clusterfuck. We’ve got just about all our guys tied up in McInnis,” I complain.

  “Already talked to Yanis.” Radar tosses a pad with scribbled notes across the desk to me. “He says to take the two guys we have downtown. You’ll need the muscle. I’ve already put a call in to the temp agency to get a couple of bodies to cover the warehouse.” He points at the notes I’m reading. “Those are your travel details, and any pertinent names and numbers you might need.”

  Last thing I want now is to head to fucking Bolivia to babysit a couple of suits and protect them from a volatile mob. Doesn’t sound like it’ll be a quick trip either. �
�Do we have a timeline?”

  “In and out, from what I understand. Two, three days tops.”

  Luckily, I always carry a bag with extra clothes and toothbrush in the back of the truck. I grab what I need from the office, and toss it in the back as well.

  I don’t feel good about leaving Rosie, but I don’t really have a choice. I briefly contemplate calling her back, but then have a better idea.

  “Can you get me a number for Grant Peabody?” I ask Radar, who takes all of two seconds to produce it for me.

  “Grant. It’s Jake,” I start when he answers. “I need a favor.”

  “Anything for you, sugar,” he purrs, which I try to ignore.

  “It’s about Rosie.”

  “Spoilsport,” he pouts audibly.

  “Something came up and I’m going to be out of town for a few days. Could you check up on her?”

  “Was in the plans already, my man,” he says, changing his tone. “But pleased to know you’re not just looking to use her up and toss her like yesterday’s garbage, like that other guy did. No worries, I’ve got our Rosie covered.”

  An interesting bit of insight about her I’m filing away for when I get back and have time to explore. Right now I have a plane to catch.

  ROSIE

  It’s overwhelming.

  Having everything laid out in front of me on the kitchen table, it is almost paralyzing how dire our situation is. Not exactly news to me, but finding the old funeral policy in Mom’s name totals a mere $1,500.00 is enough for me to want to throw in the towel. Not that it’s even an option, because the situation is what it is and needs to be dealt with.

  How ironic not only Mom’s care while alive, but also Mom’s care should she die are equally unaffordable.

  There’s really only one solution I can see; sell the trailer. Mom’s house. The place she and Dad lived, the house I was born and raised in, the house she insisted on keeping since she wanted to stay close to Dad after he died.