Chapter 9 Definitely Not Playing Hero
Elias
The past week has been spent with her words echoing in my head.
Leave me alone.
I’m a respectful guy, so I’ve been doing that—or trying to.
Although giving her space isn’t the same as pretending she doesn’t exist. I still drive by when I’m on shift, checking in without actually checking in.
I slowly roll past the bay doors and glance in every time, making sure she’s okay and that no one’s dumb enough to mess with her.
I’ve also been running interference with Theo and Jax. Mostly Jax. The guy’s convinced all he needs to do is show up at her shop with a coffee and a grin and everything will snap back into place. Sometimes I think he lives on another planet.
Today, I’m halfway through eating a sad gas station sandwich when the call comes. “Rescue thirty-four. Respond to customer fall. Possible head injury at Iron Wheel Garage.”
Her garage.
My stomach drops at the thought of her being injured.
“Dispatch, show rescue thirty-four responding,” I answer, already tossing the wrapper and climbing back into the cab.
I hit the lights and sirens long enough to clear an intersection, then kill them a block out. No reason to give the whole street a show. Knowing her, she’d hate that.
When I pull in, the bay doors are open. The front lobby pane is still in its frame, but a spiderweb of cracks spreads across the lower half. The safety film seems to be the only thing holding it together. I start to panic, worried she fell and hit her head. I'm almost in a sprint when I see her.
She’s standing a few paces back with a rag in her hand, shoulders squared, face blank. Uninjured.
Relief hits so hard it almost makes me lightheaded.
My eyes drop to the guy on the mat a second later. He’s clutching his wrist, groaning too dramatically to be real.
“Dispatch, show rescue thirty-four on scene,” I call in, grabbing the jump bag and heading for the doorway.
The bell gives a tired little jingle when I step inside. “Afternoon,” I greet, keeping my tone professional. “Who’s injured?”
“Me,” the guy on the mat blurts, clutching his wrist like it might fall off without support. He cranks the volume up when he sees me. “She attacked me! Threw me into the glass. I think my wrist is broken. And my head, man. I blacked out.”
My eyes go to Raine automatically.
She doesn’t flinch. “I didn’t touch him,” she grits out, but that's all she says. No rambling, no arguing, just a simple statement that I believe wholeheartedly.
Things spiral from there. He accuses her, and she folds her arms in annoyance. I take his vitals, check his story. It’s all lies, it’s obvious, and thankfully, the dome camera Raine keeps over her counter should prove that.
“Rescue thirty-four, are you 10-4?” Dispatch radios, and I kick myself for forgetting to call patient contact. With a sigh I squeeze the radio.
“Dispatch, rescue thirty-four is 10-4. You can mark patient contact.”
I stabilize his wrist, check his pupils, and call in for a transfer since Manny is out sick today.
When they arrive, he picks his act right back up, groaning louder and clutching his wrist like he suddenly remembered it hurt. I give them the story and they load him up. Once they’re gone, it’s quiet, just Raine and me now. And I don’t plan to waste this opportunity.
“You okay?” I ask, turning back to her.
“Depends. What's okay to you?” she throws back, eyes on the broken pane.
“Not bleeding. Not concussed. Not about to throw me out.”
“That last one’s still on the table." She's always so prickly. She shifts the rag in her hand, and that’s when I see it, the dark patch of blood spreading through the fabric. It’s not a lot, but it's enough to get my attention.
“Let me see.” I nod at her hand, asking for permission just to be polite. There's no way I'm not going to look at that while I'm here.
“It’s fine.”
“Raine.” I throw her name out in warning, refusing to take no for an answer.
Her gaze cuts to mine, and I can see just how tired she is. She still doesn’t give me an outright no, so I step closer and hold out my palm. After a moment's thought, she drops the rag and lets me take her hand.
Her index finger has a clean slice across the pad, diagonal and deep enough to bother me. Blood beads along the line, bright red against her grease-stained skin. There’s a tiny glitter at the edge of it that I realize is glass.
“How'd it happen?” I ask, careful not to squeeze.
She shrugs. “When he ran at the door, I reached for him. I didn’t exactly want to watch some idiot headbutt the window. It cracked, something popped, and—” she nods at the cut “—souvenir.”
"He just ran for the door?" I ask, already pulling a saline vial and gauze from the bag. “This is going to sting,” I warn, because that’s what I do even when the person in front of me is as tough as her.
She huffs. “I let grown men try to knock me out for rent. I’ll live."
“Still have to say it,” I tell her, noting the way she avoided my question.
I wet the gauze and clean the cut, carefully, slowly.
Her hand is warm and solid in mine, almost too small.
Another sliver of glass is lodged in one edge, so I grab the tweezers and work it free, setting it on a wrapper.
It’s tiny, but it pisses me off all the same.
It shouldn't have happened in the first place.
I could kill that guy.
“Hold still,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.
I set a thin adhesive strip over the cut, pulling the skin together.
Then I wrap a narrow band of cohesive over it to keep it from catching, smoothing it with my thumb.
My hand moves on autopilot. The rest of me is very aware of how close she is, how her breath stutters once before she gets it back under control.
“Try not to punch anyone with that hand for a day.”
“Can’t make promises I can’t keep.” She smirks, all cheeky like, and I can't help the way my lips tug to the side.
“Use the other one,” I counter.
That gets me the edge of a real smile.
I let her hand go, but the warmth lingers against my palm. I clear my throat, irritated with my own reaction, and nod toward the broken glass. “Did he say anything before he went for the door?”
Her eyes move to the window, then to the street beyond. “Yeah. Nothing worth repeating.”
My shoulders tighten again. “Nothing, huh?”
“Yeah.” Her mouth twists. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m already worrying about it. A guy walks in here, hurts himself on purpose, and screams assault. That's not normal. That feels targeted.”
“Look, it doesn’t involve you, so don't worry about it.”
“It involves me today,” I shoot back. “I got called here.”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s flimsy. “I didn't call you.”
“You know it’s okay to ask for help, right?” I take a step closer, not enough to crowd but enough that she feels me near.
“I don’t need it.” She folds her arms tight, stubborn as all hell. “I’ve been handling it just fine.”
“Sure. Looks great. Broken window, fake assault, glass in your hand. Five stars. Very handled.”
Her glare grows into something fierce. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me what I’m missing. Because this?” I nod at the pane. “This doesn’t look right.”
She doesn’t react, just goes very, very still, which tells me more than she'd probably like me to know.
I take another step. “Tell me what's going on. Who's trying to mess with you?”
She looks away, jaw locked, and the silence stretches for a few more seconds.
“Last week,” I add, “at the fight, after you talked to the two guys in suits, I saw how panicked you looked, Raine.”
She avoids my eyes, suddenly a bit too fidgety. "When we asked about it, you freaked out. You asked for space. But I'm done giving it to you, Raine. So tell me who they were.”
“I said I’ve got it handled.”
“And I’m saying you don’t.” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “You’re bleeding, your window’s cracked, and someone is trying to get you into trouble. That’s not ‘handled.’”
Her tone sharpens. “It’s my shop. My mess. Not yours. Not Theo’s. Not Jax’s. I’m not dragging anyone else into it.”
There it is. The real reason she pushed us away.
“And how’s that working out for you?” I ask.
Her mouth flattens. “Just fine. I’m still standing.”
“Yeah. Barely. And for the record? You don’t get to make that decision for us.”
Her eyes flash. “Watch me.”
I’m done.
Whatever line I drew a week ago about respecting her space doesn't exist anymore. I step in close, closer than I ever have, but I don’t grab her. I just keep walking until she instinctively backs up, step for step.
She hits the workbench behind her, the edge catching the back of her thighs.
I plant my left hand on the scarred wood beside her hip, caging her in without actually touching her.
We’re eye to eye now. Close enough I can feel her breath from each uneven exhale.
Close enough that if I leaned in an inch, my mouth would brush her cheek.
Her eyes widen, just a fraction. Not fear, never in fear. It's more like shock.
“Elias,” she admonishes.
I lift my right hand, slow enough she can see it coming, and set my thumb along the line of her jaw, fingers resting lightly beneath her ear. It's not tight, just guiding. I tip her face up, making sure she can’t stare past me at the broken glass.
“Look at me.” I keep my voice low. “I’m not asking again.”
Her breath catches.
This isn’t the medic who makes dumb jokes to calm drunk college kids. This isn’t the guy who texts dad warnings in the group chat. This is the part of me that shows up when someone I care about isn't making good choices. When they're hurt or in danger.
Her gaze locks onto mine.
“The men at that fight,” I start, ready to get some real answers. “Who were they?”
“You don’t—”
“Who,” I repeat, letting my fingers press just enough to remind her they’re there, not enough to hurt. Never to hurt. “Were they?”
She tries to look away, but I don't let her.
“Elias, drop it.”