Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
S triker…
I heard most, if not all, of what she told the cops out of the cracked bedroom window. I’d cracked it carefully and as quietly as possible to hear what I could of their conversation. I had to say – Rarity did me another solid, you know, aside from keeping my ass from getting shot. She kept me hidden, made up some bullshit on the fly about me bailing out of her Jeep around the corner at the first stoplight.
I could deal with that. It was smart.
You did a Royal Bastard a solid, let alone the few that she’d already done me, and you had a friend for life.
My phone buzzed as she came back in the front door, and I answered.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Renegade said.
“You at the jail?” I asked.
“Lawyers on their way?” he asked by way of confirmation.
“Yeah, should be there any minute,” I told him.
“Good. They ain’t got shit on us, but you know this is liable to be an all-night thing.”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I told him. “I’ll be there first thing with transport.”
“They’re impounding the bikes,” he said.
“Figured that,” I told him.
“Where you at?” he demanded.
I told him, knowing full well the line was being recorded, “Someplace safe. I’m good, P. Let the lawyers do their thing and give ‘em hell.”
“Right,” he said. “I’m getting looks. They took the Scorpions left standing to the county lockup. We’re in city lockup for Ormond Beach.”
“Smart,” I said.
“Certainly wasn’t dumb,” he said with a chuckle.
“Any of our boys hurt bad?” I asked.
“Cuts and bruises mostly,” he said. “Nothing super serious for either Jacksonville or Ocala. They took Enigma and Switch to the hospital. Switch has something broken in his hand or arm. I didn’t get a clear answer on that. Enigma was out cold, so they took his unconscious ass for scans to make sure he didn’t lose too many brain cells. I saw it happen. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be fine.”
“Good, good,” I said.
“We’ll see if they turn up here or if they turn them loose directly from the hospital.”
“Okay,” I said.
There was an indistinct voice on the other end of the line, and Renegade grunted. “That’s my cue. Gotta go.”
“Talk at you later,” I said, and the line went dead.
I brought my head up at the sound of inconsolable weeping from out the way that I had to presume was the living room, and I worried for a minute that it was Rarity.
“You’re my firstborn and my only girl!” came a raised voice. “Of course, I worry!”
“I know, I know!” I heard from the door across from Rarity’s bed and guessed that she had to be in the kitchen or something. A guess that was confirmed by the kitchen tap turning on and then off.
Shit.
I wanted to talk to her and find out what the plan was on her end, but I couldn’t do shit about fuck without diming her and myself out. She’d earned not only my respect but my patience and silence as well.
I pulled the washcloth away from my stomach and looked. I was still bleeding, but it had slowed considerably. While I didn’t have access to anyone who could suture the wound, I could get by with some butterfly stitches or super glue to hold shit together.
I went back into the bathroom and slowly, carefully, and quietly opened up the first-aid kit to see what I had access to – no glue, but gauze, disinfectant, and a shit ton of band-aids. There was antibiotic ointment, burn cream, a chemical ice pack, a chemical hot pack, and BINGO … butterfly bandages.
It was hard as fuck staying quiet and standing far enough back from the mirror and yet close enough to see what the fuck I was doing.
There was no real sweet spot to do both, and it made for a difficult time using one hand to pinch the edges of the wound that gaped the most together while I used the other to affix a bandage and get it tight enough to actually be fuckin’ useful.
I have no idea how long I was at it or how many I wasted trying to get it right.
The women’s voices outside the bathroom door shifted from the living room to the kitchen while I worked, trying to concentrate, and eventually, she came in her bedroom door while I edged further into the bathroom, waiting on her.
“Yeah, Mom?” she called over her shoulder, looking past the open door across to what I had to presume was another.
“I love you, too,” she said in response to whatever her mother said, but I couldn’t make it out.
She came fully into her room and closed the door, her shoulders dropping and her breath coming harshly as she threw the tiny tab of a lock on the inside of the doorknob.
“Help me with this, would you?” I asked.
She turned to me and said, “Yeah, sorry.”
“All good,” I said.
She frowned and said, “Come lay down so I can do this. There’s no way am I getting on my knees.”
I snorted softly. “Afraid I’d bust out the sexual innuendo?” I asked.
“No, the tile is cold and hard.” She rolled her eyes.
I fought not to laugh and told her, “Don’t make me laugh. It’s pulling.”
“Sorry,” she said.
I came into the room and sat down, the towel riding low on my hips, gaping dangerously as I swung my legs up. She pulled the bottom sheet up over me and said, “I’ve never used these before.”
“They’re easy. Just do your best to get one side affixed, pull the wound together, and strap down the other side so it holds things close,” I told her.
“God, that sounds like it’s going to hurt,” she said and looked a little green around her gills. She’d taken down her hair, and the towel was gone, but her hair was still damp, falling in snaking locks around her face. My little mermaid… the thought came to me unbidden, and I shoved it away. Still, right on the heels of that, I thought, I guess that makes her green around her mermaid gills.
“I am so sorry!” she hissed when I coughed to try and cover my laugh at my own joke.
Ah, shit, she thinks she hurt you, dumbass!
“All good,” I said. “Just keep going and get ‘er done.”
She smirked and asked, “Just how old are you?”
I grinned and said, “Probably old enough to be your daddy.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “I’m twenty-four, so I’m betting not.”
“I’m forty-two, so I say it’s possible.”
She blinked at me, bewildered, and said, “There is no way you’re forty- anything .”
I chuckled and asked, “Aw yeah? What makes you say that?”
We both froze as we heard a sound in the kitchen, and I pointed to the television mounted to her wall. She leaned closer, picked up the remote off the nightstand, and turned it on for noise. She quickly scrolled through streaming services, landed on some educational one, and turned on some true crime.
“Never understood women’s obsession with true crime,” I muttered and she looked at me bewildered again and blinked.
“It’s so we don’t become victims ourselves,” she said, and I raised an eyebrow.
“You won’t catch a true crime girly falling for a dude with his arm in a cast asking for help – the wounded bird shtick was so Bundy and nope, nope, nope – not falling for that .”
“But you’ll pick up a Royal Bastard, help him hide from the cops, and doctor him up in your bedroom?” I raised my eyebrows, a slow grin overtaking my lips.
“That’s different,” she said, rolling her eyes. I tried to keep my laughter silent.
“Hold still!” she chastised me in a harsh whisper.
“Make it make sense,” I shot back.
“Are you a rapist piece of shit?” she asked, giving me a baleful look.
“No!” I answered quickly without thinking.
“Well, okay, then. I guess we’re good.” She had a faint smile on her lips, and I was officially mollified.
“You’re something else,” I said and let it shine in my tone that I was duly impressed. Her smile flexed in response before she could hide it at the praise, and that made mine flex in return.
“There,” she said with finality and leaned back. “I think that’s as good as it’s going to get.”
“Thanks,” I said softly.
“My name’s Zach. Zachary Carlin. Everybody calls me Striker, though.”
“Rarity Mitchell,” she said, holding out her hand to shake. I took it, and her grasp was light but firm. “Everybody calls me Rarity, or just Rare.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Rarity. I gotta ask. How did you get a name like that?”
“How did you get Striker?” she asked in return.
“Okay, Touché, but working at the Iron Horse, you should know the rules on that.”
She smiled a bit coyly and said, “I’m a dumb blonde twenty-something. Depends on the day and the crowd.”
I chuckled at that and said, “You got me there.”
“So?”
“A couple reasons,” I said. “One, I’m a trick shot.” Her eyebrows went up.
“What like an Annie Oakley type of trick shot?” she asked.
“You know your history, and yeah. I can shoot the face off a quarter spinning in the air, or take out the spade in the middle of the ace of spades at a hundred paces. Shit like that.”
“You said two reasons,” she said. “What’s the other?”
“I used to serve in a Stryker Brigade when I was in-country,” I said.
She frowned, perplexed. “You mean out of the country, right? Like, you served over there. ”
I nodded and told her, “Except in the military, we call it ‘in-country’ when we’re over there – as in ‘in the other country’ away from ours.”
“Okaaaay,” she said, drawing out the word.
“So… Rarity?” I asked, and she shifted on her shapely ass on the edge of her bed. She had something like forty-nine hundred pillows like some girls liked to do, and I was comfortably propped up looking at her.
“My mom and dad were having hardcore fertility issues when they were trying to get pregnant with me. They were doing IVF and the whole nine yards. The doctors told them I was, for sure, going to be the only one if they managed to get me to term. My mom decided, since I was going to be such a rarity, that the name fit.”
“So, are those your boys that you referenced your mom putting to bed?” I asked curiously.
“What? No!” She laughed a little. “They’re my brothers. Triplets. Identical – it was wild. When I was nineteen, Mom got pregnant with them and wasn’t even trying.” A shadow crossed her face. “My dad never even got to meet them. He died before they were born.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, reaching out and taking her hand off her knee, smoothing my thumb over the back of it.
“Thanks,” she said. “That was a little over four years ago.” She sniffed. “We miss him every day.”
“I bet,” I murmured.
“Anyway, I drive his Jeep now. It’s paid for so…” she shrugged.
I said, “That’s cool.”
We lapsed into an awkward silence, and I squeezed her hand when her deep blue eyes lapsed into a sightless stare. I didn’t want her to retreat into bad memories. I knew a thing or three about that… and so I squeezed twice to bring her back. She looked at me solemnly.
“He’d be proud of you, you know?” I asked.
“What?”
She frowned, and I told her, “For keeping your cool back there. You were braver than some soldiers I know.”
“No.” She looked like she didn’t believe me.
“Yes ,” I insisted.
“He’d probably be pissed I was even there,” she said, trying to play things off, and I shook my head.
“Well, yeah, that too, but being proud and pissed aren’t mutually exclusive to one another.”
She giggled lightly.
“How about this?” I asked. “ I’m proud of you and grateful. You really saved my ass back there. Kept me from getting shot . You got some brass ovaries, girl. I’ve seen grown-ass men fall the fuck apart under less pressure than being unarmed during a live fire incident.”
She blushed prettily and sounded a bit awed when she asked me softly, “Really?”
“Really,” I whispered, raising her hand to my lips and kissing the backs of her fingers. She turned a deep, deep red from the pretty pink she’d been initially, and simply stared at me wide-eyed.
“I can sleep on the floor,” I said after a moment, and her face contorted into one that said she’d heard something utterly absurd.
“Move your big ass over,” she said. “Stay under the sheet. I’ll sleep on top of it.”
“Nice compromise,” I said, but it was still a pretty tight fit. She only had a full-sized bed, not even a queen.