Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RATTLER
For the next few hours, we both stayed glued to the motorcycle drama, finishing season one, then starting the next. Ames had popped into the kitchen from time to time, but even then, she’d kept poking her head around the door as if worried she might miss something.
I had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t so focused on the club intrigue—which was laughable—or the bikes but rather was more interested in the bikers themselves. It didn’t bother me. It kept her quiet.
She’d kept the beers coming, which unfortunately had an effect I should have foreseen.
I needed to piss. Badly. With nothing else for it, snarling in embarrassment, I’d had to ask for her help, unable now even to wear the unzipped boot due to the swelling of my ankle.
I had to resort to leaning heavily and hopping as she helped me out to the bathroom shack.
To her credit, she just got on with it as if it were a normal everyday occurrence and didn’t take the opportunity to tease me about how I’d only fallen because of my fucking boots.
We ate her pot roast, and it tasted just as good as the aromas that had been escaping from the kitchen suggested. Then we’d gone back to watch another season.
I had more beer, and she’d drunk wine. Then it was time for bed, and another torturous trip to the outside facilities. When we’re both back inside, after once again making up my bed for me, she’d disappeared upstairs.
Surprisingly, I’d fallen quickly asleep but had a fucking nightmare. Ames and I were married for real. I woke up just as she was spitting out a kid, and shock, horror, it was fully grown and looked just like me. What the fuck? There’s no way I can go back to sleep.
Moments later, I heard her clomping down the awkward stairs, greeting me as she reached the bottom with, “How’s the ankle?”
She’s appeared, all glowing and bouncy. Fuck, I hate morning people. “Fine,” I snarl.
“Can you put your weight on it?”
First, I eye it. Even the numerous poultices of frozen peas hadn’t helped much. If anything, the swelling looks worse than it did last night. It’s also a rather unpleasant shade of purple. Cautiously, I place it on the floor and see if I can stand. It fucking hurts.
She pulls out something. “I, er, looked in the first aid kit and found a bandage. Do you want me to wrap your ankle? It might help.”
“You know what you’re doing?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
She sighs. “Malachi once knocked me down the stairs, and I sprained my ankle. So yes, I know what to do.”
I rest back on my makeshift bed. “Do your worst.”
Surprisingly gently, she wraps the elastic bandage around my foot, then fastens it somehow.
This time, when I try to put a little weight on it, it holds.
I know I’m not going to be able to put my boot on over the swelling and the binding.
But once again, I need to pee. I wave off her help as I take myself out, barefoot, limping heavily, and watching the ground carefully. At least, I’m somewhat mobile again.
When I come back inside, she goes to make use of the facilities. I manage to hop around and get coffee started.
It’s after we’ve eaten a delicious breakfast that my phone rings. Seeing it’s Bullseye, I hop/limp out the front door to answer it.
“What’s up, Prez?”
“She still breathing?” he asks, without preamble.
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “Thought I’d have throttled her by now. But she’s actually a good fuckin’ cook.”
“Good choice for a wife then.”
I growl. That’s a step too far even for him. “Ain’t fuckin’ married except for that piece of civilian paper. And Pippa can probably wipe that from the records when the time comes.”
He laughs loudly. “Betting pool on here as to how long it will take for you to go stir-crazy and fuck her.”
“Make that never. Don’t want to get anywhere near that snatch.” I think for a second. “Hey, do I get conjugal rights or something? Can you smuggle Star up here before I get blue balls?”
“Conjugal means fuckin’ your wife,” he explains patiently as if speaking to a child.
“Not going to fuckin’ happen,” I snarl.
“Well, if it looks likely, give me a heads-up, will ya? I’ve yet to place my bet.”
I snort. “Insider fuckin’ trading?”
“Hey, I’m the prez. Surely that gives me some rights.”
He’s fucking with me. He’s a damn good prez. He’d never use intel to one-up the brothers. Or would he? Could it win me points? “If I ever get blind drunk and desperate enough to consider placing my dick in that hole, then I’ll let you know.” I grow serious. “Any closer to finding Stone?”
He sobers. “Got feelers out. And your marriage got a byline in the local paper. ‘Heiress marries’. Should get his attention. So far, Genie and Pippa haven’t gotten word he’s in town.
He seems to have disappeared. Can’t fuckin’ understand it as he came so close to flushing her out at Royals.
” He breaks off to sigh. “Can’t rule out that he’s left some men in town, but at least they won’t find hide nor hair of her.
And there’s a chance he’s pulled back to regroup.
But promise you this. As soon as we locate him, we’ll tell you, Rat. For now, you’ve just got to sit tight.”
I voice my greatest hope. “What if he’s found some other way to repay the Bratva?”
“Can’t see how. A multi-thousand-dollar amount isn’t easy to scrounge up or loan as Stone appears to be broke. And, Rat? You know what you signed up for. We knew this wasn’t going to be an easy or quick fix.”
Sucking in air, I breathe out a heavy sigh. “You’re not the one stuck here with her.”
“Yeah, I hear you, Bro. Appreciate you doing this. But don’t forget you also stand to gain. Why don’t you just concentrate on how you’ll spend your million?”
“Eye on the prize, eh, Prez?”
“Always.” He ends the call.
I go back inside, unable to believe this is only our second full day, and that we could be stuck here for months.
It already feels like I’ve been here forever.
Might not be so bad if I had a different companion.
One of the club girls would come in very handy right now.
Since getting my patch, I don’t think I’ve gone more than a couple of days without getting my dick wet.
Though I have to admit, Ames does have a few good points. She can cook, for a start. She fixed me a bed that I wouldn’t have thought of, half-carried me down the mountain yesterday, and doctored my ankle. Icing it certainly helped, and that bandage at least allows me to put some weight on it.
I still when I suddenly realise, she’s nowhere in sight.
She wouldn’t have gone out without telling me, would she?
If she has, I’m going to spank that ass raw.
There’s no way I can run up the mountain after her.
If I couldn’t keep up with her yesterday with two working feet, I’d have a cat’s chance in hell of catching her now.
Just when I start swearing and prepare to go out looking anyway, she appears. Her reddened face and the towel she’s still working over her hair betray that she’s just had a shower.
Her hand pauses mid-rub. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
She shrugs. “You look like you want to kill someone.” Then, she dismisses the topic and instead brightens. “I found something in the cabinet in the mud room that might help you to be more mobile. I left them out.”
Intrigued, I move past her to see what she means. In the middle of the mud room floor is a pair of rubber boots. They look about two sizes too big. Telling myself she was trying to be useful, I call out, “They’re not my size.”
She appears behind me, having moved as silently as a ghost. When she startles me, I hide my reaction with a frown.
“That’s the point,” she says patiently, then points to my ankle.
“You can’t get your motorcycle boot on over the bandage, but maybe you’ll be able to make do with one of these and wear your own boot on the other foot.
” Giving a toss of her hair, she adds, “It might look stupid, but there’s no one to see.
And it will get you out of the cabin.” She raises a brow. “Unless you’d prefer to go barefoot?”
I’m stuck. It’s a good suggestion, but one I immediately want to ignore as it’s come from her.
Then again, would I really prefer to be cooped up indoors, or take the other option, risk stepping on a fucking scorpion?
Swallowing my pride, prepared for her to gloat, I balance against the worktop and see if my bandage will fit into the boot.
I don’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed when it slips inside.
It is a tight fit around my ankle, which actually gives it support, but my toes grip only air, and it flops around my calf.
Walking though? I look like John Wayne in one of his cowboy films, the extra width causing me to walk bow-legged. As I make my way back into the living room to retrieve my proper boot for my other foot, I expect her to laugh.
But again, she surprises me, observing simply, “That seems to work.”
Although she’s found a solution for me, I offer no thanks, other than a scowl. Then, ask, “Where did you put your gun?”
“Oh. I left it upstairs,” she says casually.
I stare at her, then shake my head. Stupid bitch. She hadn’t listened. It only takes the pinched expression on my face to get her to move and race back up to retrieve it. In a moment, she’s returned with the weapon in her hand and starts opening a drawer.
“No, bring it with you.” I start to pick up an armful of the empty beer bottles I’d drained last night.
“What are you doing with those?”
I frown, thinking it’s obvious. “Target practice means shooting at something.”
After rolling her eyes, she imparts, “I kinda guessed that. But breaking those will leave the ground covered in glass. Think of the animals that could hurt themselves.”