by C. L. Riley
I’m not sure why he’s called Rowdy, but I’m confident it’s not his real name. It’s probably a biker thing. I remember hearing somewhere bikers have road names. Demon has to be a road name too. For as smart as I believe myself to be, sometimes I really do miss the obvious.
God, I need a nap.
Demon reads me like a book, once again proving he’s my guardian angel. His next words are better than a deluxe chocolate sundae, and that’s saying something, considering how hungry I am.
“I think Ms. Templeton needs to sleep before we work out any details. She drove straight through, all night.”
“I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours,” I confirm with a yawn. “I can’t be held responsible for what I do or say when I’m like this.” That’s the closest Rowdy is getting to an apology for my initial defensiveness. “Keep the white cat, please,” I plead while I’m feeling groggy enough not to care if he’s offended by my suggestion.
“Fine,” he mutters, shocking me. “This will be a cat-friendly house. Until it’s not. I know you’re exhausted, but you need to set up the litter box before you crash. Deal? You brought one I assume.”
“Of course I have supplies.” I start to rise, insulted he thinks I don’t care enough about my cat to provide what he needs. As if I’d show up to some strange place without a litter box. And what does he think Scrooge used in the car?
God, I wish I really did have a sundae to eat before bed, or a stiff drink...if I was drinking, that is.
Taking pity on my current state, Demon agrees to unload the Jeep, and I toss him the keys.
“Let me show you your room,” Rowdy offers, once it’s settled Demon is on morning cat duty.
He looks uncomfortable all of a sudden.
Too tired to even attempt to analyse Rowdy’s shifting emotions, I leave Demon to deal with my belongings and the cat box, and follow Mr. Mood Swing down a long hallway lined with doors. I’m curious what lies behind them, but my exhaustion stops me from asking.
At the end of the hall there are two half open doors. One leads to what is clearly the master suite and Rowdy’s domain. I can’t miss the massive, four-post, king-sized monstrosity he calls a bed.
What would it be like to sleep in that thing...with a man like Rowdy?
All muscled, rough, and cutting such an imposing presence with his domineering attitude and rugged good looks, he’s dangerous and no doubt deadly.
He might be medically unstable, but he’s still sexy as sin in that dark, bad boy way so many women find appealing. He’s everything I don’t want in a man, or so I believed, until this moment.
Truth be told, I’ve never even been close to a man like Rowdy, nor have I had any desire to.
So why am I ready to slide between the sheets with a badass biker who hates cats?
I shake my head, hoping to dislodge the confusing thoughts, most certainly caused by fatigue, too much caffeine, and other recent events, better left behind where they belong, in Seattle.
“You don’t like my room?” He grins, looking sheepish, his discomfort seemingly forgotten.
“Uh...well,” I stumble over the words, trying to explain my thoughts without revealing the part about him, with me, between the sheets.
Now look who is uncomfortable!
“It’s excessive. I know. I’ve spent so much time in the hospital and then the rehab center, I went a little crazy.”
His explanation reminds me I know next to nothing about his medical situation. It sounds like he’s been through his own hell. I sometimes forget I’m not the only one who has been dealt a bad hand.
“What happened to you?” I can’t keep quiet. I truly want to know.
“Why don’t we get to know each other after you sleep? I need to take care of some business with Demon.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to protest. “Your room is next to mine for easy access.”
“Oh...” I feel my face flush.
He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze holds mine for a second too long, making me shiver.
What is it with this guy?
He’s got to be a good fifteen years older than me, give or take a year or two. He’s involved with a motorcycle gang, and he’s recovering from something that required a lengthy hospital stay, an ailment or injury that requires ongoing, specialized care, according to Demon’s brief summary.
So again, I ask myself: Why do I find myself drawn to him?
Considering my recent history with Dr. Martin, I should be running out the door, away from how my abdomen flutters when Rowdy stands so close.
Granted, it’s highly unlikely he is anything like my former employer, but I can’t afford any diversion. This job is about survival and finding a way to make Dr. Martin pay for what he did to me and so many other women.
“Go on, check out your room.” Rowdy pushes open the door, and I let out a little gasp. All my worries, including those featuring Dr. Martin, are temporarily banished while I soak in my surroundings.
The fashionable decor has a distinctly Moroccan flare and is decorated with bold colors and patterns. My bed isn’t as big as Rowdy’s, but it is larger than any bed I’ve ever owned.
“You like it?” he asks, remaining in the doorway while I explore my new home...should I accept the job.
Oh, who am I kidding? I have nowhere else to go. If Rowdy wants to keep me on, I’ll stay.
I realize he’s still waiting for my approval, and I can be completely honest with my answer. “I love it. It’s incredible.”
“I’ll let Olympia know her designer friend earned her fee.”
Olympia? The Olympia Olsen?
Once again, I’m reminded how little I know about my new patient slash employer.
Truthfully, I’m not one-hundred percent certain who is paying my salary. It might be Demon, but the big biker referred to Rowdy as boss, and Rowdy has that undeniable aura of authority. It’s different than the authority wielded by Dr. Martin though.
Rowdy wears his considerable influence like a fine tailored suit. It fits him perfectly, in spite of his unshaven face and messy hair. The man exudes power.
“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to dreamland. When you wake up we’ll go over everything. I will make sure Demon puts your luggage in the hallway.”
“Great. Thank you.” I give him a wide smile, hoping to break through the uneasiness that has crept back between us. “You’ve created an amazing living space.”
His eyes darken, and instead of returning the friendly gesture, he shuts the door harder than necessary without even a goodbye, goodnight, or sleep tight.
It would seem the boss man can’t handle genuine praise.
That’s going to change.
I may push my patients hard, but I hand out compliments often and am a certified encourager, according to my former co-workers.
As for encouraging...it doesn’t take any for me to get horizontal on the cushy bed. I don’t even bother to undress.
Yet in spite of my weariness and Rowdy’s abrupt exit, I launch into my never-finished worry-session about the female colleagues left behind at Brain Matters and how I mishandled the aftermath of my attack. Two topics I can’t seem to eject from my mind for any length of time.
As always, when I think about the incident, I ponder contacting the police.
Unfortunately, because I have waited four months to report, along with the fact I can’t honestly remember the details, except from my dreams and a few shadowy recollections; my case is at best a tangled mess.
Worse, my former employer is a manipulative bastard who happens to be famous and highly respected, not only in the medical community but with the general public.
Had I been able to capture the file’s contents, I would’ve had at least a fighting chance to gain support. But even then, he’d simply utilize his elite, legal representation team and come up with an excuse a jury might find plausible enough to create reasonable doubt.
With his considerable charm and success, and money, he’d likely claim blackm
ail and accuse me of being a disgruntled lover or employee, or both.
The letter I left behind to explain my absence would undoubtedly muddle things even more, but I had to leave the letter in order give myself additional time to escape and settle down away from Seattle. As smart as he is it won’t take him long to figure out the note was a decoy filled with fraudulent flattery.
Once he sees through my smokescreen, he will start hunting. I shudder at the thought.
Being prey to a madman sucks.
I’m hoping at some point to ask Demon for advice, but the idea of Rowdy learning about my assault makes me hesitant. What will he think about me?
I was infatuated with a raping murderer who is now stalking me.
Before the attack, I had actually wanted to be in Dr. Martin’s bed, a desire I declared to numerous co-workers numerous times; and then, after that night, I continued to work for him, dated him even, unaware of his involvement.
If that isn’t enough to create doubt, what I did next surely would.
After I suspected him, I still remained, acting like the dutiful and starry-eyed worker I’d been from the start, digging further into his identity and alter-personality.
There is no way in hell anyone will believe I stayed at Brain Matters to protect my female colleagues, investigating the founder while supposedly sleeping with him. If the same situation was presented to me, I would definitely be skeptical, especially without any supporting evidence.
And ultimately, because of all my many blunders, the case would become a public spectacle. My past would come under a spotlight; I’d end up humiliated; my career ruined; and I’d be pitied.
With my luck, I’d be the one arrested and sued for defamation of character, and my abuser would walk, free to continue preying on his playthings.
So the fact remains—there is no way I can go to the authorities without proof, real evidence of Dr. Martin’s secret life.
Shoving thoughts of my ordeal back into the compartment reserved for shit I can’t deal with, I welcome a review of today’s events instead, Rowdy in particular.
I don’t get far before the dreamland he alluded to pulls me into its embrace. A vision of Rowdy’s lips seeking mine follows me there.
Dr. Martin
I stare up at Trina’s Templeton’s loft, my fury growing. “Fucking bitch,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
Her ridiculous VW Bug isn’t parked anywhere on the block, which suggests she never made it home last night.
I checked in on her at exactly 2:00am, expecting to see her vehicle parked nearby and the soft glow of the light she leaves on, illuminating the largest window.
Instead her loft had been dark, mysteriously lacking any signs of life.
Even after climbing the fire escape, there was no evidence of her or that damn cat she loves so much.
Most nights, the black demon hops up on a ledge to peer out the window, its evil eyes trained on me, judging my intentions while I check on the one plaything I can’t seem to let go of.
Christmas Eve she had mentioned a cousin in Portland. Perhaps she headed there after her dental appointment, but that sixth sense I’ve learned to rely on tells me otherwise. It’s screaming at me to wake up and see the obvious, to admit what I suspected after the office break in and false fire alarm is true—she remembers our playtime.
Now she’s fled after seeing evidence of all the women before her.
There is no denying my photographic souvenirs are on the graphic side, especially the ones featuring the playthings that remembered and paid the price.
At least Trina’s photos weren’t mixed in with the others. She has her own special file.
Regardless, the truth remains.
I shouldn’t have kept any pictures at work, even in a locked, alarm-rigged drawer; but keeping them close by is what helps me stay sane and engaged. Too many people depend on my leadership for me to be unfocussed.
The one time I tried working without my pictures close by, I’d been worse than unfocussed. I’d become unhinged to the point my subordinates were worried about my wellbeing. I simply can’t have that.
I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know serial rapists and murderers are compelled to keep trophies, but I’m not a serial anything. I’m in a league all my own. There is no label adequate to describe who I am and what I do.
Regrettably, I’m not invincible, as proven again by this latest lapse in judgement.
All seemed to be fine, at least until I broke my own rule and persisted in my pursuit of Trina. Had I maintained my concerned employer role without any romantic overtones, and kept a professional distance, there is a good chance her memories would have stayed buried, but by continually pressuring her to reciprocate my affections, I likely triggered the recollections.
The “never go back for seconds” rule has kept me safe for years. Four mistakes out of twenty-two was an acceptable record. Five for twenty-three is intolerable.
What the hell was I thinking?
Shaking off the futile thoughts of failure, I pull away from the curb and head to an out-of-the-way night spot where I’ve found suitable playthings before.
No more playthings from work.
And tonight, I think I’ll change course and keep my plaything alert for playtime. My inner monster needs to be sated, and risking discovery is no longer acceptable.
Rather than worrying and wondering about my drug cocktail’s lasting effectiveness, I intend to eliminate the threat to begin with. The chosen one will need to be disposed of after we play, but I have the skills and knowledge to make that happen with ease.
This activity will pass the time until Monday, at which time I can determine what my next move will be. On Monday morning I’ll know for certain about Ms. Templeton.
If she doesn’t show up for work or call in with a reasonable explanation, I will take time away from the clinic to clean up my mistake. I can’t have her running around out here, knowing what she does. She might try to collapse my empire.
I snicker at the thought.
No one has ever attempted to dethrone me, but I welcome the challenge, especially since Trina Templeton could have been the one woman I spent my life with, the one who satisfied me enough to give up my other playthings.
Now we’ll never know what could have been.
Her rejection sparked something that has been simmering beneath the surface. If what I believe about my favorite nurse is true, I intend to fan that spark and create a fire no one can put out.
I’ll find plaything twenty-three and play with her until she’s broken. Then I’ll make sure no one can repair her or play with her again.
Rowdy
I scowl across the table at Demon. He continues to update me on club business, choosing to ignore my less than friendly expression, something he’s become an expert at in recent months.
Asshole.
It’s good for Demon I like him so much and have grown to depend on him since the explosion. As acting president, he is a damn good replacement, no denying that. The two of us together make a formable team.
He’s better with the guys, and I am happier behind the scenes, ensuring we make money, meet deadlines, and stay out of legal trouble. With a club our size, having two men who work together the way we do is a major bonus. Too bad we can’t break tradition and lead the chapter into the future as co-presidents.
I already know. I’m way too progressive.
What we’ve developed is temporary. Besides, I can easily imagine the negative reactions from our older club brothers if the national chapter actually agreed to the unconventional hierarchy.
It won’t work, so I need to stay in the moment and stop worrying about the Hells Guardians’ future. Nothing will change until I’m better. Though, if Demon had his way, I’d be entirely “fixed” tomorrow, ready and eager to take on the devil himself.
He doesn’t get I am nowhere near fixed, and I’ve only just clawed my way out of hell.
I am, however, eager to get through this
part of our meeting so we can talk about the woman asleep in the guestroom next to mine. She’s been out, snoring up a storm, since this morning.
Boone showed up not long after she crashed, further delaying my work with Demon. We ended up on the back deck, drinking beers and shooting the shit. He finally left about an hour ago, leaving us to finish our business.
Now it’s almost time for supper, and given that we haven’t yet defined Trina’s duties, I’m opting for Chinese or pizza, delivered.
I doubt she’d appreciate me demanding she cook for us the second she wakes up. Going out for food doesn’t seem advisable either. There are too many loose ends when it comes to my caregiver’s role. I need Demon to help tie them up, and then he needs to head back to Eugene before it gets much later.
“I liked it better when you were snarling at me.” Demon snaps me out of my trance. “You’re spacing again, a million miles from here, man. What happened to your attention span?”
His question pisses me off. Because he doesn’t get it, no matter how many times I try to explain.
My attention span is one of the many things lacking since my brain injury. Where I used to stay sharp and focussed for long time periods, I now tend to topic jump and space out. My mind has a mind of its own. I’m not sure how or if I can ever retrain it. It seems like one more impossibility in a long list of things that needs correcting.
“Concentration is something you should work on with Trina. See what ideas she has for improving it.”
I swallow my comeback and count to ten, searching for something positive from our conversation that will stop me from blasting my friend with words I might regret or with a fist to his sizable gut.
At least we’re off the subject of our club brothers and their moaning and groaning about petty bullshit. I told Demon to hand out Midol and tampons to the biggest whiners.
Grown men, all of them...maybe being compared to hormonal teenagers will wake them up to how ridiculous and trivial some of their complaints are. That ought to earn a few laughs and remind everyone I’m still involved with more than just our business affairs.
