Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff

by C. L. Riley

  Trina is the woman I need.

  I intend to have her.

  Trina

  The sledgehammer hits my head over and over, forcing me from a dreamless oblivion. Despite the painful intrusion, I have no intention of opening my eyes, not anytime soon.

  The Universe seems to have a different idea altogether and has no problem using multiple methods to infringe on my sleep.

  For one, my bedroom blinds do a poor job of blocking the offending daylight. The brightness is intolerable. Secondly, I have to pee...and I mean pee; thirdly, my mouth is dry and feels like it is filled with dirt, worms included; and, if that’s not enough, my right leg is asleep even though I’m not.

  For heaven’s sake, I only had three, or was it four beers? How was that enough to trigger this hellacious hangover?

  You haven’t had a drink since October, my inner voice taunts. And you didn’t eat.

  “Thanks for the reminders,” I mutter from under my blanket, igniting another hard thump inside my skull.

  I moan and find just enough strength to roll over. To my dismay, a wave of dizziness rolls right along with me, and the blood rushing through my awakening limb activates an ambush of pins and needles, one more sensation I abhor.

  I’m a certified mess.

  I’ve never considered myself a lightweight, but the title seems to fit now. And no matter how hard I try to disregard my bladder’s persistent grumbling, it isn’t onboard with my desire to stay curled up inside my covers and sends an agonizing warning signal I can’t possibly ignore.

  It’s no use. My own body has conspired to force me out of bed.

  Surrendering, I toss off the blankets and am stunned by the room’s chill; it feels like a blast of arctic air has invaded. I shiver and rub my arms briskly, reluctant to open my eyes. It seems even sloppy drunk, I somehow managed to trade last night’s new clothes for a pair of yoga pants and oversized t-shirt before crashing. I’m wishing now I had chosen a bulky sweatshirt instead.

  Unwilling to look for a warmer shirt, I grab my robe, and by some miracle fumble my way to the bathroom and shut the door behind me, turning the lock into place.

  My rump finds its target and only just in time. The sweet relief of emptying my bladder is almost comparable to an orgasm. Not quite, but a close second.

  With great trepidation, I open my eyes all the way and hone in on the sink where my toothbrush and a glass waits. The room is in shadows, thanks to the nightlight’s soft glow.

  I fight off a wave of dizziness caused by simply standing and flushing the toilet.

  Once I’m steady and certain I’m not going to topple over, I make quick work of scrubbing my teeth, practically inhaling two glasses of water in the process. When I finally get enough courage to turn on the overhead light, I’m feeling considerably better, if only my headache would take the hint and disappear.

  Staring into the mirror, I’m shocked to find I don’t look as God-awful as I feel.

  After washing my face, and twisting my hair up into a poufy, on-top-of-my-head ponytail, I determine an aspirin or three, chased down with a glass of orange juice, followed by a piece of dry toast, and then a cup of coffee, are needed before I can hop in the shower.

  The idea of facing Rowdy makes me hesitate, but not for long.

  Eliminating the hammer in my head takes precedent over my pride. Besides, the whole almost-kiss scenario is a bit blurry. It is better we didn’t lock lips anyway. Being intimate while intoxicated isn’t what I want.

  For what seems like the zillionth time, I remind myself, becoming sexual with a patient, even a private patient, who I am most definitely attracted to, isn’t in anyone’s best interest.

  Letting that thought drive me, I secure my robe’s tie and head to the kitchen where chemical relief is waiting in the cabinet by the bay window. Rowdy or no Rowdy, I’m getting those pain relievers into my system as soon as possible.

  The minute I’m back to normal, we’ll get going again on our routine. If I have anything to say on the matter, it will be later today. We can start with yoga on the beach. The fresh ocean air will do me good. I’ll just need to refortify my mote all over again and resecure my personal borders.

  The problem with that is I’m the one who ignored them last night, offering myself to Rowdy with no regard to reality. It’s a good thing his boundaries are firmer than mine, because as much as his rejection hurt, I can handle it. I’ll have to. There is no alternative.

  In light of everything I know to be true, I’m not sure why I keep clinging to the idea my Happily-Ever-After is somehow linked with Rowdy’s.

  Even after his rejection, there’s still a match-sized flame of hope that lingers. I’m not sure what it will take to extinguish it.

  Rowdy

  Twila, the club girl I rescued from sex traffickers when she was just a teenager, decided today was a good day to drop in and whine about her recent break up with Olympia Olsen’s former fiancé—the asshole ATF investigator Olympia was engaged to before meeting Boone.

  I wish now I hadn’t opened the door, but she’d caught me off guard.

  Half asleep and more than a little hung over, I’d almost let Scrooge out. I was lucky and stopped him from escaping, but I allowed Twila in. Taking into account I’ve known her for years, it seemed like the normal thing to do.

  “Can you believe he dumped me? I’m the one who stroked his ego and everything else until he forgot about Olympia. I stayed in this God forsaken town because of him, putting up with the Soul Scorchers’ and their threats, and his parents. His dad called me a tart. Who even uses that word anymore?”

  She goes on and on about the injustices she’s suffered since coming to Seal’s Cove.

  I tune her out, and run my hand over Scrooge, who is curled up beside me. I can’t help wishing it was Trina instead, but after my missed opportunity last night, I have no idea if I’ll ever get another chance to touch her.

  “Rowdy, are you listening? I said I want to go back to our compound. Will you take me?”

  Twila...Trina.

  Their names might sound similar but that’s where all likeness ends. Right now, despite our long history, I’m done with Twila.

  “You don’t need me to drive you anywhere,” I manage to grind out. I can’t fathom why she’s asking me in the first place.

  I haven’t been to the Hells Guardian property—my property—since the explosion. She doesn’t need me to take her. She’s a grown ass woman with a car I bought her two years ago.

  Like always, she doesn’t know when to stop and continues her rant, “You owe me. I’ve done whatever you asked. I’m miserable here. I want to go back to Eugene.”

  How did I ever find Twila sexy?

  I can’t believe at one time I actually considered her my primary pleasure source.

  She might be beautiful, in a Barbie doll kinda way, but she can’t begin to compete with Trina; she pales in comparison. And tart just might be the right word to describe her, only I would add trashy to the equation.

  Keeping my anger in check, I give her one last chance to back off gracefully. “Twila, come on now. You don’t need me. You have a car. I can let Demon know you’re headed that way. Or, if you absolutely need an escort, you can follow him home next time he’s here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She pouts, puckering her lips and widening her eyes, an expression that is supposed to somehow be both innocent and seductive at once. In the past, I would have been shoving my cock down her throat, seeing if she could swallow my load; now, even the thought disgusts me.

  Before I realize what she is doing, she’s on her hands and knees, crawling across the room toward me. Scrooge hisses and leaps from my lap, making a mad dash toward the kitchen.

  Smart cat. I want to follow.

  I don’t move fast enough, and her hands are already on my knees. She shoves my legs apart at the exact time I hear a kitchen cabinet slam shut.

  Fuck. No.

  “Relax Rowdy. I know exactly what you need. Y
ou know I do. Let me show you how much I’ve missed our special times together. Oh...I forgot to mention, I’ve got new ink. I think you’ll approve.” She smiles up at me and licks her lips.

  As much as I appreciate a good tattoo, I have no desire to see her latest, and once more I ask myself how I was ever tempted by the woman now reaching for my cock. My body stiffens, but not the way she wants.

  The pout is back in full force, this time with a head tilt too. I expect her to bat her lashes next. “What’s wrong, baby? Why aren’t you hard? Is your dick broken?” Her saccharine sounding voice is drenched with sarcasm.

  I’ve never wanted to slap a woman like I want to slap Twila, but I don’t. She has no idea how much her words would have fucked me up a few months ago when I believed that very same lie.

  Mercifully, Trina has proven the sentiment false. My cock works just fine for my nurse.

  The minute I think about her, she wanders into the living room, looking a little dazed and a lot more hung over than I am. Her gaze travels from my face to my lap, where Twila is unsuccessfully attempting to rouse my cock.

  “Stop! Now!” I push Twila back with more force than intended. She falls on her ass and lets out a surprised squeal.

  Trina doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. Her eyes tell me everything.

  Any chance I might have had to make her mine is gone. And any crack in her wall will be cemented in by the time I kick out my unwanted visitor.

  “Leave!” I snap at Twila, my tone ensuring she won’t pull another pouting act. “Now.”

  “You’re an asshole, Rowdy. Ever since the explosion you’ve been a freak, and I don’t mean in a good way. Everyone is talking about it. I should have listened to Crusher. He warned me about you.” She scoops up her jacket and grabs her purse. “You might want to watch your back. You’ve been gone a long time. Demon may be on your side, but not everyone else is.”

  I don’t bother replying, there is nothing to say, and I have no doubt at least part of what she said is true. Compared to the old me, I have become a “freak.” So of course the guys are talking shit, the ol’ ladies and whores too.

  The thing is. Right now. None of that matters.

  What matters is the woman who saved my life without realizing it.

  I owe her an explanation for both last night and today. It might not change anything, but I sure as hell am not giving up without letting her know how I feel.

  My club can wait.

  I feel so disconnected from the Hells Guardians right now anyway. Truth is I’m closer to Boone and the Soul Scorchers.

  That whole situation and the possible ramifications will have to wait. I’ve got a nurse who needs some heart healing. I just hope I’m not too late to patch up the wound.

  Dr. Martin

  I’m finishing my breakfast when my former school-mate strolls into the bar, flanked by several bodyguards. My original plan to reprimand him is quickly replaced with newfound respect and an overwhelming dose of fear, emotions I am not accustomed to feeling.

  Our last conversation had played out over the phone when I made a formal request for his construction crew to modify my private estate for Trina’s arrival.

  This particular property was purchased under a business front. There are no paper trails connecting me with the location, another benefit of my relationship with my college buddy turned mafia boss.

  His team completed the recent remodelling work to my satisfaction, but one problem remains.

  Number 23, Trina Templeton, is still missing, and my friend, now going by the nondescript name, Brandon, has failed to locate her.

  I orchestrated this late morning meeting to discuss options and offer more money to speed things up. I’m crossing my fingers the old, “money talks” formula works, if not, I’m at a loss.

  “My friend.” Brandon gives me curt nod that doesn’t match his greeting. “It has been some time since we have had the pleasure of meeting face-to-face. I am certain your desire to do so isn’t because you doubt my abilities or commitment to your cause.”

  It appears we are not wasting any time on pleasantries or trying to weave the illusion we’re just two Average Joes, catching up over daytime drinks.

  Coinciding with my last thought, his bodyguards fan out around the empty lounge, making no effort to blend in. They’re anything but average.

  Brandon selected our meeting place, so I assume he knows what he’s doing when it comes to his entourage. He’s far from stupid, and he’s obviously climbed the ladder, advancing in his family’s hierarchy and expanding his scope of duties. The last time we met he was minus any bodyguards, at least none I’d been aware of.

  “I would never doubt you or your abilities, or commitment,” I rush to point out. “I’m just not a big fan of phone calls when it comes to something this important to me.”

  Brandon snaps his fingers, and the bartender leaves his perch behind the bar to personally deliver Brandon’s drink. “Would you like another?” My friend turns his dark gaze toward me.

  Afraid declining might come across as disrespectful, I nod and flash my most disarming smile. “Thank you. I could use another.” The words are barely out of my mouth when my double scotch arrives.

  “So, you don’t like phones, I understand your sentiment,” he agrees, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes it is better to look into the eyes of the people you do business with. It is easier to detect lies from across the table.”

  Rather than reacting, I finish off my first drink and reach for the new one. “Cheers to old friendships and passing those fucking exams.” I hope bringing up a different time in our lives will take the tension down a notch or two.

  It does, at least temporarily.

  Brandon grins and the darkness fades from his eyes. “There is nothing that will ever compare to those all night study sessions.”

  For the next twenty minutes, we talk amicably about our shared past while polishing off yet another cocktail. Just when I start to relax, Brandon changes the course of our conversation, catching me off guard.

  “It is good to reminisce, but I know you didn’t request this meeting for that alone. Please, speak freely. How can I be of help?”

  My delay tactic didn’t work as long as I hoped for. Now I need to find a way to tell a murdering mafia boss he needs to hurry the hell up and find my missing playmate turned potential soulmate in a way that doesn’t offend him.

  Swallowing the last of my drink, I begin, “Thank you again for the impeccable work on my home. Your guys made sure all specifications were met. As you can imagine, now that the expansion is complete, I am anxious to put the rooms to good use.”

  Brandon’s eyes flash with something I don’t like, something familiar―interest and lust.

  I’ve ignited his own inner beast, but I have no intention of sharing Trina with anyone, least of all a man with so little regard for human life. I might be a killer, but I always make sure to expand my medical knowledge in the process. From what I’ve observed, “Brandon” simply manages other mobsters and is no longer involved in medicine or research.

  He catches on right away to what I want. His next remark confirms it. “The woman you search for is one and the same as the woman you plan to ‘house’ in your new quarters. You are impatient to learn what is keeping us from providing the information that will lead to her capture, am I correct?”

  “You read my mind. I hope to have her in my care sooner rather than later. And I have no issue paying whatever it costs to move this task up, on what I’m sure is a long list of projects your team is working on.” There, I said it, and without accusing him of working too slowly.

  “Hum, let us negotiate then. I have more than enough money, as you know. I think what I’d like instead is an opportunity to sample this female that makes you bold enough to question my integrity and work ethic.”

  Fuck. The chorus from Balls to the Wall, a heavy metal hit from the 1980s, plays through my mind.

  My former colleague definitely h
as me backed up against the wall, my balls in his grip, and he knows it. I should have realized he would see through my lame attempts at flattery. But there is no way I will let him near my most precious plaything. He’ll break her before I can.

  So I do what I have to. I lie.

  “But, of course, my friend. What is mine is yours. My only request is you play with a little less enthusiasm than when we shared before. I have invested considerable money—“

  He raises his hand, stopping me. “Please, my friend. Don’t insult me. Your financial status is in league with my own. Money is not the problem. I think you like the woman. This Trina Templeton you hired me to locate has found her way under your skin. Perhaps even into your cold heart?” He chuckles, knowing he’s discovered my weakness.

  His sinister sneer confirms this meeting was a mistake, and rather than helping, it has put me in a precarious position, rife with dangerous uncertainty. I’m in over my head.

  I’ve got the Seattle PD and FBI searching for me already...okay, so they don’t know they’re searching for me exactly, but they are searching, and now I have a mob boss ready to steal what is mine.

  Why did I trust someone so untrustworthy?

  Despite his affiliations, I’ll have to kill him.

  My adrenaline sky rockets as I consider the creative ways available to eliminate a former friend turned serious threat to my success.

  As if sensing my intentions, his flunkies drift closer, several shifting just enough to reveal weapons previously concealed beneath their designer suits. How cliché.

  Pushing thoughts of murder aside, I laugh along with him as he agrees to work harder on my request. I have no doubt, finding my Trina has become his priority now that he wants her.

  When he lifts his glass for a toast, I raise mine, allowing them to meet in an unholy alliance I intend to sever soon. I also intend to find Trina before he does. How I’ll do that, I’m not sure. But I will.

  I want her more than he does. That has to count for something.