Fracture (Blood & Roses #2)

by Callie Hart

“How long ago was that?”

  “Six months,” she replies.

  I have no idea how this man’s mind works, or his sister’s now that I know that’s who she is. But they’re both as strange as each other. “So he has no idea? After letting you live with him for six months?”

  “Probably not.”

  Wow.

  A dull thump at the door prevents me from asking any further questions. I answer—our takeout finally arrived—and decide to let the matter drop. We eat in silence, Lacey laughing quietly at the rom-com playing on the television, while I sit and stew on the news that I’m not the only one with a sister in trouble. And mull over the irony of the fact that I am taking care of Zeth’s while he attempts to take care of mine.

  ******

  I can’t get that girl out of my fucking head. The sounds she made on the phone, the things I told her to do to herself, and the way she caved like a landslide as soon as I got her past the first gate. Not to mention the horrified silence when that toilet flushed. I’m still pissing myself every time I think about that little gem. Somehow makes it even more taboo. Especially since that sort of thing, getting busted, makes me harder than fucking tempered steel. I’d had to spend a considerable amount of time working my own hand on my dick, trying to erase the fucking sexy visual from head.

  After that, I’d spent the rest of yesterday making plans with Michael. The guy had more photos, confirmation that Alexis definitely is somewhere in that compound. The girl was curvier than her sister and dressed well in all the images, but there were shadows beneath her eyes and a haunted look to her wherever the camera had caught her face. She’s definitely in trouble, but I can’t go sneaking around the compound looking for her today, though. That would seem too suspicious. Going around asking for specific girls when I kicked back Alaska, Julio’s top girl, who’s stormed around the place like a goddamn tornado since the moment I said no to her, would not go down well. No, today I’m headed to Anaheim to meet with Rick. I’m taking the dossier on that DEA agent, Lowell, that Michael also had for me, so I can ask Rick a few choice questions. I mostly want to know what he’s heard from back up north. Tossing my phone was smart—Charlie would have found some way of contacting me through someone else if I’d kept it—but it also means I have no idea what kind of holy hell has been raining down on Seattle since I bolted.

  Rick is waiting in a fried chicken joint for me, a box of cold, greasy fries sitting in front of him, untouched. I picked the place on purpose just to piss him off. Rick’s a big guy but he didn’t get that way through genetics or, gotta hand it to him, steroids. He eats healthy. Like, eats like a fucking chick kind of healthy. Even sitting inside these four walls is probably making him sweat kale extract.

  “Took your time,” he complains as I sit opposite him, dropping the file onto the table. He lifts the thing open with one finger, grimacing at the contents inside, then letting it fall closed. “Why the hell am I in Anaheim sitting in a fried rat shop?”

  “Because I told you to be.”

  He nods slightly, accepting that. “Charlie’s gone off the deep end,” he advises me from under lowered brows. “Looking everywhere for you.”

  “The boys know you’re alive?” I ask him.

  “No. Heard that from the DEA bitch. Gave me a contact cell back when I started working for her. She. Is. Pissed.” He emphasizes each word, just to make sure I understand how pissed. “Was screaming ’bout arresting me for reneging on our arrangement and all. I told her I got out of town before I got dead. And I’m no good to her dead.”

  “True enough.”

  “She wants to know where I am, though. Wants me to work some of the biker charters around here instead.”

  “Not happening.” I shake my head. “The biker charters that deal with Charlie see you, they’re gonna run their mouths and suddenly you’re resurrected. And Charlie knows I didn’t do what he asked me to.”

  “You ran.” Rick rubs the back of his hand against his broad, twice-broken nose. “Figure Charlie probably suspects something’s up already. Lowell said another guy told her the old man is on the rampage, looking for some girl who was living with you. Wants to lay a few questions on her regarding your whereabouts. The DEA are keen to scoop up this chick, too. Seems they’re mighty interested in what you got going on, Zeth.”

  I had expected that, the DEA to poke their noses into my business, but I hadn’t expected them to go after Lacey. Charlie knows all about Lacey. He pretends not to take an interest in my personal shit, but he’s up to his sticky fucking coke-rimmed nose in my business by all accounts. Must have listened in on a thousand conversations when the girl was asking me where I was, panicked, begging me to come home. The idea makes me angry.

  But then something even worse hits me. If Charlie is serious about snatching Lacey up then that means…that means he’s likely to snatch up Sloane at the same time.

  And there’s no way I’m gonna let that happen. My muscles stir, wanting to take immediate action; my fists throb with the need to hit something, to smash and pound, to make someone hurt. The rest of me twitches with unspent adrenalin, lighting fires in my joints, readying them to fight. I’ve never been this wound up from a single thought. Not ever. I’m worried about Lacey for sure, but when I think about Charlie laying hands on Sloane…

  “You okay, man?” Rick’s staring down at the crumpled napkin I have fisted tight in my hand. My knuckles are white. I toss it aside, scowling. This woman is having a seriously fucked up effect on me. I can’t afford to be this distracted by her. She’s consuming every single waking moment of my day, when I need to remain focused on the task at hand. No point in worrying about things that probably aren’t even going to happen, either. I’ve set up my guys for that one specific reason—to watch out for Lace and Sloane, and to keep them from harm.

  “I want you to reach out to this DEA woman,” I tell him, brushing off my momentary freak-out. “I want you to ask her which bikers she’s interested in. I wanna know what information she’s got on me, and I wanna know when they plan on picking up Lacey.” I scribble my burner’s cell number down on another less crumpled though still grease- stained napkin and tuck it roughly into the top pocket of the tee Rick’s wearing.

  The guy grunts his assent, although he’s clearly none too happy about it. His sandy eyebrows knit together as he considers speaking. After a short while he leans forward, saying, “Why d’you care about that piece of ass, anyway? She was sleeping with Georgio Ramerez for months. You know he ain’t too careful with his possessions. Word is Frankie Monterello had a go at her, too. You never struck me as the kind of guy to be scooping up sloppy seconds from anyone, Zee.”

  In my head, I do something Dr. Walcott suggested back in Chino—a coping mechanism that I don’t normally bother to put into practice. I imagine reaching across the table, pressing my chest against the tacky Formica, digging my fingers into the nape of Rick’s neck, engaging the muscles in my arm and then slamming his face down into the table. His nose makes a sickening crunch and the explosion of blood follows right after. It’s vaguely satisfying. Like I said, I don’t do this very often; to imagine the action without the follow-through is counterproductive. The goal is usually to vent the anger away from my body, whereas just thinking about it frequently directs my rage inward instead of outward. But right now I can’t draw attention to myself or to the fucktard sitting across from me by committing to the action. No, now’s the time for a cool head. Rick knows his question was a mistake, though. I just fix him in my gaze and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Just wondering,” he adds.

  “Can be very detrimental to the health, I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, well—” Rick looks around, as if searching for a reason to leave. He doesn’t need an excuse; our meeting’s over.

  “Call that number tomorrow. With the information.” I get up and slide my aviators on, exiting the fast food place as inconspicuously as possible. Which ends up being pretty fucking conspicuous whe
n you’re six foot three and built like a tank.

  It’s not so much a sound that wakes me. It’s more an unshakeable, creeping sense of dread that settles over me like a suffocating blanket as I lie frozen still in bed. The house settles, creaking and sighing, wind teasing inquisitively at the window panes of my room, while I hold my breath, my heart galloping beneath my rib cage. Moonlight pours through the curtained floor-to-ceiling windows at the other end of the room, washing the swaying tree line beyond in a gilded silver hue. It lights the room, too, making the closet door, chest of drawers, small chestnut wooden blanket box and other small pieces of furniture easily visible.

  Nothing out of place. Everything where it should be. Perhaps Lacey’s presence in the house, her just being here, sleeping in the guest room, is enough to make me nervy and on edge. I’ve always been able to do that—sense when I’m not alone, even in a house as big as this. It always leads to broken sleep. Yet somehow I know this isn’t that. It feels different. Awkward. Tense. Resigning myself to the fact that I’m not falling back to sleep, I fling back the covers from the bed and tiptoe silently from the room. I stagger to an immediate halt out in the hallway, stunned. Two men in black pants and T-shirts, mirroring my expression of surprise, hold between them the rising, struggling form of Lacey. The guy closest to the top of the stairs has a firm grip around her legs, which thrash against him uselessly. The other guy has his arms threaded underneath hers, lifting her but also expertly clamping his hand over her mouth at the same time. It doesn’t seem as though she’s screaming anyway so his efforts are probably unnecessary. Lacey’s eyes are gripped with a pure terror that grabs me by the throat and spurs me into action.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I gasp. Pretty stupid question. It’s obvious what they’re doing; they’re kidnapping Lacey. The girl Zeth left in my care. The girl I said I would look after.

  The guy wrestling to pin down Lacey’s flailing legs shakes his head menacingly at me. “Go back to bed, baby. Otherwise we’ll make sure to come back up here for you, too.”

  “Put her down and get the fuck out of my house!” My voice quavers with a rage that surprises even me. The two men exhale in frustrated synchrony; they clearly don’t want to be dealing with me right now.

  “You got a death wish, bitch?” the other one says. “You don’t wanna be interfering right now. Trust me.”

  “Fuck it. She’s seen us now, anyway. We’re just gonna have to deal with her,” the other guy says, a malicious glint in his eye.

  Lacey lashes out with one foot, managing to get it free, and for moment the two men are distracted as they struggle to right the wildly kicking leg. I do the first thing I think of, backing up into my bedroom and slamming the door, snapping the lock closed behind me. Lacey’s eyes are pleading as the barrier slams shut between us, and I beg her not to think I’m abandoning her. I’m really not. I just can’t get to the only offensive weapon—the baseball bat I keep by the front door—without having to pass them, so I’m going for the next best thing. My medical bag. I find it where I always keep it, in my en suite carefully perched on top of the toilet cistern.

  “Open the fucking door, bitch!” A thunder of loud hammering buffets the door to the bedroom. My hands are shaking like crazy.

  “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Quick!” I mutter the words under my breath as my hands try to move faster, fumbling with the zip and then struggling to upend the contents on the bathroom floor. Blister packs of drug samples, small glass vials, syringes, dressings, tongue depressors—the lot ends up pouring out onto the tiles. I grab the first vial I see and a syringe and then I’m running out of the door. Not the one back into my bedroom. The connecting door that leads into the third bedroom. I hold my breath a moment, listening.

  “..back up for her. We need to get this one in the car first.”

  “No way. She’ll get out!”

  “So?” The guy with the deeper voice, the one who’d been holding Lacey’s legs, sounds like he’s getting pissed off. “Where the hell is she gonna go out here? She can’t call the cops. The phone line’s dead, too. Come on. We’ll let her stew a minute.”

  Stew a minute? Hardly. Someone asked me a long time ago how I thought I would fare in wartime situation. Would I be able to fight, or would I crumple under the pressure. The life and death of it all. Well, I suppose right now is a good indicator of how I’d react. I’m not crumping. I’m reacting.

  I give it a solid minute, battling to make myself wait as I listening to grunts an scuffling sounds moving through the house. And then I’m moving.

  Thank fuck for trauma surgery.

  That’s what races through my head as I stumble blindly down the now empty hallway and down the stairs. If it wasn’t for trauma surgery, I wouldn’t be practiced at snapping a syringe from its sterile plastic, plunging the needle into a vial and drawing the correct amount of fluid from inside to treat my patients, and all the while moving as fast as humanly possible. The men are at the front door, exiting with Lacey, bucking and finally screaming through the hand clamped firmly over her mouth. I catch sight of the vial I grabbed as I begin filling the syringe with the clear drug inside: Diclofenac. Great. 25mg if you have bad period pains. 200mg if you wanna knock a kidnapper the fuck out. I drop the bottle, not registering the fact that it’s raining, that my bare feet are running on gravel, or the fact that the guy carrying Lacey’s feet has seen me coming, before I plunge the syringe deep into the base of the other guy’s neck.

  He sags like I shot him in the head instead of pumped him full of painkiller. In a tumble of arms and legs, he hits the ground, taking Lacey with him. Her back lands heavily on his chest.

  “Fucking whore! What did you do?” the conscious guy roars. “You fucking killed him!” I doubt I have. No time to check for a pulse, though. The guy comes at me, a gun suddenly in his hand. “Get in the fucking car.” He jerks his head over his shoulder. The black sedan that followed us earlier is parked to his right, the door to the rear already prepped and standing open, presumably awaiting the reluctant form of Lacey. Rainwater has pooled on the leather, soaking the seats. A jolt of panic seizes hold of me, a violent reminder that I only had one of the syringes and now it’s gone, buried in the fallen man at my feet. Not so smart after all. If I had been, I would have grabbed the baseball bat from its resting place as I charged past. Not that a baseball bat is much against a handgun, but still. It would feel better to have some sort of weapon handy.

  “Are you fucking deaf as well as incredibly stupid?” the gunman spits. “Get. Inside. The. Fucking. Car!”

  I always thought living in the middle of nowhere was the most amazing thing. No people to harass you; no cars passing by to create noise; no nosey neighbors to watch you covertly from behind twitching curtains. Now I feel quite differently about the matter. No people to come to your rescue; no cars passing by to flag down for help; no nosey neighbors to witness a berserk gunman and call the police. Shit.

  I’m not stupid. This guy could shoot me right here and now and it would be at least twenty-four hours before anyone came up here to find out where I’ve gotten to. Despite that, though, I know getting into that car means I’m dead either way. There’s no time for me to feel sorry for myself, panic or beg for my life. Nor to strike bargains or try and worm my way out of it. I just point-blank refuse to accept it.

  “No. I’m not getting into the car.”

  “No?” The gunman’s face scrunches up into a mask of disbelief. “You do see this gun in my hand, right?” He holds it up sideways so I can get a good look at it, index finger still poised on the trigger. He begins to stalk forward, an intent look on his face that can only mean one thing: he’s going to force me into that car, conscious or unconscious, dead or alive.

  I consider my options very quickly and decide that I have none. My bravado is all well and good, but when he reaches out and grabs for me it disintegrates into a paralyzing wave of fear. The first thing I automatically want to do is call for Zeth, but he’s a thousand
miles away. A thousand miles away and I need him here, right in front of me, to pound this guy into the dust with his fists.

  With a vise-like grip, the guy secures a vicious hold around my wrist. He reaches up with his gun hand and is about to bring the weapon down with full force onto my head when a strange impact makes his body stumble forward into me. His eyes are vacant as he slides down my body, hand still doing its level best to keep ahold of me, except now it’s in an effort to remain upright instead of to detain me.

  I make a weird gasping noise of surprise as he finally lets go and his body starts to convulse. His arms and legs spasm like crazy, his head tipped back in a strained position. When I look up, mouth open, Lacey is standing over his convulsing body clutching a gigantic hunk of rock to her chest. It’s so big and hefty that she has to hold it in with both hands, and a ridged corner of it is darkened with something dark and wet. Blood.

  “Did you just—” I let the question trail off. No need to ask what she just did.

  Lacey drops hold of the rock as though she was momentarily possessed when she attacked Charlie’s henchman and now, suddenly herself again, finds that she’s gripping onto a murder weapon. “I just—he needed to let you go,” she whimpers. “Is he—is he dead?”

  Should I even bother checking? It takes two seconds to form the answer. “No, he’s gonna be fine. But we need to get out of here. Like, right now.” The truth is that I have no idea whether either of the men are likely to survive the assault to their bodies, but I could give two shits right now. We’ve just dodged a bullet. Perhaps literally dodged a bullet. We don’t have time to be checking on pulses and asking if our victims are alright. “Get in the car, Lace.” I point to the sedan, indicating which one I mean.

  She complies quickly, arms wrapped around her body, tucking herself into the back seat of the black vehicle. I almost ask her what she thinks she’s doing getting into the back when I remember Zeth’s words: She can’t. She won’t. But that’s something to query another time. Right now, I have other things to worry about.