Cold Day In Hell

by Monette Michaels

  “I’m so glad I could help.” She winced as she looked up. Damn door bruised her back and shoulders. Bet she had splinters, too. Of course, she hadn’t felt a thing while he’d given her the best orgasm yet in their short relationship. She’d never known she would like it rough and ready.

  He frowned. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” He kissed away an escaping tear.

  “Just a little stiff. You get the door next time.”

  “Fuck.” He started to pull her shirt off when she stopped him with a hand to his forearm.

  “I’m okay. Let’s take that shower before I fall asleep standing up.” She yawned. “I’m tired all of a sudden. I get weepy when I’m tired.” She braced her forehead against his chest. “I’m still thirsty. Can we get something else to drink?”

  He stroked her hair. “After our shower. Come on, let’s get you the rest of the way naked and clean.”

  He unbuttoned her shirt. This time she didn’t attempt to stop him. She wasn’t sure she had the dexterity right that moment to deal with the buttons. Plus, she sensed he needed to care for her.

  “You can nap in the boat, baby.”

  “Okay.” She kissed his chin then stepped away to shrug off the shirt. She pulled her tank top over her head.

  His worried gaze never left her as he undressed. “You got any clean clothes in that tote bag?” Risto asked as he hung his clothing on a hook by the door.

  “A tank and some socks.” She looked her jeans over before she passed them to him so he could hang them with his. “I can live with these. This shirt is clean enough. Mostly I want to wash off all the sweat and then get the snake blood out of my hair.” She pulled some bottles out of her bag and a large-toothed comb.

  Risto started the shower then held out his hand. “Come here, let me bathe you.”

  “Yes, please.” She took his hand and stepped into the cracked but clean-looking tub/shower combination.

  * * * *

  Risto exited the shower room, leaving Callie to get her hair de-tangled. He took the key with him since she could unlock the door from the inside. He left the key with the desk clerk and headed for the bar. He took a seat at the end of the bar, farthest from the front entrance and with a good view of the door where Callie was. He spied several of the men in the bar watching the door and swore under his breath. There was far too much interest in Callie. Her unusual height and blonde hair would’ve attracted even a dead man’s attention in this backwater town.

  He turned to Dario, the bartender and Teo’s older brother and also owner of the hotel and in a loud, carrying tone, he ordered. “A beer—and a Pepsi-Cola for my wife, por favor, Dario.”

  A small smile twisted his lips when the men watching for Callie’s reappearance noted his height, his muscle, and the bulge under his arm. Their attention shifted back to the soccer match, although he knew they listened for Callie. These were farmers for the most part; they wouldn’t challenge him over his wife. The guerillas he didn’t trust farther than he could throw them.

  Dario placed the drinks on the bar and took the money Risto had placed there. “Your woman is beautiful. You should not have brought her here, Señor Smith.”

  “Yeah, Dario, I agree. But it couldn’t be helped.” The man nodded and headed for the other end of the bar to take care of another order.

  The minute Callie walked out, the tension in the place upped three levels. Every man in the place watched her long-legged, graceful walk across the width of the room. She’d left her shirt open over the tank top which hugged her full, firm braless breasts and nipples like a second skin. Her eyes were only on him, but the heightened color on her cheek bones told him she was aware of the ogling men. He snorted and shook his head. Shit, she was used to men staring, but he didn’t have to like it.

  He stood and reached for her. She walked into his arms, swayed slightly until he steadied her against him, then allowed him to button her shirt, covering some of the tempting sight. The men’s moans of disappointment could be heard over the annoying announcer of the television soccer match. She leaned into him and let him lift her by the waist and place her on the stool next to his. Nuzzling her neck, he whispered, “You’re more of a draw than the soccer match. We should charge.”

  “They know what we did in there and I’m not talking about the shower. We were loud.” She laughed, her pale eyes twinkling like silver stars. “I think they’re trying to picture the act.” She was probably correct. He swept the bar with an ugly glare.

  Callie snickered. “They’re only looking, Marine. Leave them alone. What did you order me to drink?” She reached for the glass in front of her, her hand trembling slightly, and took a sip. “Yum, my favorite. Can we get one to-go?” She drained the glass and carefully, almost too carefully, placed it on the counter.

  He narrowed his eyes and examined her face. Under the color the orgasm had put in her cheeks, he spotted fatigue. He could kick himself for taxing her strength, but when she’d dropped to her knees and taken his cock in her mouth … no, he wouldn’t think about it. He mentally ordered his cock to stand down. She didn’t have enough reserves to go round with him again. He was a sick randy asshole.

  Never looking away from her face, he called out as he took his seat. “Dario, another Pepsi and one to go for my woman.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  Callie, a hand on his thigh, sighed. “Thanks for this stop—and the um, penalty for all my teasing. I needed it. I’m sorry you had to stop whe—”

  “No apologies.” He removed her all-too-distracting hand from his leg and kissed the tips of her fingers before placing it on her own lap. His little brain was disappointed, but it would survive. “You’ve done a damn good job. If your dad was still around, I’d tell him what a brave daughter he raised.”

  “Really?” She eyed him. After several seconds, she let out a breath. “Well, damn, you mean it. Wait until I tell my brothers, they won’t believe it.”

  “Send them to me. I’ll make sure they do.” He tossed back the beer and set the bottle on the bar. “Now, finish the second Pepsi and we’ll go.”

  She nodded and drank the second soft drink almost as quickly as she had the first. While not the best hydration, it was better than nothing and had the side benefits of sugar, caffeine and sodium. She then reached for the to-go cup Dario had slid onto the counter. “I’m ready to leave.” She slipped off the stool.

  Risto held her when she wobbled slightly. He pulled her in between his legs and rubbed a hand over her ass in soothing motions, a territorial claiming to the men still watching Callie. Her eyes drifted shut on a sigh. “Christ, baby, you’re ready to fall asleep standing up. Let’s get back to the boat so you can take a little nap.”

  “’Kay.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Sorry, not sure why I’m tired all of a sudden.”

  “Want me to carry you?”

  “No. I can make it. I feel the caffeine and sugar flooding my system already.” Callie made a move to step away.

  Risto placed his hand on her waist and halted her. He glared at one man whose eyes were on Callie’s firm and nicely rounded ass. Bastard. She’s mine! The man turned his eyes to his beer. The tension in Risto’s shoulders dissipated somewhat, but he needed to get Callie out of here before one of these men grew some steel balls. Plus, she was ready to drop no matter what she said. But they couldn’t rest here any longer, his spider senses were freaking out. They’d be safer on the river.

  “Risto, what’s wrong?” She kissed the chin he’d shaved for her.

  “Nothing.” He placed his arm farther around her waist, to claim and to provide support. He guided her to the door leading to the plaza. “Cross your fingers, baby, for our continued good luck.”

  “I haven’t uncrossed them since we left Conn’s.”

  Risto laughed and led Callie out of the bar into the sunlight and Hell.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Callie blinked against the brightness of the sun after the dark interior of the hotel lobby.
As she gingerly stepped onto the uneven packed stone and dirt of the square, the sound of automatic gunfire sounded from above. She momentarily froze and watched as dirt and branches went flying as the crowded plaza was inundated with bullets and panic. People shouted and screamed and dove for cover. Some men began shooting back at the men on the hotel roof, the men who had started the carnage.

  Risto yelled and grabbed at her arm. Callie’s focus tunneled and all her senses fixed on the woman who’d smiled and exchanged conversation with her earlier. The older woman was on the ground, her body in a fetal position, surrounded by an ever increasing puddle of blood.

  “No!” Tossing her to-go soda to the ground, she broke away from Risto’s grasping hands with a strength she hadn’t known she had. Then she stumbled the eight or nine feet separating her from the injured woman. She fell to her knees and touched the woman’s back. “Señora? You need to get up.” The only response to her urgent words was a pained moan.

  Bullets hit near them, rock and dirt spraying them both. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her fight or flight response finally kicked in with a vengeance, fueled by adrenaline, sugar and caffeine.

  Slinging her tote over her shoulder, she got to her feet and found the strength to drag the woman toward the relative safety of the hotel. Something sharp and hot hit her high on the back near her shoulder, close to where her tote’s handles lay. She ignored the stinging pain. Her arm still worked so she continued to tug the woman inch by inch as chaos surrounded them.

  It seemed as if she’d been in the battle zone forever, but it could only have been mere seconds when she heard Risto yell, “Goddammit, Callie. Fucking get your ass in the hotel.” He tore her away from the woman and flung her toward the hotel. As she half-ran, half-tripped into the hotel, she sensed him on her heels, carrying the woman and shouting words which she couldn’t process above the sounds of gunfire and the frantic pounding of her heart.

  “Come, come.” Dario met them at the door and pushed her ahead of him, toward the back of the bar area into the kitchen. She prayed the kitchen with its metal equipment would give them some safety from flying bullets. “Put the injured woman on the prep table,” Dario instructed Risto. “Teo called. The ELN guerillas landed. The FARC guerillas are shooting at them. My brother has moved your boat to our mother’s house. You know this house, yes?”

  “Yeah.” Risto placed the seriously injured woman where Dario indicated then turned to locate Callie. “You okay?”

  She nodded, breathing heavily. “I think so.” She glanced at the counter. “The woman needs a doctor.”

  “The desk clerk is EMT-trained,” Dario told them. “He’ll see to her.” The bar owner walked to the rear of the hotel kitchen and looked outside. “It is still clear back here. You need to go. This isn’t your fight. You would be a prize for either side to ransom or…”

  “Over my dead body.” Risto’s furious gaze pinned her down. “Fuck, Callie, what did you think you were doing?”

  She waved a hand toward the woman. A short, sharp pain bit her shoulder where her tote bag straps rubbed; she probably got hit by shrapnel from all the flying bullets. She’d have Risto look at it later when he had calmed down some. “I was being human and helping another. I know it was crazy, but…” she eyed the moaning woman as the hotel desk clerk competently took over from Risto, “…she was nice to me and she didn’t deserve to lie there and bleed to death. Plus, I knew you’d have my back.”

  “Next time let me save the innocents, okay?” Risto grabbed her by the arms and shook her. “You could’ve been killed.” She winced and let out a groan. “Callie?” His slitted gaze swept over her front, then he turned her and swore as only a marine could. “You’re fucking shot!”

  Risto tore off the long-sleeved shirt, forcing her to drop her tote. The straps abraded the wound as the bag fell. Holy shit that hurt. Do not faint, Calista Jean. It’s just a scratch.

  She angled her head to look over her shoulder and saw a bloody gouge across the upper part of her shoulder. “I’m fine.” She bent over to reach for her bag, but Risto’s iron grip on her arms held her still. “Risto,” she smoothed a hand over his tense jaw, “my injury can wait until we get to the boat.” She broke away from his hands, picked up her bag, and started toward Dario. The wound hurt like a throbbing sore tooth, but it was bearable—just. She dug deep into reserves she never knew she had and headed for the back way out of the bar.

  Risto pulled her back to him, this time avoiding her wound. “Don’t ever fucking pull away from me, woman. Now, drop the fucking bag, hold the fuck still and let me look at it. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  He was exaggerating since she knew the wound only bled sluggishly. But with all the f-bombs flying, she decided she’d better do as he said. The usually calm and controlled soldier was well on his way to freaking out. Pissing off an irate marine never produced good results. She wouldn’t be surprised to see steam pouring off his body.

  Risto held her uninjured arm and angled her so he could see the back of her shoulder. Despite his anger, he was exceedingly gentle as he pulled away the fabric of her tank top and probed what she knew was only a deep graze. If a bullet or shrapnel were in her, she’d have more pain and wouldn’t have been able to drag the woman as she had.

  As Risto swore and fussed, Callie checked the injured woman’s status and found pain-filled golden-brown eyes fixed on her. The woman’s lips formed the word “gracias.” She nodded and whispered, “de nada.”

  Risto’s sigh of relief was hot on her bared shoulder. “Only a graze. It needs to be cleaned and treated because even scratches can fester in the tropics, but otherwise it looks minor. It will scar, though.” His thumb massaged the arm he held.

  She threw him an incredulous look over her shoulder. The room swirled around her but instantly settled. She mentally swore not to move so quickly again. “You think I care about that? A life is far more important than a scar. I’d do it again. I was closer. She could’ve died before you got me to safety and then went back for her.”

  Risto’s gaze still held fire, but the kiss he placed on her good shoulder was gentle and even if he wouldn’t admit it, loving. “I know. But you gave me quite a scare.” He shook her. “Don’t fucking do it again.” He released her. He cleaned the wound with something the hotel clerk handed him. She bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry out at the sting of the antiseptic. Risto applied some pressure and taped something over the wound. “This gauze pad will help control the bleeding until we can get to Teo’s mother’s house. My first aid kit is in the duffle in the dugout.”

  Dario waved at them. “Come. It is as safe as it will get. You must leave now. Some local men are here to help you get to your boat safely.”

  “But why? Shouldn’t they be taking cover?” asked Callie.

  “The woman you saved is the Mayor’s wife. The people of Ungaía are in your debt. They will protect you as much as they are able. Go now. Quickly. And safe journey to you both.”

  Callie allowed Risto to lead her from the hotel kitchen. The sound of gunfire, which had been muted by the thick adobe walls and the metal kitchen equipment, was now louder. It sounded as if World War III had begun in this small backwater of South America. Twenty locals formed a perimeter around them as soon as they exited the building. All of them armed to the teeth with older model submachine guns and hunting rifles and lots and lots of knives and machetes. Risto sheltered her with his body as he hustled her along the rutted ground.

  “My tote!” It had all her identification and supplies they might need, including the submachine gun Risto had given her in Cartagena and her Ruger and holster.

  “Fuck the tote.” He kept her moving along.

  “But my passport, the guns…”

  “Here is your bag.” A young man had caught up to them. He handed it to her and smiled shyly. “You saved my mother. Thank you, Risto’s woman.”

  Callie smiled as she accepted the bag which Risto immediately took from her with a muttered oath abo
ut clueless women. “I hope your mother will be okay.”

  “With God’s grace.” The young man stayed by her side, his hand on his weapon, his too-old eyes scanning for guerillas.

  She chanced a glance at Risto who also scanned for imminent danger, his Glock in his free hand. He must’ve sensed her gaze, because he looked down, a look of concern in his dark eyes. “You hurtin’, sweetheart? Want me to carry you?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Of course, at the moment of her denial she stumbled on the uneven ground and jarred her injury. She gasped as blinding pain shot through her. The wound hurt worse now than it had when it occurred. Risto and the teenage boy both reached for her before she fell to her knees.

  “Fuck!” Risto swung her up into his arms and began to run. He yelled at their escort. “Cover us.”

  For several minutes, all she could do was hold on with her good arm and bite her lip against the moans and whimpers threatening to erupt from her throat. Damn, she’d managed the incessant pain just fine until he’d picked her up and began his marathon run. Instead of an occasional throb, now the pain came in unceasing waves. “I … was…” she gasped, “…doing fine.”

  “Like hell.” His words came out on a snarl. “You’re in pain and I won’t have it.”

  She decided nothing she could say would convince him otherwise, so she just laid her head on his shoulder and held on the best she could, hoping they’d stop soon before she threw up.

  Finally, she spied a woman waving at them in a hurry-up motion in front of a small, pink shack built out over the river. Their boat, now equipped with what looked like a new and powerful motor, was tied to the dock attached to the small river house.

  Risto carried her into the small house and laid her on her good side on an over-stuffed sofa covered in a brightly colored, flower-print fabric. He ripped her tank top off and tossed it to the floor.

  Callie squeaked. “No, I’ll get the couch all bloody.” She sat up, covering her naked breasts with her crossed arms, and refused to lie on what had to be the woman’s pride and joy of the scantily furnished house.