Go With It (A Go Novel Book 1)

by Scarlett Finn

  Despite all the unknowns, one thing was clear as day. The time for speculation and indecision was over. If she left him there, he’d die either way.

  “That good, huh?” Doing a double take, Harlow realized the stranger was reading the seriousness of the situation from her expression through his scarcely open eyes. “You’re hot, Trinket. Does a guy get a last request?”

  “Not tonight, Crash,” she said, shifting closer to loop his arm up over her shoulders. “I can’t believe you’re on the brink of death and trying to put the moves on me.”

  She struggled to pull him from the wall. It took a few attempts and to get more traction, she had to press his hand onto the scarf to give him responsibility for stemming his own bleeding.

  The stranger hissed again, holding the scarf against his wound. “I’m a guy with the right priorities.”

  He might be able to make jokes, but she didn’t find this situation funny at all. “You’re going to be alright,” she said, putting his mischief down to the effects of blood loss. “We’re going to get you to Floyd’s. But you’re going to have to help me. I can’t do this alone.”

  That made him breathe out. “Up?” he asked, bracing, despite the obvious pain behind his clenched expression.

  “Up,” she said, pleased that she’d managed to focus him. “On three.”

  Getting him onto his feet was only the first obstacle. Harlow learned fast that muscle weighed a lot more than it looked. This guy was no quarterback, but his body was solid, athletic in its ability, and definitely muscular.

  His being healthy would work in his favor; he’d need all the help and luck he could muster to get out of this.

  Guiding him out of the alley, they spanned the sidewalk and managed to get across the street. One step at a time, Harlow counted each as progress. This was the right block, but they still had to get to the corner and walk to the furthest end to get to Floyd’s, which, if she remembered the pictures she’d seen in her research of the neighborhood, was on the opposite corner.

  The stranger’s shuffling steps were slowing. “What do I get?” he grumbled, maybe as a way to stay conscious.

  “Get for what?” she asked, spitting her hair from her mouth, trying her best to keep her legs straight though his weight was beginning to crush her.

  “Helping you out.”

  “Helping me out?” she said, and realized he meant getting him to his feet and moving. “You get to live.”

  He groaned. “Not good enough.”

  Keeping him talking was a good idea. The uncertainty of his slowing walk was less concerning than the slurring of his speech. His head drooped, lolling on his shoulders; he wasn’t even looking where they were going. Each of his movements was blind. It seemed he trusted that she was taking him in the right direction. Though, in this state of vulnerability, he couldn’t put up much of a fight against any threat.

  She’d say anything if it would keep him conscious; Harlow couldn’t do this without his help. “What is it you want, Crash? Because it doesn’t seem you’re up to the challenge of a woman like me right now.”

  The faint mumble of his laugh became a grunt of pain. “Feel free to take advantage when I pass out.”

  “No,” she said, pulling his arm further around her. “You’re not going to pass out, Crash. Stay with me.” All the wishing in the world didn’t prevent the inevitable. Her stranger slumped further, making her stagger to the side. “Shit, you’re heavy.”

  Sweat dampened her forehead. She could feel her hair sticking to the back of her neck where it wasn’t being pulled by the leather of his jacket.

  “You…” he slurred. “I…”

  Determined to traverse half the block, they got around the corner but were still the length of this full block from the bar. Supporting him was getting more difficult by the second. The weight of his body shifted.

  Blowing out the strain of his burden, Harlow struggled just to stop without falling over. “Crash,” she said because she didn’t know what else to call him. He’d crashed into her, so the moniker seemed appropriate. “I can’t… are you…”

  Falling against the wall of the building next to them, he didn’t spend any time leaning and instead slid down onto the sidewalk.

  The sight of his loose body crumpling filled her with dread. It was obvious he had little control. If he was unconscious, that was it, there would be nothing else she could do.

  Desperate and terrified, Harlow dropped down beside his slumped figure. With a hand on his chest, she shuffled nearer and scooped his head up. His stubble was rough on her palm, but when she relaxed her hand, his head flopped.

  His eyes were closed.

  Picking up his head again, she tried to give him a shake. “Hey,” she said, slapping his cheek.

  Getting no response, she hit him again, a little harder. It was useless. He was no longer conscious.

  Unwilling to give up, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, shaking him. Nothing happened. There was no sign of life.

  Snatching her blood stained scarf from the ground next to him, she pressed it to his wound.

  Panic surged through her. This man was going to die right there on the concrete if she didn’t do something. “Oh, please,” she whispered, crawling closer to stroke his face. “Please. Wake up, please.”

  The stranger didn’t move, didn’t respond. His pallor set fear alight within her. That spark of emotion ignited her fortitude. Harlow wouldn’t let this happen. She wouldn’t sit whimpering while he slipped away. Without fail, she’d always let fight win before she thought about giving in to fear. Resolve consolidated the mess of emotions warring within her. Action. She had to do something. She had to take action.

  Surging to her feet, she left him there and ran down the rest of the block at full speed.

  Shoving into Floyd’s, she burst into the busy room, immediately drawing the attention of all those sitting around drinking. Looking left then right, she didn’t even know who she was seeking, adrenaline drove her forward.

  The bartender was already turning toward her. Dubious concern and suspicion gathered on his face as he scanned her. She could feel thick blood drying on her hands and was sure her clothes were covered in it, but she didn’t care.

  Panting, Harlow tried to catch her breath and gather the energy to speak. “Please,” she said, beseeching the bartender. “Please help him.”

  His chin rose slowly. “Him? Him who?”

  “Here,” she said, taking a backward step and gesturing for him to follow. “Please, he’s outside. Help him.” In reverse, she retreated all the way to the door. Though there were more people out of their seats, and more looks of confused doubt, no one was following her. Frustration became anger. It erupted from her chest. “Get your fucking asses out here now!”

  The desperation of her furious plea was enough to snap the bartender to attention. He disappeared around the corner of the bar, but reappeared at the same corner a moment later, this time on the customer side. Coming toward her with determination in his gait, two others materialized to flank him, matching the pace of his stride.

  Harlow didn’t loiter. Rushing outside, she hurried back down the sidewalk. Relief infused her when she found her patient where she’d left him. Crouching beside him, she put pressure on his wound and was stroking his face when the men from Floyd’s joined her.

  The first she became aware of them was a voice cutting through the night air. “It’s Ryske,” the voice said. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the bartender on the phone. Of the two men who’d been with him, only one remained. The other had disappeared. “Definitely blue.” He lowered the microphone from his mouth. “Is he out?” She nodded. “How long?”

  “Less than five minutes,” she said, feeling so protective that she twisted to prop a shoulder on the wall next to her unconscious friend. Easing Crash away from the cold concrete, she caught his deadweight and cradled his head against her chest. When she peeled her scarf from his wound, he didn’t even flinch, which
scared her even more. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He wouldn’t let me call 9-1-1. I tried. I wanted to, I…” Biting her lip, it didn’t matter that she knew her sudden emotion was irrational, she couldn’t control it. Harlow didn’t even know this guy, yet grief was gripping her. “I should’ve done it, shouldn’t I? I should’ve called 9-1-1.”

  The second man was about a half inch taller than the bulky bartender but was much leaner. Both were fit, leaving her to wonder if everyone in this neighborhood hit the gym.

  “No,” he said. “Definitely not. You did the right thing bringing him here. No 9-1-1… Let’s see it.”

  Both men came in closer and the bartender lowered the mouthpiece of the phone again. The leaner one nodded toward her hand that was holding the scarf to the wound. Though it pained her to peel back the fabric again, Harlow wanted these men to help. Revealing the injury to the bartender and his companion, she blinked up just as they winced. The bartender turned his back to keep talking into the phone.

  Harlow held the patient close, stroking his hair away from his forehead. “You’re going to be okay, Crash. You’re going to be okay.”

  The second guy hunkered down next to Crash, wearing an odd kind of smirk. “Asshole,” he mumbled and socked Crash’s knee with a light punch. “Even unconscious you snag ‘em.”

  The act was peculiar. Although she couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to punch or taunt an unconscious person, it made Harlow more protective. Holding Crash close, she used her body to block as much of him as she could. Whispering words of comfort, she tried to ignore the man crouched close to them.

  Just as she was about to throw him the evil eye in hopes of getting him to back off, a car came skidding around the corner. Harlow tightened her embrace, praying this wasn’t anyone coming to finish the job they’d started.

  The bartender and the punching guy weren’t concerned when the car came to a screeching halt in front of them. They opened both doors on the passenger’s side, front and back, while the driver climbed out to come rushing over to her. Punching Guy stuck with the driver while the bartender stayed by the vehicle.

  The bartender was off the phone and apparently the one in charge. “Get him up.”

  The driver and Punching Guy did as they were told, jostling her aside to pick up Crash from the sidewalk. Punching Guy hooked his forearms under Crash’s arms, while the driver took his legs.

  “You have to maintain pressure,” she said, moving with them to press on the wound for as long as she could.

  It pained her to back off. The driver put Crash’s legs into the backseat and ran around to open the opposite door to pull him inside. Punching Guy kept control of Crash’s upper body. Harlow couldn’t tear her eyes away. She feared what would become of the stranger once they took him.

  “Don’t worry about that, Nightingale. You’re going to be there to keep our boy going,” the bartender said, putting a heavy arm around her shoulders.

  “What?” she asked, but was given little choice.

  The bartender urged her toward the vehicle and Punching Guy stepped aside once Crash was bundled into the backseat.

  “Get in the car.”

  Punching Guy went around them to get in the front passenger seat while the driver leaped back in his side.

  Putting a hand on her head, the bartender pushed her down, crowding her into the back. “But, I…”

  Almost sitting on Crash, Harlow had to grab his head up just to stop herself from landing on him.

  “Keep him alive, Nightingale,” the bartender said, pushing her in and slamming the door. “He’s counting on you.”

  The second the door was closed, the bartender hit the roof twice and the car sped off, giving her no choice but to scoop up her patient’s shoulders to lay his head in her lap.

  Harlow was no nurse, except she was sure that if the bleeding hadn’t at least slowed by now, the patient probably had no chance of making it. But for lack of anything else to do, she put pressure on the wound and looked out the window, wondering where the hell she was going and what could possibly happen next.

  2

  They didn’t drive for long.

  Half a dozen blocks later, they took a corner on two wheels and sped to the end of the block, coming to a skidding halt at the curb.

  Adrenaline and fear kept Harlow going, but she couldn’t think clearly enough to ask questions. Another man was waiting on the sidewalk to yank open the back door the moment they stopped. Autopilot made her help the trio of men pull the unconscious man from her lap.

  Sidewalk Man jumped to action, helping them up the stoop. Harlow didn’t remember the stairwell or entering the apartment. She was still trying to figure out what was going on or how she’d found herself there when Crash was laid on a bed in a bedroom so normal that it made the moment all the more surreal.

  Sidewalk Man barked orders at the other two who were doing exactly what they were told.

  Crash was stripped to the waist while Sidewalk Man, who it appeared was now in charge, went to a walk-in closet and came out with what Harlow was sure was an IV stand and a supply of blood.

  “Get his pants off,” Sidewalk Man said, shoving her aside.

  As though he’d just noticed her, he paused for half a beat to frown at her, like he was trying to figure out who she was. Harlow wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell him if he asked because this seemed so unlike her life that she wasn’t sure she was her anymore.

  After that fleeting moment, he jumped back to action. The other two were pulling off Crash’s boots, while Sidewalk Man bent to stick a needle into his arm. Both hands went to her mouth in an attempt to stifle her gasp. The act was so quick it seemed barbaric. Though, as shocked as she was, Harlow did feel an element of relief when she realized the patient was getting the medical attention he needed.

  If there was any hope of Crash’s life being saved, it was going to happen in this room.

  Most of Sidewalk Man’s body was blocking her view. But from his position, it appeared like he was examining Crash’s wound. “Someone want to tell me what happened?” he asked.

  The two men who’d just removed Crash’s pants shared a look with each other. When they didn’t respond, she felt obliged to say something. “I—”

  “Nothing,” Punching Guy said, cutting her off with a glare. “Just a mishap. You know how it is, Bale… Can you fix him?”

  “Depends. How long has he been out?” Again, no one answered. The guy they’d called Bale raised his attention first to look at the two men standing at the foot of the bed. When he got nothing from them, he twisted to pin her in his sights. “The more I know, the more I can do.”

  “No more than twenty minutes,” she said, earning herself a glare from the pair who’d closed ranks.

  Bale focused on her. “Was he talking before he lost consciousness? Coherent? Oriented?”

  That was difficult to answer when she didn’t know what Crash was like under normal circumstances. At a bit of a loss, she opened her mouth, searching for a response. “He… he was hitting on me.”

  Punching Guy scoffed and the driver shook his head. “Sounds like Ryske.”

  So Ryske was Crash? That was his name. “Do you know who stabbed him?” Bale asked.

  Noting the professional edge to his tone, it felt like maybe this was what he did for a living. Given that he had all the necessary equipment, Harlow figured he had to be some kind of doctor.

  The question was a shock. “Stabbed?” she asked, having not spent time speculating on the cause of his injury. “He… was stabbed? Oh my God.”

  Wobbling on her feet, she didn’t realize her lightheadedness had transferred to anything physical until someone took her arm. Lifting her focus, she found Punching Guy at her side, holding her elbow.

  “Just do your thing, Bale,” Punching Guy said, guiding her toward the bedroom door. “Noon will help with whatever you need.”

  Unable to argue or fight, Harlow staggered sideways when Punching Guy opened the bedroom doo
r and pulled her out into a darkened living room. He tugged her to the couch and left her standing between it and the coffee table while he went to check the front door was locked.

  A chill went through her. Shrugging off her daze, Harlow took stock. She was alone in an apartment with four men—well, three and a half—and all of them were strangers to her. No one knew where she was and no one would know where to look for her.

  Clutching her purse higher to her chest, she took a step backwards. “Who are you people?” she asked. “Why did he tell me not to call 9-1-1?”

  In the moment, she’d been acting on instinct and impulse. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask questions. The man was bleeding out; all she’d thought about was helping him.

  With startling clarity, Punching Man’s response brought things into focus. “We’re criminals,” he said, without compunction, coming toward her.

  Trying her best to conceal the tension that began to clench her muscles, Harlow didn’t let herself recoil. The man in front of her wasn’t fazed despite offering such honesty. Neither did he hesitate to offer her a hand like providing his lifestyle choice was a standard introduction.

  “You’re—”

  “They call me Maze. Noon, he’s the conscious one who drove the car. Ryske’s the unconscious one who hit on you. Dover’s the guy from behind the bar in Floyd’s. Bale’s the doc in the bedroom who’s going to fix our friend right up.”

  Surprised that this Maze was being so open, she was nervous to shake his hand. Although, having been raised to be polite, she couldn’t refuse it.

  Remaining wary, she slipped her fingers into his palm. “Harlow.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harlow,” he said, flashing her a smile that was just a little too suave for her liking. “You did our boy a solid tonight. That means we owe you…”

  He didn’t complete the sentence, and it seemed to be a deliberate choice. She could feel it hanging thick and unfinished in the air. “I…”

  “Before we get to what you want from us, you have to tell me what you know… You tell me everything and no one else.”