Go With It (A Go Novel Book 1)

by Scarlett Finn

  That statement was daunting in itself. This guy seemed to be a professional intimidator. Harlow hadn’t known that was a crime, but she was beginning to rethink that assumption.

  “No one else?” she asked. “I don’t—”

  “Ryske didn’t want you calling 9-1-1 because cops ask questions. They’re suspicious of guys who show up with stab wounds.”

  Sure, she imagined that they would be. This Maze had been kind enough to at least be honest about their profession, though she couldn’t say it put her mind at ease. In fact, it raised more questions. Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door.

  It was no normal knock. The sequence of different tempoed notes formed a tune. One which obviously meant something to Maze because he reversed to the door he’d just locked and opened it without even checking who he was granting entry to.

  The bartender.

  Dover. That was the name Maze had given for him.

  Dover examined her while Maze locked the door again. “Who is she?” he asked, like she wasn’t there.

  “Haven’t figured that out yet,” Maze said, moving to his cohort’s side… though “accomplice” may be a more accurate descriptor.

  “Ryske gonna make it?”

  “Haven’t figured that out yet either,” Maze said. “Noon’s in there.”

  Dover nodded once. Both men started toward her, riveted in their focus. “You think she’s one of Hagan’s?”

  Maze didn’t get the opportunity to answer because she did. “I am not Hagan’s,” she asserted, offended by the notion. “His men were the ones who did this to Ryske. If I hadn’t stepped in, they’d have finished what they started right there on the sidewalk.”

  Dover turned to look at Maze, who didn’t say anything. Rethinking why the bartender had told her that he was counting on her to keep Ryske alive, Harlow began to get the impression that had been a con to keep her around until they figured her out.

  “She fake named me,” Maze said.

  Her jaw fell. A sound of offense squeaked in the back of her throat. “I did not fake name you,” she squawked. “My name is Harlow and I’ll prove it.”

  Yanking open her purse, she rooted around and pulled out her wallet to retrieve her ID. The moment she held it up, Maze leaned forward to take it. Noticing how he took his time about scrutinizing the card, she regretted being so rash in producing it.

  “IDs aren’t hard to fake,” Dover said, stepping forward to guard his associate who was less than discreet about pocketing her ID. “I’ve got a dozen of those in a drawer.”

  If these two thought she was going to be a pushover, they had another thing coming. “Yeah, because I’m sure your name’s really Dover and Maze is the name his momma gave him,” she said, thrusting one hand to her hip while the other opened to them. “May I have my ID back, please?”

  “Sure,” Dover said, moving to the side while Maze moved the other way, so the latter was shielded behind the former. “Just as soon as our colleague verifies your story.”

  “Your…” Stunned, her hand dropped. “Crash?” She shook the moniker they wouldn’t recognize off her lips to replace it with the right one. “Ryske? You want to keep me here until Ryske can verify my story…” Incredulous was hardly enough to describe what she was feeling. “You’re not serious… he might never wake up.”

  “And if he doesn’t, that’s bad for you,” Dover said.

  “I haven’t told you what happened,” she said, but they didn’t seem interested in listening. “What do you think happened? Do you think I stabbed him? I didn’t even know him before tonight! I still don’t know him!”

  Her plea didn’t affect either of them. They went back to talking as though she were deaf. “If she’s Hagan’s, we shouldn’t have brought her here,” Maze said into Dover’s ear.

  Dover’s chin swung toward his shoulder. “I wasn’t going to leave her on the sidewalk. Ryske would be the first one to tell us to keep the variables under control.”

  Until that moment, Harlow had never considered that word to be an insult. “I am not a variable,” she said, losing grip of her patience, which, at work, she had no trouble holding onto. Outside of work, she didn’t have to worry about being professional. “I saved your friend’s life! I didn’t have to. I could’ve left him there on the sidewalk to bleed out. I could’ve called 9-1-1 and ignored him telling me not to! You guys might not like it, you might not trust me! Hell, I don’t trust any of you! But I did a good thing tonight! All of you should be on the floor kissing my damn feet! You’re the criminals! That’s your choice! I am not on trial here! I do not answer to any of you! And I will not be threatened for saving your boy’s ass!” Marching to them, she shoved Dover aside and opened her palm to Maze. “Give me my goddamn ID.”

  Maze looked past her, probably at Dover, who must have nodded because Maze retrieved the ID from his pocket and handed it over. “Ryske’s always been able to pick ‘em,” he muttered.

  Ignoring what that implied, Harlow stopped short of saying that Ryske hadn’t picked her at all. The convergence of their lives meant that they’d happened to occupy the same space at the same moment in time. Neither of them had planned to crash to the sidewalk together.

  Offended as she was by their treatment of her and the things they’d said as though she wasn’t there, Harlow wasn’t afraid of the oafs sharing this room with her.

  Her lack of fear had a lot to do with her philosophy on life. Harlow believed a person was in control of their own destiny and that they had to take responsibility for their own choices. Given her training and experience, she could size people up with relative accuracy.

  By their own admission, these men were criminals. Yet, no one had threatened her with violence. Other than Maze taking her out of the bedroom, no one had touched her. Whatever they were capable of, they hadn’t raised her DEFCON level.

  The bedroom door opened before another word was uttered. Bale came out pulling latex gloves off his hands.

  Dover went toward him. “What’s the word?”

  “Bowel’s intact far as I can see,” Bale said, going into the kitchen to trash the gloves. “He was lucky.”

  The bedroom door was open. The guy they’d referred to as Noon was filling the frame, frustrating her view of the man who’d be in the bed behind him.

  “Will he make it?” Maze asked.

  Bale got a bottle of water from the fridge and took his time about opening it to drink before answering. “He lost a lot of blood. I’ll run more in, give him some antibiotics and pray the wound isn’t infected. I’ve irrigated it, but there’s no way to know how dirty the blade was. I’ll keep him sedated tonight, let him get some rest. I can’t tell if there will be any lasting damage… unless you let me take him to the hospital.”

  Dover was the first to make a noise of disapproval. “You know the rules, Bale.”

  Harlow didn’t know the rules, but she didn’t care about rules. Especially ones that could end with people dying. The same feelings of protectiveness she’d had on the sidewalk welled up in her again.

  Seeing her cases through to the end was something she prided herself on. Harlow didn’t abandon clients, no matter how tough things got.

  “Would you like to see him, miss?” Miss. It took her a second to realize that she was the only female in the room; the only “miss” here. Her rubber-necking couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Blinking at Bale, who was coming toward her, she started to nod. After registering her response, he adjusted to move toward the bedroom again. “Get your ass out the lady’s way.”

  For a second, Bale stood facing off with Noon. Eventually, the man in the doorway sidestepped, giving Bale space to go back into the bedroom. The doctor stopped and gestured for her to follow.

  While heading to the bedroom, Harlow was aware of Dover, Maze, and Noon huddling in the living room behind her. The importance of whatever they had to whisper about surpassed their concern for her and Bale being separated from them. Though given that the trio were bloc
king the exit, they’d know if anyone tried to sneak in or bolt.

  Forgetting the distracted posse, she focused on seeing Ryske. Laid out on the bed, peaceful, with tubes in his arm and a loose dressing just resting over the wound on his hip, this was the first time she’d seen him in full light.

  Compelled to get closer, Harlow moved to the edge of the bed and sank down beside him without caring about respectable distance. Stroking his hair away from his forehead, she admired his features. Dark hair, square jaw. Even while unconscious with a grave expression on his face, there was a kind of mischief that fizzed around him.

  In the dim alleyway, she hadn’t got a good look at him. There, in Bale’s bedroom, the light from the nightstand lamp let her see that there was a bruise above his brow and another on his shoulder.

  Concern made her pale fingers open on his chest. “Was he beaten up?”

  Behind her, the doctor was doing something on the dresser with supplies. “Ryske knows how to fight,” Bale said. “How to handle himself. If there was a fight, you can bet he gave as good as he got… providing that was the plan.”

  That made her stop caressing the injury on Ryske’s shoulder to turn to the doctor. “The plan?”

  A slight frown tensed his preoccupied brow. “I have to finish cleaning him up,” he said and nodded to the side, indicating that she should move out of his way.

  In addition to what he’d been arranging on the dresser, there were various other medical supplies laid out on the nightstand. Bale put something with them and then dragged a tub chair from the corner over to the side of the bed. Sitting down, he went to work on Ryske.

  For the first time all night, Harlow could breathe. “Are you a doctor?”

  “I am,” Bale said without taking his attention from his task.

  Looking at Ryske’s wound was making her queasy, so Harlow turned away and went to the window. The blinds were closed, but she used a finger to peek through them to the quiet street below.

  “Are you a criminal too?”

  He exhaled what could only be described as a laugh. “Every time I get a call from these guys.”

  The insinuation that just being around Ryske and his cohorts implicated them all made her uneasy. “I should’ve called 9-1-1, shouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Did Ryske tell you not to?”

  “He did,” she said and closed her eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking. He was there, bleeding in front of me, telling me not to call and, I don’t know, it seemed like the right thing to do in that moment.”

  Part of her work involved building trust with individuals who were suspicious of authority. She’d often kept secrets or listened to people who wanted to get things off their chest. Respecting people and their wishes, even when they contrasted with her own beliefs, meant something to her. Judgement wasn’t a part of her role, she had to be open-minded to those who did things she never would.

  Thinking that maybe her acceptance was going to cause Ryske’s downfall, she began to question whether she’d made the right choice.

  “If Ryske told you not to, then you did the right thing,” Bale said. The certainty in his voice intrigued her enough to turn. The doctor was busy with his work, so he probably didn’t notice her scrutinizing him. “Ryske knows the plan.”

  Again with the plan. “What is the plan?”

  Bale shrugged. There was a smile in his voice when he next spoke. “I don’t know. I’m about as close to Ryske as anyone outside his crew can be, but he’d never think to fill me in on whatever the con is.”

  This night of surprises just kept on giving. “The… con?”

  As if he’d sensed her astonishment, he paused to look over his shoulder. His gloved hands hovered over the wound he seemed to be dressing. “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

  Ducking forward, she forgot to blink. “What? With Ryske? I… I’m not sleeping with him.”

  That seemed to heighten his curiosity. “Are you worth a lot of money?”

  This conversation had gone in an odd direction that left her confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He’d loosened again. “Just wondering if you’re the con,” he said and went back to his work. “You weren’t the one who stabbed him, were you?”

  She bit her lip instead of rolling her eyes. “No.” Though maybe if she’d gotten to know him better, she might have been tempted. The man was unconscious and managing to cause her aggravation. “What do you mean I’m the con?”

  “I was exaggerating… sort of,” he said. “Ryske will do almost anything for a job, but I’m sure this is a step too far, even for him. Though it’s not the first time he’s been stabbed, so if this was for a con, he knew what he was in for… Course it wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken things too far either.”

  Going to the end of the bed, she was astounded by the man lying on it, and wondered what had brought him to her. His athletic body had been pressed into her while she’d tried to coax him to Floyd’s. That’s when she’d learned Ryske was in shape. Seeing him now, wearing nothing but a pair of dark boxer-briefs, his ripped physique was more conditioned than she could have imagined.

  A black tribal tattoo arched around his uninjured hip in sharp curved claws that stretched across his defined abs. Covering half his abdomen, it stopped just beneath his ribs. Adorning the shoulder opposite his abdominal tattoo was another tribal design. This one cut across his collar bone and continued down to his elbow and forearm. Beneath the claws that extended beyond his elbow was a wide black wristband tattoo of zigzags and what looked like arrowheads.

  Her curiosity about what the ink meant peaked when Bale picked up Ryske’s wrist closest to the center of the bed, presumably to check his pulse. On the back of that forearm, extending from elbow to almost his wrist were four thick black stars. They had to stand for something. Harlow was sure of it.

  The doctor put Ryske’s arm back down and went back to his work. Not finished with her inspection, Harlow noted that just under his watch was the only piece of jewelry he seemed to be wearing. A narrow, rounded braid of black leather circled his wrist. At the front was a dark metal cylinder that seemed to be engraved.

  Tipping her head, she squinted to try reading what the bracelet said. “On his wrist, what does the—”

  “Carpe noctem,” he said and then translated the words. “Seize the night.” Harlow had known what carpe noctem meant, but didn’t interrupt. “That’s Ryske, and maybe explains why he’s got scars all over.”

  It seemed that the doctor had picked up on how curious she was about the patient. Though given that he was still working, she didn’t know how he could. Finishing with what he was doing, Bale reached over to curve a hand around Ryske’s leg. Rolling the patient just a little, the doctor showed her the outer side of his patient’s thigh where there was a healed scar.

  “How did—”

  “That one’s a stab wound.”

  Either this was Bale proving his previous point, or him trying to warn her about the man she’d saved. “A stab wound?”

  Nodding, he pushed Ryske’s starred arm up to show a thin slice of a scar front to back on his ribs beneath his arm. “That was a bullet, just grazed him, but still bled bad.” Putting his arm back down, Bale began to clean up the supplies. “I’ve patched ‘em all up at one time or another.”

  After putting the used and dirty things aside, he took a blood pressure cuff from his bag that was on the nightstand.

  “You’re their doctor,” she said, trying to figure this whole warped scenario out. “But, if they’re criminals, why would you—”

  “It’s a long story, and not one I want to tell,” he said.

  She wasn’t quickly dissuaded. “You implied you weren’t part of his crew.”

  “I’m not,” he said, then breathed out. “I guess I’m peripheral. I don’t doubt that they have a lot of people who help them out. But, Ryske, Dover, Noon, and Maze, they trust each other and only each other.�
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  “That’s the crew? The four of them?” she asked. Bale nodded, going through his checks. “And they con people? Rich people? That’s what they do?”

  He stopped to look at her. “If you want to know more, you should ask Ryske.”

  Quizzing the doctor was putting him in an awkward position. There was no sense of fear coming from him and he’d stood up to the crew in the living room. But, Harlow had no idea how these men got the doctor to look after them. The last thing she wanted to do was endanger him in any way.

  “Thanks,” she said, hoping Ryske would make it through to tell his tales, even if she wouldn’t be around to hear them. “But now that I know he’s safe, I think I should probably just go… if his buddies will let me leave.”

  Wearing a smile, he returned his focus to his patient. “Don’t worry about them. No one’s being falsely imprisoned in my apartment. If they try to restrain you, I’ll call the cops myself.”

  Bale seemed normal, rational, sane. In short, not like the men in the living room. It was nice to have an ally.

  With the reassurance she’d be allowed to leave, Harlow took what could be one last look at the patient. “Is he going to be okay, Doctor?”

  “There’s no rush for you to cut ties. No one here will hurt you and Ryske will want to thank you. Why don’t you go home, get some rest, and come back tomorrow to check on him yourself?” The doctor was more than sane, he was warm and kind. “Some sleep wouldn’t hurt and I think you could probably do with cleaning up.”

  Scanning her, his smirk grew before his attention returned to his patient. Harlow had forgotten about the blood on her clothes and on her hands. Bale was right, she should clean up, and she did need rest.

  “Okay,” she said, without lying to herself that she wouldn’t be curious about Ryske. Follow up was part of her job too. Checking on a person she’d helped was engrained in her. Harlow wanted to keep on helping Ryske, despite his less than savory choices. “You’re sure that would be okay? He’ll be here?”

  “The Floyd’s crew trust my medical choices,” he said. “Best case scenario, there’s no organ or brain damage from the blood loss, but Ryske will still have to heal, and finish the course of antibiotics. I’ll be keeping him here for at least two weeks.”