Go With It (A Go Novel Book 1)

by Scarlett Finn

  The last thing Harlow would do was let his hands wander. Even though he was just teasing, there was something endearing about his drowsy eyes. He wanted to be himself to seduce her like he was on top form and able. But, the poor guy was so tired he couldn’t even lift his head from the headboard at the back of the bed.

  It wasn’t typical for her to wander into ethical gray areas; it wasn’t typical for her to be spending time with a man like Ryske either.

  Changing the subject seemed to be the best way to give both of them a break. “What happened last night?” she asked. “Will you tell me that?”

  The patient wasn’t distracted. “Will you tell me what turns you on?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Answer my question and maybe I’ll answer yours.”

  “I got stabbed,” he said, managing to thread his fingers through hers.

  At least while they were linked, his hand wasn’t seeking anything more intimate. “I got that. Why did you get stabbed? Hagan’s men were the ones who hurt you. Who is he? Why did you want to lose ten thousand to him? Who’s Ophelia?”

  His eyes closed again. “Not your competition.”

  Edging further up the bed, she kept his hand, but used her other to touch the bruise on his brow. “How did you get this? Seems the guy taking ten thousand dollars from you should be enough. Why did he want a pound of flesh too?”

  “Didn’t have the cash,” he said. “Lost in a card game, didn’t have the money to cash out.”

  “But…” Harlow didn’t understand. “Why play if you didn’t have it to lose? Didn’t you show him the cash up front? Wasn’t it a friendly game?”

  He smirked. “Friendly? Hardly. Stakes were more than cash.”

  Frustrated again, Harlow couldn’t figure it out. She wanted to ask more, but felt guilty pushing so soon after his injury and while he was vulnerable.

  “I can’t figure you out, Crash,” she murmured, combing her fingers through his hair.

  His hand loosened from hers; he was slipping back into sleep. “Don’t give up trying, Trink,” he said, his whispered words slow and heavy. “My guardian angel.”

  “Shh,” she said, letting her fingers drift down to touch his lips. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Get some sleep.”

  4

  Harlow sat with Ryske for another few minutes until she was sure he was asleep. She didn’t like that he was still in a seated position because that put pressure on his wound. But, she wasn’t going to try to move him herself. Doing that would cause more harm.

  Inside the sports bag, she’d packed a few essentials and added the things she’d bought before going to the deli. Most of what was inside fell into the toiletries or clothing categories. But, she’d also brought a blanket. Pulling it out, she spread the soft material across his chest. Tucking it in and running her hand into his hair one last time, she was actually reluctant to leave. Forcing herself to go, she left the bed and headed out to the living room.

  The guys were on the couches and chairs, arranged around the coffee table that was still strewn with the remnants of the breakfast she’d brought.

  Wearing a frown, she marched across the room to stand in front of the fireplace, and raised her hands to her hips, giving them all a dose of her disapproval. “I know you were afraid of losing him,” she said, scanning the men. “I understand that and I know you had no idea who I was or if I was a threat to him. But you had no right to go checking up on me, not without at least asking me for honesty first.”

  “It’s Maze’s default to dig,” Dover said, slouching deeper into his armchair to her right. “And, we had to know if you were connected to Hagan.”

  “If I had been, I wouldn’t have gotten into the car outside Floyd’s,” she said.

  “Sure you would,” Noon said from the couch next to Maze opposite where she was standing. “If you were doing recon for Hagan, finding Bale would be a coup.”

  “It’s a competition,” Dover said. “It’s complicated, Nightingale. You don’t understand what’s going on. We’re in deep.”

  “We have to protect ourselves,” Noon said. “And while Ryske is down, it’s our job to protect him.”

  Harlow understood that too. She couldn’t understand why they didn’t see that she had been protecting him as well. Maybe her reasons were different from theirs, but she hadn’t done Ryske any harm, she’d only helped.

  Before she could say any of that, Maze snapped, “I don’t see why we’re groveling,” he said, suddenly sitting up straight. “She’s no threat, we know that. She is a potential target, but that’s not our problem. If she’s pissed off, she knows where the door is.”

  “Ryske seems to like her,” Bale said.

  Maze just smiled. It was an ironic twist to his lips, not rooted in happiness. “And if he wants her, he’ll go get her, we all know that. I’m not going to grovel, Harlow. I am grateful that you helped our boy, and if you need a favor to even the score, you’ll find one of us in Floyd’s any time. But, you don’t have to be here. If you hate us, leave. If you’re pissed, leave.”

  Telling them that she didn’t like what they’d done wasn’t about hate or anger. She’d told Ryske that she would be here when he woke up and she planned to be. Maze was tense about something, and she had a feeling it wasn’t her.

  Ignoring Maze’s temper, she switched her focus to Bale. “Ryske’s asleep. I gave him some water, is that okay? He only had a sip.”

  “That’s fine,” Bale said.

  Sometimes the doctor seemed to be the only sane mind present. “He’s still sitting up. I don’t want him to get hurt. Could you help me lay him down?”

  “Maze will help the doc,” Dover said, nodding at his friend who hadn’t expected to be volunteered. “Go help.”

  His jaw moved, but he got up and went into the bedroom with Bale not far behind him. After the door closed, Dover breathed out and raised his hands to the top of his head.

  Noon was the one to move to the front of his seat. “Ignore Maze, he’s being an asshole,” he said to her. “We do have to protect the crew, but it’s not you he’s pissed at.”

  “Though he’s right,” Dover said. “You should probably go. This isn’t your life.”

  Getting rid of her wasn’t going to be easy. “What isn’t my life?” she asked, walking to the chair that Bale had vacated at the opposite end of the coffee table from Dover. “I chose my career because I wanted to help people. I’m here to help.”

  The way Dover and Noon looked at each other was intriguing, though she couldn’t quite figure out what it meant. Were they still suspicious of her or worried about drawing her in deeper?

  “How long have you all been friends?” she asked, trying to break the ice.

  It took a moment before anyone answered, but eventually Dover drew his eyes from Noon to her. “A long time,” he said. “A very long time.”

  These men were protective of their friendships. The default seemed to be more about habit than suspicion. It had become clear that they took their cues from Ryske. As long as he was out of service, they were going to feel at a disadvantage, which would probably make them defensive.

  They’d witnessed their friend hurt, they were shook up, and for some reason, she was too. Ryske’s crew had a reason to worry, Harlow didn’t. She hadn’t known him before last night. Yet, for some reason, she felt like she too would be more grounded if Ryske would come around. It was a crazy thought; she’d never known him as himself at his full strength.

  But she was intrigued. Maybe too intrigued. Whether or not it was healthy, Harlow didn’t plan on going anywhere until her curiosity was satisfied.

  Ryske’s crew kept to themselves. Most of the time when she walked into a room they were huddled together and either shut up so she wouldn’t catch a word or lowered their volume, making it clear that they didn’t want her to be part of their discussions.

  Bale was a pleasant host though. He let her help with the checks on sleeping Ryske and after popping out to the store, he gave h
er free rein to cook in his kitchen. It was a distraction; one she needed to clear her head. Going through the motions in the kitchen was easier than trying to figure out why it was so important to her to keep her promise to Ryske that she’d be around when he woke up.

  Harlow didn’t like to make promises. In fact, it was one of the first things she’d learned at work. Promises were easy to break and sometimes it wasn’t anyone’s fault; some things just weren’t possible. So, while it was a nice idea to tell a family they’d get to stay together or to promise kids that they wouldn’t be separated from their parents, it wasn’t possible to make that happen when courts said otherwise or parents went to jail or died.

  Maybe that was why she was so determined to keep the promises that she did make. Staying for Ryske wasn’t a hardship; she had nothing but homework to do that Sunday. If time got on and she really had to, she could do some of her research on her phone.

  The soup she’d made was cooling on the stove when Dover poked his head out of the bedroom to whistle at Noon and Maze, who got up to go scurrying into the bedroom. The door was closed and she was left alone in the kitchen to guess that Ryske had woken up.

  Harlow was still frowning at the bedroom door a minute later when the timer went off, indicating that her cookies were ready. Taking them from the oven, she placed them on a cooling rack and then ladled some soup into a bowl.

  It wasn’t just Ryske who intrigued her. She had an odd compulsion to get to the bottom of what had happened. If these men were acting in a way designed to hurt them, it was her professional duty to help them avoid destructive behavior.

  Retrieving a spoon from the drawer, she carried the bowl of soup to the bedroom. She didn’t even care that the men bristled when she opened the door and entered to join them.

  Harlow ignored the trio and went to sit by Ryske, stirring the soup as she walked. Focusing on the food meant she didn’t have to look anyone in the eye, and it let her keep up the appearance of being relaxed and unaffected by the crew’s annoyance at her presence.

  Bale wasn’t in the room. The shower was on in the adjoining bathroom, so she guessed that’s where he was.

  “You want to give us a minute, Harlow?” Dover asked.

  Scooping some soup into the spoon, she circled her lips and blew on it gently, leaning closer to Ryske. “He has to eat,” she said, offering the spoon to the patient’s lips. “Bale said it was okay.”

  “I’m sure he can work a spoon,” Maze said without disguising his impatience.

  Matching the half-smile that hinted on Ryske’s lips before he opened them to accept the soup, she inched a little higher. “It’s okay, she can stay,” Ryske said, licking the soup from his lips. “That’s good, Trink.”

  “Made it myself,” she said, scooping up some more and testing the temperature on her lip before offering it to his.

  Crooking a brow, he showed he was impressed and accepted the food.

  “She really is a regular Florence Nightingale,” Dover muttered.

  Harlow chose to ignore him and kept feeding Ryske. “I baked cookies for you too, if you’re strong enough.” The intimate mood that had been building between them was shattered when Ryske lurched forward, choking in a cough and putting a hand under his chin to catch the soup that tried to escape. Panic made her shove the soup onto the nightstand. Standing in a stoop, stroking his back, Harlow cupped a hand around his cheek. “Was it too hot? God, I’m sorry, Crash. I’m sorry.”

  A blink later, he’d recovered. His chin rose. The feral look he pinned on her brought her up short. She wasn’t quite sure why he was suddenly so aware of her.

  “Clear out, guys.”

  That tone was a more serious variation on the purr he’d used before falling asleep.

  “Oh, geez,” she heard Maze mutter.

  Glancing back, the trio were slipping out of the bedroom. Harlow was still confused about what had happened when Ryske’s fingers curled around her wrist. He drew her back down to sit on the bed. Pulling her hand across his lap, he held it down on the mattress by his uninjured hip, forcing her to lean across him.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  With his eyelids low, his gaze managed to be intent on something, but it wasn’t her face. With a loose hand, he swept her hair from her shoulder and leaned forward. A brief moment of discomfort made him pause to grit his teeth, but it passed and he kept moving until his breath warmed the crook of her neck.

  “Cookies, huh?” he murmured a moment before pressing the heat of his mouth to her skin.

  Shock and arousal jolted her. “Ryske,” she said, planting a hand on his shoulder, but he still had her other wrist in his grip and she couldn’t get it free. “Oh my God, no. No!”

  “Don’t fight, Trink,” he said, kissing her neck again. Just like before, his fingers began to slide up the inside of her knee toward the hem of her skirt. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

  The spell of sleep had given his brazenness a boost. “No,” she said, grabbing for his hand to force it away from her leg. Leaning away as much as she could, Harlow got her neck out of the reach of his entitled mouth. “Ryske, I want to take care of you.”

  His alight eyes were trailing across her body. “It’s my turn to take real good care of you, babydoll.”

  “No,” she said, flattening his hand onto his chest. After what was meant to be an anchoring press, she skimmed her fingers down to his dressed wound. “You’re injured.”

  That wasn’t the only reason that she was saying no to his advances but figured it should be the most relevant factor in Ryske’s decision making. “Everything works, baby. I promise. No problems.”

  There was no way she believed that he actually knew that every part of himself worked after experiencing such trauma and blood loss. Not that it mattered, there was no way that she wanted to find out.

  “No,” she said, being more forceful about putting his hand to his chest when he tried to reach for her again. “God, Ryske, if this is what you’re like at half-strength, I dread to think about how vigorous you’d be if you were yourself.”

  A renewed sparkle shone from him. “Is that what you need, baby? Vigorous?”

  He might be talking in that purr he reserved for seduction, but her interest in being alluring wasn’t as high as his. In her attempt to dissuade him, she took on an almost schoolmarm persona and sat straighter to chastise him.

  “I need for you to eat your soup. If you finish it, I might…” She held up a straight finger. “Might let you have a cookie. But you are going to keep your hands to yourself and your mouth too, definitely your mouth. You should keep that to…” she cleared her throat. “To yourself.”

  Sinking back against the pillows propped on the headboard, he smirked again. “You’re in charge, Trinket,” he said. Thinking that her resistance had exhausted him might have been premature. “But when I’m myself again, I’m gonna have you… and you’re not even going to fight it.”

  He didn’t fight to keep her wrist when she took it from his grip against the mattress. After adjusting her position, Harlow picked up the soup again and began to feed him. “You’re lucky that you’re on drugs or I’d be offended by that presumption.”

  Harlow had been given an excellent education, her parents had insisted on it. But she didn’t usually speak quite so properly. Maybe Ryske’s lack of compunction increased hers. She’d shake it off. She would. Once she got used to being around Ryske… if she ever got used to it.

  “You’ve got some big words there, baby,” he said. “But, I gotta tell you, other than whatever you put in that broth, I’m not on any drugs.”

  It wasn’t a broth, but that wasn’t really the point. Lowering the bowl an inch, she noticed that the IV was no longer in his arm. The stand was there, but the needle was gone.

  “You’re… what about the antibiotics?”

  Either he was confused or didn’t care, maybe he’d been talking about illegal drugs. Reassuring as it was to know he wasn’t an addict,
Harlow hadn’t thought for a second that he was. In addition to the antibiotics, she’d guess Bale had Ryske on some kind of painkillers. Though it might not be so easy to get his hands on the narcotics without a patient to declare.

  Shrugging off her question, Ryske sighed. “Bale’s the doctor,” he said, walking his fingertips onto her knee again. “You worry about playing nursemaid.”

  “That hand goes any higher, and you’ll need the doctor all over again.”

  “Good,” he said, accepting another spoonful. “We’re defining our boundaries. Keep telling me what works for you. How’s this?”

  Sliding his hand higher, he flattened it out, until his fingertips touched the hem of her skirt. “Keep it out of my clothes and I’ll let it stay there.”

  The soup was cool enough now that she didn’t have to blow. Even though Maze had probably been right that Ryske could work a spoon, Harlow kept feeding him.

  After another few spoonful’s, he spoke, “Why did you choose social work?”

  “I wanted to help people. Why did you choose crime?”

  “Same reason,” he said.

  His fingers bent and straightened on her leg in an almost constant caress, but he didn’t let them ascend beneath her skirt, just as she’d asked.

  With the spoon in the soup, she narrowed her eyes on him. “You chose crime to help people?”

  “Yeah,” he said and smiled. “Me.”

  Dragging the back of the spoon against the rim of the bowl, she scraped off the drips. “It can’t be that satisfying,” she said. “Don’t you feel guilty about hurting people for your own gain?”

  “I don’t hurt people,” he said, curling his fingers around hers on the spoon to guide it to his mouth. After slurping from it, he licked the spoon. “Not the kind of people you help anyway.”

  When he released his grip, she put the spoon back in the bowl, and lowered it to her lap, cradling the ceramic in her hand. “Dover said you were in competition with Hagan. What does that mean?”