“Yes, sir.” The man turned as if to walk to his vehicle and then turned back, eyes narrowed with a tight smile on his lips. “Welcome to Blackwood, Mr. Blane.”
Clay watched the cruiser pull a U-turn and take off in the other direction before he started his new truck and slowly drove into the quaint downtown area.
Already on the cops’ radar. Great. Why the hell did I choose this place?
Okay, so maybe he’d head to Miami or Atlanta or someplace where he wouldn’t stand out like such a sore thumb. He could get his ink taken care of there, prep for court, and lay low until he had to testify.
As he drove through town, the skin clinic appeared on his right, and just as he passed it, Dr. Georgette Hadley got out of her car, dressed in a light, flowery dress instead of the jeans she’d worn the evening before, and he couldn’t help but slow down to watch her. Her legs were sexy, curvaceous, strong-looking, and…man, they were pale almost to the point of translucence, lending a fragile quality to her that he hadn’t noticed behind her serious doctor facade. He knew he should keep going—not stare at her like some kind of creeper—but the way she moved kept drawing his eyes.
In the rearview mirror, he watched her walk from her hippy car to the clinic, unlock it, and enter, her skirt swirling as she pulled the door closed behind her, exposing a swath of clear, white thigh—before he rounded the bend and lost sight of her.
Fuck, that thigh. Not a mark on it. No ink, no scars, track marks, or bruises. He didn’t think he’d seen such a pure stretch of body in… He blinked at the ghost of the doctor’s reflection in the mirror and focused on the road. Ever.
After that, Clay drove on to his motel and holed up, ready for a long, vodka-infused night inside, all thoughts of small-town cops and curious locals wiped away by that one, vulnerable peek of the doctor’s soft-looking thigh.
* * *
Back at the office, close and still and sweltering, George booted up her computer. Only rather than catching up on patient files as she normally would on a night like this, she walked back to exam room 2, reached into the garbage can, and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork—torn in two, but still completely legible.
I want to help him, she thought. He needs help.
Guiltily, she scanned the sheets, only to come up empty. Nothing. They told her nothing.
Name: Andrew Blane
Address: None
Phone: None
Homeless? Was he homeless?
But he’d stood so straight. Smelled so…good. Really good. Not like a man who didn’t wash.
When he’d pleaded with her, even then, he’d been strong. He didn’t have that hopelessness to him that she associated with people who didn’t have a place to call their own. Although, what did she know about homelessness? He could be a nomad, for all she knew. Plus, there was that wad of cash he’d tried to give her, which spoke of an unsettled existence. Who used cash anymore?
So, not homeless, she concluded, turning back to the otherwise blank page. Just squirrelly. He had reason to be, considering the way he looked. What on earth made a person get tattooed like that? 5–0 on his face? Announcing what? That he was law enforcement? But he didn’t look it. In fact, he looked the furthest from law enforcement she could imagine, especially with the other things inked onto him. The spiderweb and the clock.
She’d removed enough spiderwebs, pro bono, to know what those tattoos meant—the man had done time. A felon. Possibly—probably?—a murderer.
She reached for her mug of tea, took a gulp before setting it down, remembering the largest tattoo, the one on his back. Some kind of crest, like you’d see on a dollar bill or a modern-day coat of arms.
She typed triangle, arrows, eagle, river, skull tattoo, and the letters SMC.
The results, once she’d sifted through them, were disheartening, but no real surprise. Photos of an outlaw motorcycle gang out of Maryland. The Sultans MC.
Arrests, images of outlaw bikers. More arrests. Drugs, guns. Racketeering. Arrests earlier in the year, again in Maryland. Men in black leather vests with patches on the back. She clicked on that one, then magnified it until the image was clear—and there it was. Exactly the same as the tattoo on Andrew Blane’s back.
Quickly, she shut down the page and rolled back a foot or two from the reception desk. She’d worked with gang tattoos before. Ink on men who wanted to get out. She’d also helped ex-cons who had chosen to erase their old lives—erase their mistakes. She’d done a few of those pro bono, because everybody deserved a second chance.
But did this man? Did he truly deserve a second chance if he was as bad as these people appeared to be?
She thought of the Latino ex-gang member she’d helped. She’d been perfectly willing to help that kid, but…he’d been a kid, whereas this man was older. Old enough to know better.
Crap.
George let her head fall on her arms. She wanted him to be a good guy. Was that too much to ask? That the man she couldn’t stop thinking about be a nice person, instead of a stone-cold killer?
Because this attraction, this stupid attraction, would have almost been acceptable if he’d been a good person, instead of a man who’d done time, quite possibly for murder, and who’d chosen to advertise it on his skin. And some of the tattoos were recent, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Yes, but now he wants it gone.
She rubbed her belly—the name she’d gotten inked there and again on her arm in her youth. A lifetime ago, when she’d made her mistake—mistakes. Bad boys, fast cars, fumbling in backseats.
Everybody deserves a second chance.
She rubbed, remembering. She’d had a bad phase after losing her parents—more confused than rebellious. There had been a pregnancy, an abortion, and years of doubt.
Yes, all of that should be a lesson to George, who’d gone the bad-boy route once before. And that hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Thankfully, she’d met Tom and…well, the rest was history, wasn’t it? Just history.
She sighed, coming back full circle. Ah, stupidity—the prerogative of youth.
So, Andrew Blane was erasing a lifetime of transgressions, possibly youthful mistakes. Who the hell was she to judge?
* * *
It wasn’t until Clay’d stripped down to underwear that he realized he’d forgotten to buy Vaseline. And seeing as his knuckles and eyes burned like shit, he figured he’d better head back out to find some.
He dressed, went back out to his new truck, and drove through town, surprised, on this Fourth of July, to see the lights on in Blackwood’s only grocery store—a dinky-looking place called Blackwood Grocery.
He parked and watched through narrowed eyes as people went about their business. Naglestown, Maryland—the Sultans’ fiefdom—was just a small town too…on the map, at least. But unlike this place, there’d been no antique stores, no cozy cafés, and you sure as hell wouldn’t find it in a guidebook. This little town, however, had one of those proud Welcome to Blackwood signs, complete with bright flowers and a stone accent wall, inviting you into one of America’s most picturesque villages.
Village. Ha. Like one of the books Grandma used to read to him and Carly as kids, with mice and gardens and porcupines in frilly aprons or whatever. But Clay knew, in absolute certainty, that what happened behind closed doors, even in places like this, was just as bad as what happened anywhere else. Sometimes small towns covered up big, bad goings-on. Naglestown had just been more obvious about it—the biker gang so ingrained that they hardly bothered to cover their tracks.
The local cops so entrenched in the MC’s racket, they were as bad as the bikers themselves.
As the doors slid open, all heads turned his way, and he was thankful for the aviators and ball cap, along with his long sleeves. What folks could see of his skin was minimal, and odd though he may appear in his Unabomber garb, there was no way any of it was coming off—even indoo
rs. As unidentifiable as possible; that was the goal. Don’t give them anything to remember you by.
As if the sheriff would forget a single goddamn detail. Like, say, the 5–0 etched into my face.
Eyes followed him to the pharmacy aisle, where he startled an old lady and her little white dog, whose barks followed him long after he’d found razors and Vaseline. Fucking Vaseline, like that didn’t look bad. As he headed down to the end of the store, his eyes caught on a display dedicated to local produce, and he salivated—literally.
By the time he arrived at the checkout, he’d gathered chips and dip, apples, peaches.
“Evenin’, sir,” the cashier said.
“Evening.”
“How you doin’ today?”
“Uh…” Clay glanced around. What was this, 1954? How long had it been since he’d been asked that? “Good, thanks.”
“Great! Hopin’ for a storm later this week. Need somethin’ to break this heat wave. Always sorry when folks come to visit us, and all anyone can do is stay in the A/C. Y’know?”
“Yeah.”
“That’ll be fifteen dollars even. Cash or credit?”
“Cash,” he finally answered, handing over a couple of twenties, the bills slightly damp against his palm.
“It’s only fifteen, sir.” The woman smiled at him, and Clay wondered if she was flirting. No. He didn’t think so. Just being friendly. She handed him his change and a paper bag filled with his purchases.
“Can you tell me where I can buy clothes? You know, like T-shirts and stuff.”
“Oh, you’ll have to drive into C’ville for that, sir.”
He nodded his thanks and lifted a hand as she called, “Happy Independence Day!” to his retreating back. “And welcome to Blackwood!”
God, he needed exercise or he’d go crazy in this place. Maybe he’d go for a run when he got back to his room.
Back in his truck, he started up the engine and drove down Main Street with a sense of relief, so out of place here, it was like having a target etched onto his back instead of the Sultans’ emblem.
* * *
A glance at the clock showed George that she’d spent more time investigating her patient than she should have—especially since she shouldn’t have done it at all. Slow and stupid from the heat, she stood up, shut everything down, and headed outside.
It was nearly dark and Blackwood crackled with energy—muggy and sultry with air that felt like it hadn’t moved in months, but tonight an extra jolt of electricity seemed to spice it up. The few steps to her car, so familiar, were done thoughtlessly, no attention paid to her surroundings, to a voice a bit farther down the road, yelling something. The sound didn’t sink in until she’d opened the door and realized it was a woman, her voice shrill and then sharply cut off with what might have been a slap.
There, across the street, silhouettes closer now, running, a scuffle, one person down.
“Hey!” George yelled, protective instincts kicking in. “What’s going on?”
A shriek, a thud.
She dropped everything and ran.
Weird, in those moments, how things sped up and froze all at once. She was aware of furtive movement and an unnatural stillness, the buzzing of the streetlight above, the crunch of grit under her sandals.
The couple on the sidewalk was closer now, things still murky, but it was a man, definitely a man. Attacking a woman?
“Hey!” George yelled, slapping at his arms.
I’ll run and get my phone was George’s last thought before the man struck her, right in the stomach, doubling her over and stealing every last bit of breath from her body.
“The fuck off me, bitch!”
My phone, George thought with a glance back at her car, and then thwack. She was down. Suddenly, the blond woman was up, yelling and hitting her—the woman who’d sounded so scared… And another man appeared from out of nowhere.
Ungffff. A kick to her leg. The woman, she thought.
“Fuck you!” yelled the woman. “Hittin’ my man.”
There were three of them. Two men and one woman. George caught flashes of bodies and faces, more screaming, directed at her this time. Harsh words interspersed with flashes of bare legs, shorts, sneakers, explosions of color overhead.
Young. No wrinkles. More words hurled at her. Another glimpse. A face covered in lesions. George curled in on herself.
Drugs, her mind supplied, slow but catching up. These people were on drugs.
Adrenaline and fear went into overdrive. Too late. She writhed on the ground, holding her tender belly, strangely aware of the gritty surface of the gutter beneath her, the odd grain of sand shining brightly despite the late hour. All she could do was protect her face and her abdomen. Who’d feed Leonard if she didn’t make it home? Who would put the chickens to bed? Trying not to think of the baby she’d never have if she died right here, she groaned. Not from the dull ache in her womb, but from regret.
Something changed in the air then. She felt it, even folded in on herself. Somebody grunted—an unpleasant sound. With an effort, George maneuvered herself into a tighter ball against the curb and lifted her head. What little breath she’d managed to gather escaped in a whoosh.
It was Andrew Blane. She’d conjured him, probably, and here he was, saving the day with a strangely quiet, grim, hard-edged concentration. One of her attackers was already halfway to the ground, the woman running away, fast, by the time George cleared the fog from her eyes. As she watched, Andrew dealt with the third person in a move that was quick and violent. Efficient—no, surgical was a better word for the punch to the neck, the echoing kick low on the man’s leg. Oh Lord, but it looked barbaric, frightening for the speed and ease with which it was delivered.
A final blow to one of the kids’ faces had blood spattering in a tall, almost graceful arc, and George couldn’t stop the scared whimper she let out.
When he turned to her, her savior’s breathing looked normal. How could he be that way after the bloody havoc he’d just wreaked? She thought, for a crazed moment, that he was some kind of spy—a Jason Bourne type, an unfeeling psychopath, whose only external mode of expression was through the writing on his skin.
But then he looked at her, and she knew, with absolutely certainty, that he wasn’t some instrument of aggression. He might move like a man who knew how to hurt another human being, but when his eyes met hers, she saw that the one who was hurting was him. And how messed up was it that all she wanted to do was make him feel better?
5
Okay, so maybe Clay wasn’t entirely dead, after all. His muscles still seemed to work, weak though they were, his synapses fired excitedly, and if the adrenaline seeping through his veins was any indication, he’d held on to some of his protective instincts, as well. He was shaky, which was to be expected after all that time spent in recovery, but the physical therapy and the strength training had worked, apparently.
Right now, though, it wasn’t himself he was concerned with. It was the doctor. And God, it felt good, this sensation of standing above her, keeping her alive and well, with those two crank-cratered fucknuts moaning at his feet.
It was a damned good thing he’d decided to come back out for a run tonight.
“The fuck outta here,” he told the addicts, and though it was clear they hurt, they obeyed immediately. That was one advantage to looking like a tough motherfucker. It had been a while since he’d used force, given orders. Done anything useful, in fact—and it felt good. Better than good. It was life-giving.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping over to the doc, who had pushed herself up to all fours. She looked at him kind of squinty eyed, like she didn’t quite trust him, but took his hand, eventually, and let him pull her to sitting on the curb, where he squatted beside her.
“How many hands I got up?” He held up three fingers.
“You me
an fingers?” she asked, smart as a whip.
“Yeah,” he said with a smile.
She gave one back, a smile at the edges of a mouth so pink he could see it under the streetlamps.
Shit, that was sexy. He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her lean into him, just a little. “Good. Anything hurt, Doc?”
Gingerly, she turned her head, stretched her neck, rolled her shoulders, then made as if to get up, but he tightened his fingers, stopping her. He ran his hand from her shoulder down her arm to pick up her hand and check the palm for scratches.
It was a weird moment right there, under the busted-out streetlight. Clay couldn’t quite muster up the energy to let her go, and she didn’t seem anxious to get rid of him. Instead, they sat, looking for all the world like a couple waiting for a parade that had passed a good twelve hours before.
She leaned on him for a few seconds and then rose with him. After a brief tightening of his fingers on hers, he finally let her go, and the connection was broken. After that, the calm seeped out of Clay’s brain.
Actual calm. How fucking strange. He wanted to grab her hand and get it back.
“Wanna call the police?”
She shook her head, and he sighed with relief, not questioning the decision. “I recognized them. Local kids and… The girl needs help, and I don’t think putting them all in jail is the way to do that right now.”
Clay tended to disagree, but he also didn’t need to get involved with the law right now, so he kept his mouth shut.
Pop! The sound hit Clay with a start. He threw an arm around the doctor and ducked before he could identify which direction it came from. What the fuck?
Another pop, more aggressive this time, had Clay’s pulse revving uncontrollably.
“I can’t…” He squeezed his eyes shut, then turned, attempting to locate the shooter. “Stay down. We’re under—”
“Mr. Blane.”
He pushed her behind him, reached for a weapon that wasn’t there, turned again. Fuck. He’d heard a Harley in town earlier, had told himself it was nothing, and had done his best to ignore it. And now the bikers were here. Where the hell were they hiding?
By Her Touch Page 6
