by April Lust
“She knows enough.” Isabella stood. “Are you feeling hungry at all?”
“No, this is fine, thanks.” He held up the shake an inch. He still seemed to be in a lot of pain.
“Let me see if I have any clothes that will fit you.” Isabella went to her closet and took out an oversized t-shirt. She had some sweatpants that were big on her. Those might work. “Do you want to try getting dressed, or will it hurt too much?”
“Gotta get past the pain at some point.” He slowly turned and reached to set down the cup with effort.
She held the shirt out to him, but it was quickly obvious he would need help. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional at helping people get dressed. Put your arms up.”
He raised them, wincing in pain as he did. She bunched the shirt and slipped his arms through, then pulled the neck hole over his head. Her hand brushed the front of his stomach as she pulled down the shirt and she felt his heat and smooth muscles. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach.
“Hmm. I should probably take off the bandage to check your back.”
He leaned forward and she untied the pillow case corners. She gently peeled away the towel. It was crusted with blood, but it seemed like most of the wounds were doing better. “Hang on a sec.” She went to the bathroom, grabbed the washcloth, and wet it with warm water, then came back in the room. Gently, she dabbed and wiped to clear the fresh blood. Then, it was back to the bathroom for the anti-bacterial ointment and a fresh hand towel. “It’s looking better. That’s a good sign.” She looked down at the sweatpants on the bed. “I guess you’ll need help with the pants, too.”
He smirked and shrugged.
Isabella pulled back the covers by his feet. She didn’t want to reveal too much and make him uncomfortable. She scrunched the pants and slipped the first leg over his foot, then the other. She pulled them up as far as she could go without seeing everything.
“I can manage from there,” he said.
“Okay.” She flipped the covers back over.
He wiggled back and forth while tugging on the pants. When he seemed to have them high enough, he settled again.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Sore, achy. Like my head is going to explode. But better, actually. In some ways. The aching is worse, but the cuts feel better and my head and jaw hurt less.”
“They really did a number on you.” She checked over his face and applied fresh anti-bacterial ointment and bandages.
“Well, they were trying to kill me.”
“Why?”
“Oh, you know. My dog pooped in their yard too many times.”
“Must be a big dog.”
He nodded. “The biggest.”
###
Jace stirred after falling asleep for a few hours. He felt his eye and the swelling seemed to have gone down some. The bag of ice lay at his side, melted. He could see out of both eyes though, so that was something. He stretched in the bed, every muscle aching. He hadn’t felt this sore since he’d first started working out and lifting heavy weights. And this type of sore was not the good type where you felt like you’d worked hard for it. This felt like a razor slicing every part of his body.
The pain in his back was sharp. How many times had they cut him? Assholes. They thought it’d be funny to slice up his club’s logo, like that meant anything. If the fight hadn’t been seven on one, he’d have taken any of them down. And, now that he thought about it, it said a lot that Lionel had brought seven guys. Like he knew it would take that many to take him down. And, ha. They still didn’t manage it.
Should have shot him and been done with it. Idiots. That was what he would have done. Who needed fists and knives? If wanted to prove a point—shoot the guy in the leg and watch him hobble around for a while before putting him out of his misery. But, if you wanted to cause him real pain, you didn’t beat him and stab him. No. You shoot his family. His girl, his mama, and if he had kids, then you threatened them until he broke. Worked every time. Or at least every time he’d had to do it. And now there’d be several bullets with Lionel’s name on them, and the other six who followed like lemmings.
He had to get out of Isabella’s house. If somehow they found him, they might do something to her. Who knew how far they’d go; since they seemed to enjoy torture, Isabella and her daughter would make the perfect recipients. Though he was grateful she’d come along to help him, and she’d taken fabulous care of him, he’d bring trouble on her, and she didn’t deserve that. Seemed like someone in her past had caused her enough trouble as it was.
He’d never understand guys like that. Weren’t there enough dumb ass men in the world to fight with? Why would you fight your girl like that? And to hit a child? Man, you had to be one lame ass dude to sink to that level. There were some things you just didn’t do. And if his mama had taught him anything, it was that you never hit a girl. Unless, of course, she was going ape shit crazy on you and kicking and punching your lights out, then you could slap her to keep her straight if you really had to. But only if you really had to. Most guys were decent enough to stick by that rule.
His hand clenched into a fist thinking about anyone hitting that perfect woman. Isabella. Even her name was like an angel. But that face and body. He’d give anything to have a woman like her. Okay. Almost anything. Well. He’d give a lot, at least. She was gorgeous. Smooth skin, long dark hair that he wanted to wrap around his fingers and pull while he ran his hands all over her tight little body.
He adjusted the sweatpants under the covers in case she came back in. At least he knew there were no issues with Little Jazz. But he needed to stay quiet for now. Nothing good would come of him being with someone like Isabella. She was too good and pure. Too innocent for his lifestyle. Even if he wanted her more than he could remember wanting anyone in a long, long time.
Things settled below the belt just as Isabella came back into the room.
“You’re awake,” she said.
“Did I sleep long?”
“A few hours. I think you needed it.”
“Yeah.” What he really needed was a bottle of Jack and some Vicodin, but the chances of her having either were slim.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks. I just need to use the bathroom.”
He started by shoving the covers away, then turning so his feet hung over the edge of the bed. He scooted forward, pain shooting through him, and had to pause for a minute to breathe through it. They really had done a number on him, as Isabella had said. He’d live, obviously, but it was going to be a sucky few days.
Jace pushed forward until his feet hit the carpet. Isabella hovered, watching his every move. It made him nervous, but he liked it. Kinda like his mama had been, always looking out for him, always trying to take care of him or do something for him. He hadn’t appreciated it when he was still at home, or even when his mama was still talking to him, trying every day to get him to give up his ways. But when Isabella did it, he wanted to scoop her in his arms and never let her go. She must be a fabulous mom. Curse the jerk who messed that up. She deserved someone who’d treat her right.
I would treat her right, he thought, but he pushed it from his mind. No. He could treat her okay, sure. He’d be nice or whatever. He’d never hit her and probably wouldn’t even yell much. But she needed a quiet life. Probably liked to sit around on the weekends drinking coffee and reading the newspaper before going for a little jog. And she deserved that kind of cute suburb life. But with him, it’d be all bikes and guns and knives and drinking. She likely sipped wine at tastings while he held weekly contests to see which of his boys could down the most shots and still ride in a straight line. Spoiler alert: none of them could drink as much as he could.
He’d ruin her if he stayed. No doubt he could charm her into sleeping with him. Probably convince her to date him. He knew how to play the game, how to be sweet at just the right moments. But he wouldn’t live the quiet life, and he’d make hers too loud. She needed peace.
Looked like she hadn’t had it in years. No, he had to get out of here as soon as possible and leave her be. And do something about her car. Would blood come out?
Maybe he’d just buy her a whole new car. She worked at a gift shop? She could probably barely afford this place. Yeah, a new car. That would mean a lot to her. And he’d drop some cash to cover all these towels and blankets he was bleeding all over. A few hundred? A few thousand. As much as he could gather. Maybe he’d sell that old clunker of a bike sitting in the garage for parts. It’d fetch a few grand and he could rock Isabella’s world and show her there were good guys out there. For now, though, he had to be able to walk across the room at least. Or he wasn’t going anywhere.
With a deep breath, he pushed up from the bed and stood. He took one step and the world spun around him. Black spots came into his sight. He’d experienced this before, plenty of times. He was going to pass out. Stood up too fast or something. He reached back for the bed, but missed. He landed hard on his knees and heard Isabella let out a cry. Then her hands were on him. On his shoulder, holding him up.
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Jace? Jace?”
He forced his eyes open and there she was, so close to him. Her brown eyes shone amber in the afternoon light, the highlights in her hair red brown. A chunk of wavy hair fell across her face and he reached out to brush it back. Her face registered shock and he realized what he’d done. He hadn’t even thought of it. Just knew that hair had to move because it was blocking his view of her face. He stared deep into her eyes. There was just one thing to do now. He leaned forward, with the full intention of kissing her, then stopped.
She held his gaze. She hadn’t shrunk from his touch, hadn’t moved away, wasn’t even looking away. He could kiss her and she would kiss back. He looked down and pressed his palms into the floor to get to all fours.
“That didn’t go as well as I hoped,” he said.
She took in a shaky breath. “No, I guess not.”
The way she looked at him, the hint of longing, the stronger sympathy. Man, she did want him to kiss her. He had her already. How would he ever resist that? Turn away this little angel who wanted nothing more than to help him? Who’d gone so far out of her way? No, no. She was too good. He’d only taint her.
“Here, you can lean on me,” she said. “Let’s get you to your feet again.”
She held out a hand and he took it. She tugged on him and tried to pull him up, but she didn’t have much strength. He pushed up from the ground and stood, still holding her hand. Then she moved under his arm as she had the night before.
He shuffled along, trying not to lean too hard on her, but the walls were still twisting a bit. They made it to the bathroom and she turned her back toward him when he faced the toilet. He almost wished she would look. He’d caught her glance when she took off his boxers. He’d thought of that glance through the night. Wondered how much she’d liked what she saw. Now as he pulled down the sweatpants to pee, he thought he looked even more impressive. His blood was flowing properly again, even if he was still low from losing so much.
He peed and flushed and pulled the pants back up.
“Was there any blood?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Oh, good. That’s a good sign.”
She was still so worried about him. Though anyone would be worried about some random dude dying in their bed. He knew his injuries and knew he was fine. Or would be. He liked that she worried. Made him feel like someone on this planet actually gave a damn if he lived. None of his boys had hunted him down and come knocking. Good for nothings. They hadn’t even come to him when he was bleeding out all over the road. No, a stranger had to save his life. He owed them all a good beat down when he was recovered.
Whatever happened to looking out for your own? They’d make it up to him. They’d help him pay back Lionel and every one of the guys who’d beaten him, and every one of the guys in his lame little motorcycle club. He wouldn’t try to recruit them for his club. They weren’t Crimson Hawk material. Not if they couldn’t even mange to take out an enemy who’d screwed them over.
Isabella helped him back into bed. She pulled the covers over him, and even though they made him far too hot, he left them where she placed them.
“Now what? What do you need?”
“Just some sleep, I think.” He turned over to look at the glasses beside him. There was still water. He reached for the bottle of ibuprofen, but she got it first. She poured out four and handed them to him, then picked up the glass of water and handed it to him as well. “Thanks.” He set the water down and let his head sink into the pillow.
He heard her soft footsteps as she left the room and closed the door. When she was gone, he pushed the blankets down and let the cool air cover his body. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
As his consciousness sunk deeper, his body did one of those full-body shudders that happened while you were falling asleep. The pain shot through him in a burst, and light sparked his vision for an instant. But it was just enough to send a memory flashing through his mind.
One image. Lionel standing over him, shining the flashlight bright in his eyes before he brought his foot down on his face. It made his nose ache recalling it, and when he closed his eyes, his mind replayed the entire scene.
Jace had been there, in the dark at the side of the road, where they always met. Look for the cluster of trees and the picnic bench. That was what he told people. Just after mile marker 58. He’d been there, waiting. He should’ve brought a few of his guys. He always did for stuff like this, but he’d gotten the call on his way home from getting food and they wanted to meet right away. That was his first mistake. He’d been too eager for the sale and had broken his own rule. Never meet alone.
And now that he thought about it, Lionel probably had guys tracking him, watching to see when he was alone, then he’d had that guy John call to ask for a deal. Lionel had planned this whole thing to make it as easy as possible for him. No one on one fighting like men. Not even club on club. Oh no, had to make it seven to one. Seven to one. What kind of an asshole did that?
Jace had sat in his car in the dark, ready to take off if anyone happened along who shouldn’t be there. Then he saw the car flash its lights three times. This was the sign. The car pulled over and John got out. Jace went to meet him behind the cover of his car.
“This stuff is pure?” John asked.
“Taste it.” Jace waited while John peeled open the bag and stuck in a wet pinky to taste the cocaine.
John nodded. “Where’d you get this? This stuff is good.”
“Five hundred.”
“You sure that’s all? How can you afford such low prices? You know that other guy charged me six.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you found the better deal, then, didn’t you?”
“Too bad you didn’t.” This voice had come from behind him and he recognized Lionel.
It took him a half second to realize this wasn’t just another drug deal. This was a set up. John, if that was even his real name—probably wasn’t—took off with the money and the coke. Then, a group of men piled out of a car and came at him.
Jace managed to get his gun out. He rarely went anywhere without it, especially when he was doing a deal, and he wouldn’t dream of not having it on him, loaded and ready to go.
From behind, Lionel tackled him to the ground. That, Jace had not been expected. Guns, knives, fists, yes. But he’d had his eye on the guys approaching and though he hadn’t forgotten Lionel was behind him—in fact, he was moving to get in a better position so that Lionel wasn’t behind him—Lionel had taken him by surprise.
Jace kicked himself for that repeatedly, but in the end, it likely wouldn’t have mattered. Seven men converged on him. They punched him and kicked him. One of them took a knife and slashed up the Crimson Hawks logo on the back of his jacket. They cut straight through the leather, into his skin, and every slash was a hot whip that made him arch his
back in agony.
Once he was on the ground, they’d gotten his gun from him quickly and he hadn’t been able to reach for the knife in his boot. One of them had found it, and to add further insult, had made a point of saying it was his own knife that had cut up his back. That was why he thought they would just shoot him. So it could be his own gun that killed him. But for whatever reason—sheer stupidity maybe—they hadn’t. And they’d pay for that mistake.
He wondered about his car. They’d taken his keys, and when he came to, the car was gone, but surely they hadn’t taken it. It would lead the cops right to them if they thought they’d killed him. Being in possession of a dead man’s car would require quite an explanation, or quite the bribe. Maybe it was just pushed into the woods. More likely, it’d been stripped and sold off for parts. Good thing he hadn’t driven his bike. If they’d messed with his bike, they’d really pay.
