by Terina Adams
He glanced over to Holt, whom came out from his cover and headed over to the fallen. One forklift stopped, the guy clambering out and lugging his fat ass in the other direction. That would cause a media circus.
He looked down at Selene, pushing himself off her. “Jesus, Fuck.”
Blood stained the front of her shirt, and oozed between her fingers. Her face echoed her pain and her eyes glazed over. He gently gathered her into his arms, wincing at her feeble protests. The smack of Holt's footsteps coming nearer made him turn.
Holt stopped when he saw Selene.
“I’ve got to go.”
They stared at each other a moment, before Holt nodded and disappeared in the other direction. He would mop up their mess, namely play a few mind games with any witnesses, and finish the job they had been sent to do.
Locke’s first instinct was to run, but it would hurt her too much, so he moved as quick as he could, while attempting to hold her steady. He passed their bikes, another thing Holt would have to take care of, scanning for anything he could commandeer and spied a blue van parked at the end of the wharf, close to the line of old fishermen. One of them would be the owner.
He walked up to them. “Give me your keys.”
All four turned to look at him, their hands frozen on their rods at the site of Selene dripping blood in his arms. It seemed they had missed the action because, they were either deaf, or the noise of the busy wharf had drowned out the gunfire. Either way they looked at Locke as if he was a ghost.
“Who owns the blue van?” This time he yelled the words, punctuating them with some mind games.
The guy at the farthest end put up his hand.
“Give us your keys.”
The old guy stared a moment.
“Now. She needs a hospital.”
The guy rose to his feet too slowly. Locke wished he had the freedom to wrench the key from the guy’s pocket. Hopefully the old guy wasn’t planning on inching to the car himself. He searched through his pocket and pulled out a key chain, with a miniature fluffy sheep dangling from the end, then started to maneuver around his chair. Locke met him before he managed to shuffle halfway around his seat, motioning for the old man to thread the loop of the key ring around his fingers.
He looked down at Selene. Her head lolled back, but she was still breathing. With extreme effort he controlled his gait. She appeared on the border of this life, making the fight to maintain a steady gait a battle of the titans. Something burst inside him, driving every muscle in his body—a tension never felt before. Although the emotion was alien, he knew it for what it was. He’d witnessed it on the faces of every sacrifice they’d delivered to the devil. Fear had found a way into his soul. There it was going to rest until he knew Selene would survive.
14
Locke sat uncomfortable on a chair in the waiting room at St Monroes. Upon entering emergency, the nurses had whisked Selene away, leaving him blood stained and empty. Still with no word on her condition, Locke nursed his newfound fear.
He’d rifled through her purse before vacating her cottage the other day, finding her cell amongst a handful of other seemingly useless things. He memorized the name and number of the woman who turned up just when things were getting good. After giving the necessary details, all a bunch of lies with some mental assistance to make everything sound palatable, he rung Jet’s number.
She answered on the second ring and he responded as quick with his message, an address of where to find Selene, nothing more. The word hospital would be enough to spiral them into panic mode. After that good deed, he planned on heading back to the wharf. Holt would’ve taken care of things, but ducking out on such an important operation was not going to sit well with the King.
However, Locke remained in his seat. Somehow his feet wouldn’t take him the extra yards to the exit doors. He convinced himself he stayed because it seemed wrong to abandon her when there was no one else to give details or maintain the vigil. Why the hell should he care anyway? He did, and that compounded his growing list of problems surrounding Selene.
She was a promising screw. End of story.
Christ, if she’d been any other woman, he would’ve screwed her ten times by now, but he was yet to touch the witch the way he wanted to. The most frustrating thing being, the longer he hung around waiting, the better she got. This was the drunk thing—the more drinks the cuter the ugly became—and definitely not the glimmer of understanding she may be someone as alluring outside the sheets as in.
A clatter of heels and voices made him look over to catch Jet and two other women marching down the aisle, heading for the nursing station. Jet spied him and stopped dead, causing the others behind to bump into her.
‘Jet what are—”
“Oh my god. It’s him.”
“Who?”
Jet bee-lined for him, dragging the two other witches in her wake, both casting confused glances at each other.
“You made the call didn’t you? I knew it. The moment I heard your voice.”
“Who the hell is this?” A striking redhead pushed past Jet and glared down at him.
“Is this him?”
All three dissected him from head to feet.
“Selene had this one bound to a bed?” He didn’t fancy the redheads smirk.
Locke sat back in his seat and waited for the witches to stop their ogling and start asking questions.
The other one, neither Jet or the redhead, penetrated him with the most intense stare he’d ever experienced from a woman. Not the sort of stare that signaled hunger, the opposite. A stare that made you feel like an experiment.
“What happened?” He expected accusations, but she asked the question with a compassionate tone.
Locke felt a flare of anger burn through his gut. Who was this woman to assume he sat here because he actually cared about the witch?
“She stuck her nose in where it wasn’t wanted and got herself shot for her interference. The end.”
He rose to his feet, but the lippy one, Jet, stood her ground. “No, that’s not the end of story. What was she doing with you tonight?”
Locke leaned down so his face was almost level with hers. “You don’t get to know witch. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your coven out of our business or more bad things are going to happen.”
He pushed past her. She had the audacity to grab his arm and attempt to restrain him.
“No, Jet.”
Both him and Jet swung around to look at the one with the freaky stare.
“Let him go.” She looked at him with something far worse than inquisitive eyes. This time her eyes softened. If he was reading it right, she stared at him with compassion to match her gentle command.
He threw off Jet’s arm and stormed out of the exit. This was something he should’ve done at the start. Dumped the witch and headed back to his side of the fence. His men. His gang. But he reached the end of the entrance path and slammed his back up against a brick pillar. Leaving felt like abandonment. He couldn’t wipe the feeling that if he drove away now he would be closing a door on her.
He allowed his back to slide down the pillar until he crouched, rested his hands on his thighs and looked up at the sky. What the fuck was happening to him? Something had managed to climb inside and hollow him out. His gut burned with acid. He closed his eyes, but all he saw was the blood seeping from her wound, her apparent lifeless head lolling in his arms.
Locke pushed up from his position and turned back to the hospital. He was one of the damned, lucky enough to be living topside, but at this moment he resided in hell.
The three witches had seated themselves and were chatting together when he approached. He took a seat opposite them, facing inward. Each blinked but remained speechless.
“She turned up at an operation. I let slip today I was busy tonight, so she must have decided to follow. I wasn’t expecting her. Things went bad and she was in the way.” He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped t
ogether and, for a moment, knocked them gently on his forehead before looking at the women again. “If I’d known what she was planning—” He broke off and looked over toward the doors as they slid open to admit someone new.
When he looked back, Jet and the redhead were staring wide-eyed. The other one had that same soft doey look that made him want to go and punch the wall. Her eyes dug up the layers of his confusion and discovered the truth underneath. He’d spent the last few days packing it down deep into places he didn’t know where to look, but she managed to find it anyway and rubbed his face in it.
He slouched back into his chair. There was nothing else for him to say, and he hoped none of the witches fancied a talk because he was done amusing them.
Time had never meant anything to Locke. The sun whizzed up and down, flipping through the calendar. Sitting in the waiting room, he became acutely aware of the clock hanging on the far wall, its hands inching around the oval in slow motion. He’d checked his cell a dozen times. The screen still looked the same, much like the hour hand on the clock. No one had called or left a message. He suspected Holt was to thank for that. Most likely deflecting all questions. He would cop a flailing from Wyman. Years ago Wyman had been in a bind with a woman. He still wore the scars and a photo of her in his wallet. He would understand, perhaps.
In this, Locke’s movements were as bound as they had been at the cottage. He could no sooner leave then burn his jacket and denounce the club. Both duties split him in two. He knew whom he should be sharing his time with right now, and it wasn’t the witches sitting opposite, though he would stay, even if it meant suffering their raking stares.
After his eternal life had slipped by a couple of times, a doctor appeared from across the waiting room and headed his way. Locke rose to his feet, as did the three.
“Mr. Simpson.” Not his name, but it served the purpose. He wasn’t going to bother acknowledging the three pairs of eyes, with stares chiseling through his profile.
“Good news. The bullet grazed the far left side of her abdomen, missing all her vital organs and exited through the tissue on her lower left flank with minimal damage. She’ll be coming around in the next four to five hours. You can see her then.
“I suggest you keep the visit short this time. And it is probably best if her husband sees her first. She should be up to seeing more visitors within the next twenty-four hours.” He addressed that remark to the witches.
They ignored the doctor and stared at him. He caught it in his periphery. Since they weren't going to say anything, Locke answered for them all with a nod to the doctor then sat down. The doctor, sensing his cue to exit, left the three witches gaping at Locke.
“Husband?” Jet and the redhead trilled.
Locke grinned. “Pleased to meet you.”
15
Selene woke to the throb in her left side and tried to remember why she hurt, and why it was so difficult for her to concentrate. Her brain reacted like a lethargic mess, all thoughts and memories wandering around without logic or coherency. When she opened her eyes, she saw a white ceiling with a stark fluorescent light, not her light fitting. She shifted her head to the side to discover a myriad of machines, beeping out vital statistics. Tubing ran from the machines down to her arms and connected in a few places on the backs of her hands.
A crinkle of fabric, and she turned her head to the other side of the bed and found Locke, his eyes roaming over her. His smile was soft to match the look on his face. She went to say something before she realized a tube ran down her throat. The awareness made her gag, her stomach threatening to heave up all of its contents. Locke leaned forward, placing a hand on her cheek. “Hey, shh. It's all right.”
Just a few words and the brief panic fled. Images of tranquility flooded her mind. He was manipulating her. Bad boy. But it worked. She relaxed back into her pillow. Her gagging stopped and her gasping breath eased.
She tried to look at the tube, doing the cross-eyed thing, which gave her an instant headache to accompany her newly discovered throat pain, which developed after spying the tube.
She looked at Locke, who placed a warm hand on the bed palm up, then placed hers on top.
She closed her eyes and the memory of last night reappeared—if it was last night and not a couple of days before— the gunshot and the sudden pain, piercing her side, the look on Locke’s face when he’d realized she’d been hit, the gentle way he scooped her up in his arms and abandoned his operation to bring her here. He told Holt he had to go, then he did.
She opened her eyes and looked across at him again. He appeared like a man who'd spent the night sleeping rough, perhaps upright in the chair. Through their connection, he fed her the warmth of his concern, which mirrored the look in his eyes. She smiled, wanting to reassure him she was fine, because for some reason she hated seeing him upset.
A nurse appeared around the curtain and came over to the bed. “Mrs. Simpson, nice to see you’re awake. We reduced the meds early to wake you sooner than usual because your readouts are perfect, a miracle for someone who’s suffered such trauma. A good sign of a quick recovery.”
She busied herself with some of the machines. “The respiratory monitor indicates your lungs are functioning on their own, which is even better news for you. It means we can remove the tube from your mouth. At least then you can talk. I’m going to take some blood from the arterial line on your wrist to assess your blood oxygen levels. If that’s fine, the tube's gone. Sound good?”
Selene nodded and the nurse set to work. Once she took what she needed, she disappeared with her goods. Selene turned back to Locke, whom was looking at her. He still held her hand, and with the other he trailed a finger up her arm to the elbow, then back down, stopping short of the lines in the back of her hand. He looked to the ceiling to stretch his neck, and kept trailing his finger up and down as if doodling in an absent minded fashion. The touch grounded and reassured her. The pain in her throat faded to a dull ache when she concentrated on Locke’s caress, so too the throb in her side. Mrs. Simpson, where’d that one come from?
Locke remained quiet, stroking her skin for the time it took the nurse to return with a doctor in her wake. Both came to stand alongside the bed.
“Good to see you back so soon, Mrs. Simpson. I’ve been informed you’re breathing well and the test results are fine, which means we’ll be able to remove the tube in your throat.”
The nurse did the deed with minimal fuss and pain. She seemed to pull yards of length from Selene’s mouth, which made Selene want to gag again. She managed to hold the reflex back by concentrating on Locke’s strokes, which hadn’t let up through the short procedure. The tube was placed on a trolley behind the curtain. Next the nurse pestered Selene to cough, which she did, barking out a few short, sharp sounds, not entirely comfortable on the throat.
“Unfortunately everything else will have to stay in place for a while longer. We hope to have most removed within twenty-four hours, but if you continue to recover as well as you have, perhaps we’ll have them out sooner. The nurse can give you pain relief if you’re in any discomfort.”
Although she was, Selene shook her head. The doctor smiled. “That’s good to know. The nurse will inform me if there are any changes. I’m expecting by tonight you will be monitor free and able to rest better.”
He smiled at Selene and Locke then departed around the curtain.
“If you need anything, just press your buzzer. Someone is always on the other side of the curtain. I think it’s best you try and get some more sleep. Your husband can stay as long as you like.”
She beamed them both a smile and disappeared the same way as the doctor.
Selene looked over at Locke. The first sound she made croaked it’s way out of her mouth. “Husband?”
He shrugged. “Thought I’d give it a try, see how it fit.” He smiled. “Didn’t think they would let me in if they knew I was some random biker who happened to get you shot.”
“You didn’t—”
&nb
sp; “Shh. You don’t need to speak. If it hurts too much, I’m just as willing to sit here in silence.”
She shook her head. “No. I have to ask you something.”
He sat forward. “What?”
“Get me out of here?”
“I will, just as soon as they think you’re—”
“No, do it now.”
“Selene.”
She shook her head again. The dry raspy throat made speaking hard and emphasizing her words even harder. “Look it’s fine. I’m going to be fine. I know it.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do, but I think somehow I would rather—”
“Please. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
He looked at her for the longest moment. Really looked at her, like no one else had ever done before. Then he shrugged. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”
He lifted her hand and gently placed it back on the bed once he removed his, then left, the curtain swishing a little on his departure. She knew what she was doing all right. The gift of Hades still swam through her veins, weakened now, but present enough to rapidly restore the damage inside her body. There was little need for her to hang around here and have the medical staff scratch their heads over her speedy recovery. Within twenty-four hours the injury was likely to be little more than a red mark, not something she wanted anyone to see.
Selene had the power to influence and thanks to Hades her influence stretched further than normal, but Locke was a master and with his help, none of the staff would remember Mrs. Simpson ever being here. Mrs. Simpson. Her lips twitched.
In no time, Locke appeared with a wheelchair. “No one will miss it, nor you, for that matter. I took the liberty on my return of informing everyone you were leaving. They’re all likely to wish you luck on your departure.”
She smiled. “I’m so glad it was you sitting here with me.”
He put the brakes on the wheelchair, then moved around it toward her bed. “So I could be a part of the great escape.”
