by Brook Wilder
“Alright, all better,” Amber said. “Do you want Batman or Superman?”
She held up the two options of band-aids and Hanna rolled her eyes, pointing to whichever one was closer and Amber pressed it firmly over the closed wound.
“I don’t need to tell you not to do anything with this arm for a long time,” she said. “It’s going to be at least a week before we can remove the stitches anyway. Don’t pop them.”
Hanna nodded and Amber helped her removed what was left of her tattered and blood soaked shirt. She gave her a dish rag which she ran under warm water and Hanna set to getting the rest of the blood and the sweat off her body. Roarke appeared beside her, offering her a t-shirt. She slipped it on with his help. It was large and baggy but it smelled like him and she was more comforted than she’d been in a while.
“Here’s some ibuprofen,” Amber said, sliding two pills toward her with a glass of water. “No alcohol for a while. You don’t need to thin your blood any more.”
Hanna nodded, popping the pills knowing she was going to be needing them later when the buzz of the anesthetic wore off.
“You, however,” Amber said, looking at Roarke. “Look like you need several drinks.”
She dropped a shot glass and a full bottle of Jack in front of him before moving to go fix the chairs and trash can he’d tossed across the room. He immediately set on pouring himself two shots in quick succession and throwing them back.
“You okay?” Hanna asked.
“You’re the one that got shot,” he laughed and then immediately his face turned to anger and his slammed his fist down on the table.
“I’m okay, though,” she whispered soothingly, remembering Amber was only a few feet away. “Thanks to you.”
“Isabelle is working with the Caracals,” he said bitterly. “Which I should have seen coming. We lost two good guys out there today, and you got shot.”
“But we got those girls and put a noticeable dent in the Caracals’ forces.”
He shrugged. He was like a pouting child again. It never seemed to be enough for him and Hanna knew why. He wanted the prize. He wanted Isabelle. But his motives had changed. He no longer wanted to know why, he no longer wanted to try and bring her back to her family. She could see the same look in his eyes she’d seen in plenty of the men in the hold up or in court. He wanted absolute vengeance. There was murder in his eyes and she didn’t think she’d be able to control it.
He got quiet after that, but she slipped her hand into his, discretely under the table. They sat together like that for a long while before Hanna was too tired to hold herself up anymore and she slipped off to sleep while someone carried her to the bed downstairs.
***
Roarke took one last drag of his cigarette as he stared at the Caracals’ bar. He’d gotten the location thanks to several hours of listening to radio chatter from some mouthy cops. Now he was staring at the gates of hell, a house of demons, a place of absolute disgust. He could hear the music inside. They didn’t have the decency to mourn for the men who went down today or admit their defeat by shutting the help up. Several of them stumbled out, drunk and laughing, carrying on. He just watched, the orange glow of the cigarette as the only signal in the dark.
He’d waited until everyone was asleep or too drunk to notice. He was being reckless, he understood that. He also understood that Hanna might never forgive him but he wasn’t going to be able to sleep until he felt a Caracal jaw breaking beneath his fist, saw their black, disgusting blood coating the floor. And he would never rest until he could feel Isabelle’s soft neck breaking under his hands. Hanna was hurt. His child was in danger. They were to blame.
He moved towards the bar, putting out his cigarette on one of the motorcycles parked nearby. He stepped in and considered, for three seconds, getting a drink and waiting to see how long it took anyone to recognize him.
But there she was. She was talking and laughing with half a beer in her hand. Some guy was far too close to her, an arm around her shoulders. He wanted to break that arm and smash the beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers right over his head. He wanted to throttle Isabelle until he couldn’t see his mother’s face in hers and then bury the body far away where no one would see. They were dark thoughts, and once she had been his sister. But now she was a stranger and he didn’t care.
He was still seeing red like the color of Hanna’s blood, her shoulder, her pain. The baby inside her might feel it too. They were both hurt and Isabelle as to blame. She hadn’t been there, she hadn’t pulled any triggers, but it was all her fault. Everything that happened was because of her. He was going to end it.
He lunged.
Someone had been watching him because hands were on him before he even got close to her.
“You’re a long way from home, my man,” said the man who grabbed him and yanked him back. “You lost, brother?”
“Get your fucking hands off me,” he growled, rolling his shoulders away but the hands were firm on him.
“You’re a guest, show a little respect,” he said, sharply.
“That’s my sister,” he said nodding to Isabelle.
“She’s more our sister than yours,” the man with his arm around her said. “We know how to treat her and don’t threaten her. Some big brother.”
He moved to lunge again but was held back. He tried to shrug the hands off of himself and walk out. Hanna’s voice was in his head telling him it wasn’t worth it. He should go home and cool off. But the Caracals seemed to have other plans as suddenly several of them were around him, cocooning him in. He felt the air heat up from the closeness. He felt his heartbeat pick up. This might have been a huge mistake. He might not get out to see that baby that he and Hanna made together but he was going to take as many of them with him as he could.
“Now, now, fellas,” said a familiar voice.
They all turned. Robert was standing there, quite calm, hands raised.
“We’ve got a few more of us on the way. We’ve both lost some good men and women today on either side. There’s no need to continue this,” he said.
“Your boy here walked into our bar,” someone said. “We didn’t start it.”
“That’s fine. I’ll deal with him. Be man enough to finish it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping up to Robert. “We are.”
And then in a flash a knife was in Robert’s stomach and he was bent over. Roarke screamed. At least he thought it was his own scream. He couldn’t be entirely sure. He launched forward and punched at whoever he could, whatever he could. He felt the hits returned but he kept swinging wildly, hitting whatever he could, continue to yell.
Chapter 21
The cavalry couldn’t come fast enough. By the time the rest of the Pharaohs showed, Roarke was sure he had a broken finger or two and couldn’t see through the sting in his eyes as blood poured from a wound at his forehead. He was still thrashing around violently when someone placed a calming hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and he felt himself relax.
Rick was there, dragging him out of the bar.
“Save it for another time, Mike Tyson,” he said, dragging him over to his bike in a sloppy raving heap. “We’ve gotta get the old man to a hospital, stat. Get it together and let’s go.”
Roarke turned around to see several Pharaohs helping Robert out of the bar while he gripped, pained, at the wound in his stomach.
“Shit,” he hissed and rushed over. “Get him on my bike.”
He wasn’t the fastest or the best driver in the group, but he wasn’t about to let anyone else deliver his grandfather there. No one objected as they settled him on the passenger end of the bike and held him there in a balance while Roarke got on. As soon as he was, Robert put all his energy into gripping at his shoulders tightly to hold himself straight.
“You going to be okay, gramps?” he asked.
“Just drive,” he gurgled out and Roarke didn’t need telling twice.
They rushed off into the night, the wi
nd at their bikes and practically stormed the hospital, like they did the Caracals warehouse, to get Robert inside.
***
Hanna knew that Roarke felt awful. She didn’t get word until the morning when Amber went to bring her coffee and told her to get dressed because everyone was at the hospital to visit Robert. She gave her the details on the way and Hanna was ready to kill Roarke when she saw him. But when she actually did lay eyes on him she felt her heart clench at the sight. If he looked before like the type to pout, in that room, he looked like a sad, scared little boy. She didn’t say as much, knowing what it would do to his ego. But she thought it made him stronger than everyone else in the room.
“Will he be okay?”
“We’re waiting to hear,” Rick said, for once without a trace of the malice he usually reserved just for her. In fact, she was willing to be grateful to him for pulling Roarke out of that incredibly idiotic situation.
She noticed a cut that had been haphazardly cleaned on Roarke’s forehead and bruising at his knuckles that hinted at broken bones. She sighed and walked over to him, gently letting her body heat and presence say everything she couldn’t. She was there for him. She’d kill him if he did that again. But she was there for him.
They stayed at the hospital until the nurse, shaking in his scrubs at the sight of an entire biker gang in one room, told them through a cracking voice that visiting hours were over and they’d have to come back tomorrow if they wanted to see him. He promised he’d be well taken care of and all sorts of other comforts to prevent himself from being on the wrong end of any switchblades. Rick clapped the man on the back and thanked him as they walked out of the room together and got on their bikes to head back to the bar.
***
It had been a few days. The hospital informed them that Robert was in stable condition and everything seemed to be going smoothly, though he slept most of the day and wasn’t incredibly responsive when he was awake. They spent all the time they could at his bedside, often going in groups and taking turns to make sure he was never left alone in case he woke at any point. The wound on Hanna’s shoulder was healing nicely but the pain returned as Amber pulled out the stitches.
“Don’t be a baby,” she said when Hanna winced.
“Do you have to do this at the bar?” Rick asked, cringing at the sight.
“Hush.”
Hanna couldn’t stop the slight jumps and gasps when she felt a particular snag on her skin. The wound was closed and the bleeding had stopped, but the skin was still tender and just underneath the surface she knew the wound was still healing, flesh still knitting itself back together completely. She swallowed as another stitch was cut and pulled free.
“This is the most excitement we’ve had all week,” Amber said, pulling the last stitch while Hanna squeezed Roarke’s offered hand tightly to get the last bit of stress out as her shoulder was finally freed from its torment. The pain was subsiding but she knew in the morning it would return with vigor, as those things do.
“Alright, this calls for a round I think, she’s been a good patient,” Amber said, cleaning up the remnants of the procedure and snapping her fingers to the girl behind the bar who started pouring drinks out of the tap.
When she let go of Roarke’s hand he disappeared behind the bar to throw together the cocktail he’d been making her that closely resembled a Bloody Mary, minus the vodka. They’d gotten to the point where they could hold hands in front of his gang and maybe even get in a kiss or two but the baby thing needed to be eased into, as far as they both were concerned. In fact, if Hanna had it her way, no one else would know about the baby until the day they called them all from the hospital to say she’d given birth. Amber would kill them but it was better than putting up with several months of questions and people treating her like a doll about to break.
Roarke had been especially attentive where that was concerned. He often sprang up if he saw her going for water or food or anything and handed it to her himself. He earned the teasing of Rick who seemed to think it was some kind of smitten show of affection. In a way it was. Though she wasn’t sure if Rick’s good humor towards her and their relationship would withstand the news lurking underneath.
“Alright, we have absolutely nothing to toast, which sounds depressing, but cheers to us at least,” Roarke said and they all clinked glasses and took swigs of their drinks.
In all honesty, Hanna couldn’t stand Bloody Marys. She hated tomatoes, though Roarke missed the part where she picked tomatoes off of her burger every time they got food. But he was far too sweet for her to ruin his attempts by telling him she was seconds from gagging every time he made her one of those awful drinks.
They carried on, someone turning the jukebox up playing swing music which Hanna found incredibly corny until Roarke pulled her onto the dance floor and into a dance. It was still corny and felt like some fifties prom, but she couldn’t stop the smile and flush on her face as they moved through the floor, dancing like idiots. The more he drank, the bigger his smile and his eyes told another story entirely when they met hers and they shared their secret silently across the room.
His looks slowly became more and more heated as the night went on and, even without alcohol in her system, she could feel the effects. There was something incredibly domestic about his dorky moves on the dancefloor and she blamed the hormones from the baby for making her want something domestic in such a sexual way. But the heart--and other parts of her--wants what it wants. So after a few more minutes, she took him by the wrist and they silently crept together down the stairs and into the room below.
Chapter 22
The first time had been all about passion and tensions exploding in an instant like lighting a match and watching the spark as it came to life. The second time had been slow and calm and all about touching and feeling and skin being close. This time was all about pleasure and Hanna had been ecstatic that they were finally at that point.
“You’re already wet for me,” he whispered into her ear with his hand down the front of her pants and underwear, fingers playing with the velvet heat he found there.
Her hips moved toward him of their own accord, bucking towards his fingers which just never seemed to move quite fast enough to where she needed them to be. This was the part where they became comfortable with teasing each other, coaxing pleads for release out of each other.
This was the fun type of fucking that Hanna didn’t realize she missed so much. She hadn’t had this since her last serious relationship years ago and now she got to watch Roarke’s eyes dance with glee as he got noises out of her that no one had ever heard before.
“You knew that,” she whispered back, biting her bottom lip and pumping her hips against him.
“I love it,” he said, biting at her neck and pulling on the skin there, sure to leave a hickey.
He kept his pace a little bit longer until it built and built and she released, calm, and quiet, but no less good, a smile painted across her face as he pulled his hands out and worked to get his own clothes off.
“Your turn,” she whispered as she straddled his lap and took him into her hand, pumping him. He sank back into the bed and seemed to melt like butter at her touch, letting out a deep, guttural sigh. His hips moved slightly, meeting her thrusts but she was careful not to go too hard too fast. She only needed him hard and wasn’t about to wait for him to recharge if he blew his load a little too early.
He was so relaxed she was almost loath to remove her hand and move on to their next order of business but the harder he got, the wetter she became. She knew, too intimately, what he felt like inside her. She wanted it again. So she kept moving, kept her hand pumping, watching his eyes glaze over and his always so sure face turn to something else entirely. She was the only one who ever got to see this side of him, who got to see the man who crumpled beneath her fingertips, under her own eyes. It was about more than just pleasure, it was about how well they knew each other and how others wouldn’t.
“You keep g
oing like that and this might be a really short experience,” he laughed but she could hear the edge on his voice. He was close, though he wouldn’t admit it in so many words.
She backed away, removing her hand. He whimpered, just a bit, though she knew he would deny that later. She smirked at him as she backed up and stared at him with smoldering eyes. She slowly began peeling her shirt off her body, making a show of moving her stomach, her chest, trying to shimmy the tight piece of clothing free. She knew the light favored the contours of her body, showing of the shadows and cuts of her muscles. When she met his eyes again, shirt gone, she saw him very nearly salivating at her. She slowly brought her hands to the front clasp of her bra and popped it open, letting it fall and letting her breasts hit the cool air of the room, nipples hardening on contact with the draft.
