by Zahra Girard
When I find a quiet place, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Did Nico get you the message?”
“Your brother? Yeah, I got it.”
“And you understand that we’re moving up the timeline?”
I repress the urge to mouth off; I’m a capable adult — when someone growls in your face that the timeline is changing and then threatens to murder you, their words have weight.
“Yes, I understand.”
“And you know what we’ll do to your brother if you don’t come through for us?”
“I don’t want to know or even think about it. But I’ll come through. It’s just, listen, it’s not easy. It will be a lot of work and I need you all to understand that. This wasn’t easy to begin with and now the changes are making it even more difficult.”
“You know, there are a couple men in my crew who’ve expressed an interest in your brother. If you’re not fast enough, I might not restrain them. Do you understand me?”
“I do.”
“Then stop fucking around. I will call you again soon with the time you are to deliver. Fail, and we’ll do the kind of things to your brother that’ll leave him so fucked up that he’ll take his own life and save us the effort of killing him.”
“Please. Don’t. Just give me time. I promise I’ll come through.”
He doesn’t answer — he hangs up.
My hands shake as I put my phone away. The whole time I’m cursing my brother for being so smart that he’d make the foolish fucking decision of trying to outsmart a group of criminals like the Makris family. That’s always been his way; brilliant, and yet stupid enough to think he can always weasel his way out of any consequences no matter what he does. It doesn’t help, though. Being angry at him just makes me more frustrated with my situation. I’m trapped.
I brace myself against the wall for support and try to find a calm center in myself so I can get back out there and do my job.
Focusing on that helps. I love my job. I love seeing the results I can have in people’s lives with everything I do. That feeling is all I’ve got right now.
After a minute, I’m back out there. I handle some stitches on a man who got careless with a wicked set of gardening sheers. I check the vitals of a patient awaiting gallbladder surgery. I administer some antibiotics to a kid with the most intense ear infection I’ve seen in ages.
I make a difference in people’s lives; I bring them relief from their pain and their suffering and I love it. There’s something so rewarding about healing someone and that feeling soothes me deep to my soul.
I’m going to be OK. I’m going to make it through this.
Then I bump into Jackie. Stout, about twenty years older than me and yet crotchety in a way that suggest she’s much older, Jackie Price is a ball of malice that I’d rather not encounter today. Or any other day.
“Ms. Baker, hold it right there.”
There’s so much ice in her voice that I freeze on the spot.
“Yes, Ms. Price?”
“Where have you been?”
“Here. Working.”
“And where were you earlier?”
I swallow.
She shakes her head. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Stop what you’re doing, hand your work off to Donna — it’s not like she hasn’t been doing all your work already — and come with me. We need to have a talk.”
Forgoing any idea to protest, I follow along behind her. In our wake, I see Dr. Trent Ayers — a man in his late thirties, well-connected in the hospital administration, well-known in the nursing circles for his voracious appetite, and whose muscular, thick-haired, handsome features belie a vicious, rapacious, and ugly interior — follow with a hungry attention.
He’s a shark, and he smells blood.
But I’m nobody’s prey.
“Inside,” Jackie says once we reach her office. Then, “Sit.”
There’s nothing for me to do but obey. Which I do. And sigh in relief because, though I’m nervous as hell, Jackie Price has incredibly comfortable chairs in her office and, after the exhausting day that I’ve had, I can’t repress how good it feels to sit in a nice chair.
Jackie sits down at her desk and spends a good thirty seconds eyeing me before she speaks.
“What’s wrong, Samantha?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a talented nurse. You’re an asset to the ER team, you have a wonderful way with even the worst patients that come in here, and you came to us with high recommendations after your work with Doctors Without Borders. But you’re behaving the same way my niece does when my sister tells her to put her phone away and do her homework. Why is that? Are things here not challenging enough for you?”
“No. I’m perfectly happy with my job here and, honestly, I enjoy the work.”
“Then why did you disappear for almost two hours today? And why do you look as pale as a person down a few pints of blood?”
I take a moment to gather my thoughts. I’m rattled, and have been for most of the day — heck, I’ve been off for most of the last few days, ever since Razor shot up that poker game and plucked me right out of the hands of one of the Makris brothers. I don’t have the same sympathy card to fall back on here as I did with Razor; Jackie likes me as a nurse but, as my boss, she’s got every right to be pissed at me for disappearing.
“Jackie, I’m really sorry about cutting out like that. I just… I got a call from my brother and it was a family emergency and I panicked. It was stupid, I know, but he was in real trouble and I had to help him. Ever since our parents died, he’s the only family I’ve got and I have to watch out for him.”
It sucks to play the dead parents card — even if it’s true — and it feels wrong lying to my boss like this. She can be a hardass, but Jackie is great to work for because she’s usually just pushing the people she cares about to succeed.
Jackie nods. She’s bought it.
“Look, I understand. And I really appreciate having you here. But you need to remember that we are a team and you can’t go running out like that. You’re smart, you’re experienced, you know better than that. You should’ve come to me.”
“It won’t happen again,” I say, feeling relieved.
She grunts, then fixes me with that same ice-cold stare she gave me earlier. “It had better not. You’re new here, Samantha, and you’re still under your probationary period. Don’t think that just because you’re smart you can flout the rules.”
“I promise, this was a one-time thing.”
“Good, because the next time anything like this happens, I don’t care how good of a nurse you are — you’re fired.”
I swallow. I can’t let that happen. If I lose this job and the access to the hospital’s pharmacy, both me and my brother are as good as dead.
“It won’t happen. You have my word on that, Jackie.”
She nods, then sets a form out on the desk in front of me.
“Good. Because after that little stunt this morning, I filled out most of your termination paperwork. All it lacks is my signature. One more stunt and you’re done, Samantha Baker.”
Chapter Seven
Razor
My mind circles two distinct problems as I pull into Stone Trucking and park the van in front of the attached clubhouse. First: Florence Nightingale is going to be a bigger challenge than I bargained for — the woman’s smart, she’s got a hell of a fighting spirit, and she knows how to work people over to get what she wants; she worked me over with hardly any problem at all. What’s worse is I knew she was manipulating me, but I still couldn’t say no to those shimmering emerald eyes. Or those tits.
The second problem is much simpler: I’m still low on blood and Florence left me so damn hard that I’m almost too woozy to drive. When I park the van in front of the clubhouse, I head right inside to look for some relief.
The Twisted Devils clubhouse smells and sounds like the sanctuary it is. Cigar smoke, whiskey, beer, and the ripping chords of ha
rd rock music from the stereo system fill the air. The place is packed when I get in; there’s a gaggle of club girls chatting in a corner; Mack and Trips are tearing into a game of pool and jawing at each other; Rusty is at the bar, covered in grease from a hard day working on engines; Gears and Blaze are watching a football game on the big screen and bouncing club girls in their laps; and Stone’s wife, Tricia, is behind the bar, mixing drinks and running the show. Filling a couple booths along the far wall are more club girls and two our more advanced prospects, Goldie and Bullet.
“Looking for something, Razor?” Tricia calls to me from behind the bar. “A drink, maybe?”
I shake my head.
“Just a beer, Tricia, thanks. You seen Carla around? Or Dominique?”
“Dominique’s down in LA. But Carla went to the store about an hour ago. She should be back any minute. Hard day?”
I grin. “Still is. But I’m hoping Carla can help with that.”
She hands me a beer and I head to take an empty booth while I wait for Carla. I’ve hardly sat down before Mack leaves the pool table and takes a seat across from me. For a minute, he just watches me and silently reminds me of my job but I’m in no mood to talk to anyone but Carla — and only then to tell her to get her ass into the back apartment — so I don’t say a damn thing to him.
Then he opens his mouth.
“So, found anything new about those pricks from the other night?”
I shake my head and sip my beer. “Not yet.”
“Stone won’t be happy to hear that. I ain’t too happy to hear that either, to tell you the truth. It’s not a good thing to have snakes like that slithering around with no idea about what they’re really after or what kind of muscle they have behind them.”
“I get it, Mack.”
“Do you, though? You seem pretty nonchalant about it, lad. Hell, I even heard you asking about Carla. You got time to get your dick sucked, but no time to check into the shit for Stone?”
“That isn’t how it is, brother,” I say, taking a long drink of my beer. More than anything, meeting up with Carla is so I can get my shit together and get my mind off of Florence Nightingale, so I can get back to digging into whoever the hell it was that shot me.
“It sure is what it looks like. Why don’t you talk to Crash, have him connect you with his buddy, Officer Hanratty? Things would move faster if you had him on the case.”
Revulsion causes me to spit some of my beer on the floor. “You know how I feel about cops, Mack.”
“Yeah, yeah. Grow up, Razor. Hanratty might be a cop, but he’s our cop. If you don’t want to wind up pulling watch duty on a slow ride to Omaha, you’ll exercise all your goddamn options and talk to Hanratty.”
Mack’s an asshole, but he’s got a point. I just don’t want to admit it. Still, the man isn’t content knowing that he’s made his point — he wants to hear me say it out loud. The big man leans on the table, staring right at me.
“Fine, I’ll talk to Hanratty.”
Mack bellows across the room. “Crash, get your ass over here. Razor needs to ask you something.”
Then, drink in hand, he leaves to rejoin his game of pool with Trips. Seconds later, Crash is sitting across from me with a quizzical look on his face.
“What’s going on, brother?”
“I need you to talk to your buddy Hanratty for me.”
“You can talk to him yourself. You’ve got his number.”
I shake my head. “Crash, I’m in no mood. You know we would just get in a fight. Remember the last time we were forced to interact on a personal level? New Year’s last year?”
He frowns, thinking. “New Year’s? Oh, shit.”
“Remember his black eye? Remember having to bail me out of jail?”
“Yes, I remember. I remember Stone making you clean the oil traps at the trucking yard afterward, too.”
“Now you’re getting it. After the past few days that I’ve had, what I’d do to Hanratty this time would make last New Year’s look like a loving hug.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to him. What do you need, brother?”
“There are some new players in town. They were running an illegal game in that old tavern in the industrial block. They’re also involved in stealing and transporting medical supplies for black market sale. They’re well-armed, they’re likely well-funded, so they’re not amateurs. The ones I fought with didn’t have any recognizable tattoos or colors, so they may not be affiliated with any of the usual players. I need him to dig into this.”
“Got it. Well, brother, I’ll send it his way and if he turns anything up, I’ll let you know. If he charges the club extra for his investigatory services, it’s coming out of your pocket.”
“Always about the money, Crash?”
“It’s my job, brother. I’m not club secretary because I happen to look good in a skirt.”
“Fine. I’ll pay. Hell, I’ll pay extra not to have to deal with Hanratty directly. And if he comes through, I’ll owe you. Whatever it takes to not have to go to Omaha.”
“You know, Omaha’s not so bad, Razor. The ride is nice, we do some good business out there, Stone kicks in an extra bit for taking the ride out, and it’s a peaceful place. It’s relaxing. Steaks are good, too. Outside of Texas, they’ve got the best steaks I’ve ever had.”
“Half the ride to Omaha is shapeless hills and boring straightaways. No view except for fucking grass and cows. You like Omaha because you’ve got pussy out there.”
“Rosa’s more than that, brother. And you know better than to talk about her like that,” Crash says. His voice has that low growl he gets anytime he even thinks there’s an implication against that woman.
“Fine. I’m sorry. But why the hell is she still out there and not out here? Why do you need to go to Omaha every time you want to see her?”
“It’s complicated, brother. Things in Omaha ain’t always so peaceful and getting a woman like Rosa to do anything she doesn’t want to do is something you only try if you’ve got a death wish,” he says. “Now, I’ll talk to Hanratty, but I’m not going to micromanage this. I will give him your number, and if he has anything to report about these new guys in town, he will call you. Directly. You need to play nice with him. I will not be your errand boy on this one.”
“Deal. Just tell him to keep his shit to himself. I will be all out of patience for the next fucking week at least.”
“Fine. I’ll get him on it,” Crash says, and he leaves.
I sit there for a minute, contemplating my beer and my next step. Part of me knows I should press the Florence for more info, but when I let her go earlier, she seemed at the end of her fucking rope. Pushing her more might break her and I don’t know if that’s something I want to see; her tears alone were enough to put me on the defensive. In some way that I can’t explain, Florence Nightingale has a hold on me.
The door slams shut as Carla enters the clubhouse. My eyes track her swaying hips across the room as she heads to the bar to drop off a few grocery bags with Tricia and then, after sending a knowing wink in my direction, she heads towards the back apartments.
She knows what I want. She’s ready.
I rise.
Then Mack steps into my field of view. He’s all the way across the room, but I can still hear his voice inside my head: Get the fuck back to work.
When I pretend like I don’t see him and take a few more steps towards the back apartments and the sweet ass that’s waiting for me, Mack takes a few steps in my direction.
Then he opens his mouth.
“Get the fuck back to work.”
I sit back down.
I contemplate my beer, my problems, and the nurse across town. Until Hanratty comes up with something or until Fat Mike reports in to Trips about another poker game, the one connection I have to the assholes from the other night is the nurse. And I sure as hell can’t start barking up that tree again. At least not yet.
I need help. And advice. And some fucking rest.
I opt for the latter. I grab a prospect to give me a ride back to St. Paul’s Hospital to fetch my Harley, then I head home to catch some sleep.
I sleep for hours.
When I wake up, I decide I should check in with the woman who knows the Lone Mesa underworld as good as Stone or any other member of the Twisted Devils MC: my nana, Ruby.
It’s quiet when I park my bike in my nana’s driveway. This neighborhood is full of the elderly and is only a gate or two short of being declared a retirement community. It’s not the kind of place I would’ve expected Ruby to retire to but, when my grandfather passed away a few years ago, she lost her literal partner in crime. The light in her dimmed and after that there wasn’t much spark in schemes and robberies. She just wanted some quiet place to relive her memories of the man who was at her side robbing banks and grifting rich people for fifty years.
I wipe my feet on the welcome mat. Nana keeps a clean home.
I knock twice.
There’s no answer.
I knock again.
Still, silence.
Her car is in the driveway, and when I lean to the side and peer through her living room window, I can see the flicker of her television screen. There’s a cup of tea sitting on the coffee table and an open bottle of whiskey next to it. She’s home.
I wait a minute and then knock again.
“Nana?” I call out.
Still no answer.
This isn’t right.
My gut constricts in on itself, rolling and coiling into knots like a python.
I bang on the door so hard it shakes against its frame.
“Nana, it’s me. Can you open up?”
Still not a flicker of motion is visible through the windows. There’s not a sound other than the quiet murmur of the television. This isn’t right.
I take a step back from the door. I cock my leg, take a deep breath, and kick that fucker open.
“Sorry,” I call out as the door flies open and hangs loose on its hinges.
No answer. Not even a reprimand or an exasperated sigh.
I head into the living room first. One touch of the finger tells me the tea is cold. My gut knits even tighter as I head further into her house, searching from room to room for any sign of life. First the kitchen, then the second bedroom that she and my grandfather used as an office to plan their robberies, then the dining room, and then the master bedroom. All empty. I hesitate outside the final unsearched room: the master bathroom. I could puke from the way my stomach is gnarled in on itself.
