Reprise Page 22

  “Don’t mind me.”

  She shrieked and stubbed her toe on the sofa leg as she jumped. She turned to the kitchen entry, hand on her chest, her mind rummaging around to determine if this was a person she knew.

  He was tallish and lanky, with long stringy hair hanging to his shoulders. His skin was dark, darker than what she’d call Latino. And his large eyes were as dark as his hair. Definitely not a lot of European blood in his family tree.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, stepping back but meeting the coffee table at her heels. That hurt, too.

  “You don’t know me, but I know a friend of yours.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Vernon Mark.”

  Well, that made no sense. “V? How do you know V?” Something was wrong. Her skin was crawling, even if this guy wasn’t coming towards her. He seemed happy to stay where we was, leaning on the wall.

  “He’s been a good customer of ours for a while now. And he seems to have forgotten how business works.”

  Shit. V and his fucking hobbies.

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  The guy tilted his head with a slow smile, his eyes running down to her chest and back again. She longed for her bra. “He thought you might have some money to cover a portion of what he owes?”

  Her fear gave way with a bit of anger. “What? He thinks I’m going to pay off his dealer?”

  She moved towards her phone, but the guy took one step in her direction and out of nowhere a handgun appeared. No wonder he was so fucking calm. “Tut tut tut,” he chided, smile returning. “I’m sure we can handle this, just the two of us.”

  Shit. Her phone was on the other side of a stranger with a gun, as was her front door. Fuckity fuck. “What does he owe?”

  “Roughly seven grand, give or take.”

  “Jesus,” she breathed, covering her face. “How much to hold you off and give him time to make it up?”

  “Twenty-five hundred should do it.”

  Mal could have cried. “I don’t have that much money.”

  “Two grand?”

  She sighed. “I work part time in a bakery and sing in a bar band, dude. I have three hundred dollars to my name.”

  He bit his lip and gave that same leer. “Maybe there’s another arrangement we could make.”

  The bile in her throat was perhaps imaginary, but it was still disgusting. “No.”

  “Well then, we’ll just have to take you with us.”

  “Us? Which us? What are you talking about?”

  “I have Mr. Mark downstairs waiting. Come with me. I’m sure someone wants you enough to pay that.”

  “Please, I have nothing to do with this—”

  “Get your coat.”

  “Can’t I change—”

  There was a click as he released the safety or whatever. She inhaled just as he said, without a smile, coldly, “Get. Your. Coat.”

  Bare feet in boots felt weird. She yanked her coat on while her unwanted visitor stood watching. She was pulling on gloves when he yanked the door open with an impatient, “Let’s get moving. Come on.”

  Brazen as anything, he followed her down the hallway with his gun out in the open, pointed at her back. When she headed for the back exit out of habit, since that’s where the parking lot was, he tutted and she felt the gun on her back for the first time.

  “Front,” he snapped, and she corrected her route to the stairs at the end of the hall, straight ahead. He stayed in her shadow through the doors, down the front walkway and towards a vehicle that was at the curb, front and center. When they were in range the van’s side door slid open. Another man, dark-skinned like the one behind her, reached out and grabbed her arm, yanking her inside the van roughly. She whimpered as her knee cracked on the door well, but there wasn’t a lot of sympathy.

  The man awkwardly muscled her into the back seat, and her knee and fear were momentarily forgotten when she caught sight of V, already in the back.

  They’d been downright decent with her in comparison to Vernon. His hands were taped together in front of him, and there was tape over his mouth. Blood was trickling over the tape, running from both nostrils. One eye was also swollen shut.

  “V!” she cried, pushing close and pressing a hand to his cheek.

  The eyes looking back at her were wide and panicked, and so apologetic.

  “What did they do?” she whispered.

  He didn’t bother trying to talk through the tape. All he did was shake his head, and she saw a tear roll down from his regular-sized eye.

  “Are they going to kill us over a bit of money?”

  He shrugged, and there were more tears.

  “No one’s going to be killed,” her visitor assured her, sitting on her other side. The gun was gone, and now the van was pulling out into traffic. “We’ll just find some money to cover off this one’s little habit.”

  She tried to hug V best she could. “We’ll figure this out, okay? Then we’ll get you help.”

  He was shaking and her heart broke. V and Matt were so sweet, she honestly had a motherly affection for the both of them. It killed her that he’d been beaten up, almost as much as it scared her to be in this van.

  So maybe she was really fucking stupid.

  Such was her concern for V that she didn’t register that the driver of the van was shouting, until the vehicle lurched to one side, hit the curb roughly and slid back into the driving lane. She braced herself on the back of the bench seat in front of her, using one arm to hold V back as well. Headlights shone through the windshield, high beams. Turning her head helped avoid them, and that’s when she saw people moving past the side windows.

  The van had come to a stop, sideways on the street. A large truck in front of them was blocking the route, and behind them was another van, but a large cargo van. Not a family one like this one.

  The driver, the rough one, and the one that had walked her from her building were shouting at each other, not in English. It wasn’t a dialect she recognized at all, which was surprising since the man next to her had spoken English with no noticeable accent.

  She clutched V to her side, and he kept his hands in her lap in return. The driver opened his door and the sound of gunfire made her shriek and duck down into her seat, pulling V down with her. He was hollering too, through the tape, and it sounded like his throat was already scraped raw.

  She felt rather than saw the man next to her leap from his seat. She assumed he made for the sliding door, and now there was more gunfire. Nothing seemed to hit the van for a few exchanges, and then the window over them exploded. She was shrieking. It wouldn’t help but it was her first instinct.

  This was not happening. It couldn’t be.

  When V sat up she tried to pull him down with her but he was stronger, even when bound, and as he pulled himself back onto the seat—whenever they ended up on the floor was a bit of a blur—Mal became aware of screaming silence. Her ears were ringing painfully, but the world had gone totally still.

  No, not still. There was glass crunching outside the van because someone was walking towards the side door, which was still open. Mal surged forward to shut it, not sure what that would do against gunfire, but a hand closed around the door’s edge before she could budge it an inch.

  She looked up into another face she didn’t know. Not Middle Eastern, definitely white, with long black and steel gray hair and a beard as black as night. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and there was a familiar air to him. She didn’t know him but she recognized something in his manner.

  “Are you okay? Anyone get hit?” The voice was kind and patient.

  It took her a moment to realize that he likely didn’t mean them any harm. “What?” was her brilliant response.

  “You shot, or your friend there?”

  She looked back to V, who was staring at this new man with eyes just as wide.

  “N-n-no,” she stammered, teeth chattering from the cold and terror of the moment. “We’re oka
y. Well, he’s beat up. But no one’s shot.”

  A large hand took her upper arm and she let herself be helped out. “Let’s get you out of here before we draw attention, okay? Head over to Beast’s pickup truck. It’s warmer than the van.”

  Another man in a leather jacket and jeans approached them. This one wore a knitted cap and gloves, and he took her from the first man and led her to the large black F-150 in front of the van, which was full of holes, as it turned out. He had to tug her along as she stared.

  “Let’s get you in cab, babe. You must be cold.”

  He tucked her into the back of the extended cab and shut the door gently. She sighed, the warmth of the interior seeping into her skin. When the door on the other side opened V was climbing in on his own, the tape gone from his wrists and mouth. He looked horrible, and his lip was split in two places.

  “V!” she cried, moving close to him. “Oh my God. That must hurt so much!”

  The long-haired man was reaching behind the seat and he pulled out a blanket which he handed to Vernon wordlessly, then shut the door again. V wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, with help from Mal, his teeth clacking madly. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and absolutely nothing on his feet. Jesus, he must have had to walk through that glass, too.

  “Who are these guys?” she whispered, rubbing his arms to help him warm up. “Are they going to help us?”

  “They already did,” he said through his shivers. “These are the guys I used to buy my weed from.”

  “Who were the other guys?”

  Now he looked guilty again. “They deal meth.”

  She sighed. “Oh, V—”

  “I know, I know! I did wrong.” Now he was sobbing. “I couldn’t stop. I tried. And then they told me I owed all this other money and I swear I don’t, they’re lying! This is just some ransom shit. I’m sorry, Mal. I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  She shook her head and let him collapse to her side, face to her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m not hurt, see? It’s gonna be okay.”

  The long-haired man eventually climbed in behind the wheel and put the truck in drive. It had been running, that’s why they were so toasty inside.

  After a few quiet moments she felt she had to speak. “Thank you so much for helping us,” she said, wincing at how lame it sounded. “Can...can you tell me where you’re taking me?”

  His eyes met hers in the rear view mirror. “Somewhere safer than your apartments, I promise.”

  Her unease returned.

  “Don’t worry, red. We’ll take care of both of you. We even have someone who can make sure your friend hasn’t suffered any real damage.”

  She tried to let that settle her nerves, but of course that didn’t happen. No one said anything else until the truck took a turn into Cleary’s industrial region, slowing in front of a building that bore a crest she recognized.

  A crest with a big rat in the middle.

  “Oh no,” she whispered, remembering seeing these men outside Harlon’s truck the night they’d...well.

  The driver looked up to the rear view mirror, and she met his gaze. He smiled. “No need for you to worry, red.”

  She was worried. She was in sweatpants, boots, a T-shirt and her jacket. She’d been ready to go to bed, and now she was holding her bleeding friend and about to be, apparently, dragged into a biker hangout.

  The truck stopped, nose to the building, and their chauffeur opened his door and climbed down. Then he yanked open the back door and took V’s arm. “All right. Let’s go see Patch.”

  “Patch?” V sounded weak but he stood under his own steam, waiting for the biker to again reach around the back of the seat. He pulled out another piece of leather and pulled it on over his leather coat. Before he swung it around she saw the rat patch on the back, and he caught her eye then turned to grab V’s arm and lead him to the door.

  Mallory scrambled behind them, closing the truck door as the biker answered. “He’s a friend of mine. He’s also a paramedic.”

  The inside of the clubhouse was pretty much exactly like any seedy bar she’d ever been to. Smoke hung in the air like trailing cobwebs, and there was raucous laughter from a gathering of men in a seating area in a far dark corner. She could see women, too, but she was mostly concerned with keeping an eye on V.

  They were led past a bar and into a side room. The light came on and they were suddenly in a quieter room that held a mishmash of furniture, all looking like it came from a restaurant. Not a fancy one, but the table tops and chairs all matched. They were mostly stacked along a blank wall but a few were moved out with seating around them.

  It was onto one of these chairs V was pushed down, and looked up at the man with them with obvious nerves. “Are you going to kill us?”

  The biker laughed, a deep rumble, and shook his head. “Nah. I don’t like these guys that came for you. They’re assholes, they make trouble for people that don’t deserve it. My question, Vernon, is why you’re even taking that meth shit.”

  Mallory swallowed. V knew these guys well enough they knew his name?

  “Things have been...tense lately. I just wanted...”

  “You come to us for that shit. We have never sold you bad shit. We have more than pot, you know we’ll take care of you.”

  V looked over to Mal, then back at him. “The pot has something in it. My friend took some, gave some to Mal. We didn’t know what it would do.”

  The biker took a deep breath, then turned back to Mal. “I’m sorry about that. But V was warned what was in it.”

  “What’s in it?” she breathed.

  “A little something extra that makes it more addictive. Problem is it doesn’t stick to the shit evenly. Some of it carries more than the last bud. It’s added after.”

  “So your pot is addictive?”

  The biker nodded. “Not our call. I’m kind of at the mercy of my supplier, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.” He strode to the door, opened it, and turned back to them. “Wait in here. I’ll send in Patches.”

  The door was loud as he slammed it behind him, and she jumped. Then she wheeled towards Vernon, who already had his hands up. “I know,” he cut in immediately. “I know, I’ve fucked up.”

  “Shit, V. You’re buying pot from bikers? Pot is legal in Colorado, remember?”

  He scoffed and she wanted to shake him. “The legal stuff is shit.”

  “Well, it probably lacks whatever that addictive shit is that made me go absolutely nuts!”

  “I’m sorry, Mal. In my defense, I told Hal that it might make you...you know. Extra frisky.”

  She stilled “You told him that?”

  He wouldn’t look her in the eye, but she didn’t think it was because he was lying.

  “And what did he tell you about that night?”

  Still he avoided her gaze.

  “Great. Fucking fantastic. Nice to know you guys talk about me like any other piece of backstage ass you come across.”

  “It wasn’t like that—”

  “That’s how it feels, okay? At this point I don’t care anymore. I’m...I’m done with this shit. I’m done with the shit you guys cause me. I’m just...done.”

  Finally the little prick looked up. “What? Mal, don’t say that—”

  “It’s time I fucking grew up anyway.” She ignored the wrenching pain in her chest that was synonymous with heartbreak. “It’s not a career. It’s a fucking joke. All my life I’ve been doing this and my life savings won’t even buy me a coffin to be buried in.”

  “Mal—”

  She put a hand up to stop him, and he did. Then she crossed to one of the other tables and sat down, back to him. Her eyes were wet and her nose was stinging. She didn’t want to burst into fucking tears in a place this strange, surrounded by scary-looking bikers, without so much as a bra on to protect herself with. Everything felt too damn vulnerable tonight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tiny fastened the fly of his jeans and sat on the edge of the rumpled
bed to reach for his socks. Even that bit of movement winded him, and when he straightened he took a moment to catch his breath.

  “Limited lung capacity.”

  He looked up, his body quickening at the sight of Doc Webber in just a pair of panties standing in the en suite washroom, even if he felt close to suffocating. She was narrow and thin all over, ribs standing out under her fair skin. Tits were small and barely notable. Her skin was absolute, alabaster perfection. While she was thin, she was also small-boned so she still appeared feminine. Dainty, even. But he knew she was strong. He’d seen her reset bones with her hands, and she’d handled him just fine not ten minutes ago, so there was nothing meek or mild about her.

  He leaned over to pull one sock on. “That’s what we call it?”

  “Tumors are squeezing the pockets in your lungs that actually process oxygen, letting it get where it has to be. Like into your blood. So your organs can work and all. It’s kind of a neat system.”

  He smiled at the snark, setting the second sock to rights. “You must be a doctor. You’re so smart.”

  She walked up to him, grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. His cock surged again, even if it was a little weary. Doctor Webber was a bit of a control freak with a morbid fascination for dying things, or so she’d demonstrated so far. They hadn’t discussed it, but his gut instinct was usually pretty good on stuff like this.

  “Try chemo,” she said calmly, standing between his legs. He ran his hands up the back of her lithe thighs then back down again, stopping on the backs of her knees.

  “No.”

  Her blue eyes ran over his face. She was searching for some kind of mortal fear, he supposed. She wouldn’t find it. “You’re really not scared to die?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “It can happen at any time. Why be scared? Being safe just means you never leave the house. And then what’s the point of living to a hundred?”

  “No regrets on life?”

  “Never said that.” Hands on her hips, he pushed her off so he could stand. She held onto his hair until the last possible moment.

  “Can I see you again?”