Floored (9 page)

He stood there in his bloodstained jeans, boots planted in the thin carpet, arms open at his sides, and his chin tucked down. Rivulets of blood made their way down his forearm. He looked like the survivor of some apocalyptic fight scene, and she couldn’t stop staring at him. His body was thick with muscle, rippling with power. A massive Gothic iron cross tattoo speared across both pecs and bisected his chest, cutting down his sternum, over his flat belly and disappearing under the waistband of his pants.

He looked both brutal and beautiful.

A trickle of blood reached his hand and rolled towards his finger. It would drip on the carpet. It broke the hex he’d put on her. She shifted; put her shopping bags and satchel on the floor and stepped into the tiny bathroom, feeling around on the wall for a light switch. When its neon glow stuttered on, she grabbed a towel off a stack on a shelf above the bath. When she came out, he held his hand out to take it from her.

He wiped at the blood trail and the towel soaked the red. “Management will be happy with me.”

“You should sit.”

He grunted. “If you wouldn’t mind helping with a fresh bandage? There’s stuff in the chemist bag.” He gestured to the clump of bags with his chin.

The room had a small round dining table. She lifted the first-aid kit to it and went in search of his chemist bag.

“Would you mind if I had a wash first? It’d be smart to get clean.”

He was standing there looking down at himself as if he’d suddenly noticed the state he was in. There was no way she was hanging around in his room while he got naked and took a shower.

There was no way she was hanging around, full stop. This was over now.

“Why don’t you find your room and come back in fifteen?”

That would work. She could step outside; wait till she heard the shower water running, get in the car and bolt.

“Fine.”

They moved together. He went to the bathroom and she grabbed her satchel and stepped outside, shutting the door firmly behind her, pressing against it in relief. She nearly fell back into the room when he opened it, righting herself and spinning to face him.

“Hey, Driver, I know you had a rough day. It will be easier from here.”

She nodded. Let him think he was reassuring standing there half dressed, heartbreaking and bloody.

“I’d prefer if it you didn’t do a runner with my money. At least till we get out of the city.”

She stiffened, tried to sound indignant. “I wasn’t going to do that.”

“No?” He opened the door wider. “Then you might want to take your shopping with you.”

She met his eyes and tried not to smell guilty. “I’ll get it later. I’ll be back in fifteen.” She left him standing in the doorway of his room as she took the stairs two at a time. She knew he was watching. Hell, she could still bolt. She could leave his envelope of money with reception. Then he’d have no reason to chase her down. Would he? It was worth the risk. But he was on guard now and he did need some help. She’d bandage him and wait a few hours till he was asleep, then she’d make her escape.

She found her room. It was twice the size of his, and only half as grubby. Facing the back there was no noise from the road. She dumped her satchel, took off her jacket and hat and undid the twist that held her hair in place, snaking her fingers through it, letting it fall down her back. She went to the bathroom and washed her face, then put her hair back up. That took all of five minutes. She sat on the edge of the bed. She was bone tired. It would be great to lie down and sleep for an hour or so. Maybe that was a good idea. She could do her Florence Nightingale thing, then shower, sleep for a few hours and take off well before eight in the morning.

She sat there counting off the minutes. She couldn’t wait to be done with him—good cop, bad cop, playing-both-sides cop—whoever he was. At exactly the fifteen minute mark she went back downstairs to his room. He opened the door wearing a pair of black trackpants that hugged his hips, no shoes, no shirt. There were beads of water on his torso and his hair was wet, slicked back and tied in a ponytail. He was holding the towel to his arm.

“I wondered if I’d ever see you again.” He closed the door behind her.

“Why? We have a business deal.” That came out sounding appropriately stroppy. Well, what do you know, she could act too. It’d been the overwhelming feature of her new life.

He grinned. “And that never stopped anyone doing the dirty.”

She ignored that. It seemed best. “Would you mind leaving the door open?”

“Yeah, I would. There’s a family next door, the kids were running in and out. They don’t need to see this.”

He was right. There was a kid bouncing a ball in the walkway when she’d come down the stairs. Wasn’t that convenient. Was he the sort of cop who had ball-bouncing kid cops on tap when he needed them as decoys?

Okay, she was officially freaked out to even have that thought.

“Driver, I’m in no position to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s just…”

“Yeah, I know, not professional. I’ll make another deal with you. Unless I need to get slashed again and I’m bleeding to death, you don’t need to come inside my room. Same goes for you. I won’t cross the threshold of your room unless you get hurt. Fair?”

She frowned. “Fair.” But he’d made it sound like he’d gotten slashed on purpose and it was a regular occurrence, and that was one more piece of disturbing information.

He pulled a chair out from the table and sat. “Is your hair curly?”

She fumbled with the lid of the Betadine.

“It’s the same colour as mine. I wondered if it had curl like mine.”

He was bleeding to death and wanted to talk about hair texture. What kind of bikie did that? What kind of cop? Maybe he was gay on top of being a macho idiot who got himself slashed in a knife fight and let a man called Wacker terrify him by telephone.

“And we both drink flat whites. We must be long lost cousins,” she said, aiming low with sarcasm.

“See, you’re funny. I figure there’s some Irish in you.”

Now would be the time to tell him she was Greek or Croatian or Mexican. Now would be a good time to tell him nothing. “Let me see your arm.”

“I should’ve asked if you were okay with blood, with things like this. Can’t have you fainting on me.”

“I’m fine with it. I’ve had basic first aid training.”

“Good to know.” He unwound the towel. There was a tattoo on that arm too. A bright-coloured Harley drawn with wings as though it could fly, and red and green and yellow flames as though it was thermonuclear. It was almost pretty. The gash was about ten centimetres long, a clean, straight angry cut, right under the edge of the tattoo like raw underline. It was long past Betadine alone.

“This needs stitching.”

“It’s not deep enough.”

“It’s deep enough.”

“How about a couple of staples?”

Her brain was saying ‘is he serious?’ His face was saying ‘you bet’.

“I have basic training too. And a hospital grade staple gun.” He didn’t look like he was joking.

“What? You tote a staple gun around in case of random slashing?”

He laughed. “Something like that.”

“Oh no! I know what’s in the hardware store bag. I am not stapling you with a staple gun from Bunnings.” She wasn’t, there was no way. He was insane.

“It was Thrifty Link. It’s stainless steel, a sealed packet. It’s fine. I’d do it myself but it’s a little awkward.”

“Why can’t I drive you to the hospital?”

“Because I don’t like how they smell.” He gave a little mock shiver. It would’ve been amusing if it wasn’t horrific.

She almost blurted it out. ‘You’re a cop, but I think you might be bad, and I’m your hostage, and we’re being chased by bikies, and I just want to go home, but I can’t because my ex-fiancé has probably tracked me down by now, and I’m more scared of him than I am of you!’

Fetch was on his feet. He had hold of her arms and steered her to the chair he’d vacated. “Steady there.” His face came close till he was all soap and water and inky, lush black eyelashes. She dropped her glance. Under his eyelashes were his grazed cheek, his prickly beard, his clever mouth and his very touchable smooth chest.

“The colour drained out of you, Driver. Are you all right?” He turned away and a moment later pushed a glass of water into her hand.

She drank it down. Perhaps she was dehydrated and that’s what’d made her feel so light-headed all of a sudden. Or it was all the blood, or the thought of how much trouble she was in. Or the fact that he seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room and make her heart beat erratically.

“I think you need to sleep. It’s been a big day.” He was standing over her. He was trying to manage her. Like Justin did.

Patronising bikie bastard
. She stood up. “I’m fine. A little thirsty.” She put the glass down on the table. If he wanted staples in his arm, he’d get them. Maybe they’d slow him up some. “Should I be giving you a bottle of brandy or a stick to bite down on?”

“It’s not the Wild West.”

“You’re making it feel that way.”

“In case you’re thinking about it I don’t need teeth extracted or any moving parts amputated.”

That’s not exactly what she was thinking, but it was in the same theme park. Right next to one of those rides that tipped you upside down and shook you about till your brain disconnected from reality. A bit like what was happening now.

He waved a hand towards his shopping. “Well, Nurse Houlihan, there’s a bottle of Bundy in one of those bags.” He was being amusing, conjuring up Hot Lips from
Mash
.

She found it and poured him a glassful. He took the bottle out of her hand and swigged. “The glass is for you.” He clinked the bottle against it in a macabre toast. “Courage.”

He knew she was uncomfortable, and under all that fur he was laughing at her. She contemplated the glass, but her stomach was already unsettled. Maybe later. She put it on the table and turned to rummage in the hardware store bag for the stapler. If he wanted sharp bits of steel fired into his already damaged arm he could have them. She hoped it hurt. She planned to smile though every gasp he tried to tough guy muffle.

She opened the packet. The gun was already loaded. It was the type of staple gun you’d use on carpet instead than paper, where the prongs stayed straight rather than folding over.

“How many?”

He’d painted his arm with the Betadine. He looked at her with one eye tight closed. His arm had to be stinging. “Three.”

She gestured to the chair. She’d have better purchase if he was sitting. He picked it up and placed it against a bare wall, turned sideways. He sat with his good arm braced against the wall. He was boxing himself in so he didn’t move.

Three. She could do this. It was only three. She’d place the flat head of the stapler against his skin over the wound and squeeze the trigger. That’s all it was. Not too difficult. Especially if she didn’t think about how much it hurt that one time in the office she’d stapled her own finger. She’d been by herself too. Justin was—wherever he was. In hindsight, he was probably with that woman. She’d had to pull the damn thing out herself as well. Got blood all over her dress. Well, she’d lived through that, and Fetch was a either a fair dinkum tough guy, or a great actor, and she’d soon see.

“You’re sure you’re up to this?” He was still taunting her.

Caitlyn gripped the staple gun and stepped across to him. He braced against the wall and looked up at her. “Shoot straight, Driver.”

Her hand shook as she pressed the head of the gun against the wound. She placed her other hand on his shoulder to steady herself. It had the opposite effect. His skin was warm and smooth, the muscle bunched tightly. Too touchable. Too connected with the rate at which her pulse throbbed.

“Bonus points if you do it quick.”

Their eyes met, his alive with challenge. She squeezed the trigger and the gun made a snick as the staple released. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t make a sound. The staple now sat firm against his skin across the slash of the wound. Her stomach contracted. She swallowed a groan.

“Again.”

She gripped his shoulder, moved the gun head against the wound and squeezed. His arm had started to bleed at the site of the first staple. She had to swallow hard against the tightness in her throat.

“Last one.”

She moved the stapler, positioned and fired it again.

He said, “Ow,” not with any feeling, but like that’s what you were supposed to say when someone fired stainless steel into your arm.

She tasted bile in her throat. She stepped back, turned away and dropped the stapler on the table. She’d started unrolling gauze to give herself something to concentrate on when she felt him come up behind her. He put his hand on her back. “Good work. You didn’t flinch.” It was admiration she heard in his voice.

“Neither did you.”

He groaned. “Fucking hell that stung.”

She turned to face him. He’d moved away and was stalking around, holding the towel to his arm. He caught her watching. “Well, it did.”

He’d held still for her. She shook her head. “But you were like stone.”

He shrugged. “It was a crappy thing to ask you to do. I thought you’d head for the hills. Least I could do was sit still and pretend it didn’t hurt.”

“You do a lot of pretending, don’t you?”
Oh great
. Why didn’t she just come straight out and accuse him of being evil on steroids?

He cocked his head. “Doesn’t everyone.” Not a question; an experience.

She cut some gauze. What had she expected him to say? She wondered if he’d be amused at how much she was pretending; pretending to be a nurse, a chauffeur, a business woman in control of her life, instead of a scared idiot who should’ve known better—running away from it.

“Sit,” she gestured to the chair closest to her. They needed to get back to business.

He did, grunting with the effort. “Even my hair hurts now.”

She shouldn’t have, but she laughed; then used his line. “You’re funny.”

He growled, bear-like. “I’m serious. My follicles are screaming in agony.”

She bit her lip. She shouldn’t be laughing with him.