Floored Page 7

  She started the engine and backed out of the spot. Now she was really in trouble. He was the law and she was the law-breaker. He was more dangerous to her now than when he was an idiot gang member. He simply could not know anything about her. That limited fraternisation, no talking preference was suddenly a hardcore rule.

  She moved into traffic on the way back to the motel. Should she tell him she knew he was a cop? That she’d figured out she was some kind of material witness he wanted to keep quiet?

  She should’ve stayed in bed today. Should’ve driven off when she saw him limp up outside number 32. She’d had a hundred other chances to get away from him, and she’d not taken them because she’d been seduced by the money and the opportunity, and the fact that he was a chocolate-coated bad guy to whom her crime would seem so plain vanilla boring. Let’s face it, she’d been seduced by those blasted blue eyes and the way he looked at her.

  Now there was no getting away. If she bolted, he’d be on her like seeds on strawberries. She clearly hadn’t covered her tracks well enough. If Justin, amateur status criminal, big league tax dodger, could find her again, this man would get to the truth in less time than it took to make thermos coffee. But if she stuck to the plan, played the opportunist in search of easy money, and gave him no reason to get too interested, maybe he’d be satisfied by simply keeping an eye on her and not delve any further. If she kept her head screwed on, this might still work out okay. She had twelve thousand dollars in an envelope in her bag that was an inducement to believe it would.

  He was sprawled in the middle of the back seat. The centre belt looped over his hips, his head kicked back. His body looked relaxed, but his eyes were watchful. He was scanning the road. He was on lookout.

  Who was she kidding? He was an undercover cop. He could probably smell deceit from two rooms away. It was likely seeping out of her pores and stinking up the Statesman. He could doubtless find liars, cheats and thieves blindfolded in a maze. He might already be on to her.

  Why hadn’t he been straight with her? Wouldn’t it have been easier to tell her he was a cop from the beginning, or at least from the McDonald’s car park? He wanted her to think he was some kind of vigilante bad guy with a heart of gold. She could think of two reasons.

  She pulled into the driveway of the motel. He’d unbuckled and climbed out before she shut the engine off. One: he didn’t think he could convince her of being on the right side of the law. On the surface it was a tall tale. Two: he wasn’t. He was bent and he knew she knew it. Another bent cop. Which meant she really was his hostage.

  His highly paid hostage.

  That didn’t make sense. She followed him out of the car. He was waiting patiently at the boot, the cake tin in his hand. She popped the lid. The last time she’d felt this confused she’d been standing in her bedroom at the house watching Justin and Detective Carolyn Martin together in her bed.

  Maybe Fetch was a good cop. Maybe he was a bad cop. Maybe he was just a bikie with multiple personality disorder. Everything he’d said was probably a lie. Which meant she was either a hostage, someone who needed protection, or the hired help?

  She was so very tired. She was in whatever this was to her earlobes, and she didn’t know what the heck was in that cake tin, but it sure as hell wasn’t cake.

  “Your room is on the top floor around the back. I’m here,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the room directly behind where she’d parked. He’d taken the hint about letting her handle her own bags. They were piled together on the ground. “I’ll see you in the morning. Meet here at eight. Breakfast, then we’ll stop at the bank for you before we head out.”

  She nodded. This would give her time to think. She watched him scoop a couple of his bags off the ground. When he turned to go, she could see his sleeve was soaked with blood and it dripped from his elbow.

  “Your arm.”

  He screwed his head around to look down. “Oh bugger.” He looked up. “Ah, how do you feel about helping me re-bandage it?”

  She lifted the first-aid kit from the boot and slammed the lid down. She collected her own bags and followed him into his room. Assuming she didn’t decide to bolt, there was another rule she needed to add to the list. No visiting each other’s rooms, unless someone was bleeding to death. She left the door open.

  “You need a doctor.”

  He dumped his bags and took his vest off. He pulled the t-shirt over his head awkwardly. Somehow he’d managed to fix a crude bandage over the wound, but the white gauze and tape were soaked.

  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. Sh
e 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 dink
um 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.”