Justice (20 page)

“Strip,” Paul ordered.

Justice started to, then his heart must have completely stopped beating as he saw the tiny red light showing through the gauzy curtains. He yelled, panic hitting him so hard his strength just about left him. Just about, but didn’t, not until he’d tackled his startled mate, taking him down in a leap that was none too gentle. The sound registered then—glass being penetrated by the sharp metal, the bullet ripping through the air. There was no implosion, explosion, no loud firing of a weapon.
Silencer,
Justice thought.

Justice couldn’t say how it happened, whether he’d heard the muted sounds first or whether he’d taken Paul down first. His ears were ringing, and people were going to be calling the cops. His shoulder ached like a mother, too, and Justice groaned as he rolled them, never being still. They went off the bed, then Justice shoved Paul hard, pushing him under the bed frame.

“Justice,” Paul hissed. “Your shoulder!”

He guessed he knew why it hurt. The bullet must have hit him, or winged him, something. If he’d been hit, it wasn’t a bad wound. It wasn’t like he was dizzy or… He blinked, trying to clear away the multitude of grey and black spots cluttering his vision.

* * * *

Paul bit his tongue to keep from screaming out Justice’s name. He didn’t think the wound was that bad, but maybe Justice had been shot somewhere other than the very top of his shoulder?

Now wasn’t the time for him to look. Paul grabbed Justice’s arms. “Don’t you pass out on me, you big lug. I need you to stay awake and help me stay safe. Come on, roll under here with me.” He didn’t hear any more of the odd sound the shot had made, but that didn’t mean they were out of the woods yet. “Justice!” Paul snapped in as loud a voice as he dared.

Justice moaned and opened dazed eyes to look at him.

“Come on, under the bed,” Paul repeated.

Justice shuffled alongside of him, hissing every few seconds. Paul felt along his back as best he could. The only wound he found was the one on the shoulder.

Then he heard the most terrifying sound he could imagine. The tumbling of the door locks.

“Fuck, no,” Paul whispered, panic bleeding bright into his veins. “No. No! We’re not dying here. Not letting them win.” He refused to give in to the panic. If he did, whoever was coming through that door would kill them both.

Paul scurried out from under the bed, his eyes on the Taser. He could do it, he could save himself and Justice—as long as there was only a single person coming in.

It was the best he could do. Paul picked the thing up and held it in his hands. He played the video’s main how-to’s in his head as he stepped into the hallway. Whoever was picking the locks was beyond a fool. For all they knew, Paul could be waiting for them with a Taser—or a gun.

But if they’d seen the blood, and seen him and Justice, especially Justice, go down, then the shooter might not give a damn, because he wouldn’t think Paul was a threat.

Paul was more than a threat. He was a fucking promise of retribution.

He was off to the side, almost behind the door, when it was opened. He had the Taser up, the setting on the highest one possible, and his aim was perfect. The shifter who came in had his back to Paul, but there was something familiar about him. He had a gun of some kind in his hands. Paul didn’t know shit about guns, but it looked fancy and deadly.

The shifter shut the door and started to turn. As soon as Paul saw that hooked nose, he was thrown back to the worst of his wounds, his most humiliatingly given one.

He pressed the button of the Taser, shouting, “Fuck you!” as he did so.

The look of surprise on the wolf shifter’s face was classic as the Taser hit him and sent electrical currents into him.

Keep moving, don’t stand there and watch,
that was the advice in the video, or some of it. Paul darted to the kitchen. He grabbed the largest knife he could find from the knife block as he watched the wolf squirm on the ground.

Wolves must have been high-stun proof, though. The man was already pulling at the Taser wires and cursing when Paul started for him.

“You’ll pay, pet,” the nasty shifter said, eyes gleaming with a sadistic streak Paul would never understand. “Don’t you know, didn’t you learn anything all the times I fucked you? Wolf shifters are tougher than anyone else—”

Paul growled, fury and memories making him braver than he’d thought to be. “Shut up and die, asshole.”

The man looked surprised, then he cackled and began to get to his feet. His gun had landed a half dozen feet away, under the couch. “I’m going to enjoy teaching you a lesson again before I kill you, pet.”

Paul would die before the fucker ever got any pleasure from him. He feinted to the left and the man almost fell over trying to avoid being stabbed. Paul grinned. His foe wasn’t so steady, despite his words.

Paul stabbed and jabbed rapidly, trying to keep the movements random. He wanted the asshole dead, not carved up, but it was looking like that would be all he could manage.

Then a large figure appeared behind the man. Paul only had a second to figure out that it was Cliff before the other shifter was grabbed and practically thrown on his knife.

It sank deep into the man’s chest. A sickening suctioning noise slipped from his mouth as it dropped open. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth while more ran thickly from the knife wound.

Cliff closed the door as the last bit of life drained from the man’s eyes.

“Sorry about that.” Cliff tipped his chin at the dead body. “And I just replaced the damned rugs. Stop looking at the dead guy, Paul. It’ll just keep freaking you out.”

“Justice—” Paul began, but Cliff sighed like he was vexed.

“He’s a wuss.” Cliff locked the locks. He stepped over the dead man and started for the bedroom.

“Wait!” Paul still wasn’t sure that Cliff could be trusted.

Cliff kept walking. “If I’d wanted him or you dead, we wouldn’t be having this moment in time together.”

The guy was a prick. That was all there was to it. Paul had just killed someone—well, no, he hadn’t. He’d been trying, but it had been Cliff who’d tossed the other shifter onto the knife.

“Justice,” was all Cliff said as he entered the bedroom. He took something out of the little jar and bent to peer under the bed. “Oh good, he’s unconscious. That will make this so much easier. Shit tastes disgusting.”

“What are you doing?” Paul asked hurriedly as he got down on the floor.

“Fixing him,” Cliff replied. “I have my shamanistic voodoo shit down, baby.”

Paul froze. How had Cliff known that was what they’d called his…his shamanistic stuff?

Cliff moved back and hauled Justice out from under the bed. “All right, he needs to be cleaned off. It’s just a flesh wound, nothing major. It’s the poison that was on it that’s giving him fits.”

“Poison?” Paul scrambled to his feet as Cliff rose and swooped Justice into his arms like the man weighed nothing. “He’s going to be all right, right? Tell me he’ll be all right!”

“Course he will,” Cliff assured him as he plopped Justice down in the tub. “Now you take care of your mate here, and I’m going to go clean up that goddamned mess. Again. Hey, four to go.”

Paul didn’t care, not right then. He struggled to get Justice undressed and the blood cleaned off him. The wound really was shallow, but the poison—Paul wondered what kind it was.

He got the worse of the blood rinsed away. Whatever Cliff had given Justice, it seemed to be helping. Justice was breathing deeply, steadily, and he had good colour to his skin. Paul tried to get him out of the tub, but he couldn’t manage it. Cliff came back in and lifted Justice for him.

Paul didn’t care for seeing his mate—naked, wet, gorgeous—in another man’s arms.

“Chill, he ain’t my type, kiddo,” Cliff told him as he gently settled Justice onto the bed. “I need to get back to the cleaning. You two have fun.”

* * * *

Hours later, Paul woke up. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Justice snored softly beside him. Paul checked his brow and found it nice and cool, like Paul’s own. Then he looked at the wound where the bullet had struck and gasped to find it already healed over with pink skin.

When Paul could finally prise himself away from his mate, he quietly sneaked out of the bedroom. The apartment had a strangely empty feel to it, which was ridiculous because Justice was there with him. It didn’t surprise him to find that Cliff had left. It was creepy, a little, but Paul was too tired to worry about that.

The living room looked as if it could be in some fancy magazine. There was no blood, no gore, no Taser parts or guns by the door. It was as if there had never been a violent confrontation, and death, in the room only hours ago.

More of Cliff’s weird shamanistic voodoo.
Somehow it didn’t seem funny at all. It was scary—the man himself was scary. Paul hoped he never got on the man’s bad side. Anyone who could heal up a wound so that it was just a pink scar? That was a formidable person you never wanted to piss off.

He heard the annoying buzz of Justice’s phone and groaned when it dawned on him that they’d never let Oscar and the others know they’d arrived. He and Justice were both going to be in deep shit.

Paul took two bottles of water out of the fridge then he went to find the phone. It was under the bed, of course. He put the bottles on the nightstand then got down on hands and knees to retrieve the phone. There were several missed calls—Justice had set those to silent, he guessed—and a dozen texts.

They were
so
in trouble.

Or maybe not. He’d start with the good news that they were both okay, and Justice had survived being shot and poisoned. Paul was fairly certain those last two things were justifiable reasons for why neither he nor Justice had contacted the family.

He didn’t want to try to text the whole thing to everyone, or one person then copy and paste that on, and on, and on. Paul knew just who he was going to call. Vivian. She had the right to know first.

Vivian answered on the second ring. “Hey, Paul, what’s up? Is this a personal or a professional call?”

“Personal,” he decided. “And not just for me. Is your family in Phoenix nearby?”

“Yes, they are, why?”

Paul began talking. Before he was off the phone with her, a knock sounded at the door.

“That’s going to be our brother Joel and our parents,” Vivian told him. “Joel’s on the phone with Oscar. It’s safe to open the door.”

Paul still looked out of the peephole. There was no doubt that the people out there were Justice’s family. Not the woman and the younger man, at least. They looked almost like carbon copies of Justice.

“I’ve got it, Vivian. Do you want to stay on the phone with me?” Paul asked.

“Do you need me to?” Vivian asked in return. “Are you feeling okay?”

He was, surprisingly. Maybe he should have been nervous about meeting Justice’s parents and brother, but he was more relieved that Justice was going to be okay than anything else.

“Thanks, Vivian. Love you.”

Vivian sighed. “Aw, I love you too, Paul. You’re my favourite brother, but don’t tell the others.”

After swearing that he wouldn’t, he ended the call and began unlocking locks. In the back of his mind, he knew that there were probably some guidelines or rules that would make it necessary for Vivian to quit officially being his therapist now. As long as she was willing, and it was helping him, he didn’t think they should stop.

Paul opened the door and damned his fair skin as he felt the blush start in. “Hi, come in,” he said as he waved towards the living room.

Justice’s mother entered first. She stopped in front of him and looked him over. Paul knew he wasn’t anything special, and he had close to an inch of roots growing out from his bleach job. He looked a mess.

But she smiled and he was hugged quickly but firmly. “So you’re my son’s mate. It’s good to meet you. Where is my baby?”

“Bedroom, sleeping,” Paul told her. “Thank you.”

“I’m Emily, by the way. You can call me Mom.” And she was off to check on her son.

“I’m Lew,” said the older, burly blond man who took Emily’s—
Mom’s
—place.

“Paul Hardy,” Paul offered as he shook the man’s hand. “You have a fantastic son.”

“Thank you. We like him, most of the time,” Lew said, giving him a wink. “Now Joel, here, sometimes we want to trade him in.”

Joel laughed and swatted at his dad’s arm. “Right, because my awesomeness makes the rest of you look bad.”

“Say that to your mom.” Lew shook his head. “Nah, don’t. She’d have both our hides for joking like that.”

Joel came in too, and introduced himself almost properly. He seemed to be a jokester, but other than that, Paul couldn’t get a read on him. “Do y’all want to go check on Justice while I fix us some coffee? Or do you want tea, water, soda?”

“Coffee’s good,” Lew answered, “And we’re fine on the couch. I hear Justice and Em coming this way.”

Paul heard them then, too, the low rumble of Justice’s voice and Emily’s lighter, concerned one.

Paul went to the hallway and smiled so big his cheeks ached a little when he saw Justice walking with his arm around his mama. “Hey. How do you feel?”

Justice’s smile was every bit as big as Paul’s. “Man, I feel a lot better than I did when I crawled under the bed. What happened?”

“Cliff happened,” Paul said. “Let me get some drinks together, then I’ll explain to everyone.” But he was already opening his mind, letting Justice see what had gone down when he’d been hurt.

“I’ll help you,” Emily—
Mom, I have to remember that or risk hurting her feelings—
offered.

They chatted pleasantly enough while Paul made the coffee and she started the water to brew some tea. Justice came in after greeting his dad and brother, and Paul couldn’t help but be relieved. Mom seemed nice and all, but he was out of his element, or at least that was how he felt. Grandma Marybeth had been intimidating, too. He wondered how much scarring he had from his parents ditching him and Preston. Getting cosy with Lew didn’t sound fun, either.