Savage Things (Chaos & Ruin Book 2) (3 page)

His ‘busy’ is most people’s ‘dangerous.’ I’d like to argue that it would be closer to my own ‘status quo’ but hey. Who’s got time for a dick-measuring contest when they have injured foreigners trying to catch their breath twenty feet away? “Sounds ominous. Care to elaborate?” I ask.

Rebel laughs softly. “A mutual friend of ours has left town. I had one of my guys check up on her whereabouts. Seems like she’s headed your way.”

I know perfectly well who this mutual friend is. For the past year or so, ever since I got involved with Sloane and her reckless mission to find her missing sister come hell or high water, DEA Agent Denise Lowell has been sticking her nose into our business, generally making a nuisance of herself and pissing me off in the process. It can only be her.
 

“Why the change in location? Any idea?”
 

“None, I’m afraid. Her files have been sealed. Even our hacker can’t break into that shit without setting off a few alarm bells.”

Frustrating, but not the end of the world. I have hackers of my own who don’t give a shit about alarm bells. “Appreciate the heads up.”

“No problem. Figured you might like warning before she showed up on your doorstep.”

I pull at my hand wraps, tightening them as I lean against the wall of the office. “I doubt she’s here for me. I’m not involved in drugs.”

Rebel makes a bemused sound, the line crackling loudly as he laughs. “Dude. If I remember correctly, you stole the woman’s dog. And you professionally embarrassed her.
Repeatedly
. Doesn’t matter if you have five keys of coke jammed up your asshole or you’re a poster boy for Narcotics Anonymous. You can bet good money on her coming for you if she gets the opportunity.”

I grunt, scratching at my jaw. “True. That bitch needs to develop a new hobby. This shit is getting really old, really fast.”

“Couldn’t agree more, man. Still…forewarned is forearmed, right?”

I smile a grim smile. “Oh, I’ll be armed alright.”

I say no more. I don’t tell him about the fact that I’ve known Lowell is in town for a while now. I don’t tell him that I’ve been going against everything I stand for, keeping it from Sloane. I don’t tell him I’ve been keeping my eye on Mason, the kid I’ve been training with every morning, ever since I saw him talking to the DEA agent outside Macs a few weeks ago, either. I keep my mouth shut, and Rebel hangs up the phone.
 

******

I bundle Mr. Brazil up and send him on his merry way—he insisted he didn’t want to go to the hospital, so what the fuck could I do but let him go?—and then I wait for Michael to show up. The gym is empty. Mason, the spy in our midst, was supposed to be here training first thing this morning before he started work across the road at the auto mechanics’ place, but he never showed, so I have the whole place to myself. The fees at Blood & Roses fighting gym are astronomically high, so only the most serious people come and train here. Means the place isn’t overrun with teenagers whose balls have just dropped and don’t have a fucking clue what they’re doing. Also means Seattle’s criminal element tends to stay away, which is exactly what I was hoping for. Whenever a guy wants to apply for membership, I have Michael perform a very in-depth background search on them, making sure they’re not going to bring trouble to our doorstep. The faintest whiff of underground bullshit, and their applications are rejected with no explanation as to why.
 

Michael arrives at the gym around midday and drops his workout bag on the ground by the roller doors, sagging against the metal frame. He looks like shit. I tell him this, which doesn’t seem to help in any way but entertains me greatly.
 

“Screw you, man. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours,” he informs me, pressing the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets. “I’m getting old. I can’t do this shit anymore.”

“Why the fuck haven’t you slept? Better not be moonlighting for someone else,” I growl.
 

“Of course not. I’m just…it’s personal.”

“
Personal
?” I want to smirk, but I manage to rein in the urge. Personal means fucking. No, scratch that. Personal means
hard-core
fucking. Michael’s always been a bit of a closed book when it comes to his life outside of my employ, and that’s never bothered me. Too many guys don’t shut up about where they’re sticking their dicks, and I’d rather Michael kept his cards close to his chest over him incessantly talking about the chicks he’s seeing. I’ll admit to being faintly curious right now, though. Only faintly.
 

Michael rolls his eyes. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he informs me.
 

“I’m thinking you’ve been awake for thirty-six hours because you’ve been entertaining someone.”

“Okay, so you’re not completely wrong. But it’s…it’s more complicated than that.”

It always is. Especially where women are concerned. I don’t push him to spill any further information. If he wants to share, he will. In the meantime, we have a DEA agent to track down. Michael’s up to speed on the Lowell fiasco already. Well, he knows as much as I do—that the woman’s back in town and looking to make trouble. He seems unsurprised when I fill him in on the fact that Rebel called and confirmed this, though. He keeps quiet as we close up the gym and climb into the Camaro. He’s extra fucking quiet as we head across town toward the warehouse, where I used to spend at least seventy percent of my time before I met Sloane and ended up moving into her secluded spot on the hill.
 
Not a word passes between us in over thirty minutes. Michael sits motionless in the seat next to me, carved out of rock as I gun the Camaro’s engine, sliding a little too quickly through the corners. He finally protests when I run a stop sign three blocks from the docklands.
 

“What the hell, man? You drive the most ostentatious, over the top car ever sold. You’re speeding, and now you’re running stop signs? If a cop pulls you over, they’re gonna think they’ve won the motherfucking lottery. You want to spend the rest of the day locked up while five-oh figures out what they can pin on you besides reckless driving?”

I shrug, taking another hair-raising right hand turn. “Just thought you might like waking up,” I tell him.
 

Michael growls. “I’m perfectly awake, boss.”

This is flame retardant bullshit and he knows it. I let him off, though, because he’s earned it. “Just tell me one thing. Is this bizarre, edgy Michael because the bitch is back in our lives? Or is there something else I should know about?” I don’t have a clue what could possibly be more inconvenient than Denise Lowell entering the Seattle city limits, but shit. Things have been quiet.
Too
quiet. It’d be grand to believe that this is just how life will be now—predictable and safe, because that’s what Sloane deserves. But I’m not that stupid. It’s my experience that life will pitch you a curve ball or five when you’re least expecting it, and they’re always the ones that fuck you up the most. And when it rains, it motherfucking pours.
 

Michael presses his fingertips against his mouth, elbow propped up against the window of the Camaro. He stares up at the warehouse as we pull up outside, a grimace twisting his features. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I just…I have a bad feeling is all.”

Chapter Three

SLOANE

Millie Reeves doesn’t cry when she wakes up. She vomits and complains that she’s cold, but that’s it. All things considered, she’s relatively lucky. She was breathing when she was having the violent seizure that brought her here to St Peter’s, but the oxygen supply to her brain could easily have been compromised. She could have woken up with altered brain function or damage to numerous aspects of her nervous system, and yet she seems as though she’s coping admirably. Unfortunately the same can’t be said for her brother.
 

“I don’t care what the doctor said. I want to take her home!” Mason Reeves is hot headed and reactive right now, as he leans across the reception desk, growing redder and redder as he tries to brow beat Gracie. Little does he know that his efforts are completely pointless.
 

I see Gracie raise her do-not-fuck-with-me-family-member-of-a-patient shield. “And
I
don’t care what you want, Mr. Reeves. Your sister is in recovery. That means she is
re-cov-er-ing.
 
Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand that she can recover at home, ma’am. Now, please. Let me sign the paperwork so I can get her out of here.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,
sir
. Now please step away from this desk before I call security.”
 
Gracie’s jaw is fixed and locked, raised. She’s just waiting for him to argue some more. Of course, what she’s doing is highly illegal. Mason is Millie’s legal guardian. She doesn’t specifically require urgent care, so he’s well within his rights to take her whenever he wants. Gracie’s just one of those women who will push and push in order to get her own way, and to hell with the consequences.
 

I quicken my pace as I head toward them, grinding my teeth. “Is everything okay here, Mason? Are you looking for an update on Millie?”

He barely casts his eyes in my direction as he acknowledges what I’ve said. “Millie Reeves. Six-years-old. Diagnosed with LSG at aged three years, three months. Suffered a major grand mal seizure in the last twelve hours. Now showing positive signs of improvement, despite continuous vomiting and diarrhoea. Blood pressure is normal. All cognitive signs reported normal. Will require constant monitoring for the next forty-eight hours to ensure no long term damage has occurred as a result of potential oxygen deprivation.” Mason stops there. He swivels his head so he’s looking right at me now. “Is there anything else, Dr. Romera, or have I got everything?”

Damn. He’s on the verge of snapping. I’ve seen it on so many people. There’s a flicker people get in their eyes, a visible fracture in their temper that could either splinter them open or shut them down at a moment’s notice. “You obviously have a very good understanding of your sister’s condition, Mason. I’m impressed at the level of care you’ve been giving her. Let me ask you, though…do you think you can give her the same level of care at home that we can give her here at the hospital?”

He clenches his jaw. “I’m not fucking stupid, okay? I know I’m fucking up. I know she deserves better than I can give to her, but I’m trying. I’m doing my best. Of course she’d be better off here, but I can’t afford to keep her here longer than she absolutely has to be. This wasn’t her worst seizure. There are plenty more to come, and I need to make sure I can afford
those
five-star visits to the wonderful St. Peter’s of Mercy hospital.”

Gracie shoots me a complicated look. It contains many mixed emotions: worry; anxiety; stoicism; and lastly, guilt. The last flash of remorse is undoubtedly because of what she did a few months ago. She told the DEA she’d seen me sneaking out of the hospital, carrying bags of blood I needed to save Zeth’s life. Lowell tried to threaten me with the fact that I’d been caught stealing from St. Peter’s. I nearly lost my job. I nearly lost
everything
. To say things have been awkward between us since I came back to work is an understatement. I don’t blame her, though. Denise Lowell is a conniving cunt who will always get her way. Gracie has a kid to take care of. Her own job to think about. I’m sure Lowell implied she’d lose both if she didn’t tell her everything about me when she came calling at the hospital.
 

“So can I take her? Or shall I call the police?” Mason folds his arms across his chest, huffing heavily down his nose.
 

Exasperated, I scramble to think of a way to keep him here. He hasn’t been unreasonable. He hasn’t said anything that isn’t true. The seizure Millie just had was bad, yes, but given the nature of her condition it really won’t be her worst. The worst is yet to come. LSG might not kill her, but in the same vein it could. Mason’s essentially saving for his sister’s funeral. I wonder if he realizes that. I squeeze the pen I’m clenching in my hand, digging my fingernail into the hard plastic. “Look. Just give me an hour, Mason. Give me one last chance to look her over. If she really is stable enough, I’ll let you take her.”

His eyes flash. “And if she’s not stable enough?”

“Then…then I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” It’s a pretty poor answer to his question, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment. I’m a doctor, though. A problem solver. Give me a pair of stockings and a rubber band and I’ll figure out how to stop someone bleeding out. Give me an hour and a cell phone, and I’ll figure out how to make sure Millie Reeves receives the care she needs and deserves. Mason doesn’t believe in me yet, but he will. He blinks, the muscles in his jaw working overtime.
 

“I’m—I’m supposed to be at work,” he says. “I don’t have an hour.”

“Then give me
eight
. Go to work. Come back later on this evening and I’ll have this figured out, I swear I will.”

Mason doesn’t say anything. He shifts from one foot to the other, his right shoulder lifting up and down as he looks from me to Gracie and back again. “She’ll look after her,” Gracie says softly. “She’s an excellent doctor. We’ll call the second anything changes with your sister, Mr. Reeves.” She already has her hand on his arm, ushering him out of the reception; she doesn’t give him the option of refusing the suggestion. The anger and the frustration that was spilling out of him a second ago seems to have fizzled out in the past few seconds. I’ve seen it happen many times before; the weight of responsibility is a heavy, heavy thing. Making difficult decisions on a daily basis is crippling. Carrying around the burden of someone else’s care every single hour of every single day is enough to bow someone’s back to the point of breaking. The second someone offers to relieve you of that burden, people are often too shocked to react.

I watch Gracie walk Mason out of the building, and I feel the weight of my assumed burden pressing in already. God knows how the poor guy has borne it for so long.